I woke today wearing less elastic. Which seems quite ridiculous now that I'm a mother of three who is most definitely NOT pregnant, but was recently mistaken for being "two or three months along" at my high school reunion. So much for my belief that only television alum hold grudges. It's not even like I was popular, a poser really. Maybe that's why I didn't get the message that empire waste "BBQ casual" dresses are soooo early stage pregnancy.
So it's not the Spanks that I'm dumping, it's another sexy number known as the standard issue beige cheap nursing bra. The kind that you don't bother to lay flat for laundering or adjust to achieve even a modicum of fit. That's because during late (real) pregnancy, throughout birth, and my kid's first year of life, I wore the thing like a wedding ring. Like a symbol of my commitment to the not so subtle message to Hub that I was still NOT in the mood.
Today I broke free of the bonds of my nursing bra, and the cozy stretch of my life that its departure concludes. Today, BabyNar is now a 100% formula (and various table foods) fed baby. I'd like to believe this day stands only as a comma in the great run on sentence of my childbearing years, where the space beyond provides room for another conception and birth story and eventually another chair to add to my fantasy of a large dining room table twenty five years from now, crowded with people and partners munching on family favorites and gently needling me with memories and jokes; everyone buzzing around me and helping me get the dishes on the table and getting annoyed by me, but loving me and the life Hub and I created for them. Did I mention that this fantasy is about me?
Anyhoo, gosh, I can't even write it, and I wish I had the technical savvy to get the Blogger type to reduce down to like, four point font, so that I could tell you in my tiniest voice that I think today is not a comma but (whispering now) really a big, fat period that tells all the world, especially me, that we're done bringing kids into our family and that pregnancy and even adoption are not likely. Period. Did I say that? I think so and (talking louder now), I guess that means I can let the type get bigger and take a breath and maybe explain things (Hub's done) and then...move on and get a job or something. Yuck. I'm still mourning this, I know. And I'm still secretly hoping that the "accident fairy" will stop by my house, especially now that Hub's least favorite nasty beige undergarment has left the building.
There's one more thing here. I wish this post could be a memory marker instead where I describe the last loving days of nursing BabyNar. The kind of journal page that is my best hope for blogging so that I won't forget the kids' childhoods and how I felt during those days of 1-2-3's or else, please don't push on my bottom with your squirt gun (T), that huffing noise you make during dinner to interrupt me makes me angry (Dee), and the image of non mobile Nar being crawled over at the park by babies half her age while she sits munching wood bark. Mmmmm....
Per usual, however, I'm back to me. Which will likely be the case whether I have three or four or more children. The hope too, when the kid raising is done, is to still have that partner in crime around - Hub - to remind me of the gems I've forgotten or neglected to write down. And also to affirm for me that it's still about me.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Cake Lady
My disaster of a kitchen is waiting for me downstairs. Sticky sugary cooked egg whites, lovingly blended with vanilla and loads of unsalted butter - otherwise known as Swiss meringue frosting - adheres to bowls and spatulas and cook tops and cake stands. Chocolate chips spill from their bags and powdered sugar drifts to create a dusty sheen over my counter tops and floors. Butter beyond room temperature awaits a use while it melts into its package and the tile and grout counter below. When we came home late tonight with pre-pajama-ed kids from my cousin's son's ninth birthday party, Hub took one look at the clutterful kitchen and asked - with all seriousness - "Pleeeaaase. No more cake messes for at least a week."
He didn't need to ask. I'm done for awhile too. I often feel the urge to "go to town" in this way. My boxes of super refined cake flour call to me, I'm forever cracking eggs, and measuring out all the other necessary ingredients for my signature white cake. Over the past three years of stay-at-home-mom-hood, I've forced my way into becoming the unofficial "Cake Lady" for all occasions that remotely call for cake. Whether or not my friends or relatives want them, I bake cakes. Birthday. Easter. Baby Shower. My message is always the same: eat this or I'll cry. Usually, the loving people in my life oblige.
This month I was especially busy. It started with a baby shower for a pal (raspberry filled and chocolate chip cookie dough filled cupcakes), Easter (ditto), Dee's 4th birthday parties (princess crown cake and princess castle cake), girlfriend's birthday (blackberry and lemon curd filled cake), Hub's birthday (lemon curd filled cake), and most recently, 9th birthday (peanut butter cup replica cake). Whew! I'm so over it. I'm certain the butter sticks have adhered to my butt like magnets. The scale tells me it's true.
One problem, however - when I get into a manic cake baking phase - all other operations in the home suffer. I tend to tamp down on the clothes hampers like garbage bags, kidding myself that there's room for more and I'm not getting behind. Never mind that my son ran out of pants two days ago. Note to self: when Hub is spending his weekend helping me "catch up," we've really hit rock bottom.
Also, when I've got cake on the brain, I forget to shop for anything one might find outside of the spice aisle. Five bags of semi sweet chocolate chips. Check. Two jars of jumbo creamy peanut butter for the giant cake size Reese's peanut butter cup (the hope is to cut through the peanut butter cup and cake below in one swift, soft and delicious slice). Check. Eggs, eggs, eggs. Check. Lemons and blackberries and raspberries. Oh my. Check. So I venture beyond the baking aisle. It's certainly not to pick up pork chops or anything else my husband might recognize as dinner.
The whole obsession reminds me of my "theater days" as a young scribe of eleven (or so). I loved writing, editing, directing, creating sets and acting out most of the male roles in plays made from scratch by me. The actual performance time would vary, but I could occupy an entire evening or play date putting together what I believed was a top-notch production, in light of my limited resources. Costumes generally included my aunt's discarded nylon nightgowns and matching robes, and our best stage remained the basement before paint, when it was still okay for me to tack blankets to the dry wall.
I would usually bribe neighborhood kids into memorizing their lines with cupcakes. Most of the girls required promises of roles as princesses. That was no problem for me. I liked the "palace" genre anyways. My parents, however, tired of the genre, or at least the time away from alcohol with friends. So eventually I was told, as the family prepared for dinner at the Anderson's (or whomever), "No plays tonight, okay honey?"
So another dream died. Or didn't really spark. That's okay. I went to law school instead and then eventually got somewhat disillusioned. I still have the cupcakes, at least until after I get the powdered sugar scrubbed out of the grout.
He didn't need to ask. I'm done for awhile too. I often feel the urge to "go to town" in this way. My boxes of super refined cake flour call to me, I'm forever cracking eggs, and measuring out all the other necessary ingredients for my signature white cake. Over the past three years of stay-at-home-mom-hood, I've forced my way into becoming the unofficial "Cake Lady" for all occasions that remotely call for cake. Whether or not my friends or relatives want them, I bake cakes. Birthday. Easter. Baby Shower. My message is always the same: eat this or I'll cry. Usually, the loving people in my life oblige.
This month I was especially busy. It started with a baby shower for a pal (raspberry filled and chocolate chip cookie dough filled cupcakes), Easter (ditto), Dee's 4th birthday parties (princess crown cake and princess castle cake), girlfriend's birthday (blackberry and lemon curd filled cake), Hub's birthday (lemon curd filled cake), and most recently, 9th birthday (peanut butter cup replica cake). Whew! I'm so over it. I'm certain the butter sticks have adhered to my butt like magnets. The scale tells me it's true.
One problem, however - when I get into a manic cake baking phase - all other operations in the home suffer. I tend to tamp down on the clothes hampers like garbage bags, kidding myself that there's room for more and I'm not getting behind. Never mind that my son ran out of pants two days ago. Note to self: when Hub is spending his weekend helping me "catch up," we've really hit rock bottom.
Also, when I've got cake on the brain, I forget to shop for anything one might find outside of the spice aisle. Five bags of semi sweet chocolate chips. Check. Two jars of jumbo creamy peanut butter for the giant cake size Reese's peanut butter cup (the hope is to cut through the peanut butter cup and cake below in one swift, soft and delicious slice). Check. Eggs, eggs, eggs. Check. Lemons and blackberries and raspberries. Oh my. Check. So I venture beyond the baking aisle. It's certainly not to pick up pork chops or anything else my husband might recognize as dinner.
The whole obsession reminds me of my "theater days" as a young scribe of eleven (or so). I loved writing, editing, directing, creating sets and acting out most of the male roles in plays made from scratch by me. The actual performance time would vary, but I could occupy an entire evening or play date putting together what I believed was a top-notch production, in light of my limited resources. Costumes generally included my aunt's discarded nylon nightgowns and matching robes, and our best stage remained the basement before paint, when it was still okay for me to tack blankets to the dry wall.
I would usually bribe neighborhood kids into memorizing their lines with cupcakes. Most of the girls required promises of roles as princesses. That was no problem for me. I liked the "palace" genre anyways. My parents, however, tired of the genre, or at least the time away from alcohol with friends. So eventually I was told, as the family prepared for dinner at the Anderson's (or whomever), "No plays tonight, okay honey?"
So another dream died. Or didn't really spark. That's okay. I went to law school instead and then eventually got somewhat disillusioned. I still have the cupcakes, at least until after I get the powdered sugar scrubbed out of the grout.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Easy Breezy Beautiful
Gosh, it's been a few weeks. A few fabulous weeks, or at least one fab week. Hub and I and the little one, Nar, just returned from a one week vacation to Waikiki Beach, Hawaii. The last minute prep and general craziness stoked by my procrastinator tendencies made the departure day a hot mess, as they say. But we finally squeezed out of Dodge and left Dee and T to fend for themselves, aided in large part by their grandparents.
Memorable moments: A quick flight to our long layover in Seattle's airport brought on the leisurely mood of vacation like a direct line of something racy to the blood stream. With only one tiny child to tend, and our own personal baggage cart in the form of a stroller, we went hog wild and ordered dinner and drinks at the nearest fish monger establishment. We asked for a table with a view and pretended we weren't in, well, an airport. Dining at a regional chain. Really, we don't live in the suburbs and Hub doesn't wear white socks with Tevas (much).
Once in Hawaii, we used our masterful skills of negotiation to land an upgrade to a Toyota Corolla with a worm hole of a cigarette burn in the passenger seat. What power one wields with a 36% success rated internet coupon code!
From there, we found ourselves in a third floor room across from the elevator, sandwiched between the housekeeping supply closet and the ice machine. Score. We even had full view of the laundry lines tacked outside the apartments across the street, porches jammed to the gills with those huge plastic toddler toys whose utility on this earth will never come close to counterbalancing the storage space they suck up. I believe this view was a sign, just to remind us that we will never, ever, ever be able to afford real life in Honolulu.
It all ended well because after a couple nights, we were able to move up to a deluxe corner room in the sky. Complete with a blink-and-you'll-miss-it partial ocean view. It was more than I ordered. If I laid on the pull out couch just so, I could see the Pacific's vivid turquoise blue water, a pure reflection of the sky on a sunny day. Glimpses of that yummy blue, dabbed with red sea canoes, sailboats and wave riders, and an overlay of palm trees in the foreground, are my lasting memories of Waikiki.
Beyond my frequent pulls on the view, joy and sustenance for me came from a steady supply of chocolate covered macadamia nuts. Three days into the trip, I began hiding mostly eaten bags (we're talking family size), in an effort to disguise the volume of my only-in-Hawaii-nut-consumption. When we were newly established in our boss room, Hub stumbled upon a Mauna Loa bag in the closet and mistook it as trash leftover from previous guests. Mumbling something about what a wacky sweet tooth he married, I quickly gobbled up the evidence.
Also of note was our daily three point agenda (read, drink and eat). Hub and I had an insatiable need to simply. Sit. And read. Our books. It was more difficult to accomplish than imagined. This is because one kid is still a kid who needs to eat and poop and bounce up and down in a happy, friendly way. And as anyone not in vacation mode might suspect, the baby will communicate these needs by crying.
Hub and I weren't prepared for the crying. Somehow, we thought the demanding aspects of Nar's baby Dom would float away with the gentle waves on Waikiki beach, allowing seasoned parents to ease into a quiet vacation like the ten year old snowboarder turned surfer who is permitted to ride a brief - but thrilling - swell before pouring back among the tourists. In the end, the ten year old kid got farther than we did with his dreams. I couldn't completely ignore my baby, or allow her to loll in the sand, but I still finished most of my book. It just took until the end of the trip and a regular evening at home to get the job done.
Other daily activities varied, but we followed this general schedule: go to ocean, get free drinks at hotel's cocktail hour, eat sushi. Repeat. One other must do for me was to toast my ten years of marriage to Hub at a bar called "RumFire." RumFire is located on the Pacific's edge at the base of a posh hotel. It boasts huge iron bowls of fire that flicker in the night. Romance. Pure romance.
We stumbled upon the establishment early in the trip and I was bound and determined to own that place with my new three inch cork sandals and floral Target wrap dress. As the days passed, I got in the habit of referring to RumFire in an attempted sexy, but probably just phlegmmy, voice. The kind of voice that makes its appearance on vacation when the conversations are really just layers and layers of stupid jokes.
We didn't make it to RumFire until the last night of the trip. Despite some breeziness during the dinner hour at a sandwich shop (I needed cash for that fab cocktail); I led my little team to a primo table on an empty patio. Score! When the breeze morphed to wind and light rain, Hub suggested we move inside. I was undeterred and began to unwrap my wrap dress to nurse Nari. During the whole feeding process, the rain became an official downpour and the umbrella my Hub heaved over to cover us did little to protect the fam from Mother Nature's rage. After that, Hub rushed inside to grab a table for us while I sat like a bump on a log, waiting for Nari to finish. She was wet and I was undressed, naked before the sea turtles somewhere out there in the abyss. In the hasty transition from romance on the beach to sports fan's Mecca inside, I lost my nursing pads to the sea, and stumbled into the bar with a significantly watered down drink.
We shared a table with a grumpy German couple, competing with the flat screens to trade the last of our stupid jokes. But no worries. My mind and soul had already moved on to my last half bag of macadamia nuts waiting for me at the hotel. Mahalo!
Memorable moments: A quick flight to our long layover in Seattle's airport brought on the leisurely mood of vacation like a direct line of something racy to the blood stream. With only one tiny child to tend, and our own personal baggage cart in the form of a stroller, we went hog wild and ordered dinner and drinks at the nearest fish monger establishment. We asked for a table with a view and pretended we weren't in, well, an airport. Dining at a regional chain. Really, we don't live in the suburbs and Hub doesn't wear white socks with Tevas (much).
Once in Hawaii, we used our masterful skills of negotiation to land an upgrade to a Toyota Corolla with a worm hole of a cigarette burn in the passenger seat. What power one wields with a 36% success rated internet coupon code!
From there, we found ourselves in a third floor room across from the elevator, sandwiched between the housekeeping supply closet and the ice machine. Score. We even had full view of the laundry lines tacked outside the apartments across the street, porches jammed to the gills with those huge plastic toddler toys whose utility on this earth will never come close to counterbalancing the storage space they suck up. I believe this view was a sign, just to remind us that we will never, ever, ever be able to afford real life in Honolulu.
It all ended well because after a couple nights, we were able to move up to a deluxe corner room in the sky. Complete with a blink-and-you'll-miss-it partial ocean view. It was more than I ordered. If I laid on the pull out couch just so, I could see the Pacific's vivid turquoise blue water, a pure reflection of the sky on a sunny day. Glimpses of that yummy blue, dabbed with red sea canoes, sailboats and wave riders, and an overlay of palm trees in the foreground, are my lasting memories of Waikiki.
Beyond my frequent pulls on the view, joy and sustenance for me came from a steady supply of chocolate covered macadamia nuts. Three days into the trip, I began hiding mostly eaten bags (we're talking family size), in an effort to disguise the volume of my only-in-Hawaii-nut-consumption. When we were newly established in our boss room, Hub stumbled upon a Mauna Loa bag in the closet and mistook it as trash leftover from previous guests. Mumbling something about what a wacky sweet tooth he married, I quickly gobbled up the evidence.
Also of note was our daily three point agenda (read, drink and eat). Hub and I had an insatiable need to simply. Sit. And read. Our books. It was more difficult to accomplish than imagined. This is because one kid is still a kid who needs to eat and poop and bounce up and down in a happy, friendly way. And as anyone not in vacation mode might suspect, the baby will communicate these needs by crying.
Hub and I weren't prepared for the crying. Somehow, we thought the demanding aspects of Nar's baby Dom would float away with the gentle waves on Waikiki beach, allowing seasoned parents to ease into a quiet vacation like the ten year old snowboarder turned surfer who is permitted to ride a brief - but thrilling - swell before pouring back among the tourists. In the end, the ten year old kid got farther than we did with his dreams. I couldn't completely ignore my baby, or allow her to loll in the sand, but I still finished most of my book. It just took until the end of the trip and a regular evening at home to get the job done.
Other daily activities varied, but we followed this general schedule: go to ocean, get free drinks at hotel's cocktail hour, eat sushi. Repeat. One other must do for me was to toast my ten years of marriage to Hub at a bar called "RumFire." RumFire is located on the Pacific's edge at the base of a posh hotel. It boasts huge iron bowls of fire that flicker in the night. Romance. Pure romance.
We stumbled upon the establishment early in the trip and I was bound and determined to own that place with my new three inch cork sandals and floral Target wrap dress. As the days passed, I got in the habit of referring to RumFire in an attempted sexy, but probably just phlegmmy, voice. The kind of voice that makes its appearance on vacation when the conversations are really just layers and layers of stupid jokes.
We didn't make it to RumFire until the last night of the trip. Despite some breeziness during the dinner hour at a sandwich shop (I needed cash for that fab cocktail); I led my little team to a primo table on an empty patio. Score! When the breeze morphed to wind and light rain, Hub suggested we move inside. I was undeterred and began to unwrap my wrap dress to nurse Nari. During the whole feeding process, the rain became an official downpour and the umbrella my Hub heaved over to cover us did little to protect the fam from Mother Nature's rage. After that, Hub rushed inside to grab a table for us while I sat like a bump on a log, waiting for Nari to finish. She was wet and I was undressed, naked before the sea turtles somewhere out there in the abyss. In the hasty transition from romance on the beach to sports fan's Mecca inside, I lost my nursing pads to the sea, and stumbled into the bar with a significantly watered down drink.
We shared a table with a grumpy German couple, competing with the flat screens to trade the last of our stupid jokes. But no worries. My mind and soul had already moved on to my last half bag of macadamia nuts waiting for me at the hotel. Mahalo!
Friday, February 26, 2010
Continuing Parental Education (CPE's)
It happened Saturday morning. Right after Hub and I set an imaginary timer to see if we could actually sit and finish eating breakfast in a three minute span before one of the masters rang. Sure enough, nothin' doin, because a mere thirteen seconds passed before one of our kids chirped "Milk!, Milk!," and the other called with escalating urgency, "Boogrz! I got BOOGRZ!!!"
After fishing through the paper heap called our kitchen island to find a tissue for T, I asked "Dad" if he wanted more milk for his cereal. At the time, Hub didn't take note of it. He had enough milk.
But I thought, dude, no. Dad? Did I just call Hub, Dad? Like my Dad?!
While it couldn't possibly have been the first time in my almost four years of parenthood that I have addressed my better half as "Dad," this time stood out as awkward. And as the day unwound, I got the feeling that Hub had the same thought. Later, when picking up crap in the living room, Hub casually asked me, "Mom, what do you want to do with these shoes?"
Ewwww. Mom? Did he just call me Mom, like his Mom? I did not like that, fo sho. It made me feel old and also like maybe he when he looked at me he was seeing a woman in practical pink pajamas and an old wool sweater identifiable as nothing other than a mom. Mom period. No room for a smokin' hot babe with an actual name. At that moment, I felt like channeling Beyonce and demanding that he "Say my name," bro! Never mind the sweater.
An old co-worker, who is about fifteen years ahead of me in the parent trap, advised that I probably wouldn't really identify as a parent until my kid was about three years old. I think. I finally. Get it. He was referring to my necessary Continuing Parental Education requirements, or my "CPE's."
Like licensed attorneys, docs, engineers, accountants, or any other number of professionals, parents need CPE's to maintain the identity. To keep it fresh. To build street cred. I get it! I'm building credits, day by day. And I'm sure something magical, like a "Thanks for Participating" certificate with a foil sticker and a faux wood frame is certain to come of it. Here are some CPE's I earned this week:
• Don't let blue sidewalk chalk sit out in the rain because T will be drawn to it like a bee to honey and he'll grind his shoes in it. Then he'll track the neon stuff into the carpets and seats of the minivan, otherwise known pathetically as our "new" car.
• Those cute, flowy, skim-right-over-the-belly, cashmere blend sweaters that are all the rage for the advanced maternal age set, do not mix with babies named Nar slathered in Aquaphor.
• Don't even dream of viewing ("read" is too strong a term) the Fashion Police report in US Magazine for the upcoming flight with the babe. And don't bother packing that cashmere thing either.
• And finally (I know this one is worth conference level credits), entertain the thought that the name "Mom," when uttered by your spouse, may one day become a term of endearment. Like "love ya, schnookums." Right back at ya, Dad!
After fishing through the paper heap called our kitchen island to find a tissue for T, I asked "Dad" if he wanted more milk for his cereal. At the time, Hub didn't take note of it. He had enough milk.
But I thought, dude, no. Dad? Did I just call Hub, Dad? Like my Dad?!
While it couldn't possibly have been the first time in my almost four years of parenthood that I have addressed my better half as "Dad," this time stood out as awkward. And as the day unwound, I got the feeling that Hub had the same thought. Later, when picking up crap in the living room, Hub casually asked me, "Mom, what do you want to do with these shoes?"
Ewwww. Mom? Did he just call me Mom, like his Mom? I did not like that, fo sho. It made me feel old and also like maybe he when he looked at me he was seeing a woman in practical pink pajamas and an old wool sweater identifiable as nothing other than a mom. Mom period. No room for a smokin' hot babe with an actual name. At that moment, I felt like channeling Beyonce and demanding that he "Say my name," bro! Never mind the sweater.
An old co-worker, who is about fifteen years ahead of me in the parent trap, advised that I probably wouldn't really identify as a parent until my kid was about three years old. I think. I finally. Get it. He was referring to my necessary Continuing Parental Education requirements, or my "CPE's."
Like licensed attorneys, docs, engineers, accountants, or any other number of professionals, parents need CPE's to maintain the identity. To keep it fresh. To build street cred. I get it! I'm building credits, day by day. And I'm sure something magical, like a "Thanks for Participating" certificate with a foil sticker and a faux wood frame is certain to come of it. Here are some CPE's I earned this week:
• Don't let blue sidewalk chalk sit out in the rain because T will be drawn to it like a bee to honey and he'll grind his shoes in it. Then he'll track the neon stuff into the carpets and seats of the minivan, otherwise known pathetically as our "new" car.
• Those cute, flowy, skim-right-over-the-belly, cashmere blend sweaters that are all the rage for the advanced maternal age set, do not mix with babies named Nar slathered in Aquaphor.
• Don't even dream of viewing ("read" is too strong a term) the Fashion Police report in US Magazine for the upcoming flight with the babe. And don't bother packing that cashmere thing either.
• And finally (I know this one is worth conference level credits), entertain the thought that the name "Mom," when uttered by your spouse, may one day become a term of endearment. Like "love ya, schnookums." Right back at ya, Dad!
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
On Tigers and Love
Among the Chinese, 2010 is the Year of the Tiger. And according to my random internet sources, people born in this lunar year are "capable of great love," but must "guard against being too stubborn." My event to toast the Tiger, a/k/a President's Day romper room with a Chinese twist, is now officially over.
Like it's honoree, this little Tiger party, conceived of and played out in 2010, came about due to some stubbornness, mostly on my part. Too stubborn to sit and stew with the kids on a less than balmy President's Day, and always eager to share this brand of misery with friends, I put the party on the calendar. A chronic procrastinator, I started thinking about what to do last Friday, bought supplies on Saturday, got weird flu like symptoms Saturday night and then worked like an elf on double overtime pay on Sunday to make ten copies of an internet wonder called the Crepe Paper Dragon. As the pictures below demonstrate, it was worth every hot glue gun burn and eye roll from my Hub:
Not visible in these pictures are the completely gracious, where's your cookie sheet, don't worry about it, I'll find it, friends. These folks make me feel like it is absolutely reasonable, maybe even admirable, to pull an all nighter for a paper craft.
After the party, I sat in my living room easy chair, homemade lo mein noodles on the side table next to me, and nursed my goobering, teething, soaked through two onesies and a denim dress, baby. From that vantage point, I could view the tidied remnants of the party through the French doors of the dining room. Those remnants included four oranges left behind after the others were sliced for lunch and luck; the red gold stamped fan that Dee and I made as a sample; and T's cute but forlorn felt tiger puppet whose barely affixed google eyes peered out from a whiskerless face. On top of the armoire in the hall, lay two crepe paper dragons, well loved by Dee and T, but barely recognizable after handling by someone other than a museum curator.
All in all, while stubbornness prompted this little shindig, it ended with some serious love. I'm feeling it now, the kind of validation adults seek out since the grownups of our childhoods stopped doling out field day ribbons. There have been many occasions in my life, and yours too, I imagine, where the hours you spent meticulously decorating the cake, or compiling and editing the anniversary photo album, or doing whatever else, went unnoticed or innocently forgotten simply because of the craziness of the day. Many times in my life, the take away thought and snarky comment later on the phone to my mom included "they didn't even appreciate my blah blah blah...."
This time, however, I was on the money - and my dear friends told me so - all while jostling babies, baking red dot almond cookies, picking up crumpled crepe paper in the front yard, and leading story time. And that makes all the difference, doesn't it? Validation, sweet validation, makes all that stuff that is usually so elusive - self confidence for one - part of us again for a little while.
For me, it gives me the freedom to be myself more often, like stay up most of the night to make a crazy craft because I like to do it, or to run out in the street with a pot lid and a spoon to make silly fireworks sounds for the kids' dragon parade. It feels good to let go, laugh, and to observe others delighting with you in a moment you created.
Yesterday, the delight of the day rolled over and around me like I was wrestling and cuddling with the kids on a wide expanse of super thick padded carpet, or at least on wet grass in a strange snowless winter. Take a look:
Like it's honoree, this little Tiger party, conceived of and played out in 2010, came about due to some stubbornness, mostly on my part. Too stubborn to sit and stew with the kids on a less than balmy President's Day, and always eager to share this brand of misery with friends, I put the party on the calendar. A chronic procrastinator, I started thinking about what to do last Friday, bought supplies on Saturday, got weird flu like symptoms Saturday night and then worked like an elf on double overtime pay on Sunday to make ten copies of an internet wonder called the Crepe Paper Dragon. As the pictures below demonstrate, it was worth every hot glue gun burn and eye roll from my Hub:
Not visible in these pictures are the completely gracious, where's your cookie sheet, don't worry about it, I'll find it, friends. These folks make me feel like it is absolutely reasonable, maybe even admirable, to pull an all nighter for a paper craft.
After the party, I sat in my living room easy chair, homemade lo mein noodles on the side table next to me, and nursed my goobering, teething, soaked through two onesies and a denim dress, baby. From that vantage point, I could view the tidied remnants of the party through the French doors of the dining room. Those remnants included four oranges left behind after the others were sliced for lunch and luck; the red gold stamped fan that Dee and I made as a sample; and T's cute but forlorn felt tiger puppet whose barely affixed google eyes peered out from a whiskerless face. On top of the armoire in the hall, lay two crepe paper dragons, well loved by Dee and T, but barely recognizable after handling by someone other than a museum curator.
All in all, while stubbornness prompted this little shindig, it ended with some serious love. I'm feeling it now, the kind of validation adults seek out since the grownups of our childhoods stopped doling out field day ribbons. There have been many occasions in my life, and yours too, I imagine, where the hours you spent meticulously decorating the cake, or compiling and editing the anniversary photo album, or doing whatever else, went unnoticed or innocently forgotten simply because of the craziness of the day. Many times in my life, the take away thought and snarky comment later on the phone to my mom included "they didn't even appreciate my blah blah blah...."
This time, however, I was on the money - and my dear friends told me so - all while jostling babies, baking red dot almond cookies, picking up crumpled crepe paper in the front yard, and leading story time. And that makes all the difference, doesn't it? Validation, sweet validation, makes all that stuff that is usually so elusive - self confidence for one - part of us again for a little while.
For me, it gives me the freedom to be myself more often, like stay up most of the night to make a crazy craft because I like to do it, or to run out in the street with a pot lid and a spoon to make silly fireworks sounds for the kids' dragon parade. It feels good to let go, laugh, and to observe others delighting with you in a moment you created.
Yesterday, the delight of the day rolled over and around me like I was wrestling and cuddling with the kids on a wide expanse of super thick padded carpet, or at least on wet grass in a strange snowless winter. Take a look:
So...here's to many more moments of validation, love and friendship in 2010. Cheers to the tigers, dogs, pigs (that's me), and all the other animal signs among us. And a Happy New Year from my quarter Chinesers!
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Ittle Big Man
We spent the weekend away for a conference and I was too lazy to pack a bottle for T and the milk that goes with it. With all the excitement of everyone in the same room and coasters to chew on, T didn't seem to mind that "Ba Ba" wasn't around for his morning pick me up.
Yesterday, however, the context was right. Monday morning came like it always does and T peered out from the crib bars in his green monkey jammers and asked, "Where Ba Ba?"
As Hub and I had discussed on the seven hour drive home, it seemed like a good stopping point. Plus, we'd get a slight respite from cleaning the fermenting bottles that tend to collect near the kitchen sink. Is that on my chore list? I forget....
When I explained to T that bottles were banished, old news, for the weak of heart, scat...he whimpered for a moment. Then I told T that he is too big for bottles. That he is a big boy and that he can drink his milk out of a cup. I even gave an inch and offered to serve the milk in a sippy cup. A stopover point between baby and man.
"No want sippy cup!" T spat. Then, taking a different tactic, T gathered himself and calmly said, "I'm not big. I'm ittl...er."
Funny, T couldn't quite say that he's plain "little." To acknowledge his littlenes must cut into the core of his being. At this proud stage in his life, all of two years and six months of age, T identifies as a bigger than life Superman, who confidently offers, "Mama, I help you," when my road rage spills over at the driver of the car in front of me at the coffee drive-thru line.
T's preferred nick names include, in this order: Big Guy, Big Boy, Superman and Bo Bo (not to be confused with Ba Ba).
But...but, but, but, but...but (as T always says when he's gathering his thoughts), NEVER in a million years call the kid CUTE, even if you need a Superman because the guy in front of you in the coffee line orders seven variations of an extra quarter shot, no whip, but nutmeg sprinkles, mocha latte. Because to T, cute and Superman don't mix. Cute means: tiny, tiny baby, BabyN and people too small for spotting punch buggies (VW bugs). And T can most definitely spot a punch buggy.
So yesterday, without a tantrum or big crocodile tears to demonstrate his loss over dear old Ba Ba, T stated his position and also acknowledged that bridge he's crossing between babyhood and something...bigger.
Yesterday, however, the context was right. Monday morning came like it always does and T peered out from the crib bars in his green monkey jammers and asked, "Where Ba Ba?"
As Hub and I had discussed on the seven hour drive home, it seemed like a good stopping point. Plus, we'd get a slight respite from cleaning the fermenting bottles that tend to collect near the kitchen sink. Is that on my chore list? I forget....
When I explained to T that bottles were banished, old news, for the weak of heart, scat...he whimpered for a moment. Then I told T that he is too big for bottles. That he is a big boy and that he can drink his milk out of a cup. I even gave an inch and offered to serve the milk in a sippy cup. A stopover point between baby and man.
"No want sippy cup!" T spat. Then, taking a different tactic, T gathered himself and calmly said, "I'm not big. I'm ittl...er."
Funny, T couldn't quite say that he's plain "little." To acknowledge his littlenes must cut into the core of his being. At this proud stage in his life, all of two years and six months of age, T identifies as a bigger than life Superman, who confidently offers, "Mama, I help you," when my road rage spills over at the driver of the car in front of me at the coffee drive-thru line.
T's preferred nick names include, in this order: Big Guy, Big Boy, Superman and Bo Bo (not to be confused with Ba Ba).
But...but, but, but, but...but (as T always says when he's gathering his thoughts), NEVER in a million years call the kid CUTE, even if you need a Superman because the guy in front of you in the coffee line orders seven variations of an extra quarter shot, no whip, but nutmeg sprinkles, mocha latte. Because to T, cute and Superman don't mix. Cute means: tiny, tiny baby, BabyN and people too small for spotting punch buggies (VW bugs). And T can most definitely spot a punch buggy.
So yesterday, without a tantrum or big crocodile tears to demonstrate his loss over dear old Ba Ba, T stated his position and also acknowledged that bridge he's crossing between babyhood and something...bigger.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
A Sunday Morning on the Island of La Grande Tootay
Just like any challenging expedition, it started innocently enough. A relatively easy activity that might buy me thirty minutes with another adult, one that I especially liked. Plus, a park, so the kids would have something to tell Daddy about. My girlfriend, E, was also facing a Sunday with the kids by herself. We talked briefly while I nursed BabyN about meeting for a morning walk at 10:00. The mid thirties degree drizzly weather and wet ground weren't deal breakers. And while I still needed to dress, diaper and feed all the kids, an hour and twenty minutes seemed like plenty of time. It wasn't. As always happens in the mornings, the time that stretches like Hubba Bubba gum around and around and around the dinner hour, shrunk into nothing. Suddenly, it was ten minutes to ten and Dee and T had yet to belly up to the yogurt and Rice Krispies knock off bar.
We eventually made it out to the garage and the double stroller I had elected to use (this mind is like a salad spinner, capable of spinnage, but usually stored in the basement). My efforts to get to the garage were hindered by the bundling process. Both Dee and T needed long underwear, snow boots for puddle jumping, their fleece coats, their "big" coats (Dee complains this constrains her freedom of movement), and the all important mittens. T refused to wear his mittens and promptly pulled them off and squirreled them away somewhere in the living room. Saving them for the winter, I guess. I looked, for a second, but then my anxiety over lateness took over. Toddler knows best.
I planned to carry BabyN close to the chest. I couldn't find the Baby Bjorn, touted for its ease of use, if not a killer on the shoulders. Crunched for time, and really getting frantic, I opted for the cumbersome Moby wrap. Like an anaconda, long and lean, the Moby can extend itself twenty feet and then wrap itself tightly around your body. While great for an afternoon of housework with the babe (a practice I don't believe in), the Moby does not lend itself to transitions. Once the baby's in, she's in. You wanna nurse or scoot down the slide, you're in for a process. Despite these well known facts, I wrapped BabyN in the Moby, facing out, and hurried one mittened kitten and one non mittened kitten out the door for stroller loading.
Once I pulled the summer plastic play equipment out of the stroller, I discovered a flat tire. No stranger to a little set back, I located the bicycle pump, attached it to the tire valve and began my only cardio exercise of the week. BabyN and I were both sweaty by the end of it, if not a little dizzy. BabyN cleared her head by promptly vomiting on the garage floor. It looked like a clean stream. No residue on the baby or me. Dee confirmed my observations.
So I proceeded to place the kids in the stroller. After much fiddling to expand the "summer sized" straps, we were ready to roll. I unpacked the diaper pad and wipes from the backpack, threw the snacks in the double wide, and called it good. Then I looked at the tires. The tire I had just pumped up was flat AGAIN, as well as the front tire. The sucker was damaged, sand burr damaged. This was the first time during the morning that I wanted to cry. Cry because it was already 10:07 and I couldn't reach E to tell her we were late. Cry because I was ridiculously frantic over the tedium of my life that keeps me from meeting my scarce and self imposed deadlines - on a Sunday morning, for God's sake!
I pulled myself together enough to yank the kids out of the double and put T in the single. I managed to move the diaper pad to the new stroller because diaper rash from a poop at the park is a lesson not worth repeating. I also got Dee running along beside me, stiffy coat and all. By the time we turned the corner toward the park, T was complaining about his cold hands. My girlfriend, E, was already three blocks from her home and headed up the sidewalk toward me, her daughter out front, with all the speed of a twenty two month old.
We began the actual walk toward the park, when another girlfriend called. Like a good little moocher, I talked her into driving for coffee and then meeting us in the drizzle. But by the time she arrived at the park, T had already interrupted every breath of my TMZ style story about John Edwards' love child. Something about red and chafed hands. He screamed for mittens. Adult gloves were inferior. He wanted a snack. I searched, but found nothing in my back up stroller. Finally, I bundled him in E's stroller and fed him E's snack, all while drinking the coffee provided by my other dearheart.
Dee, working from T's playbook and noting the benefits of the continuous cry, began to whine with abandon. She'd stubbed her toe on the playground mulch. Waaaaa! Her bangs were in her eyes. WaaAAA! T had half a strip of fruit leather. Beyond words. All the while, BabyN was revving up. I tried, per usual, to ignore her early mumblings. But by the time Dee hit full throttle, BabyN could no longer indulge me. Loath to do so, I begrudgingly plodded over to the wet park bench, removed my jacket and uncoiled the Moby. Ugg. I pulled BabyN, stiff like a starfish in her snowsuit, out of the jaws of the wrap, and sat down with a squish to nurse her. We nursed. My other little dingbats screamed. Like the short cycle on the dishwasher thrity minutes before guests arrive, I didn't have time for a two boob feed. So E held BabyN's foot on the bench while she rocked her own crying twenty two month old, who was mourning the stroller seat occupied by my twenty some month old. Once the proper kids were placed in the proper strollers and the snake was wrapped safely around my most unsatisfied babe, we began our departure.
My girlfriends yelled bon voyage and offers of help over the super white noise called my children. We walked for a bit away from the park and Dee and BabyN began to settle down. I was dying to fart, out of the earshot of non-relatives. I did, but was immediately greeted by a dad with a stroller about eighteen inches behind me. He said, "Wow, you've got a kid coming out of every...." Then he trailed off. I swear, he meant to say "orifice."
LOOSELY inspired by "A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte," 1884, by Georges Seurat:
We eventually made it out to the garage and the double stroller I had elected to use (this mind is like a salad spinner, capable of spinnage, but usually stored in the basement). My efforts to get to the garage were hindered by the bundling process. Both Dee and T needed long underwear, snow boots for puddle jumping, their fleece coats, their "big" coats (Dee complains this constrains her freedom of movement), and the all important mittens. T refused to wear his mittens and promptly pulled them off and squirreled them away somewhere in the living room. Saving them for the winter, I guess. I looked, for a second, but then my anxiety over lateness took over. Toddler knows best.
I planned to carry BabyN close to the chest. I couldn't find the Baby Bjorn, touted for its ease of use, if not a killer on the shoulders. Crunched for time, and really getting frantic, I opted for the cumbersome Moby wrap. Like an anaconda, long and lean, the Moby can extend itself twenty feet and then wrap itself tightly around your body. While great for an afternoon of housework with the babe (a practice I don't believe in), the Moby does not lend itself to transitions. Once the baby's in, she's in. You wanna nurse or scoot down the slide, you're in for a process. Despite these well known facts, I wrapped BabyN in the Moby, facing out, and hurried one mittened kitten and one non mittened kitten out the door for stroller loading.
Once I pulled the summer plastic play equipment out of the stroller, I discovered a flat tire. No stranger to a little set back, I located the bicycle pump, attached it to the tire valve and began my only cardio exercise of the week. BabyN and I were both sweaty by the end of it, if not a little dizzy. BabyN cleared her head by promptly vomiting on the garage floor. It looked like a clean stream. No residue on the baby or me. Dee confirmed my observations.
So I proceeded to place the kids in the stroller. After much fiddling to expand the "summer sized" straps, we were ready to roll. I unpacked the diaper pad and wipes from the backpack, threw the snacks in the double wide, and called it good. Then I looked at the tires. The tire I had just pumped up was flat AGAIN, as well as the front tire. The sucker was damaged, sand burr damaged. This was the first time during the morning that I wanted to cry. Cry because it was already 10:07 and I couldn't reach E to tell her we were late. Cry because I was ridiculously frantic over the tedium of my life that keeps me from meeting my scarce and self imposed deadlines - on a Sunday morning, for God's sake!
I pulled myself together enough to yank the kids out of the double and put T in the single. I managed to move the diaper pad to the new stroller because diaper rash from a poop at the park is a lesson not worth repeating. I also got Dee running along beside me, stiffy coat and all. By the time we turned the corner toward the park, T was complaining about his cold hands. My girlfriend, E, was already three blocks from her home and headed up the sidewalk toward me, her daughter out front, with all the speed of a twenty two month old.
We began the actual walk toward the park, when another girlfriend called. Like a good little moocher, I talked her into driving for coffee and then meeting us in the drizzle. But by the time she arrived at the park, T had already interrupted every breath of my TMZ style story about John Edwards' love child. Something about red and chafed hands. He screamed for mittens. Adult gloves were inferior. He wanted a snack. I searched, but found nothing in my back up stroller. Finally, I bundled him in E's stroller and fed him E's snack, all while drinking the coffee provided by my other dearheart.
Dee, working from T's playbook and noting the benefits of the continuous cry, began to whine with abandon. She'd stubbed her toe on the playground mulch. Waaaaa! Her bangs were in her eyes. WaaAAA! T had half a strip of fruit leather. Beyond words. All the while, BabyN was revving up. I tried, per usual, to ignore her early mumblings. But by the time Dee hit full throttle, BabyN could no longer indulge me. Loath to do so, I begrudgingly plodded over to the wet park bench, removed my jacket and uncoiled the Moby. Ugg. I pulled BabyN, stiff like a starfish in her snowsuit, out of the jaws of the wrap, and sat down with a squish to nurse her. We nursed. My other little dingbats screamed. Like the short cycle on the dishwasher thrity minutes before guests arrive, I didn't have time for a two boob feed. So E held BabyN's foot on the bench while she rocked her own crying twenty two month old, who was mourning the stroller seat occupied by my twenty some month old. Once the proper kids were placed in the proper strollers and the snake was wrapped safely around my most unsatisfied babe, we began our departure.
My girlfriends yelled bon voyage and offers of help over the super white noise called my children. We walked for a bit away from the park and Dee and BabyN began to settle down. I was dying to fart, out of the earshot of non-relatives. I did, but was immediately greeted by a dad with a stroller about eighteen inches behind me. He said, "Wow, you've got a kid coming out of every...." Then he trailed off. I swear, he meant to say "orifice."
LOOSELY inspired by "A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte," 1884, by Georges Seurat:
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