My youngest son is having a party. Yes, he's turning five in a few weeks, but that's not the party he's focused on right now. He's thinking ahead about a HUGE party he's planning. He announced this last week on the way home from school. And I'm psyched. Granted I'll be in my 70s when it happens but from what I hear, it's going to be a blast.
First, he's going to invite his four best friends from school. And these guys are weally, weally funny. Think about the funniest people you know. Then multiply that by infinity billion. That's how funny these guys are. Oh, and I'm invited too. And daddy. He's not sure about his six-year old brother yet but he's thinking about it. It hinges largely on whether or not his brother helps him find his missing Lego Star Wars Droid before then. Right now it's not looking so good.
His last birthday party was at Pump-it-Up. But that was so 2010. For this party they are going to THE BEST PLACE ON EARTH. Which, according to my son, is New York. Or California. Or Utah. Or Santa Fe. Or Central Illinois. But most likely it'll be New York. Or California. Or Utah. Or Santa Fe. Or Central Illinois.
And even though he's not quite five yet, my son realizes that in life, it's all about the journey. And so he's decided he and his friends are going to this party in style. No cross-country road trip for them. No, they are going to get a plane. (Legally I assume, but he wasn't clear on that.) And they are going to have so much fun on the plane. Everyone gets a window seat. Unless you don't want one, then you don't have to sit in a window seat. But you should because it's super cool to see out the window. There are going to be snacks. Lots of snacks and not just those stupid twisty pretzels. There's going to be Pirate Booty. The white kind with the cheese. And chocolate. And juice boxes. I know this because I am responsible for packing and holding it all.
But that's just the beginning. When they get to New York, or California, or Utah, or Santa Fe, or Central Illinois, they are going to go into a hotel...and....this is the best part according to my son....drink beer. Lots of beer. Probably six whole beers.
And of course there will be cake. White and chocolate.
But perhaps the most enticing part is that (and I know you're going to be envious now) everyone is going to share a room.
AND a bathroom.
Can't wait? Well, you have to. This party is for his 41st birthday. Which is in 36 years and 20 days.
Still, it doesn't hurt to plan ahead and so I asked if I could bring a few friends of my own. I got an emphatic no. Followed by a yes. I was told I could bring Lucy, our cat. Now, math isn't my strong suit but by my basic calculations, I am pretty sure that Lucy, who is 10 now, will be the ripe old age of dead by then, so I'm not going to turn in her RSVP just yet.
When I pointed out that my plus-one may not be in great travel form in three decades, I was told I could invite our close friends Matt and Cheryl. I was then told that aside from myself and his grandmas, no girls are allowed. (So my apologies Cheryl, but I now have to revoke your invite.)
Four guys sharing six beers and one bathroom in New York. Or California. Or Utah. Or Santa Fe. Or Central Illinois. With their aging parents. It's clearly going to be the party of the century.
I hope you all get an invite.
But don't hold your breath.
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.
October 14, 2011
September 29, 2011
Brain freeze
How is it possible that my four-year-old can correctly, and without pause, remember the score of the Capitals/Blackhawks game from last March, but cannot recollect what happened in school three minutes after dismissal?
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.
September 28, 2011
What I learned this week
That Sharkey attends Bug Language School (taught by an Octopus of course) during the day. He takes a "coo" (school) bus there and home, which is impressive considering Sharkey is made up entirely of synthetic fibers, has two glass eyes, no legs, and we have not yet given him a house key.
That the Octopus teacher can crush the sharks because it's the king of the class.
That an Electric Sono Dragon and an Electro Sonic Dragon are two completely different things. Or maybe not. (Or that maybe we need speech therapy.)
That my son has a medium-sized army of jumping jack ants living under his bed. They sleep with cozy blankets and pillows, are very happy and consider my son their daddy.
That if the Blackhawks versed Dernard Robinson, Dernard Robinson would win, even though he probably can't skate, because he is weally, weally fast.
That birthday cakes have to come with both chocolate and white cake in the middle because people like both and need to eat both at the same time to be happy. People don't want to have to chose. People shouldn't have to choose. People are upset when they have to choose. Specifically the two smallest people living in my house.
That a water spider is faster than a Lambroghini. It can travel 400 miles an hour. Even faster on a hardware floor in socks.
That my four year old visited a science lab at the university this week where a special germ was planted into his hand and will grow. Into what, I am not exactly sure.
That the second-best profession ever in the whole world (right behind being a fire-breathing dragon) is becoming a member of "The Great Eight."
That "The Great Eight" has something to do with hockey.
That every now and then, when I'm having a particularly good day, I am capable of making the almost perfect cup of hot chocolate. But also...
That I forgot to buy tiny marshmallows.
That my youngest son really, really loves watermelon. He promises. Really. The fact that he refuses to eat it and can't control his gag reflex when he does means nothing.
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.
That the Octopus teacher can crush the sharks because it's the king of the class.
That an Electric Sono Dragon and an Electro Sonic Dragon are two completely different things. Or maybe not. (Or that maybe we need speech therapy.)
That my son has a medium-sized army of jumping jack ants living under his bed. They sleep with cozy blankets and pillows, are very happy and consider my son their daddy.
That if the Blackhawks versed Dernard Robinson, Dernard Robinson would win, even though he probably can't skate, because he is weally, weally fast.
That birthday cakes have to come with both chocolate and white cake in the middle because people like both and need to eat both at the same time to be happy. People don't want to have to chose. People shouldn't have to choose. People are upset when they have to choose. Specifically the two smallest people living in my house.
That a water spider is faster than a Lambroghini. It can travel 400 miles an hour. Even faster on a hardware floor in socks.
That my four year old visited a science lab at the university this week where a special germ was planted into his hand and will grow. Into what, I am not exactly sure.
That the second-best profession ever in the whole world (right behind being a fire-breathing dragon) is becoming a member of "The Great Eight."
That "The Great Eight" has something to do with hockey.
That every now and then, when I'm having a particularly good day, I am capable of making the almost perfect cup of hot chocolate. But also...
That I forgot to buy tiny marshmallows.
That my youngest son really, really loves watermelon. He promises. Really. The fact that he refuses to eat it and can't control his gag reflex when he does means nothing.
That paper beats rock. Rock beats scissors. Scissors beats paper. Hot lava beats rock. Kriptonite beats hot lava. Magic beats T-Rex (sometimes). Open window beats centipede. Tornado beats hot lava.
That I have a lot to learn.
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.
September 14, 2011
Nighttime Vows
Bedtime had come and gone hours before. So at 9:20 PM there was really no excuse for snuggling in bed with my boys and discussing deep topics such as how long I'm going to live, or exactly when I'm going to die. But sometimes that's just what organically happens when you're talking about Star Wars with kids. And before going to sleep both my boys wanted written confirmation that I'd live to be no less that 100 years old.
As gently as possible I tried to tell them know that I couldn't promise them how long I'd live, but that I hoped to live for many, many, many, years so that I could see them both grow up, graduate from their schools, turn into men, get married and have babies of their own.
At which point my four-and-three-quarter year old son asked me if everyone had to get married. I said no, not all all. Some people want to, and some don't. And you can decide what you want to do when you grow up. To which he announced that he was not ever going to get married. I asked why not.
"I just don't want to," he said.
"But don't you have a reason?" I asked.
"I don't like to dance," he said.
"You don't have to dance just because you get married."*** (See footnote)
He paused. "Well, what happens when you get married?"
"What do you mean, what happens?" I asked.
"Do you have to go into a room and do something?" he asked.
I paused, not sure exactly what X-Rated things he had heard on the playground. You know, in nursery school....
I pressed my luck.
"What kind of room? What kinds of things would we do?" I asked.
"With another man?" he asked.
Okay, enough.
"Yes," I said. "Actually there was another man at our wedding. He was a Rabbi and he was the man who married me and daddy. And if you get married then you will have a Rabbi, or someone else, who can marry you and your wife."
"I don't want a wife," he said.
"Who do you want to marry?" I asked.
"You."
"Okay, but say you can't marry me because I'm already married to daddy and I don't want to go to jail. Who's your next choice?"
"Lucy," he said. (Our cat.)
"Okay, fine," I say.
"Can I marry Lucy?" he asked.
"No," I said. "But let's worry about that later. You love her and that's what's most important. So here's what happens. The Rabbi will stand in front of you and your wife..."
"No, in front of me and Lucy!" he said.
"Yeah, right," I said. "You and Lucy. And you will promise each other that you will love each other forever, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health, till death do you part. Meaning you'll love each other until you die no matter what happens. Isn't that sweet?"
"Yeah," he said. "But I don't think I want to do that. Not even with you or Lucy. But maybe just with you. But I'm not sure yet."
"But I didn't get to the best part," I said.
"What's the best part?" he asked.
"After that part is over you get to have a big party with all your friends and family celebrating getting married. There is music and dancing..."
"I said I don't want to dance!" he said.
"Okay no dancing," I said. "You can all just stand around and eat cake."
"I like cake," he said.
"I know," I said.
"Can I have two pieces since it's going to be my party?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "We can arrange that."
"But only I get two pieces. He (pointing to his brother's top bunk) only gets one piece."
"I think there will be plenty of cake for everyone," I said.
"No I don't think so," he said. "Anyway, he (again point toward his big brother) might not be invited."
"Oh he'll be there," I said. "Everyone who loves you will be there."
"Can I invite my whole class?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "Your whole nursery school class can come."
"Can I invite Oliver?" (Best friend from school)
"Of course. I'm sure Oliver would be very excited to come."
"Okay, then I want to do that."
"Good," I said. "Then we've got half the plans set. We just need to find you a wife. Just remember, no babies until you have a wife."
"I don't want babies," he said.
"You don't want to be a daddy?"
"Not really," he said. "Unless you're the mommy. Can you still be the mommy? You're a good mommy. Sometimes. Sometimes I'm not sure if I'm happy with you. Because tonight I ate my raspberries and you still didn't give me a treat. And that's not fair."
"No I can't be the mommy of your baby," I said. "You need to find another girl to be your wife and the mommy. But not for 20 years."
"What if my wife doesn't have a baby?" he asked. "What if a cat comes out of her tummy instead? Can that happen? How can I get the cat into the mommy's tummy?"
I check the clock. 9:45. I give my littlest guy a kiss on the cheek and a big hug and say goodnight.
And I promise to address that topic in another few years.
FOOTNOTE: ***No. My husband and I do not dance regularly, or even irregularly, at home. I have no clue where he got this idea.
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.
As gently as possible I tried to tell them know that I couldn't promise them how long I'd live, but that I hoped to live for many, many, many, years so that I could see them both grow up, graduate from their schools, turn into men, get married and have babies of their own.
At which point my four-and-three-quarter year old son asked me if everyone had to get married. I said no, not all all. Some people want to, and some don't. And you can decide what you want to do when you grow up. To which he announced that he was not ever going to get married. I asked why not.
"I just don't want to," he said.
"But don't you have a reason?" I asked.
"I don't like to dance," he said.
"You don't have to dance just because you get married."*** (See footnote)
He paused. "Well, what happens when you get married?"
"What do you mean, what happens?" I asked.
"Do you have to go into a room and do something?" he asked.
I paused, not sure exactly what X-Rated things he had heard on the playground. You know, in nursery school....
I pressed my luck.
"What kind of room? What kinds of things would we do?" I asked.
"With another man?" he asked.
Okay, enough.
"Yes," I said. "Actually there was another man at our wedding. He was a Rabbi and he was the man who married me and daddy. And if you get married then you will have a Rabbi, or someone else, who can marry you and your wife."
"I don't want a wife," he said.
"Who do you want to marry?" I asked.
"You."
"Okay, but say you can't marry me because I'm already married to daddy and I don't want to go to jail. Who's your next choice?"
"Lucy," he said. (Our cat.)
"Okay, fine," I say.
"Can I marry Lucy?" he asked.
"No," I said. "But let's worry about that later. You love her and that's what's most important. So here's what happens. The Rabbi will stand in front of you and your wife..."
"No, in front of me and Lucy!" he said.
"Yeah, right," I said. "You and Lucy. And you will promise each other that you will love each other forever, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health, till death do you part. Meaning you'll love each other until you die no matter what happens. Isn't that sweet?"
"Yeah," he said. "But I don't think I want to do that. Not even with you or Lucy. But maybe just with you. But I'm not sure yet."
"But I didn't get to the best part," I said.
"What's the best part?" he asked.
"After that part is over you get to have a big party with all your friends and family celebrating getting married. There is music and dancing..."
"I said I don't want to dance!" he said.
"Okay no dancing," I said. "You can all just stand around and eat cake."
"I like cake," he said.
"I know," I said.
"Can I have two pieces since it's going to be my party?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "We can arrange that."
"But only I get two pieces. He (pointing to his brother's top bunk) only gets one piece."
"I think there will be plenty of cake for everyone," I said.
"No I don't think so," he said. "Anyway, he (again point toward his big brother) might not be invited."
"Oh he'll be there," I said. "Everyone who loves you will be there."
"Can I invite my whole class?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "Your whole nursery school class can come."
"Can I invite Oliver?" (Best friend from school)
"Of course. I'm sure Oliver would be very excited to come."
"Okay, then I want to do that."
"Good," I said. "Then we've got half the plans set. We just need to find you a wife. Just remember, no babies until you have a wife."
"I don't want babies," he said.
"You don't want to be a daddy?"
"Not really," he said. "Unless you're the mommy. Can you still be the mommy? You're a good mommy. Sometimes. Sometimes I'm not sure if I'm happy with you. Because tonight I ate my raspberries and you still didn't give me a treat. And that's not fair."
"No I can't be the mommy of your baby," I said. "You need to find another girl to be your wife and the mommy. But not for 20 years."
"What if my wife doesn't have a baby?" he asked. "What if a cat comes out of her tummy instead? Can that happen? How can I get the cat into the mommy's tummy?"
I check the clock. 9:45. I give my littlest guy a kiss on the cheek and a big hug and say goodnight.
And I promise to address that topic in another few years.
FOOTNOTE: ***No. My husband and I do not dance regularly, or even irregularly, at home. I have no clue where he got this idea.
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.
August 26, 2011
The Rules of the Game
I've never really played soccer so I admit I don't know all the rules of the game. But I know some. I know that you are supposed to kick the ball into the other team's net. And you can't use your hands. But my six-year-old son has taken several soccer classes now and knows a bit more than me. So yesterday when we went to the park I deferred to him.
Me: Okay, we need teams and there are only three of us so I can just watch and referee.
Older son: No. You two (pointing to me and my youngest son) are on different teams. I'm the judge.
Me: It's referee, not judge.
Son: Mommy, listen....
Me: Okay, okay go on.
Son: We can't use a soccer ball. We're using my Bakugan ball because it will explode and a regular soccer ball won't. At level two you both have to play and when one of you gets frozen then the other has to score quickly unless the ball is also frozen, which can happen in this game -- it really can -- and it might happen if you're not fast enough. So you have to be fast. Are you going to be fast.?
Me: (Looking at my flip-flops) Maybe...
Son: So you have to tag the other person, but not if you're frozen or if the ball has exploded because you got the bad guy half.
Me: What bad guy?
Son: Just listen....I'm telling you!
Me: Okay.
Son: Okay, I'm not sure who is the bad guy yet. But you can also punch. But there is a code over there (pointing to trees that back up to Metra tracks) but you have to unlock the code before it explodes...
Me: Before what explodes?
Son: (clearly exhasperated with my ignorance) The ball....
Me: Of course. Go on.
Son: Okay, so mommy, you're it. You're frozen though for 10 minutes and cannot move. He (pointing to little brother) has the ball. And also, I'm going to be frozen too and the only way to unfreeze me is to crawl between my legs. But remember that the ball is fine. Until it explodes. You have to throw the ball at me but you can't hit my head or my legs and if I get back to base first before it explodes or the lock is opened then I'm not it anymore. But you have to let me have a head-start and then only try and get me. But remember I can't be frozen. Okay?
Younger son: What if I get thirsty?
Son: There are no water breaks allowed. (Pause) Mommy? Where is our water?
Me: Right here....
Son: Is it still cold? Can I have some?
Me: Sure....
Son: Okay, so I'm the captain but only until you free me. Or open the lock. Don't forget about the lock.
Me: Okay, fine. What else?
Son: No squeezing.
Me: No squeezing what?
Son: No squeezing necks.
Me: Yes, that's a good idea.
Younger son: I don't wanna play.
Me: No, this is good. Let's play. What else do we need to know?
Son: That's it. That's the game.
Me: Really, that's it?
Son: Yes. Well, that's level two. Levels three and four get much harder.
Me: Wait, what's level one?
Son: Regular soccer.
Game on.
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.
Me: Okay, we need teams and there are only three of us so I can just watch and referee.
Older son: No. You two (pointing to me and my youngest son) are on different teams. I'm the judge.
Me: It's referee, not judge.
Son: Mommy, listen....
Me: Okay, okay go on.
Son: We can't use a soccer ball. We're using my Bakugan ball because it will explode and a regular soccer ball won't. At level two you both have to play and when one of you gets frozen then the other has to score quickly unless the ball is also frozen, which can happen in this game -- it really can -- and it might happen if you're not fast enough. So you have to be fast. Are you going to be fast.?
Me: (Looking at my flip-flops) Maybe...
Son: So you have to tag the other person, but not if you're frozen or if the ball has exploded because you got the bad guy half.
Me: What bad guy?
Son: Just listen....I'm telling you!
Me: Okay.
Son: Okay, I'm not sure who is the bad guy yet. But you can also punch. But there is a code over there (pointing to trees that back up to Metra tracks) but you have to unlock the code before it explodes...
Me: Before what explodes?
Son: (clearly exhasperated with my ignorance) The ball....
Me: Of course. Go on.
Son: Okay, so mommy, you're it. You're frozen though for 10 minutes and cannot move. He (pointing to little brother) has the ball. And also, I'm going to be frozen too and the only way to unfreeze me is to crawl between my legs. But remember that the ball is fine. Until it explodes. You have to throw the ball at me but you can't hit my head or my legs and if I get back to base first before it explodes or the lock is opened then I'm not it anymore. But you have to let me have a head-start and then only try and get me. But remember I can't be frozen. Okay?
Younger son: What if I get thirsty?
Son: There are no water breaks allowed. (Pause) Mommy? Where is our water?
Me: Right here....
Son: Is it still cold? Can I have some?
Me: Sure....
Son: Okay, so I'm the captain but only until you free me. Or open the lock. Don't forget about the lock.
Me: Okay, fine. What else?
Son: No squeezing.
Me: No squeezing what?
Son: No squeezing necks.
Me: Yes, that's a good idea.
Younger son: I don't wanna play.
Me: No, this is good. Let's play. What else do we need to know?
Son: That's it. That's the game.
Me: Really, that's it?
Son: Yes. Well, that's level two. Levels three and four get much harder.
Me: Wait, what's level one?
Son: Regular soccer.
Game on.
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.
August 1, 2011
Tucked out
Endings upset me. I'm not picky, it doesn't matter what kind of an ending it is. A book ending, a relationship ending, a favorite TV show...they all make me sad. Even the endings I've been looking forward to (leaving our old home) tend to upset me because it's change and I struggle with change.
So it is probably a good thing that I wasn't aware that the last night I snuggled with my six-year-old in his bed would be the last night I would really be able to do so.
When we moved into our new home a few weeks ago we set their beds up as bunk beds. My oldest son couldn't wait to sleep up on top. And my little guy couldn't wait for his older brother to sleep up on top. Until he realized that meant he couldn't see his brother when he was talking to him. Then he decided it was a horrible idea. He stopped speaking to me for seven minutes in protest.
But still, we did it.
A guy came to set them up. When he was finished he asked how we liked it. We all agreed that it was great. He grabbed his tools and left. I didn't realize at that moment that he was also taking a piece of my oldest son's childhood with him when shut the door behind him.
Within minutes both boys were scrambling up the ladder to see how cool the top bunk really was. One thing lead to another and within seconds I was screaming at them to stop shoving and pushing on the ladder, that there was to be no wresting -- EVER -- on that top bunk, or leaning over the side, or jumping up and down, or even breathing too heavily for fear of it collapsing or I would take it apart with my own two hands and they would have to sleep side by side again and then they wouldn't have room for the Lego table in their room anymore.
My younger son pouted as he crawled down. My older son ignored me. Or maybe he just couldn't hear me all the way up there.
So I climbed the ladder to make sure he knew the rules about sleeping in the top bunk. He was already giving it a test run, nestled under his Spider Man blanket surrounded by his favorite animals. I called out his name once. Twice.
Nothing.
I shook his leg.
He told me to leave him alone, he was practicing sleeping.
I took another step up to climb in bed with him and stopped. I realized that the top bunk probably was not meant to hold a 40+-pound boy, his mommy and all of his dolls. Or maybe it was, but with my younger son pouting in his bed directly beneath me I didn't want to take the chance. So I climbed down. And with every step on the ladder I felt my older son drifting farther and farther away.
I'm being melodramatic of course. I excel at that. But I was sad because I realized in that moment that my days of snuggling with my first baby were essentially over. Sure I'd have that chance on vacations or any place were they weren't in bunk beds. But at home those moments were gone. And by the time they were tired of bunk beds, or too big for them, they'd certainly be too big for mommy to lay in bed with them, scratching their backs and asking about their day.
Instead, from now on I'd be kissing him goodnight before sending him up the ladder into his bed. Any snuggles that he'd get would be in his small chair on the floor. Any nighttime stories would have to be told, not cuddled in bed, but sitting on the floor or in his brother's bottom bunk with his brother complaining that he didn't have enough room with all three of us in there and that "Baby Ankylosaurus" was getting squished, which in this house is akin to crimes against humanity.
I know not everyone believes it's good to get in bed with your kids. Independent sleep is important. No one knows that better than this mom who's first child began boycotting sleep just as all of his peers were realizing 10+ hours was a good thing. So we never let the kids sleep in our bed with us. We wanted them comfortable in their own room, in their own beds. Happily independent. But still, no matter how spent we were at day's end, we crawled into theirs every night for a few minutes. And the snuggles were as much for us as for them. Faced with the horribly unfair realization that their day was over, they suddenly remembered all the information they had "forgotten" right after school or camp or a play date that they wanted to share with us. Nothing like the threat of sleep to spur a six-year-old's memory.
It was often the best part of my day. Partially because it meant I would finally have some of that elusive "me" time, and partially because in their cozy dinosaur pajamas, under their Spider Man comforters, they were sweeter, happier, more loving and less likely to launch a Matchbox Car at my head.
We'd check on them periodically throughout the night and make sure their bodies weren't hanging sideways off the bed, their covers were up around their chins, and their dollies were easily reachable when they woke up. I'd marvel at how these same faces, peaceful, innocent and angelic, were the same ones that were trying to mutilate each other just hours earlier.
Now, I can no longer even see my son sleeping all the way up in his bunk, beneath his covers. I can't put my finger under his nose or on his chest to confirm breath. Instead I now comfort myself by feeling around under the blankets to find a warm ankle or toe. A little tickle to the foot followed by a small kick tells me everything's okay. I'm adapting.
The week before we moved into our new home we stayed at my aunt and uncle's house. The last night there I crawled into their twin, non-bunk bed beds and snuggled with them. We talked about our old house and the new one we were moving into the next morning. We discussed where we'd put things (no the litter box wasn't going next to mommy's side of the bed.) After half-an-hour I kissed them goodnight and got up. My older son asked me to stay longer but I said no. Tomorrow was going to be a long day. They needed to get to sleep. And I left.
Had I realized that that was one of the last nights to snuggle with him in bed I would have stayed there longer.
Not much longer. Just another 12 years or so.
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.
So it is probably a good thing that I wasn't aware that the last night I snuggled with my six-year-old in his bed would be the last night I would really be able to do so.
When we moved into our new home a few weeks ago we set their beds up as bunk beds. My oldest son couldn't wait to sleep up on top. And my little guy couldn't wait for his older brother to sleep up on top. Until he realized that meant he couldn't see his brother when he was talking to him. Then he decided it was a horrible idea. He stopped speaking to me for seven minutes in protest.
But still, we did it.
A guy came to set them up. When he was finished he asked how we liked it. We all agreed that it was great. He grabbed his tools and left. I didn't realize at that moment that he was also taking a piece of my oldest son's childhood with him when shut the door behind him.
Within minutes both boys were scrambling up the ladder to see how cool the top bunk really was. One thing lead to another and within seconds I was screaming at them to stop shoving and pushing on the ladder, that there was to be no wresting -- EVER -- on that top bunk, or leaning over the side, or jumping up and down, or even breathing too heavily for fear of it collapsing or I would take it apart with my own two hands and they would have to sleep side by side again and then they wouldn't have room for the Lego table in their room anymore.
My younger son pouted as he crawled down. My older son ignored me. Or maybe he just couldn't hear me all the way up there.
So I climbed the ladder to make sure he knew the rules about sleeping in the top bunk. He was already giving it a test run, nestled under his Spider Man blanket surrounded by his favorite animals. I called out his name once. Twice.
Nothing.
I shook his leg.
He told me to leave him alone, he was practicing sleeping.
I took another step up to climb in bed with him and stopped. I realized that the top bunk probably was not meant to hold a 40+-pound boy, his mommy and all of his dolls. Or maybe it was, but with my younger son pouting in his bed directly beneath me I didn't want to take the chance. So I climbed down. And with every step on the ladder I felt my older son drifting farther and farther away.
I'm being melodramatic of course. I excel at that. But I was sad because I realized in that moment that my days of snuggling with my first baby were essentially over. Sure I'd have that chance on vacations or any place were they weren't in bunk beds. But at home those moments were gone. And by the time they were tired of bunk beds, or too big for them, they'd certainly be too big for mommy to lay in bed with them, scratching their backs and asking about their day.
Instead, from now on I'd be kissing him goodnight before sending him up the ladder into his bed. Any snuggles that he'd get would be in his small chair on the floor. Any nighttime stories would have to be told, not cuddled in bed, but sitting on the floor or in his brother's bottom bunk with his brother complaining that he didn't have enough room with all three of us in there and that "Baby Ankylosaurus" was getting squished, which in this house is akin to crimes against humanity.
I know not everyone believes it's good to get in bed with your kids. Independent sleep is important. No one knows that better than this mom who's first child began boycotting sleep just as all of his peers were realizing 10+ hours was a good thing. So we never let the kids sleep in our bed with us. We wanted them comfortable in their own room, in their own beds. Happily independent. But still, no matter how spent we were at day's end, we crawled into theirs every night for a few minutes. And the snuggles were as much for us as for them. Faced with the horribly unfair realization that their day was over, they suddenly remembered all the information they had "forgotten" right after school or camp or a play date that they wanted to share with us. Nothing like the threat of sleep to spur a six-year-old's memory.
It was often the best part of my day. Partially because it meant I would finally have some of that elusive "me" time, and partially because in their cozy dinosaur pajamas, under their Spider Man comforters, they were sweeter, happier, more loving and less likely to launch a Matchbox Car at my head.
We'd check on them periodically throughout the night and make sure their bodies weren't hanging sideways off the bed, their covers were up around their chins, and their dollies were easily reachable when they woke up. I'd marvel at how these same faces, peaceful, innocent and angelic, were the same ones that were trying to mutilate each other just hours earlier.
Now, I can no longer even see my son sleeping all the way up in his bunk, beneath his covers. I can't put my finger under his nose or on his chest to confirm breath. Instead I now comfort myself by feeling around under the blankets to find a warm ankle or toe. A little tickle to the foot followed by a small kick tells me everything's okay. I'm adapting.
The week before we moved into our new home we stayed at my aunt and uncle's house. The last night there I crawled into their twin, non-bunk bed beds and snuggled with them. We talked about our old house and the new one we were moving into the next morning. We discussed where we'd put things (no the litter box wasn't going next to mommy's side of the bed.) After half-an-hour I kissed them goodnight and got up. My older son asked me to stay longer but I said no. Tomorrow was going to be a long day. They needed to get to sleep. And I left.
Had I realized that that was one of the last nights to snuggle with him in bed I would have stayed there longer.
Not much longer. Just another 12 years or so.
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.
July 10, 2011
July 8, 2011
20 Questions
We commute. Therefore we play twenty questions in the car. A lot. In the beginning it was just silly. Our six-year-old always chose T-Rex. Our four-year-old, Spiderman. And I mean Every. Single. Time. It would have been horrendously boring if it wasn't such a riot.
But now, a year or two later, their minds have expanded they have a whole new wealth of ideas. Now that they're no longer limited to web slinging superheroes and carnivores it's actually gotten tricky.
Today's game with my four-year-old was one for the records.
Son: Okaaaay. I got it!
Me: Is it alive?
Son: Uh, no. I mean yes. Okay, no. No it's definitely not alive. I don't think.
Me: Did it used to be alive?
Son: No.
Me: Is it a toy?
Son:( LONG PAUSE) No.
Me: Is it a place?
Son: No. Do you want me to tell you what it is?
Me: No.
Me: Is it a thing?
Son: Yes. But it's not alive. It is NOT a bird.
Me: Okay. Thanks. Have you seen one before?
Son: Yes.
Me: Here in Chicago.
Son: No. It's not in Chicago.
Me: Is it in another state?
Son: Yes. Do you want a hint?
Me: Sure.
Son: It's red.
Me: Red. Hm, okay. Did we see it in Utah?
Son: Yes. Actually, no. Actually, I'm not so sure about that.
Me: Did we see it in Florida?
Son: Yes.
Me: On Spring Break?
Son: (EXCITED) Yesssss....do you want me to tell you what it is?
Me: No.
Me: Is it a swimming pool?
Son. Nooo. Pools aren't red mommy. Do you want another hint?
Me: No. Not yet.
OLDER SON INTERRUPTING: IT WOULD BE RED IF A SHARK SWAM INTO THE POOL AND ATE EVERYONE IN IT. IT WOULD BE RED BECAUSE THERE WOULD BE BLOOD.
Me: Okay, stop. He already said it's not a pool.
Son. Okay. Do you want a hint?
Me: Yes.
Son: It's a crescent shape.
OLDER SON INTERRUPTING: IS IT THE MOON?
Son: Stop talking to me you can't play cheater! Only mommy can play!!!!
Me: Is it the moon?
Son: No.
Me: Okay, so it's red and it's a crescent.
Son: NOOOOO. I said it's kinda red and it is also kinda a crescent shape.
Me: And it's not a toy?
Son: No.
Me: Was it in Key West?
Son: Let me think.
(REALLY LONG PAUSE)
Son: I'm not sure. Ask me something else.
Me: Is it stone crabs?
Son. No. How many questions do you have left?
Me: Nineteen.
Son. Okay. Ask more. But I can't tell you what other color it is because then you'll weally, weally know what it is!
Me: Oh, it's not just red?
Son: No, but I can't tell you that. You have to guess!
Me: Okay, is it another color than red?
Son: (PAUSE) Yes.
Me: Is it purple?
Son: No.
Me: And it's not in Chicago?
Son: It IS in Chicago. It's in every city. Every state in the whole wide world.
Me. Oh...you said it was not in Chicago.
Son. Yes it IS. It's everywhere.
Son: Do you want me to tell you what it is?
Me: No. Not ye...
Son. It's a WATERMELON!!!!!
Me: Ohhhh. Watermelon. That's a good one.
OLDER SON SCREAMING: WATERMELONS AREN'T CRESCENTS UNLESS YOU TAKE A BITE! YOU SHOULD HAVE PICKED THE MOON! THAT IS CRAZY! MY TURN!
Older Son: Okay, I got it!
Me: Is it alive?
And I thought Hangman was fun.
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.
But now, a year or two later, their minds have expanded they have a whole new wealth of ideas. Now that they're no longer limited to web slinging superheroes and carnivores it's actually gotten tricky.
Today's game with my four-year-old was one for the records.
Son: Okaaaay. I got it!
Me: Is it alive?
Son: Uh, no. I mean yes. Okay, no. No it's definitely not alive. I don't think.
Me: Did it used to be alive?
Son: No.
Me: Is it a toy?
Son:( LONG PAUSE) No.
Me: Is it a place?
Son: No. Do you want me to tell you what it is?
Me: No.
Me: Is it a thing?
Son: Yes. But it's not alive. It is NOT a bird.
Me: Okay. Thanks. Have you seen one before?
Son: Yes.
Me: Here in Chicago.
Son: No. It's not in Chicago.
Me: Is it in another state?
Son: Yes. Do you want a hint?
Me: Sure.
Son: It's red.
Me: Red. Hm, okay. Did we see it in Utah?
Son: Yes. Actually, no. Actually, I'm not so sure about that.
Me: Did we see it in Florida?
Son: Yes.
Me: On Spring Break?
Son: (EXCITED) Yesssss....do you want me to tell you what it is?
Me: No.
Me: Is it a swimming pool?
Son. Nooo. Pools aren't red mommy. Do you want another hint?
Me: No. Not yet.
OLDER SON INTERRUPTING: IT WOULD BE RED IF A SHARK SWAM INTO THE POOL AND ATE EVERYONE IN IT. IT WOULD BE RED BECAUSE THERE WOULD BE BLOOD.
Me: Okay, stop. He already said it's not a pool.
Son. Okay. Do you want a hint?
Me: Yes.
Son: It's a crescent shape.
OLDER SON INTERRUPTING: IS IT THE MOON?
Son: Stop talking to me you can't play cheater! Only mommy can play!!!!
Me: Is it the moon?
Son: No.
Me: Okay, so it's red and it's a crescent.
Son: NOOOOO. I said it's kinda red and it is also kinda a crescent shape.
Me: And it's not a toy?
Son: No.
Me: Was it in Key West?
Son: Let me think.
(REALLY LONG PAUSE)
Son: I'm not sure. Ask me something else.
Me: Is it stone crabs?
Son. No. How many questions do you have left?
Me: Nineteen.
Son. Okay. Ask more. But I can't tell you what other color it is because then you'll weally, weally know what it is!
Me: Oh, it's not just red?
Son: No, but I can't tell you that. You have to guess!
Me: Okay, is it another color than red?
Son: (PAUSE) Yes.
Me: Is it purple?
Son: No.
Me: And it's not in Chicago?
Son: It IS in Chicago. It's in every city. Every state in the whole wide world.
Me. Oh...you said it was not in Chicago.
Son. Yes it IS. It's everywhere.
Son: Do you want me to tell you what it is?
Me: No. Not ye...
Son. It's a WATERMELON!!!!!
Me: Ohhhh. Watermelon. That's a good one.
OLDER SON SCREAMING: WATERMELONS AREN'T CRESCENTS UNLESS YOU TAKE A BITE! YOU SHOULD HAVE PICKED THE MOON! THAT IS CRAZY! MY TURN!
Older Son: Okay, I got it!
Me: Is it alive?
And I thought Hangman was fun.
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.
June 27, 2011
Toy Story
I can't count how much money we've spent at Toy's R Us, Legoland, Target and Amazon in the past six years. Let's just say we could have fed, housed and put a small country through the Ivy Leagues for the same amount.
We are happy to do it. The way our boys' faces light up when they open up a gift they have been "wanting for years and years and years" (despite the fact they are only six and four-and-a-half) makes it worth it.
Or it did until last week.
This summer, like last, we are spending four weeks at my mom's house in central Illinois so the kids can go to the same swim camp that I went to at their age. It's small town living and a nice, necessary, break from the city. The boys absolutely love it. Nothing is far here and we get around much "quicklier" than we do in the city. They can run around in a backyard for eight hours straight (in tennis shoes, not sandals because they are city kids and they don't like the feel of grass on their skin.) Spend lazy afternoons hunting and analyzing all kinds of bugs we just don't have in the city (thank god!) And ultimately make me realize that my husband and I, and all our relations, may have wasted a small fortune on toys for them.
The other day when they came home from camp they walked in the front door of the house, straight through the house and right back outside the back door. They spent the next hour punishing each other with Super Soaker Water Guns. I mentally patted myself on the back for thinking of this gift and actually remembering to tell my husband before he went toy shopping last week. (It was a birthday week, we don't have weekly toy-shopping trips.) However, the smugness was fleeting.
Soaking wet and tired of pulling the trigger, my oldest (now six) tossed the gun aside and pulled out the garden hose and a small plastic bucket that looked like it had been made at the turn of the century – and not this most recent century. He filled the bucket with water and a little dirt and then "sat" down next to it in that crouched squat that only very young kids and hard-core Yogis can do for extended periods of time. He stared into the murky waters, one arm protectively curled around the edge of the bucket, the other gripping a bug-catcher we picked up from Walgreens last summer.
I didn't pay much attention to what he was doing....for the first 15 minutes, that is. But after 45 minutes, when he was still squatting and staring into the bucket I became curious and asked what he was up to. He was too absorbed with whatever was happening inside that bucket to answer and waved me away. He didn't even look up.
Another 30 minutes passed. He barely moved a muscle. He got up once to check out an ant his brother was inspecting and then he went right back to squat central. Another hour passed.
Any and all attempts I made to ask what he was doing were waved away. I took some pictures, which annoyed him, but didn't distract him enough to move. He spent the rest of the afternoon squatting down in front of that old bucket filled with muddy, grassy water. Just staring into its depths and occasionally poking at it with his bug catcher.
I looked from him into my mom's living room, where it looked like Toys' R Us had projectile vomited all over the floor. It was littered with Legos, Matchbox cars, 1,000 Kapla Blocks (I had my mom get as a 6th birthday present), tiny plastic animals, crayons and coloring pads. Hundreds of dollars of entertainment. And my son was spending hours squatting over an old bucket filled with water.
I took another picture of him and sent it to my husband letting him know that we were no longer going to buy more toys. All we needed was a hose, bucket and some dirt.
The next day was a repeat. Toys were glanced at but largely ignored en route from the front door to the back door which my oldest son slammed open and shut before refilling another bucket with some mud and water. He added a few ants, grabbed his bug catcher and crouched down again to sit and watch. This time his little brother joined in the fun, making "Icky Chocolate Poop Soup" with basically the same ingredients: an old bucket, water, dirt, grass and bugs. Sand shovels were used as whisks as my little prep cook stirred and stared. Another afternoon passed.
I cleaned up the toys inside, taking apart the elaborate block structure I had been told to leave alone five days earlier. But I was tired of stepping over it. Half-finished Legos were set aside. Cars extracted from under the couch. I expected full blown rage over the dismantled block structure. I shouldn't have worried. They didn't notice.
I'll admit that at first I was a little annoyed that they weren't playing with all the toys I had brought down for them. I had driven myself somewhat crazy trying to make sure that I had filled my car with anything and everything they might want to do while we were downstate.
Turns out it wasn't necessary. The only thing I really needed to do was call my mom and make sure there was no drought prohibiting people from turning on the water.
Seeing my boys so mesmerized with something so simple actually made me happy. It took me back to my own childhood. Not that I was content with just a stick and a ball, please I'm not that old. We had toys and dolls and Star Wars action figures and Legos and, well, you name it, we had it. We just didn't have as much stuff as my boys have today.
But the thing is, I don't really remember the toys. Aside from the stuff my mom kept and pulls out for my own boys today, I just don't remember playing with toys that much, although I know I did. What I remember is the time I spent outside at home and at my own grandpa's house in Alabama. Kicking open huge ant houses and watching the millions of little critters scurry around dizzingly trying to regroup. Discovering the bunny rabbits who had babies by the garden. Watching the fish swim in their pond. Worms covering the sidewalks after it rained. The simple things. That is what left an indelible mark on my memory. It has nothing to do with toys or stuff.
Don't get me wrong. I'm thrilled that my husband and I can give our kids so much. But the reality is that none of it really matters. None of these things will be what they carry with them in their minds when they grow up. It's the memories they make with the odd shovel and pail of water that really count. And money can't buy that.
We live in the city and so I sometimes worry that my boys won't have the chance to make those same memories. Sure, we are surrounded by parks and playgrounds and big grassy areas for our boys to run and play in. But they all require an "Outing." Bags are packed up, water bottles are filled and nerves are tested being out of bathroom range. Being able to spend hours squatting over a muddy bucket just doesn't happen at home because Mommy has to get home to make dinner.
And so it's rare that the boys can experience the simple pleasure of just running around in a backyard, chasing "flierflies"until they can't even see each other anymore through the dark. And so down here, this summer, their joy is evident. And contagious.
I realize that by bringing my boys down to a small town for the summer I'm actually able to give them the biggest gifts of all. Nature. Freedom. And space.
And, of course, bugs.
So perhaps for the next three months our investment in all the toys we've bought will not payoff. But I don't care. Come January we will see huge returns as temperatures once again plunge into the "Wait, Why Don't We Live in Southern California?" zone.
Until then, it's a loss I'm happy to take.
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.
We are happy to do it. The way our boys' faces light up when they open up a gift they have been "wanting for years and years and years" (despite the fact they are only six and four-and-a-half) makes it worth it.
Or it did until last week.
This summer, like last, we are spending four weeks at my mom's house in central Illinois so the kids can go to the same swim camp that I went to at their age. It's small town living and a nice, necessary, break from the city. The boys absolutely love it. Nothing is far here and we get around much "quicklier" than we do in the city. They can run around in a backyard for eight hours straight (in tennis shoes, not sandals because they are city kids and they don't like the feel of grass on their skin.) Spend lazy afternoons hunting and analyzing all kinds of bugs we just don't have in the city (thank god!) And ultimately make me realize that my husband and I, and all our relations, may have wasted a small fortune on toys for them.
The other day when they came home from camp they walked in the front door of the house, straight through the house and right back outside the back door. They spent the next hour punishing each other with Super Soaker Water Guns. I mentally patted myself on the back for thinking of this gift and actually remembering to tell my husband before he went toy shopping last week. (It was a birthday week, we don't have weekly toy-shopping trips.) However, the smugness was fleeting.
Soaking wet and tired of pulling the trigger, my oldest (now six) tossed the gun aside and pulled out the garden hose and a small plastic bucket that looked like it had been made at the turn of the century – and not this most recent century. He filled the bucket with water and a little dirt and then "sat" down next to it in that crouched squat that only very young kids and hard-core Yogis can do for extended periods of time. He stared into the murky waters, one arm protectively curled around the edge of the bucket, the other gripping a bug-catcher we picked up from Walgreens last summer.
I didn't pay much attention to what he was doing....for the first 15 minutes, that is. But after 45 minutes, when he was still squatting and staring into the bucket I became curious and asked what he was up to. He was too absorbed with whatever was happening inside that bucket to answer and waved me away. He didn't even look up.
Another 30 minutes passed. He barely moved a muscle. He got up once to check out an ant his brother was inspecting and then he went right back to squat central. Another hour passed.
Any and all attempts I made to ask what he was doing were waved away. I took some pictures, which annoyed him, but didn't distract him enough to move. He spent the rest of the afternoon squatting down in front of that old bucket filled with muddy, grassy water. Just staring into its depths and occasionally poking at it with his bug catcher.
I looked from him into my mom's living room, where it looked like Toys' R Us had projectile vomited all over the floor. It was littered with Legos, Matchbox cars, 1,000 Kapla Blocks (I had my mom get as a 6th birthday present), tiny plastic animals, crayons and coloring pads. Hundreds of dollars of entertainment. And my son was spending hours squatting over an old bucket filled with water.
I took another picture of him and sent it to my husband letting him know that we were no longer going to buy more toys. All we needed was a hose, bucket and some dirt.
The next day was a repeat. Toys were glanced at but largely ignored en route from the front door to the back door which my oldest son slammed open and shut before refilling another bucket with some mud and water. He added a few ants, grabbed his bug catcher and crouched down again to sit and watch. This time his little brother joined in the fun, making "Icky Chocolate Poop Soup" with basically the same ingredients: an old bucket, water, dirt, grass and bugs. Sand shovels were used as whisks as my little prep cook stirred and stared. Another afternoon passed.
I cleaned up the toys inside, taking apart the elaborate block structure I had been told to leave alone five days earlier. But I was tired of stepping over it. Half-finished Legos were set aside. Cars extracted from under the couch. I expected full blown rage over the dismantled block structure. I shouldn't have worried. They didn't notice.
I'll admit that at first I was a little annoyed that they weren't playing with all the toys I had brought down for them. I had driven myself somewhat crazy trying to make sure that I had filled my car with anything and everything they might want to do while we were downstate.
Turns out it wasn't necessary. The only thing I really needed to do was call my mom and make sure there was no drought prohibiting people from turning on the water.
Seeing my boys so mesmerized with something so simple actually made me happy. It took me back to my own childhood. Not that I was content with just a stick and a ball, please I'm not that old. We had toys and dolls and Star Wars action figures and Legos and, well, you name it, we had it. We just didn't have as much stuff as my boys have today.
But the thing is, I don't really remember the toys. Aside from the stuff my mom kept and pulls out for my own boys today, I just don't remember playing with toys that much, although I know I did. What I remember is the time I spent outside at home and at my own grandpa's house in Alabama. Kicking open huge ant houses and watching the millions of little critters scurry around dizzingly trying to regroup. Discovering the bunny rabbits who had babies by the garden. Watching the fish swim in their pond. Worms covering the sidewalks after it rained. The simple things. That is what left an indelible mark on my memory. It has nothing to do with toys or stuff.
Don't get me wrong. I'm thrilled that my husband and I can give our kids so much. But the reality is that none of it really matters. None of these things will be what they carry with them in their minds when they grow up. It's the memories they make with the odd shovel and pail of water that really count. And money can't buy that.
We live in the city and so I sometimes worry that my boys won't have the chance to make those same memories. Sure, we are surrounded by parks and playgrounds and big grassy areas for our boys to run and play in. But they all require an "Outing." Bags are packed up, water bottles are filled and nerves are tested being out of bathroom range. Being able to spend hours squatting over a muddy bucket just doesn't happen at home because Mommy has to get home to make dinner.
And so it's rare that the boys can experience the simple pleasure of just running around in a backyard, chasing "flierflies"until they can't even see each other anymore through the dark. And so down here, this summer, their joy is evident. And contagious.
I realize that by bringing my boys down to a small town for the summer I'm actually able to give them the biggest gifts of all. Nature. Freedom. And space.
And, of course, bugs.
So perhaps for the next three months our investment in all the toys we've bought will not payoff. But I don't care. Come January we will see huge returns as temperatures once again plunge into the "Wait, Why Don't We Live in Southern California?" zone.
Until then, it's a loss I'm happy to take.
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.
June 11, 2011
Doggone it.
You know you are the only female in the house when everyone – except you – leaves the dinner table in the middle of eating to go see "a poop that's shaped like a hot dog."
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.
June 3, 2011
Say Cheese
After eating about a dozen mini soy corn dogs and a bowl of peas and corn (to ease my guilt about the corn dogs), my boys announced that they were starving and wanted to know what they could have for a snack.
I asked what they wanted.
It was unanimous. Cheese.
So I pulled out a wedge of cheese I had just bought from Trader Joe's. Spanish Manchego.
They'd never had it so I gave each boy a cautious slice.
My oldest boy shoved the whole thing in his mouth and starting moaning immediately.
"Mommy, this is soooooooo good. Mmmmmm. Mmm. Mmm. Mmm!!"
My little one was more tentative. He watched his big brother to make sure he didn't keel over or start frothing at the mouth.
Then he took a bite roughly the size of a fraction of an atom – a pretty generous bite for him. He cautiously moved it around on his tongue looking skeptical.
Then he made his decision.
"Mommy, I LOVE it. I love, love, love, love it SO much! This is my most favorite cheese ever! Thank you for buying this for us! I love it so much I can eat the whole thing, and I won't even share with anyone because I'm so hungry for this cheese. I can eat every single bite and then still want more and do you know what? I am sad there are only three more days of school because do you know what mommy? I want this in my lunchbox every day. Promise me okay? Every day until school is done. And do you know what? I bet that mousies would even like this cheese - don't you think this is what mousies would like? Because I do. I like it so much, so much mommy. Do you know what? I know I like it more than you because I love cheese the mostest of all my favorite foods! (of which there are approximately two) Can I have more mommy please because do you know what? This is the best cheese I've ever had and, wait...who has more cheese me or J because he doesn't like it as much as me and so I should have more – I should always, always have more of the things I love – like this cheese. And treats. Do you know what? I want you to buy some more tomorrow. Okay? Will you mommy? Will you? Mommy, stop, is that next piece for me? Make that next piece be for me, okay? I weally, weally hope it's for me because I am so hungry for more of this cheese..."
He paused to take a breath and another nibble.
While he chewed I said "Well, I'm really glad you like it so much."
He looked at me and nodded and then slid off his chair leaving a huge pile of "The Best Cheese Ever" on the table.
"Yeah," he said. "But not that much."
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.
I asked what they wanted.
It was unanimous. Cheese.
So I pulled out a wedge of cheese I had just bought from Trader Joe's. Spanish Manchego.
They'd never had it so I gave each boy a cautious slice.
My oldest boy shoved the whole thing in his mouth and starting moaning immediately.
"Mommy, this is soooooooo good. Mmmmmm. Mmm. Mmm. Mmm!!"
My little one was more tentative. He watched his big brother to make sure he didn't keel over or start frothing at the mouth.
Then he took a bite roughly the size of a fraction of an atom – a pretty generous bite for him. He cautiously moved it around on his tongue looking skeptical.
Then he made his decision.
"Mommy, I LOVE it. I love, love, love, love it SO much! This is my most favorite cheese ever! Thank you for buying this for us! I love it so much I can eat the whole thing, and I won't even share with anyone because I'm so hungry for this cheese. I can eat every single bite and then still want more and do you know what? I am sad there are only three more days of school because do you know what mommy? I want this in my lunchbox every day. Promise me okay? Every day until school is done. And do you know what? I bet that mousies would even like this cheese - don't you think this is what mousies would like? Because I do. I like it so much, so much mommy. Do you know what? I know I like it more than you because I love cheese the mostest of all my favorite foods! (of which there are approximately two) Can I have more mommy please because do you know what? This is the best cheese I've ever had and, wait...who has more cheese me or J because he doesn't like it as much as me and so I should have more – I should always, always have more of the things I love – like this cheese. And treats. Do you know what? I want you to buy some more tomorrow. Okay? Will you mommy? Will you? Mommy, stop, is that next piece for me? Make that next piece be for me, okay? I weally, weally hope it's for me because I am so hungry for more of this cheese..."
He paused to take a breath and another nibble.
While he chewed I said "Well, I'm really glad you like it so much."
He looked at me and nodded and then slid off his chair leaving a huge pile of "The Best Cheese Ever" on the table.
"Yeah," he said. "But not that much."
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.
May 29, 2011
Radio Heads
After listening to Take it Easy, Moonshadow and Ring of Fire almost every day for the past two years, I decided it's time my boys discovered The Radio. They needed variety and I needed something to keep me from driving into a telephone pole.
The concept of The Radio has been difficult for them to grasp. Not being able to listen to exactly what they want exactly when they want does not mesh with the iGeneration. Their faces scrunch up at every song they don't recognize, which is almost every song ever written aside from the three I've listed above.
The radio DJs also perplex them. They assume that "these people" are obviously within earshot and can hear us. "Mommy," they plead. "Tell those people to stop talking. Tell them you want The Eagles."
I am thankful "those people" in The Radio can't hear us. Because I don't want the Eagles. Ever again. I want Springsteen, Willie Nile and CCR. And admittedly some country.
And so through The Radio my guys have discovered a wealth of new music. Namely Taylor Swift. They've heard her songs a few times and now ask for her every morning when we get in the car, when we get on The Drive, when we pass Soldier Field and as we pull into the school lot. And every three seconds in between.
I was starting to think The Radio was a bad idea after all when I stumbled upon 100.3's Rewind. Of course I've listened to it before, but that was decades ago before I completely succumbed to my Bruce addiction.
Rewind 100.3 is all about the 80s, which as far as my boys know, happened a few million years before the Mesozic era. T-Rex roamed the earth in a Pet Shop Boys t-shirt.
Granted, I've heard these songs more times that I've heard myself exhale. And yes, some (most) of them might cause seizures. But a lot of them are still great. And all of them, good, bad and just irritating, take me straight back to my teens. It doesn't matter that I haven't heard these songs in 20 years. Music isn't like math – it actually sticks in your brain. (Especially the songs you want to forget.) And so without missing a beat I'm singing every single word to every single song as if it was only yesterday that I was sitting in my room with my cassette player positioned perfectly in front of my radio, impatiently waiting for Holding out for a Hero to come on so I could record it and then play it over and over until I knew ever single word by heart and my parents were considering putting me up for adoption.
Needless to say boys were impressed with my wealth of lyrical knowledge.
The Bangles. OMD. Bryan Adams. Journey. Rick Springfield. Even Corey Hart (sad, I know). And of course, REO Speedwagon. I remember it all. This week, Take it on the Run came on and I almost got into a wreck I was so excited. As the band from my hometown began singing "Heard it from a friend whoooo..." I cranked the volume way up – much louder than anyone should legally be allowed to play REO Speedwagon.
Next, in a stroke of luck, Toni Basil's Hey Mickey came on. I hadn't heard that song since 7th grade. (And to be honest I couldn't care less if I ever hear it again.) But the fact that my boys got to hear it....just that once....was fantastic.
Rewind played all the songs I'd loved. And the ones I hated (The Clash).
My boys were mesmerized by the synthesizers, the techo-beats and those distinctly 80-style drums that are solely responsible the success of Tylenol.
They listened silently, soaking up the songs from my past. Little heads bobbing rhythmically with approval.
Without saying a word they told me they liked these brand new songs that I grew up on decades ago. And I was thrilled. Because I realized this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I have no doubt that in another few years I won't be able to effectively sell them on how great Jack & Diane is...much less Meatloaf. So I'm enjoying their enthusiasm while it lasts.
And because it is all on The Radio, I simply can not play the same songs over and over and over and over and over and over again. No matter how much they beg or or scream at "those people" hidden in my dashboard.
The best part? They momentarily stopped harassing me about Taylor Swift and Don Henley.
And that really was music to my ears.
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.
The concept of The Radio has been difficult for them to grasp. Not being able to listen to exactly what they want exactly when they want does not mesh with the iGeneration. Their faces scrunch up at every song they don't recognize, which is almost every song ever written aside from the three I've listed above.
The radio DJs also perplex them. They assume that "these people" are obviously within earshot and can hear us. "Mommy," they plead. "Tell those people to stop talking. Tell them you want The Eagles."
I am thankful "those people" in The Radio can't hear us. Because I don't want the Eagles. Ever again. I want Springsteen, Willie Nile and CCR. And admittedly some country.
And so through The Radio my guys have discovered a wealth of new music. Namely Taylor Swift. They've heard her songs a few times and now ask for her every morning when we get in the car, when we get on The Drive, when we pass Soldier Field and as we pull into the school lot. And every three seconds in between.
I was starting to think The Radio was a bad idea after all when I stumbled upon 100.3's Rewind. Of course I've listened to it before, but that was decades ago before I completely succumbed to my Bruce addiction.
Rewind 100.3 is all about the 80s, which as far as my boys know, happened a few million years before the Mesozic era. T-Rex roamed the earth in a Pet Shop Boys t-shirt.
Granted, I've heard these songs more times that I've heard myself exhale. And yes, some (most) of them might cause seizures. But a lot of them are still great. And all of them, good, bad and just irritating, take me straight back to my teens. It doesn't matter that I haven't heard these songs in 20 years. Music isn't like math – it actually sticks in your brain. (Especially the songs you want to forget.) And so without missing a beat I'm singing every single word to every single song as if it was only yesterday that I was sitting in my room with my cassette player positioned perfectly in front of my radio, impatiently waiting for Holding out for a Hero to come on so I could record it and then play it over and over until I knew ever single word by heart and my parents were considering putting me up for adoption.
Needless to say boys were impressed with my wealth of lyrical knowledge.
The Bangles. OMD. Bryan Adams. Journey. Rick Springfield. Even Corey Hart (sad, I know). And of course, REO Speedwagon. I remember it all. This week, Take it on the Run came on and I almost got into a wreck I was so excited. As the band from my hometown began singing "Heard it from a friend whoooo..." I cranked the volume way up – much louder than anyone should legally be allowed to play REO Speedwagon.
Next, in a stroke of luck, Toni Basil's Hey Mickey came on. I hadn't heard that song since 7th grade. (And to be honest I couldn't care less if I ever hear it again.) But the fact that my boys got to hear it....just that once....was fantastic.
Rewind played all the songs I'd loved. And the ones I hated (The Clash).
My boys were mesmerized by the synthesizers, the techo-beats and those distinctly 80-style drums that are solely responsible the success of Tylenol.
They listened silently, soaking up the songs from my past. Little heads bobbing rhythmically with approval.
Without saying a word they told me they liked these brand new songs that I grew up on decades ago. And I was thrilled. Because I realized this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I have no doubt that in another few years I won't be able to effectively sell them on how great Jack & Diane is...much less Meatloaf. So I'm enjoying their enthusiasm while it lasts.
And because it is all on The Radio, I simply can not play the same songs over and over and over and over and over and over again. No matter how much they beg or or scream at "those people" hidden in my dashboard.
The best part? They momentarily stopped harassing me about Taylor Swift and Don Henley.
And that really was music to my ears.
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook.
May 14, 2011
Lions and tigers and terrorists, oh my.
Since I've turned into my mother I listen to a lot of talk radio. Actually, I have become an AM fanatic. Confused Springsteen CDs lay unused in cases on the floor of my car. (Unplayed yes, but not forgotten.)
These past few weeks there's been a lot of talk on the radio about how to discuss - or more accurately avoid discussing - bin Laden's untimely demise (as in a decade late) with very young kids. Some people firmly believe you should shield kids from it. And on one level I get this concern. September 11th was horrific and not nearly as fun to talk about at dinner as say the ever-changing rules of Freeze Tag. And so we've sidestepped this topic in our house for now.
But when it comes to talking about the monster behind 9/11, or any other "bad guy" I don't see the point in shying away from it. I simply don't believe it's too much for little kids to grasp. In fact, I believe they inherently understand the concept of good vs. evil. They are exposed to it everywhere.
When I was seven I was thisclose (actually probably closer than that) to being snatched from my front yard by a dark-haired man with black mustache, black cap, black gloves, black leather jacket and blue convertible with a black top. I was waiting outside my house for my ride to a public session at the ice rink (because skating every morning before school, after school, weekends and summers apparently wasn't enough) when this Hannibal Lecter-type pulled up to our curb and asked if I wanted a ride. I firmly said no, which was, according to him, the wrong answer. So he got out of the car and chased me from the curb to my front door. He was literally about to grab my arm and whisk me away when my mom heard me screaming and pounding on the door and stepped outside. Hannibal turned and ran. The cops came. I never knew if he was caught or just found another victim. But I do know that a second later and I'd have been a goner. Because even though I didn't ask him, I'm pretty certain he never intended to drive me to the rink.
For those who can't stand the suspense, I never made it skating that day.
I remember every single detail about that moment. It left me with the most permanent scar I have from my childhood. (And I wiped out on the ice a lot.)
And so when I talk to my kids about safety, I don't have the most gentle approach. I go beyond just drilling them to never talk to strangers. I make sure they realize that if they ever get into a car with anyone they will never, ever, ever see mommy or daddy again. I've talked explicitly about what has happened to me and to kids who weren't as lucky as I was. I describe evil.
And it affects them. They get quiet and they get scared. But despite the emotions this brings up, I can see them processing the information and storing it away for that "just-in-case" moment that we all hope never comes.
The result is that they know what to do should someone approach them on a playground and say they have a cute puppy, candy (yes, even cotton candy) or the real Batman hidden in their car. They know it's okay to be rude to strangers. To kick a man (no not your brother) in his groin if he grabbed their arm. They know they are not EVER allowed to get into a car with anyone, even a friend's parent who they know well, unless I have explicitly alerted them, their teachers, the entire Parent's Association, Obama, all higher-ups in the CIA and the UN about this change in pick-up and branded it onto their tiny foreheads just to be sure.
I've drilled this in so well that I worry the boys might put up a fight should my husband pick them up as a surprise one day.
Before anyone calls DCFS on me, let me say that I'm conscious of what I'm doing and concerned about protecting their fragile psyches. I don't tell them these stories at bedtime or even weekly. I don't make them sit and watch horror stories on Dateline. In fact, just the opposite. I turn off the TV the minute one of these stories airs. Because while I want them to know the reality of these bad guys, I want them to hear it from me. Not Matt Lauer, who I am pretty sure won't be there to comfort them in the middle of the night when they wake up screaming from a bad dream. (Which, by the way, they've never had after one of our talks.)
Am I permanently scarring them by being so direct? One hundred percent, positively, absolutely NOT.
I hope.
I mean sure their necks may be a tad sore from looking over their shoulders so much but otherwise I fully expect they will go on to lead productive - and safe - lives. Although they are still in their single digits and I have no doubt I'll be blamed for this and a multitude of other sins once puberty hits.
So my point is, should they ask more questions about bin Laden, I'll tell them.
And years from now should they attack me for scaring them this way, I'll know exactly what to do; Run screaming from the room yelling, "fire!"
These past few weeks there's been a lot of talk on the radio about how to discuss - or more accurately avoid discussing - bin Laden's untimely demise (as in a decade late) with very young kids. Some people firmly believe you should shield kids from it. And on one level I get this concern. September 11th was horrific and not nearly as fun to talk about at dinner as say the ever-changing rules of Freeze Tag. And so we've sidestepped this topic in our house for now.
But when it comes to talking about the monster behind 9/11, or any other "bad guy" I don't see the point in shying away from it. I simply don't believe it's too much for little kids to grasp. In fact, I believe they inherently understand the concept of good vs. evil. They are exposed to it everywhere.
Some examples:
Batman = good. Joker = evil.
Superman = good. Lex Luthor = evil.
Dorothy = good. Wicked Witch = evil.
72 and sunny = good. Blizzard = evil.
The Eagles "Take it Easy" = good. The Eagles "Take it Easy" for the 50,000,000th time = evil.
The Eagles "Take it Easy" = good. The Eagles "Take it Easy" for the 50,000,000th time = evil.
The nurse who gently gave you your first bath after delivery = good. The mohel who circumcised you eight days later = necessary evil.
Mommy giving you fruit = good. Daddy giving you jelly beans which rip the sealants off your teeth even after the dentist made it perfectly clear umpteen thousand times that you absolutely cannot eat tacky, chewy foods and treats = well, you get my point.
And so do kids.
And so do kids.
When public enemy #1 was killed last week it was the only topic on every station in the world – except maybe the BBC which was still busy debating the royal nail polish. Our kids got wind of this news and naturally had questions. Well, okay, just one question. But to be fair, they were in the middle of an intense game of some kind involving Matchbox cars and our couch cushions so they had a lot on their plate. Still, I think my husband handled it brilliantly.
Boys: "How bad was he (bin Laden)?"
Husband: "Well, you know Lex Luthor?"
Kids: "Uh huh."
Husband: "Well he was way worse than Lex Luthor."
(Silence as the kids tried to comprehend this. You could see the shock on their faces followed quickly by doubt. No way anyone could be worse than Lex Luthor. I mean, he wanted to knock part of California into the ocean so he could get more coastline property. And that's just mean.)
Kids: "For real?"
Husband: "For real."
That satisfied them for the time being and that's fine. But if they had wanted to know more, I would have told them.
When talking about these "bad guys" I opt for full disclosure. I tell them almost everything. Of course I tell our boys that most people are inherently good. But because of the bad ones out there, I want them to be ever vigilant. And to be vigilant they have to first be aware. And to be aware they must first listen. Which means I have to squeeze these conversations into the car rides to and from school when they are literally strapped down and I know they can hear me even if their tiny hands are pressed firmly over their ears.
I know some people will disagree with this tactic and that's fine. Still, this is one thing I simply don't struggle with. (And believe me I struggle with everything.) But here I have my reasons.
When I was seven I was thisclose (actually probably closer than that) to being snatched from my front yard by a dark-haired man with black mustache, black cap, black gloves, black leather jacket and blue convertible with a black top. I was waiting outside my house for my ride to a public session at the ice rink (because skating every morning before school, after school, weekends and summers apparently wasn't enough) when this Hannibal Lecter-type pulled up to our curb and asked if I wanted a ride. I firmly said no, which was, according to him, the wrong answer. So he got out of the car and chased me from the curb to my front door. He was literally about to grab my arm and whisk me away when my mom heard me screaming and pounding on the door and stepped outside. Hannibal turned and ran. The cops came. I never knew if he was caught or just found another victim. But I do know that a second later and I'd have been a goner. Because even though I didn't ask him, I'm pretty certain he never intended to drive me to the rink.
For those who can't stand the suspense, I never made it skating that day.
I remember every single detail about that moment. It left me with the most permanent scar I have from my childhood. (And I wiped out on the ice a lot.)
And so when I talk to my kids about safety, I don't have the most gentle approach. I go beyond just drilling them to never talk to strangers. I make sure they realize that if they ever get into a car with anyone they will never, ever, ever see mommy or daddy again. I've talked explicitly about what has happened to me and to kids who weren't as lucky as I was. I describe evil.
And it affects them. They get quiet and they get scared. But despite the emotions this brings up, I can see them processing the information and storing it away for that "just-in-case" moment that we all hope never comes.
The result is that they know what to do should someone approach them on a playground and say they have a cute puppy, candy (yes, even cotton candy) or the real Batman hidden in their car. They know it's okay to be rude to strangers. To kick a man (no not your brother) in his groin if he grabbed their arm. They know they are not EVER allowed to get into a car with anyone, even a friend's parent who they know well, unless I have explicitly alerted them, their teachers, the entire Parent's Association, Obama, all higher-ups in the CIA and the UN about this change in pick-up and branded it onto their tiny foreheads just to be sure.
I've drilled this in so well that I worry the boys might put up a fight should my husband pick them up as a surprise one day.
Yes it's a fear tactic. No it's not for everyone. But it does work. Maybe a little too well, I admit. My kids are not wallflowers by any means. They are very outgoing and social. But there are times when I'm introducing them to someone new and I can tell they are struggling with whether or not it's okay to say hello. I don't know if it's shyness or fear.
I must admit, I hope it's fear. But I believe a healthy dose of fear and distrust can help keep your limbs intact.
Before anyone calls DCFS on me, let me say that I'm conscious of what I'm doing and concerned about protecting their fragile psyches. I don't tell them these stories at bedtime or even weekly. I don't make them sit and watch horror stories on Dateline. In fact, just the opposite. I turn off the TV the minute one of these stories airs. Because while I want them to know the reality of these bad guys, I want them to hear it from me. Not Matt Lauer, who I am pretty sure won't be there to comfort them in the middle of the night when they wake up screaming from a bad dream. (Which, by the way, they've never had after one of our talks.)
Am I permanently scarring them by being so direct? One hundred percent, positively, absolutely NOT.
I hope.
I mean sure their necks may be a tad sore from looking over their shoulders so much but otherwise I fully expect they will go on to lead productive - and safe - lives. Although they are still in their single digits and I have no doubt I'll be blamed for this and a multitude of other sins once puberty hits.
So my point is, should they ask more questions about bin Laden, I'll tell them.
And years from now should they attack me for scaring them this way, I'll know exactly what to do; Run screaming from the room yelling, "fire!"
May 6, 2011
What a putz
Me: "Come on boys. If you want to go to the zoo we have to leave right now."
R: "Okay mommy. I'm almost done putzing around."
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook!
R: "Okay mommy. I'm almost done putzing around."
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook!
May 2, 2011
Bond. Mom Bond.
One of my most valued possessions is my girlfriends. I consider myself lucky to have wonderful friends from so many facets of my life: school, college, work.
And I'm still very close to several from when I was in preschool and grade school. Distance and decades aside, they know me better than almost anyone.
These friendships were born of endless hours shared in a freezing cold ice rink at 5 AM, during recesses huddled in concrete tunnels on the playground discussing the cutest boys in fifth grade, (no, I'm not mentioning names) and countless hours sifting through gravel looking for "Indian Beads." The memories are indelibly etched in my brain and the people in them will always take up a huge space in my heart.
Then there are the friends you form through childbirth. The bond you instantly form with other new mothers is unlike anything else. It's not that the friendships are deeper or richer, just more intimate right off the bat.
Seriously, the discussions I've had with moms I've just met amazes me. I can't count the inappropriate topics I've covered with women before I've even gotten their name. But when you're operating on just three hours of sleep in eight weeks, pleasantries are a colossal waste of time and energy.
On some level I think mom friends are born out of desperation. After the first three hours of parenthood you realize that you need to find someone else who's new job description also includes sitting around the house half-naked and having milk squeezed from you by a machine. And unless you live on a diary farm, that means actually getting dressed and out of the house, which really, is no more difficult than defying gravity.
I wasn't able to do it alone. I joined a new mom's group through my hospital and six weeks after my oldest son was born had found a group of new moms to commiserate with. They each had the most important quality necessary in a great friend: they could spend days discussing nipple confusion. They were willing (happy even) to belabor this issue for hours on end and then go home and email about it for the rest of the night. My husband on the other hand, as wonderful as he is, felt that once in a blue moon I ought to be able to discuss something else. Like the high-pressure new job he had just started, our new home and the big city we'd just moved to.
Perhaps I was being a tad selfish. But in all honesty, I don't know that I was even aware we had moved or that he had started a new job. I only knew that my nipples hurt.
So these new mom friendships were lifesaving. When other people tried to get to me to focus my attention on something else for a split-second, these girls pulled me back down to earth and assured me that there was not, under any circumstance, anything more important going on in the world other than the fact that my son refused to nap unless he was strapped into his car seat, which was attached to the stroller, which was in our guest bathroom, which had the fan on, which emitted the perfect "white noise" to help him sleep while I endlessly rocked his stroller back and forth, making sure the front wheels bumped rhythmically over the bathmat...for 45 minutes...at which point I was convinced that he was FINALLY asleep and so I would stop – only to have his eyes pop wide open.
(I would like to point out that even after months of this insane behavior I decided not to leave my child on a street corner. This is how good mommy I am.)
But my point is this. Once you're actually out the house, connecting with other moms doesn't take much. These friendships don't require any dating, wooing or courtship. Actually, they don't even require a hello. All you need is to see another mom standing in a bathroom, holding her feces-covered baby in the air while trying to rip open a bag of wet wipes with her teeth, which also happen to be holding her cell phone and keys.
It's a medical fact that when a new mom sees another new mom struggling a chemical is released in her brain that's technically called, "Thank God It's Not Just Me." This chemical instantly bonds you to other moms who are wrestling with little people who leak massive amounts of excrement hourly.
Another great thing about meeting other new moms is that you don't measure each other up right away. (Unless the new mom is showered, her hair is styled better than Medusa's, and her shirt matches her pants, which somehow aren't sweatpants. Then a different chemical is released in the brain. It's called, "Get The Hell Away From Me Right Now.")
Actually, that's not entirely true. New moms absolutely do measure each other up. But that doesn't happen until MUCH later in the friendship. Say, after the first 90 seconds when they've already discussed leaky boobs, whether or not they had their private parts stitched up after delivery and the baby blues. (That's a nice term for "I'm seriously about to throw everyone out the window.")
Luckily this "mom-bond" doesn't end with your first baby. It continues on with moms you meet on the playground, in after-school activities, and at the grocery store as you both lunge for the last gallon of DHA approved, brain-enhancing organic milk to guarantee that your kid masters logarithms long before anyone else's kids do.
The other day in my son's martial arts class there was a mom sitting on the floor next to me holding her six-month-old baby. I smiled at them. She smiled back and introduced herself with, "He hasn't pooped in three days. I don't know what to do."
I nodded. I'd been there. I asked if she'd tried the Fleet Liquid Glycerin Suppositories. (My youngest son single-handedly kept that company afloat.) She hadn't. We spent the next hour discussing her son's bowel movements, or lack thereof. On the way out of class we exchanged names and said we'd see each other next week in class. A friendship born out of a child's inability to bear down. Amazing, right? And while it's true we may never see each other again, for that one moment we had each other.
Now that my boys are older I'm not as needy. I can proudly say I go to the grocery store without trying to catch the eye of other new moms in the aisle - hoping to discuss rectal thermometers or diaper rashes. I don't troll the Internet at night looking for chat rooms on Roseola. I can make it through the day without emailing someone about night terrors.
But I still marvel at the immediacy of mommy friendships. And at how the friendships between me and my own friends from decades ago has deepened with the birth of our own kids.
And I know it's just the beginning. My boys are just four-and-a-half and five-and-three-quarters years old. I've got decades of insta-bonding to look forward to as I meet the parents of their classmates, teammates and girlfriends.
Wait...girlfriends?
On second thought, my best friend may end up being a licensed psychotherapist.
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook!
And I'm still very close to several from when I was in preschool and grade school. Distance and decades aside, they know me better than almost anyone.
These friendships were born of endless hours shared in a freezing cold ice rink at 5 AM, during recesses huddled in concrete tunnels on the playground discussing the cutest boys in fifth grade, (no, I'm not mentioning names) and countless hours sifting through gravel looking for "Indian Beads." The memories are indelibly etched in my brain and the people in them will always take up a huge space in my heart.
Then there are the friends you form through childbirth. The bond you instantly form with other new mothers is unlike anything else. It's not that the friendships are deeper or richer, just more intimate right off the bat.
Seriously, the discussions I've had with moms I've just met amazes me. I can't count the inappropriate topics I've covered with women before I've even gotten their name. But when you're operating on just three hours of sleep in eight weeks, pleasantries are a colossal waste of time and energy.
On some level I think mom friends are born out of desperation. After the first three hours of parenthood you realize that you need to find someone else who's new job description also includes sitting around the house half-naked and having milk squeezed from you by a machine. And unless you live on a diary farm, that means actually getting dressed and out of the house, which really, is no more difficult than defying gravity.
I wasn't able to do it alone. I joined a new mom's group through my hospital and six weeks after my oldest son was born had found a group of new moms to commiserate with. They each had the most important quality necessary in a great friend: they could spend days discussing nipple confusion. They were willing (happy even) to belabor this issue for hours on end and then go home and email about it for the rest of the night. My husband on the other hand, as wonderful as he is, felt that once in a blue moon I ought to be able to discuss something else. Like the high-pressure new job he had just started, our new home and the big city we'd just moved to.
Perhaps I was being a tad selfish. But in all honesty, I don't know that I was even aware we had moved or that he had started a new job. I only knew that my nipples hurt.
So these new mom friendships were lifesaving. When other people tried to get to me to focus my attention on something else for a split-second, these girls pulled me back down to earth and assured me that there was not, under any circumstance, anything more important going on in the world other than the fact that my son refused to nap unless he was strapped into his car seat, which was attached to the stroller, which was in our guest bathroom, which had the fan on, which emitted the perfect "white noise" to help him sleep while I endlessly rocked his stroller back and forth, making sure the front wheels bumped rhythmically over the bathmat...for 45 minutes...at which point I was convinced that he was FINALLY asleep and so I would stop – only to have his eyes pop wide open.
(I would like to point out that even after months of this insane behavior I decided not to leave my child on a street corner. This is how good mommy I am.)
But my point is this. Once you're actually out the house, connecting with other moms doesn't take much. These friendships don't require any dating, wooing or courtship. Actually, they don't even require a hello. All you need is to see another mom standing in a bathroom, holding her feces-covered baby in the air while trying to rip open a bag of wet wipes with her teeth, which also happen to be holding her cell phone and keys.
Instant attraction.
It's a medical fact that when a new mom sees another new mom struggling a chemical is released in her brain that's technically called, "Thank God It's Not Just Me." This chemical instantly bonds you to other moms who are wrestling with little people who leak massive amounts of excrement hourly.
Another great thing about meeting other new moms is that you don't measure each other up right away. (Unless the new mom is showered, her hair is styled better than Medusa's, and her shirt matches her pants, which somehow aren't sweatpants. Then a different chemical is released in the brain. It's called, "Get The Hell Away From Me Right Now.")
Actually, that's not entirely true. New moms absolutely do measure each other up. But that doesn't happen until MUCH later in the friendship. Say, after the first 90 seconds when they've already discussed leaky boobs, whether or not they had their private parts stitched up after delivery and the baby blues. (That's a nice term for "I'm seriously about to throw everyone out the window.")
Luckily this "mom-bond" doesn't end with your first baby. It continues on with moms you meet on the playground, in after-school activities, and at the grocery store as you both lunge for the last gallon of DHA approved, brain-enhancing organic milk to guarantee that your kid masters logarithms long before anyone else's kids do.
The other day in my son's martial arts class there was a mom sitting on the floor next to me holding her six-month-old baby. I smiled at them. She smiled back and introduced herself with, "He hasn't pooped in three days. I don't know what to do."
I nodded. I'd been there. I asked if she'd tried the Fleet Liquid Glycerin Suppositories. (My youngest son single-handedly kept that company afloat.) She hadn't. We spent the next hour discussing her son's bowel movements, or lack thereof. On the way out of class we exchanged names and said we'd see each other next week in class. A friendship born out of a child's inability to bear down. Amazing, right? And while it's true we may never see each other again, for that one moment we had each other.
Now that my boys are older I'm not as needy. I can proudly say I go to the grocery store without trying to catch the eye of other new moms in the aisle - hoping to discuss rectal thermometers or diaper rashes. I don't troll the Internet at night looking for chat rooms on Roseola. I can make it through the day without emailing someone about night terrors.
But I still marvel at the immediacy of mommy friendships. And at how the friendships between me and my own friends from decades ago has deepened with the birth of our own kids.
And I know it's just the beginning. My boys are just four-and-a-half and five-and-three-quarters years old. I've got decades of insta-bonding to look forward to as I meet the parents of their classmates, teammates and girlfriends.
Wait...girlfriends?
On second thought, my best friend may end up being a licensed psychotherapist.
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook!
April 26, 2011
Sob story
Crying has always come easily to me. Like breathing or screwing up a chicken dish. And it's never taken much to turn that faucet on. A sappy commercial; any book about animals; high humidity.
However, despite this emotional instability, I used to be able to do certain things in life with a bit of composure. For instance, I used to be able to watch the news, take a walk, and exercise all without breaking into tears. Yes, I was affected by heartbreaking stories that were sometimes in the headlines, but I managed to get through them all with some poise.
Then I had kids.
The change was instant. It's almost as if just before exiting my body my oldest son reached his tiny arm up into my brain and flicked off the "Stability" switch nestled somewhere between Geometry and Yoga. (To be fair it had been flickering on and off for years.)
Suddenly everything changed. The simple things in life that I used to enjoy became emotional minefields.
I still watch TV and read obsessively, but I now have to be much more selective with my choices. I've had to avoid anything that focuses on, or even dances around topics like: children who are sick, children who are hungry, children who are poor, children who are sad, children who are abused, children who have disabilities, children who are tired, children who are overtired, children who like bugs, children who dance, children who don't like Grover and children who are scared of chick peas. You get my point.
In fact, I can only stomach stories about kids who are on a family vacation at Disney, eating cotton candy, being twirled around by their doting parents while clinging to a large stuffed animal and smiling crazily through their sticky teeth. And even then, I'm liable to lose it. Seriously, what's a bigger tear-jerker than a loving father swinging his little baby around in the air?
Also, anything about animals is completely off limits. I can say with certainty that I will never watch Bambi again. And while I love books about dogs, I know they're not a smart choice anymore unless I have a full week to recover in private. Seriously. "The Art of Racing in the Rain" (a simple, sweet novel about a race car driver and his dog) nearly landed me in therapy.
So how do I navigate through my days without breaking down? The news is easy enough to filter. I can mute Brian Williams. I can browse headlines on CNN.com and opt to read about Kate Middleton's hats instead of a young mother who drowns her children because she's mad at her baby daddy.
But try as I might to tune out these sad stories it's impossible to avoid them all.
Every day I go to the gym to try and "get away from it all." Unfortunately the gym has become the scene of some embarrassing breakdowns. Most days I run on the treadmill. I hate running and so getting though those miles requires a certain mindset that I can only achieve with mindless television. It sounds benign enough. Except. I watch Oprah.
I'm watching the 25th season religiously as I run. And it's killing me. One day she's giving away iPads and cars and making people cry with joy. Twenty-four hours later she's detailing the horrific abuse some poor child suffered at the hands of their unstable father who could be Charles Manson's less sane brother.
So there I am on bouncing around on the treadmill, wiping the tears away from my eyes and tying to make it look like I'm simply extracting a pesky eyelash - for 60 minutes.
I realize Oprah is simply doing her part to help society, (and CONSTANTLY reminding her audience about how she's doing her part to help society) but she's turning me into an emotional basket case one "Ah-ha!" moment at a time.
(Yes, I realize I could change the channel but that requires extra effort and I'm already channeling all of my energy into my legs at that moment.)
Walking down the street has also become risky. Again, it seems simple enough, unless you have given birth.
All I have to do is glance down and see a child's abandoned sock or shoe sitting in a muddy puddle. The fact that this child most likely manually ejected this piece of clothing from their own body because mommy wouldn't give them a third lollipop is irrelevant. I'm sure that this child is locked in the back of a windowless van, being carted away to a hopeless fate. In an instant my quick trip to CVS for Comet has become a heart-wrenching trek down a treacherous city street. I picture my own boys' socks sitting in that rainwater and again, my eyes are filling with tears. Luckily CVS has converted most of their stores to self-checkout counters so I really don't have to explain my inability to breathe in and out like a normal human being to anyone.
Listening to the radio is challenging as certain songs always manage to hijack a relatively calm mind set. "Teach Your Children Well" by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young sends me reeling. As do "Cat's in The Cradle," by Harry Chapin and "Photograph," by Nickelback. (Stop it Nickelback haters, it's a good song.) Also, anything by Elton John, Cat Stevens, and Coldplay. Even Megadeath probably has its risks. And I can't forget Les Miserables. No matter that I've heard the soundtrack hundreds of thousands of times. It gets me every single time. But here I'm lucky. I can mostly avoid these situations as I've turned into my mother and only listen to talk radio in the car.
Commercials have the same effect. The old Nike spot "If you let me play sports" puts a semi-permanent lump in my throat. And that decades-old Coke commercial where people hold hands and walk over the hills singing? I choke up just thinking about it. A few years back when I was in advertising myself and trying to write commercials that would have one-tenth of the effect of those ads, I would watch them religiously with reverence. Now I watch them with a box of Kleenex.
My point? Having kids has turned me into a cry-baby. And it's just sad.
Yesterday I told my husband the topic of this blog.
Me: "It's about how I cry so much more easily over everything now that I have kids."
Husband: "Is that true?"
Me: "Is what true?"
Husband: "That you cry more?"
Me: "Seriously? You live with me. Yes. It's true."
Husband: "Hmm. You might want to rethink your blog."
Me: "Why???"
Husband: "Because people are going to think you're depressed."
Me: "That's it. I'm not sharing these blogs with you in advance anymore."
Yet, hours later I find myself rethinking this one. Maybe my husband is right. Maybe people will think I'm depressed – and I don't want that. Hormonal? 100%. But not depressed.
But deep down I believe that other women who have also generously donated their emotional stability to childbirth will get what I'm saying. At least to some degree. Or at the very, very least, maybe the part about the animals.
Having babies changes everything. But (abdominal muscles aside) I believe our minds take the hardest hit. Yes, I've become much more outspoken, patient (if you know me, don't laugh) and compassionate, but I've also become emotionally vulnerable in a way I never knew was possible.
CNN. Oprah. A pair of socks. They simply never had this affect on me before I had kids.
But my husband shouldn't worry too much. I don't need to check into a psych ward. (Yet.)
That said, I probably should rent out a room in a nearby plastic bubble.
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook!
However, despite this emotional instability, I used to be able to do certain things in life with a bit of composure. For instance, I used to be able to watch the news, take a walk, and exercise all without breaking into tears. Yes, I was affected by heartbreaking stories that were sometimes in the headlines, but I managed to get through them all with some poise.
Then I had kids.
The change was instant. It's almost as if just before exiting my body my oldest son reached his tiny arm up into my brain and flicked off the "Stability" switch nestled somewhere between Geometry and Yoga. (To be fair it had been flickering on and off for years.)
Suddenly everything changed. The simple things in life that I used to enjoy became emotional minefields.
I still watch TV and read obsessively, but I now have to be much more selective with my choices. I've had to avoid anything that focuses on, or even dances around topics like: children who are sick, children who are hungry, children who are poor, children who are sad, children who are abused, children who have disabilities, children who are tired, children who are overtired, children who like bugs, children who dance, children who don't like Grover and children who are scared of chick peas. You get my point.
In fact, I can only stomach stories about kids who are on a family vacation at Disney, eating cotton candy, being twirled around by their doting parents while clinging to a large stuffed animal and smiling crazily through their sticky teeth. And even then, I'm liable to lose it. Seriously, what's a bigger tear-jerker than a loving father swinging his little baby around in the air?
Also, anything about animals is completely off limits. I can say with certainty that I will never watch Bambi again. And while I love books about dogs, I know they're not a smart choice anymore unless I have a full week to recover in private. Seriously. "The Art of Racing in the Rain" (a simple, sweet novel about a race car driver and his dog) nearly landed me in therapy.
So how do I navigate through my days without breaking down? The news is easy enough to filter. I can mute Brian Williams. I can browse headlines on CNN.com and opt to read about Kate Middleton's hats instead of a young mother who drowns her children because she's mad at her baby daddy.
But try as I might to tune out these sad stories it's impossible to avoid them all.
Every day I go to the gym to try and "get away from it all." Unfortunately the gym has become the scene of some embarrassing breakdowns. Most days I run on the treadmill. I hate running and so getting though those miles requires a certain mindset that I can only achieve with mindless television. It sounds benign enough. Except. I watch Oprah.
I'm watching the 25th season religiously as I run. And it's killing me. One day she's giving away iPads and cars and making people cry with joy. Twenty-four hours later she's detailing the horrific abuse some poor child suffered at the hands of their unstable father who could be Charles Manson's less sane brother.
So there I am on bouncing around on the treadmill, wiping the tears away from my eyes and tying to make it look like I'm simply extracting a pesky eyelash - for 60 minutes.
I realize Oprah is simply doing her part to help society, (and CONSTANTLY reminding her audience about how she's doing her part to help society) but she's turning me into an emotional basket case one "Ah-ha!" moment at a time.
(Yes, I realize I could change the channel but that requires extra effort and I'm already channeling all of my energy into my legs at that moment.)
Walking down the street has also become risky. Again, it seems simple enough, unless you have given birth.
All I have to do is glance down and see a child's abandoned sock or shoe sitting in a muddy puddle. The fact that this child most likely manually ejected this piece of clothing from their own body because mommy wouldn't give them a third lollipop is irrelevant. I'm sure that this child is locked in the back of a windowless van, being carted away to a hopeless fate. In an instant my quick trip to CVS for Comet has become a heart-wrenching trek down a treacherous city street. I picture my own boys' socks sitting in that rainwater and again, my eyes are filling with tears. Luckily CVS has converted most of their stores to self-checkout counters so I really don't have to explain my inability to breathe in and out like a normal human being to anyone.
Listening to the radio is challenging as certain songs always manage to hijack a relatively calm mind set. "Teach Your Children Well" by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young sends me reeling. As do "Cat's in The Cradle," by Harry Chapin and "Photograph," by Nickelback. (Stop it Nickelback haters, it's a good song.) Also, anything by Elton John, Cat Stevens, and Coldplay. Even Megadeath probably has its risks. And I can't forget Les Miserables. No matter that I've heard the soundtrack hundreds of thousands of times. It gets me every single time. But here I'm lucky. I can mostly avoid these situations as I've turned into my mother and only listen to talk radio in the car.
Commercials have the same effect. The old Nike spot "If you let me play sports" puts a semi-permanent lump in my throat. And that decades-old Coke commercial where people hold hands and walk over the hills singing? I choke up just thinking about it. A few years back when I was in advertising myself and trying to write commercials that would have one-tenth of the effect of those ads, I would watch them religiously with reverence. Now I watch them with a box of Kleenex.
My point? Having kids has turned me into a cry-baby. And it's just sad.
Yesterday I told my husband the topic of this blog.
Me: "It's about how I cry so much more easily over everything now that I have kids."
Husband: "Is that true?"
Me: "Is what true?"
Husband: "That you cry more?"
Me: "Seriously? You live with me. Yes. It's true."
Husband: "Hmm. You might want to rethink your blog."
Me: "Why???"
Husband: "Because people are going to think you're depressed."
Me: "That's it. I'm not sharing these blogs with you in advance anymore."
Yet, hours later I find myself rethinking this one. Maybe my husband is right. Maybe people will think I'm depressed – and I don't want that. Hormonal? 100%. But not depressed.
But deep down I believe that other women who have also generously donated their emotional stability to childbirth will get what I'm saying. At least to some degree. Or at the very, very least, maybe the part about the animals.
Having babies changes everything. But (abdominal muscles aside) I believe our minds take the hardest hit. Yes, I've become much more outspoken, patient (if you know me, don't laugh) and compassionate, but I've also become emotionally vulnerable in a way I never knew was possible.
CNN. Oprah. A pair of socks. They simply never had this affect on me before I had kids.
But my husband shouldn't worry too much. I don't need to check into a psych ward. (Yet.)
That said, I probably should rent out a room in a nearby plastic bubble.
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook!
April 21, 2011
What a square
"STOP RUNNING AROUND IN CIRCLES!" I screamed as my boys repeatedly streaked across the living room. (Naked, of course.)
They stopped and looked at me like I was a complete idiot.
"We're not!" they said pointing to the obviously angular 8X10 rug. "We're running in rectangles."
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook!
They stopped and looked at me like I was a complete idiot.
"We're not!" they said pointing to the obviously angular 8X10 rug. "We're running in rectangles."
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook!
April 16, 2011
Look who's talking
Thursday night my five-and-three-quarter-year-old son got mad at me. Probably because I got mad at him first.
In a huff he yelled, "THAT'S IT!! I'M NOT TALKING TO YOU EVER AGAIN!"
Me: "Hmm. Okay."
J: "I MEAN IT! I'M NOT TALKING TO YOU FOR TEN WHOLE DAYS!!!"
(Long pause)
J: "STARTING SATURDAY!"
J sat down on couch, arms folded across his chest, glaring at me with his best angry face.
Me to my other son: "Fine. So, R, how was school today?"
R: "Good."
Me: "What did you do?"
R: "I dunno."
Me: "Oh. Ok. Great."
J: "MOMMY....WHY AREN'T YOU TALKING TO ME??? (Said through clenched teeth assuming, I guess, that if he didn't really move his mouth it didn't really count as talking.)
Me: "I thought you weren't talking to me for ten days."
J: "NO! EIGHT DAYS! STARTING TOMORROW!"
Me: "Oh, okay."
J: "OH MY GOD! NOW I'M NOT TALKING FOR SEVEN DAYS - STARTING RIGHT NOW!"
Me: "Alright."
J: "I'M SERIOUS!!! I'M NOT TALKING FOR 150 HOURS."
Me: "Fifteen hours?"
J: "NO!!!! WHY AREN'T YOU LISTENING TO ME? I SAID 100 HOURS! BUT IT'S ALREADY BEEN 3 HOURS (five minutes) SO I'M NOT TALKING FOR ANOTHER 2 HOURS!!!
Me: "I'm sorry, when does the "no talking" start?"
J: " I TOLD YOU ALREADY IT STARTS SUNDAY!! SIX HOURS! STOP TALKING TO ME!!!"
(Several minutes of silence)
J: "MOMMEEEEEE.....WHY ARE YOU IGNORING MEEEEE???"
Me: "Oh, are we talking now?"
J: "NO!!!!!!!! I TOLD YOU I'M NOT TALKING TO YOU ANYMORE!!"
(Confused Pause.)
J: "BUT DON'T IGNORE ME!"
Me: "You can't have it both ways."
J: "OKAY - FINE! I WILL TALK TO YOU IN HALF AN HOUR!!
Me: "Sounds good. I'm looking forward to it."
(Long pause.)
J: "STARTING TUESDAY!!"
Thank god it's Saturday. I think.
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook!
In a huff he yelled, "THAT'S IT!! I'M NOT TALKING TO YOU EVER AGAIN!"
Me: "Hmm. Okay."
J: "I MEAN IT! I'M NOT TALKING TO YOU FOR TEN WHOLE DAYS!!!"
(Long pause)
J: "STARTING SATURDAY!"
J sat down on couch, arms folded across his chest, glaring at me with his best angry face.
Me to my other son: "Fine. So, R, how was school today?"
R: "Good."
Me: "What did you do?"
R: "I dunno."
Me: "Oh. Ok. Great."
J: "MOMMY....WHY AREN'T YOU TALKING TO ME??? (Said through clenched teeth assuming, I guess, that if he didn't really move his mouth it didn't really count as talking.)
Me: "I thought you weren't talking to me for ten days."
J: "NO! EIGHT DAYS! STARTING TOMORROW!"
Me: "Oh, okay."
J: "OH MY GOD! NOW I'M NOT TALKING FOR SEVEN DAYS - STARTING RIGHT NOW!"
Me: "Alright."
J: "I'M SERIOUS!!! I'M NOT TALKING FOR 150 HOURS."
Me: "Fifteen hours?"
J: "NO!!!! WHY AREN'T YOU LISTENING TO ME? I SAID 100 HOURS! BUT IT'S ALREADY BEEN 3 HOURS (five minutes) SO I'M NOT TALKING FOR ANOTHER 2 HOURS!!!
Me: "I'm sorry, when does the "no talking" start?"
J: " I TOLD YOU ALREADY IT STARTS SUNDAY!! SIX HOURS! STOP TALKING TO ME!!!"
(Several minutes of silence)
J: "MOMMEEEEEE.....WHY ARE YOU IGNORING MEEEEE???"
Me: "Oh, are we talking now?"
J: "NO!!!!!!!! I TOLD YOU I'M NOT TALKING TO YOU ANYMORE!!"
(Confused Pause.)
J: "BUT DON'T IGNORE ME!"
Me: "You can't have it both ways."
J: "OKAY - FINE! I WILL TALK TO YOU IN HALF AN HOUR!!
Me: "Sounds good. I'm looking forward to it."
(Long pause.)
J: "STARTING TUESDAY!!"
Thank god it's Saturday. I think.
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook!
April 14, 2011
Keeping it real
J: "Mommy can I have another treat?"
Me: "No. Four is plenty."
J: "For real?"
Me: "Yes."
J: "Seriously? For real mommy?"
Me: "Seriously. No more treats tonight."
J: "For real?"
Me: "No. I mean yes. I mean no....no more treats."
J: "Then can I have a treat in my lunchbox tomorrow?"
Me: "We'll see."
J: "For real?"
Me: "Yes, for real."
J: "Can I have two treats in my lunchbox?"
Me: "J, if you don't stop asking for more treats you won't get any."
J: "For real? Not any?"
Me: "Yes, J, for real – if you don't stop asking."
J: "For real?"
Me: "J PLEASE stop....(SIGH) yes, for real."
J: "Mommy..."
Me: "J, I'm warning you."
J: "For real?"
Just the nightly dinner conversation at our house.
For real.
It's a Life Sentence on Facebook!
April 12, 2011
Inner Drive
We live in the city and my boys go to school about 13 miles away. Not too far, but not too close either. I drive them there and back and it takes about two hours in the car each day. It's one of the prettiest commutes in the country along Chicago's famed Outer Drive.
Beauty aside, some people question my sanity when I tell them I do this. I've questioned it myself. I mean, I like Billy Joel, but there are only so many times a human being can listen to "Uptown Girl" before renting out a room in an asylum.
Aren't there other options, people ask? Yes. Several. Last year I had a carpool, which was great, I trusted the mom and adored her daughter. Unfortunately, circumstances made it difficult to carpool again this year. There is also a door-to-door van service some people use. And, of course, there is the traditional yellow school bus.
But my boys are just four and five-and-a-half (oops, five and three-quarters....you know how important that three-quarters is.) Much too young, in my opinion, to be schlepped across the city by a driver who may or may not have a meth lab in his basement or a "thing" for Dora and Diego. I know that most people who drive buses are very safe and incredibly nice. I know they are screened, tested and asked to turn over their social security number and a bucket of blood before they are given control of your kids' lives. But still. You never know for sure.
And when it comes to my kids, I like to be sure. At least as sure as possible. I know for a fact that I don't have a substance abuse problem (other than Tylenol – did I mention I have two boys?), I took Oprah's "no phone zone" pledge, I can read the posted speed limits, and my car has functional seat belts that were manufactured sometime AFTER I was born.
Don't get me wrong. Since its invention in 1827, and its last maintenance check in the early 1950s, (I can't help but picture a service guy lubing a bus up with the Tin Man's oil can) the school bus has been a lifesaver for millions of families who work or have six kids to manage. I have many friends myself who put their kids on them. They are all devoted, responsible parents who love their children. But for now, as much as my boys may enjoy the idea the communal commute, (honestly what kid doesn't like being tossed around like a sack of beans while doing 80 down a bumpy highway?) I know it's just not for me.
It's not entirely about the drivers' ability though. When my kids are old enough to fend for themselves in an emergency, and know how to properly use a cell phone, then I'll absolutely, hands-down maybe consider the bus. Because while my boys are very smart little guys, I question their ability to determine if there's an emergency that necessitates using the phone or if they just really, really need to play Angry Birds. As it stands, my youngest routinely dials 911 twice a week (on accident) so I doubt the police would respond anyway should he call them in a true emergency.
I chose to stay home with the boys, and I accept that being their chauffeur is part of my job description. When my position of Mom is up for review in 15 years, I may renegotiate this clause, but I'm pretty sure they have an iron-clad contract prohibiting me from any sort freedom for at least another half century.
But my point, which I hope to get to before I become an Octogenarian, is that I really, truly love driving the boys to and from school. I cherish the time I have with them in the car. Because I know that someday soon having mommy take them to school and pick them up will be as enjoyable as Irritable Bowel Syndrome. They will beg to take the bus or demand to be dropped off 12 blocks away. They won't want me to walk them into class...their friends will do that. And pick up? Well, if I'm allowed that honor, I'll probably get a guitar case shoved in my face instead of a smile.
They won't want to be with me. And I won't be able to stand it.
Not that I don't enjoy down time. Trust me, I spent the first three years of their lives pining for this moment. When they'd be in school and I would be free to read, write or just sit and stare at the walls without someone projectile vomiting on me. And now it's here. Sure, I could use that extra hour in the afternoon for something, but that's not what will make me happy.
Waiting for them in the car line every afternoon makes me happy. Letting them hang around the playground after school to squeeze in an extra hour of "Freeze Tag" makes me happy. Even listening to them talk over one another to the point where they are screaming bloody murder and trying to kill each other across the removable middle seat makes me happy (I keep the Tylenol in my purse).
And so I'm taking advantage of every minute I've got.
In the end, everyone has to do what works for them. I'm not here to judge – although I do. (Oh please, show me a mom who doesn't.) And maybe I am a little nuts, but nuts works well for me.
So to answer peoples' question about why I do this drive I say this: Yes, carting my boys back and forth two times a day is a huge effort. It cuts two hours out of my day. It drains my gas tank and tests my sanity. But to me it's worth it. I'm on borrowed time and I know it. Sullen teen angst is just a few miles up the road. I can already see the signs.
Gas mileage be dammed. On my death bed (yes, that's how I think) I will never, ever question that I soaked up every single second of these wonderful, fleeting years.
My tank is full.
It's a Life Sentence now on Facebook!
Beauty aside, some people question my sanity when I tell them I do this. I've questioned it myself. I mean, I like Billy Joel, but there are only so many times a human being can listen to "Uptown Girl" before renting out a room in an asylum.
Aren't there other options, people ask? Yes. Several. Last year I had a carpool, which was great, I trusted the mom and adored her daughter. Unfortunately, circumstances made it difficult to carpool again this year. There is also a door-to-door van service some people use. And, of course, there is the traditional yellow school bus.
But my boys are just four and five-and-a-half (oops, five and three-quarters....you know how important that three-quarters is.) Much too young, in my opinion, to be schlepped across the city by a driver who may or may not have a meth lab in his basement or a "thing" for Dora and Diego. I know that most people who drive buses are very safe and incredibly nice. I know they are screened, tested and asked to turn over their social security number and a bucket of blood before they are given control of your kids' lives. But still. You never know for sure.
And when it comes to my kids, I like to be sure. At least as sure as possible. I know for a fact that I don't have a substance abuse problem (other than Tylenol – did I mention I have two boys?), I took Oprah's "no phone zone" pledge, I can read the posted speed limits, and my car has functional seat belts that were manufactured sometime AFTER I was born.
Don't get me wrong. Since its invention in 1827, and its last maintenance check in the early 1950s, (I can't help but picture a service guy lubing a bus up with the Tin Man's oil can) the school bus has been a lifesaver for millions of families who work or have six kids to manage. I have many friends myself who put their kids on them. They are all devoted, responsible parents who love their children. But for now, as much as my boys may enjoy the idea the communal commute, (honestly what kid doesn't like being tossed around like a sack of beans while doing 80 down a bumpy highway?) I know it's just not for me.
It's not entirely about the drivers' ability though. When my kids are old enough to fend for themselves in an emergency, and know how to properly use a cell phone, then I'll absolutely, hands-down maybe consider the bus. Because while my boys are very smart little guys, I question their ability to determine if there's an emergency that necessitates using the phone or if they just really, really need to play Angry Birds. As it stands, my youngest routinely dials 911 twice a week (on accident) so I doubt the police would respond anyway should he call them in a true emergency.
I chose to stay home with the boys, and I accept that being their chauffeur is part of my job description. When my position of Mom is up for review in 15 years, I may renegotiate this clause, but I'm pretty sure they have an iron-clad contract prohibiting me from any sort freedom for at least another half century.
But my point, which I hope to get to before I become an Octogenarian, is that I really, truly love driving the boys to and from school. I cherish the time I have with them in the car. Because I know that someday soon having mommy take them to school and pick them up will be as enjoyable as Irritable Bowel Syndrome. They will beg to take the bus or demand to be dropped off 12 blocks away. They won't want me to walk them into class...their friends will do that. And pick up? Well, if I'm allowed that honor, I'll probably get a guitar case shoved in my face instead of a smile.
They won't want to be with me. And I won't be able to stand it.
Not that I don't enjoy down time. Trust me, I spent the first three years of their lives pining for this moment. When they'd be in school and I would be free to read, write or just sit and stare at the walls without someone projectile vomiting on me. And now it's here. Sure, I could use that extra hour in the afternoon for something, but that's not what will make me happy.
Waiting for them in the car line every afternoon makes me happy. Letting them hang around the playground after school to squeeze in an extra hour of "Freeze Tag" makes me happy. Even listening to them talk over one another to the point where they are screaming bloody murder and trying to kill each other across the removable middle seat makes me happy (I keep the Tylenol in my purse).
And so I'm taking advantage of every minute I've got.
When we first interviewed at the school someone told me she'd done the same commute with her two boys every day and that she wouldn't have traded it for the world. Why not? Because, as she put it, "for 18 years I had a captive audience."
Two words jumped out at me. The first: "Captive."
This means that for at least one whole hour a day I can legally restrain and confine the boys without fear of being featured on Dateline or 20/20. In fact, if I don't keep them belted tightly in place with a five-point harness I could be thrown in jail. So for the better part of one hour they cannot move anything but their limbs, which are out of reach of my hair and each other. Once we get home it's WWF, so you have to understand, this is huge.
In my mind's eye I can picture the man who invented the five-point harness. He's tall, dark and handsome with piercing blue eyes. He has Christopher Reeves' bone structure and red cape. I do realize that this is ridiculous. It was obviously invented by a stay-at-home mom with two small boys.
In my mind's eye I can picture the man who invented the five-point harness. He's tall, dark and handsome with piercing blue eyes. He has Christopher Reeves' bone structure and red cape. I do realize that this is ridiculous. It was obviously invented by a stay-at-home mom with two small boys.
The second word that got me was "Audience." For 26 miles my guys have to listen to me – and I to them. I control the music, the windows and the snacks. So if they want a Chocolate Chip Z Bar, they better cough up their entire day from 8 until 2. And they do talk. Some days more than others, but by the end of the ride I have a pretty good idea of what activities they did, who they played with, and that they were the only kids in school (probably the planet) whose mom made them wear a hat and mittens when it was a balmy 25 degrees out. I too learn valuable lessons, like the fact that I shouldn't even think about putting blueberries in their lunch boxes ever again.
When they're older these talks on the ride home will change. For example, they won't exist. The boys will be plugged into the latest and greatest iDevice. Hell, they'll probably be petitioning Honda to make passenger/driver dividers standard in every model.
When they're older these talks on the ride home will change. For example, they won't exist. The boys will be plugged into the latest and greatest iDevice. Hell, they'll probably be petitioning Honda to make passenger/driver dividers standard in every model.
In the end, everyone has to do what works for them. I'm not here to judge – although I do. (Oh please, show me a mom who doesn't.) And maybe I am a little nuts, but nuts works well for me.
So to answer peoples' question about why I do this drive I say this: Yes, carting my boys back and forth two times a day is a huge effort. It cuts two hours out of my day. It drains my gas tank and tests my sanity. But to me it's worth it. I'm on borrowed time and I know it. Sullen teen angst is just a few miles up the road. I can already see the signs.
Gas mileage be dammed. On my death bed (yes, that's how I think) I will never, ever question that I soaked up every single second of these wonderful, fleeting years.
My tank is full.
It's a Life Sentence now on Facebook!
April 8, 2011
Spar Wars
There are a lot of things I wish I had learned to do as a kid. Play piano. Sing on key. The butterfly stroke. Math.
But most of all, I wish I had learned some sort of self-defense.
As many parents do, I've started living vicariously through my kids – which is why I signed them up for a martial arts class. I want them to have what I never did... the ability to kick someone's ass, or at least defend their own, should a bully ever push them around on the playground or try to steal their lunch. (Which truth be told, isn't that big of a problem as they usually bring half of it home uneaten anyway.)
So...we enrolled the boys in a neighborhood Ju Jitsu class. It's held in a small boxing studio where people go to work out and actually work out – not just prance around in their designer yoga clothes. I'd join myself if I hadn't recently purchased a bunch of really cute Lululemon tops.
My boys are the youngest kids in class by at least two years. My little one looks like an Ewok next to some of the older and much bigger kids. The grown-ups who stand around throwing punches often stop to watch the little kids practicing...always smiling sweetly when my little guys take to the mat. (They obviously have no idea the pain a four-and-a-half-year-old and his older brother are willing to inflict upon each other even in public, civilized places.)
Their teacher, Coach Mack, has a wealth of accomplishments under his black belt. Make that four black bets in Karate and one more in talking smack. He displays the kind of tough, gentle guidance you want in a coach. He expects the kids to listen, look him in the eye and behave. He demands and receives respect, and so naturally, I am thinking about asking him to move in with us. He teaches by example, making minced meat out of his assistant coach much to my boys' amusement. Yet when Coach Mack's daughter takes the mat opposite him, he never takes her down without giving her a little kiss first. This man, who is going to teach my kids how to kill people using only their earlobes, tugs at my heartstrings.
The class is 45 minutes of running, jumping jacks, somersaults, snake escapes, crab crawls, spinning crabs, jumping push-ups, more running and endless drills. I watch the whole thing with envy and consider taking an adult class myself, all the while searching for a chair to sit down in because I'm already tired of standing. The drills are relentless and would send most grown-ups home to bed for the week. Of course it sends my boys running out the door and begging to go onto another activity - family swim. Luckily the adrenaline wears off quickly and by the time dinner is ready 30 minutes later they are falling asleep in their corn.
At the end of class the students spend 15 minutes sparring. They are paired up with equally matched partners. My boys, eager to show the older kids what they are made of, proudly take their places on the mat...holding hands.
My oldest son, who, like his mommy, enjoys spending afternoons watching Les Miserables (with Alfie Boe as Jean Valjean of course...do you blame him?) channels his inner Terminator. His baby brother squares his adorable little jaw, gets into position and tries hard not to cry. Which this week, he does.
My heart breaks and swells at the same time. My five-year old knows his stuff. He's using all the moves he just learned and showing no mercy. But seeing my younger son struggle to get out from under him kills me. My good friend Panic moves in and makes herself comfortable in my stomach. What was I thinking signing him up for a class where he has to spar against his big brother like an illegal dog fight? I suddenly feel like Michael Vick's less reasonable little sister. My baby, who was born a month early and already endured one fight for his life shouldn't be battling like this. I hold back tears as I watch them tough it out. I am a mess. A horrible parent. I am certain that Joan Crawford is going to call DCFS on me.
But then my youngest, somehow, wrangles himself out and manages to get a leg up for a moment. And in that brief moment he smiles. Triumph. Not total triumph as his brother takes him down again pretty fast, but it's a victory nonetheless. I exhale and remind myself that this is a good thing they're learning and that they're doing it in a safe, controlled and respectful environment. It's an important and necessary skill: no different from learning to swim or say "no" when someone offers them a hit on their crack pipe.
I tell myself that my youngest son wants to do this. Partially to make myself feel better and also because it's true. He wants to do everything his older brother does. And when he can't, the look on his face as he watches from the sidelines, is devastating. I tell myself that this is for their benefit. Should someone try to mess with either of them, they won't hesitate to use an arm triangle choke from the guard position. (I pay attention in class too.) It's a skill I, and I'm guessing most people out there, wish they had.
When their turn is up they bow to each other, shake hands, and tug the collars of their now stretched-out Gap T-shirts back into some semblance of a shape. Coach Mack high-fives them both and asks my little one to help him coach the next match - boosting his confidence even higher. And mine.
On the walk home my oldest son is puffed up like a proud peacock. Tiny chest thrust forward. His brother is quiet. I expect him to tell me he's not going back. And I'm fully prepared to let him quit. I'm not a Tiger Mom. Hell, I wouldn't even be allowed in the den. But he surprises me by saying he's excited for practice next week.
"Mommy," he says in that sweet little voice that still cannot pronounce the letter "R" correctly. "Do you know why I was gooder today than Monday? Because I was scared but I still did it."
And I realize that out of all the things I want for my kids, they already have the most important one. A backbone.
Who needs math when you have that?
It's a Life Sentence is now on Facebook.
But most of all, I wish I had learned some sort of self-defense.
As many parents do, I've started living vicariously through my kids – which is why I signed them up for a martial arts class. I want them to have what I never did... the ability to kick someone's ass, or at least defend their own, should a bully ever push them around on the playground or try to steal their lunch. (Which truth be told, isn't that big of a problem as they usually bring half of it home uneaten anyway.)
So...we enrolled the boys in a neighborhood Ju Jitsu class. It's held in a small boxing studio where people go to work out and actually work out – not just prance around in their designer yoga clothes. I'd join myself if I hadn't recently purchased a bunch of really cute Lululemon tops.
My boys are the youngest kids in class by at least two years. My little one looks like an Ewok next to some of the older and much bigger kids. The grown-ups who stand around throwing punches often stop to watch the little kids practicing...always smiling sweetly when my little guys take to the mat. (They obviously have no idea the pain a four-and-a-half-year-old and his older brother are willing to inflict upon each other even in public, civilized places.)
Their teacher, Coach Mack, has a wealth of accomplishments under his black belt. Make that four black bets in Karate and one more in talking smack. He displays the kind of tough, gentle guidance you want in a coach. He expects the kids to listen, look him in the eye and behave. He demands and receives respect, and so naturally, I am thinking about asking him to move in with us. He teaches by example, making minced meat out of his assistant coach much to my boys' amusement. Yet when Coach Mack's daughter takes the mat opposite him, he never takes her down without giving her a little kiss first. This man, who is going to teach my kids how to kill people using only their earlobes, tugs at my heartstrings.
The class is 45 minutes of running, jumping jacks, somersaults, snake escapes, crab crawls, spinning crabs, jumping push-ups, more running and endless drills. I watch the whole thing with envy and consider taking an adult class myself, all the while searching for a chair to sit down in because I'm already tired of standing. The drills are relentless and would send most grown-ups home to bed for the week. Of course it sends my boys running out the door and begging to go onto another activity - family swim. Luckily the adrenaline wears off quickly and by the time dinner is ready 30 minutes later they are falling asleep in their corn.
At the end of class the students spend 15 minutes sparring. They are paired up with equally matched partners. My boys, eager to show the older kids what they are made of, proudly take their places on the mat...holding hands.
And for the first time in two hours, I begin to question my ability to parent.
My oldest son, who, like his mommy, enjoys spending afternoons watching Les Miserables (with Alfie Boe as Jean Valjean of course...do you blame him?) channels his inner Terminator. His baby brother squares his adorable little jaw, gets into position and tries hard not to cry. Which this week, he does.
My heart breaks and swells at the same time. My five-year old knows his stuff. He's using all the moves he just learned and showing no mercy. But seeing my younger son struggle to get out from under him kills me. My good friend Panic moves in and makes herself comfortable in my stomach. What was I thinking signing him up for a class where he has to spar against his big brother like an illegal dog fight? I suddenly feel like Michael Vick's less reasonable little sister. My baby, who was born a month early and already endured one fight for his life shouldn't be battling like this. I hold back tears as I watch them tough it out. I am a mess. A horrible parent. I am certain that Joan Crawford is going to call DCFS on me.
But then my youngest, somehow, wrangles himself out and manages to get a leg up for a moment. And in that brief moment he smiles. Triumph. Not total triumph as his brother takes him down again pretty fast, but it's a victory nonetheless. I exhale and remind myself that this is a good thing they're learning and that they're doing it in a safe, controlled and respectful environment. It's an important and necessary skill: no different from learning to swim or say "no" when someone offers them a hit on their crack pipe.
I tell myself that my youngest son wants to do this. Partially to make myself feel better and also because it's true. He wants to do everything his older brother does. And when he can't, the look on his face as he watches from the sidelines, is devastating. I tell myself that this is for their benefit. Should someone try to mess with either of them, they won't hesitate to use an arm triangle choke from the guard position. (I pay attention in class too.) It's a skill I, and I'm guessing most people out there, wish they had.
When their turn is up they bow to each other, shake hands, and tug the collars of their now stretched-out Gap T-shirts back into some semblance of a shape. Coach Mack high-fives them both and asks my little one to help him coach the next match - boosting his confidence even higher. And mine.
On the walk home my oldest son is puffed up like a proud peacock. Tiny chest thrust forward. His brother is quiet. I expect him to tell me he's not going back. And I'm fully prepared to let him quit. I'm not a Tiger Mom. Hell, I wouldn't even be allowed in the den. But he surprises me by saying he's excited for practice next week.
"Mommy," he says in that sweet little voice that still cannot pronounce the letter "R" correctly. "Do you know why I was gooder today than Monday? Because I was scared but I still did it."
And I realize that out of all the things I want for my kids, they already have the most important one. A backbone.
Who needs math when you have that?
It's a Life Sentence is now on Facebook.
April 6, 2011
Loose Change
I hate change. I know that it's inevitable and often for the best. I know that resisting it is a losing battle. But I just don't like it.
A few examples:
Moving. We are currently in the process of selling our condo. We really need more space. We want to give the boys a backyard and live closer to school and work. I want to move out yesterday. But. There's always a "But." Fast forward to the day when we close this door behind us. I will be in the kitchen hugging a wall, crying, feeling guilt, regret and huge sadness over leaving the first home my husband and I bought together and brought our new babies home to. I will have terrible seller's remorse and under no circumstances will I want to leave. I will have to be pried away with a pliers.
OPH. This was the restaurant my family owned growing up. A year after my dad died my mom sold it. It had been a massive albatross and she couldn't get rid of it fast enough. I considered selling it a terrorist act. My dad built it from the ground up. It was where I had grown up, worked, had my birthday parties, spent time with my family after school, on weekends and during the summer. It was the place where I first fell in love. (Okay, I was 13 and it was puppy love. But still.) It was my home. Selling it was unfathomable to me. I wanted to box the restaurant up and keep it in my room – not hand it over to someone else who couldn't possibly take care of it like we did. Yet, we sold. My mom was free and entered a less-stressful phase of her life. I entered therapy.
The Sears Tower. I will never call it anything else. Also, will I not tell my kids it has any other name.
Nail polish. The minute I commit to a new color I regret it. Weeks later, when I remove the chipped and faded remains of "Friar Friar Pants on Fire!" from my toes I actually have a bit of anxiety over it. Maybe it wasn't such a hideous color after all. Maybe I should give it another try. Yes, I'm serious.
But back to my point. (I do have one.)
Last week we discovered that our oldest son, who's almost six, has two loose teeth. His first. He was beyond excited as everyone in his class had already started losing teeth. I made a huge deal of this, hugging him, telling him how exciting this was and that I'd call the tooth fairy immediately to let her know. We did a little happy dance. Then I went into my bathroom and cried.
For the past six years I've wondered when my boys would make certain changes. Start sleeping through the night, potty train, eat like human beings. But losing their baby teeth was never one of those milestones I had looked forward to. I love their tiny, perfect little baby teeth – how their faces look with their little smiles. This change makes me mourn all the little things about them, that soon won't be so little anymore.
Because despite all the hardships of raising young kids, I know that these are the sweet years. And although some days feel like they are 120 hours long, the years fly by way too fast. I want my boys to stay small and snuggly and not turn into teenagers who remind me I'm not cool, slam doors in my face and tell me that I don't understand anything. Losing their baby teeth is the first real physical part of this process and I want to slam the door on this evolution.
That said, I knew enough kids growing up who weren't lucky enough to grow up. Illness took them way too early. So I am grateful every day for the fact that I have two healthy, growing boys. I just wish it didn't all have to change so fast. (Sleep habits aside....I think babies should be sleep-trained before they're allowed to leave the delivery room.) And this change just seems so sudden. I mean, my oldest son didn't start getting teeth until he was close to a year old. So he's only had these teeth for 4 1/2 years. Sure, he has a few cavities and sealants, but overall they are white and straight and chew things like meat and strawberry-flavored Twizzlers just fine. So I don't get the need to expel them so quickly. I mean, if I were to apply this take-and-toss theory to other things, say, furniture, I should have incinerated my couch a decade ago.
But, quite unfairly, I wasn't made CEO of my boys' physical growth. So, my sons' teeth will fall out on their own schedule (not mine), leaving small, temporary gaps in their smiles – and permanent gaps in my psyche. And I realize that the only way I'm going to cope with these changes, will be to change my attitude about change.
But with 38 more loose teeth to lose and puberty on the horizon, perhaps the tooth fairy should leave a little extra change for me as well – to cover the therapy that's going to take.
It's a Life Sentence now on Facebook.
A few examples:
Moving. We are currently in the process of selling our condo. We really need more space. We want to give the boys a backyard and live closer to school and work. I want to move out yesterday. But. There's always a "But." Fast forward to the day when we close this door behind us. I will be in the kitchen hugging a wall, crying, feeling guilt, regret and huge sadness over leaving the first home my husband and I bought together and brought our new babies home to. I will have terrible seller's remorse and under no circumstances will I want to leave. I will have to be pried away with a pliers.
OPH. This was the restaurant my family owned growing up. A year after my dad died my mom sold it. It had been a massive albatross and she couldn't get rid of it fast enough. I considered selling it a terrorist act. My dad built it from the ground up. It was where I had grown up, worked, had my birthday parties, spent time with my family after school, on weekends and during the summer. It was the place where I first fell in love. (Okay, I was 13 and it was puppy love. But still.) It was my home. Selling it was unfathomable to me. I wanted to box the restaurant up and keep it in my room – not hand it over to someone else who couldn't possibly take care of it like we did. Yet, we sold. My mom was free and entered a less-stressful phase of her life. I entered therapy.
The Sears Tower. I will never call it anything else. Also, will I not tell my kids it has any other name.
Nail polish. The minute I commit to a new color I regret it. Weeks later, when I remove the chipped and faded remains of "Friar Friar Pants on Fire!" from my toes I actually have a bit of anxiety over it. Maybe it wasn't such a hideous color after all. Maybe I should give it another try. Yes, I'm serious.
But back to my point. (I do have one.)
Last week we discovered that our oldest son, who's almost six, has two loose teeth. His first. He was beyond excited as everyone in his class had already started losing teeth. I made a huge deal of this, hugging him, telling him how exciting this was and that I'd call the tooth fairy immediately to let her know. We did a little happy dance. Then I went into my bathroom and cried.
For the past six years I've wondered when my boys would make certain changes. Start sleeping through the night, potty train, eat like human beings. But losing their baby teeth was never one of those milestones I had looked forward to. I love their tiny, perfect little baby teeth – how their faces look with their little smiles. This change makes me mourn all the little things about them, that soon won't be so little anymore.
Because despite all the hardships of raising young kids, I know that these are the sweet years. And although some days feel like they are 120 hours long, the years fly by way too fast. I want my boys to stay small and snuggly and not turn into teenagers who remind me I'm not cool, slam doors in my face and tell me that I don't understand anything. Losing their baby teeth is the first real physical part of this process and I want to slam the door on this evolution.
That said, I knew enough kids growing up who weren't lucky enough to grow up. Illness took them way too early. So I am grateful every day for the fact that I have two healthy, growing boys. I just wish it didn't all have to change so fast. (Sleep habits aside....I think babies should be sleep-trained before they're allowed to leave the delivery room.) And this change just seems so sudden. I mean, my oldest son didn't start getting teeth until he was close to a year old. So he's only had these teeth for 4 1/2 years. Sure, he has a few cavities and sealants, but overall they are white and straight and chew things like meat and strawberry-flavored Twizzlers just fine. So I don't get the need to expel them so quickly. I mean, if I were to apply this take-and-toss theory to other things, say, furniture, I should have incinerated my couch a decade ago.
But, quite unfairly, I wasn't made CEO of my boys' physical growth. So, my sons' teeth will fall out on their own schedule (not mine), leaving small, temporary gaps in their smiles – and permanent gaps in my psyche. And I realize that the only way I'm going to cope with these changes, will be to change my attitude about change.
But with 38 more loose teeth to lose and puberty on the horizon, perhaps the tooth fairy should leave a little extra change for me as well – to cover the therapy that's going to take.
It's a Life Sentence now on Facebook.
April 4, 2011
Brotherly Spud
My oldest son has unique taste in television for a five-year-old. One of his favorite shows is Barefoot Contessa. Not exactly classic children's programming, but I'm chalking it up to genetics. My grandfather was in the food business, my dad owned a restaurant and everyone else in my family, and my husband's family, really likes to eat.
Dora and Diego never stood a chance.
So one afternoon both boys were sitting around watching Ina Garten make a pear clafouti when my oldest son became inspired.
He jumped off the couch and shouted, "Mommy, I have a new game!"
I asked, "Yeah, what is it?"
"I'm going to be Ina Garten," he said. "And he (he said pointing to his baby brother) is a potato."
It's A Life Sentence is now on Facebook.
Dora and Diego never stood a chance.
So one afternoon both boys were sitting around watching Ina Garten make a pear clafouti when my oldest son became inspired.
He jumped off the couch and shouted, "Mommy, I have a new game!"
I asked, "Yeah, what is it?"
"I'm going to be Ina Garten," he said. "And he (he said pointing to his baby brother) is a potato."
It's A Life Sentence is now on Facebook.
April 3, 2011
A load of BS
Whoever designed the front-loading washing machine needs to go back to the drawing board and redesign it so that your NEWLY CLEANED CLOTHES do not fall onto the floor every time you unload them dammit.
Okay, I feel better now.
It's a Life Sentence is now on Facebook.
Okay, I feel better now.
It's a Life Sentence is now on Facebook.
April 2, 2011
FedEx Claus
Over lunch today the boys asked why we don't celebrate Easter. I did my best to explain it to them and made a mental note to join a synagogue and sign them up for Sunday school immediately.
The subject naturally turned to Christmas and my oldest son told me that he really wished he would get presents from Santa Claus.
So I asked them both if they really believed that Santa Claus brought presents to all the girls and boys in one night on his reindeer and sleigh.
My little guy's eyes were huge as he vigorously nodded yes.
Oh, he believes.
But my older son was a little more suspicious.
"No," he said. "I don't think that's what happens."
"What do you think happens?" I asked.
He said, "I think Santa uses FedEx."
Itsalifesentence is now on Facebook!
The subject naturally turned to Christmas and my oldest son told me that he really wished he would get presents from Santa Claus.
So I asked them both if they really believed that Santa Claus brought presents to all the girls and boys in one night on his reindeer and sleigh.
My little guy's eyes were huge as he vigorously nodded yes.
Oh, he believes.
But my older son was a little more suspicious.
"No," he said. "I don't think that's what happens."
"What do you think happens?" I asked.
He said, "I think Santa uses FedEx."
Itsalifesentence is now on Facebook!
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