Shafted!!!

...said Harper, my second child, on her first birthday.

I am having tremendous pangs of guilt about the "double" dinosaur themed birthday I held a few weeks ago.

A friend of mine said once, "do your best as a parent... And then pay for their therapy when they're older."  Sage advice considering I'm pretty sure this is where her first session will begin...

"Well, you see I'm the second child and on my first birthday there is only one picture/video of me enjoying my cake.  The rest of the documents from this day revolve around 'the prodigal son' -Tommy and his friends," she'll say with great disdain as the therapist nods and takes notes documenting this first misstep.

Their birthdays are 5 DAYS apart, for God's sake!  I can't have two separate parties so that the one-year old, who won't remember a thing will be able to look back at pictures and know she was loved.

I really hope she doesn't see the picture (I mean pictures - there were many) from Tommy's first.  It was a bash.  Ridiculously so.

She did, however, get her own cake. This may or may not be because I'm kind of a sugar nazi, and I wanted her to have a less diabetes-inducing experience for her first taste of the vice we call sugar, but it was her own cake nonetheless.

 For the record, I would like to point out that this "poor neglected child" came 16 DAYS LATE!!!  Let's not forget that little tidbit.  I know I won't.  If she had come on August 1st as my biological clock said she would, we would have been able to have a little separate party for her in late July saving me at least one 50-minute hour with a Jungian student.

She doesn't have a clue that....

...the rest of the party is watching Tommy's cake!

To her future therapist:  You're welcome!

Glamor is My Middle Name

If you look at Angelina, Gwyneth, Madonna or any of the paparazzi-tracked moms, it would lead you to believe that motherhood is borderline glamorous - and easy. It especially irks me to see the section in Us Magazine titled, "Celebrities families are just like us."pictures that have quotes like:

"They clean up ice cream cone disasters." (yes, on the day the nanny has off)

"They manage their 6 kids at the airport.". (to their private jet)

"They go back to school shopping.". (at Hermes and Henri Bendel on Rodeo Dr.)

"They go to yoga." (when above mentioned nanny is back and private yoga instructor is off)

First of all, I can tell you that when I'm shopping with my kids (at Target), they aren't patiently sitting in the cart pointing to cereals on the shelf.  The one that can walk is running ahead, declaring his inner tiger and growling/roaring at complete strangers as they pass us.  

The same child rarely leaves the beach with a smile on his face, in a stroller being pushed by his hard body mom.  It's usually some variation of me in a t-shirt and skirt cover-up (that I swim in because my body is more semi-soft) sweating like a man, pushing the baby in the stroller and carrying a tall 3 year old under my arm like a football while he screams "I just want ice cream Mama!"  The ice cream cart is placed directly out the exit of the beach, thank you very much!

Second of all, do they really get a call from the sitter when they are at work that the 4 year old's poop is green, "I mean really green, Mrs. Stewart!".   To follow that up, do they say, "OK, save it for me to look at," in response to this call?  I think not.

I'm also pretty confident that at a family wedding, they do not find themselves locked in a bathroom stall with their little black dress pulled down to their waist as if they are trying to acquire beads at Mardi Gras, hand expressing milk from their overly full lactating breasts.  Just when I started to feel individually human again, a perfectly normal adult event turns into a human 4H demonstration.

Finally, do they ever find themselves dry heaving in front of their kids at a hairball the size of a guinea pig that they find in their tub drain?  

Sorry, I just didn't want to be the only witness to this.

Really? They don't just let their handyman weather the wave of nausea this produces?  

Look, I'm sure being a celebrity has its downsides, but I can say, without hesitation, that they are not just like us.

The Mental Patient

So, for anyone that knows me, I loooove my kids. They are what get me out of bed in the morning...  Literally.  

Well, the fact that they wake me up before 7am, is not actually the part I love, but I look at their faces and often see what's right in the world in their eyes.  

That said, it can't be overlooked that I absolutely feel like my daily conversations with my 3 year old are similar to those you might have with mental patient.  Now, before you start to judge me for calling my sweet, innocent boy a mental patient, let me present you with exhibit A:

Me:  Tommy, what do you want for breakfast?

T:  Roooooaar!!!

Me:  Okay Mr. Tiger, what do you want for breakfast?

T:  I'm not a tiger, I'm a wolf soldier!  (a Kung Fu Panda 2 reference, FYI)

Now mind you, I'm probably still working on getting my coffee infused in my system, so I really just want to friggin' know what he wants for friggin' breakfast.

Me:  Got it.  Sorry.  Wolf Soldier, what do you want for breakfast?

T:  I don't know.  I'm thinking about it.

(I wait, assuming - a thing you should never do with a mental patient or a 3 year old apparently, see the similarity? - that an idea for breakfast will erupt forth.)

Nothing.

The good news is that this pause has allowed me to sip a little of my coffee.  

Nothing.  It's okay, we only have to be at camp in an hour.

Nothing.

Me:  Okay, I'm making you cheese eggs.

T:  Nooooooo! (then, tumbling into a crying, tantruming mess) I don't want cheese eggs!

Me:  Stop!  Reset.  (What?  It works with my computer!) What do you want?

T:  I don't want cheese eggs!

Me:  (In my best therapy voice)  I hear that you don't want cheese eggs.  What do you want?

T:  I don't want cheese eggs!!!  (Tears still)

Me:  (I get down in front of him and am now on my knees.  I too am yelling)  I won't make you eat cheese eggs!  That's off the table!  What do you want to eat?!?  (since he's irrational apparently I'm going to be too)

T:  I just don't want cheese eggs!!!  (for god's sake! I'm not running a prison camp here.)

I just stare silently at him willing him to stop whining.  (a Jedi mind trick)

T:  (quietly) I want cereal. 

It worked!  I had channeled Yoda, and it worked. 

Me:  (in my best Yoda voice) Cereal you will have young Tom. 

T:  huh?

Me:  never mind. 

The truth is that cereal is a perfectly reasonable request.  Its amazing we both had to get so worked up. 

T:  (teary) Mom, I just don't want cheese eggs.

Me:  (not wanting to go backwards) Yes, I think I understand that.

T:  I don't want cheese eggs.  Not off the table either.

Me:  Got it.  No cheese eggs.  Not on the table, not off the table. (I feel like I'm in the Dr. Suess book "Green Eggs and Ham")

Then, as if nothing has happened...  He goes back to "guys" and returns to battle.

See what I mean?  Mental patient.  

Exhibit B:

We had a sitter over who is great, but I was trying to figure out If Tommy had broken something the other day or if my sitter had.  

Me:  Tommy, what happened here?

T:  It broke

Me:  Yes, I see that.  What happened?

T:  I didn't do it.

Me:  Okay (I say breathing)  What happened?

T:  It broke. I think Carrie's mom did it.

Me:  Was Carrie's mom here? 

T:  No.

Mental Patient.  

These conversations are peppered with ones that make total sense, and I'm momentarily led to believe he's capable of adult reasoning.  

Then, I'm shot back to reality when I see him walk by my bedroom door naked and talking to his penis.

Waiting Room Angst

Now that I have two kids, theres really no excuse for a rookie move like going to the pediatrician for a regular check-up on a Saturday when you have other options during the week. That is a day designated for sick children and all the families who are unable to come on a weekday.  And there are a lot of them.  From both categories.  And they are all in the waiting room. Playing and hacking all over the toys so generously displayed.  I have the fortune of having a flexible job where I don't have to subject myself to the Saturday Horror Picture Show, and yet, I put this in my calendar willingly. 


Now I know lots of people say this, but I'm really not a germaphobe in the least.  My 8-month old crawls on a floor that is trafficked by a dog who gives a whole new meaning to shedding, a three-year old, and two adults.  The other day I found her crawling to me with what looked like a mustache, but was actually a tumbleweed of dog hair from under the fridge in her mouth. (she's a quick little thing, don't judge me)  Gross as this is, none of it had me investing in a Roomba and putting my daughter in a human hamster ball, but after my weekend jaunt to the pediatrician, I was really hoping to create a whole body antibacterial dip for my son. 



Not only is it busy in general with your average petri dish of a pre-schooler, it's also smattered with people who simply wouldn't be there if it wasn't for their poor luck of a sickness hitting on the weekend.  Therefore, when my son eagerly jumped into the pile of toys that I'm sure no one is rushing out to sanitize between strep, diarrhea, and stomach flu cases, I felt as though I was playing a very high stakes game of Russian roulette with his health. 


You know those Mucinex commercials with the little green cartoon guys representing phlegm balls? I'm pretty sure they were running a casting call for them from this waiting room.  


We survived, but since then, every time we go to the doctor, Tommy asks to play in the playroom, and I flinch at the flashbacks of that Saturday as I pass him the iPad to play Angry Birds.  The lesser of two evils, as I see it.


Bottom line, if you don't have to, avoid it like the plague. Literally.

I'm baa-ack!

So, you may or may not have noticed that my last post involved a very pregnant me waddling my way through getting on a train with 3-year-old, stroller and coffee in tow. That was 7 1/2 months ago, I think. Time seems to have a very shapeless form at the moment.

The good news, I did have the baby - it would be a sad state of affairs if she was still gestating, however, I'm convinced that given the option, she might still be in there. 16 days late - yeah, you heard me. ...and she still had to be kicked out via induction (but that story is for another time).

She was worth the wait.

The bad news is that seems to be the last time I had time to myself. I definitely should have enjoyed the hospital stay a little more. We slept, we ordered food, they brought it to us, and, we watched TV. What more could a girl ask for?!?

Needless to say, there hasn't been a lot of time to blog about anything, especially about jump starting my creative juices. The only juices I've jump started lately have resulted in leak stains through my shirt at very inopportune moments.  Being sleep deprived has me walking through my days like a zombie with a caffeine drip being the only thing to power me forward.

When I started this blog, I really hadn't planned on this being a "mom" blog, because, quite frankly, there are so many good ones out there, like this one and this one.  However, I'm truly in the thick of it.  "It" being motherhood.  Most of my life experiences lately seem to involve lack of sleep, spit up, or tantrums.  Sad as that may be, I must write about what I know in order to have a prayer of getting to the stuff in my head that I actually want to write about.  So, from here, I let the blog be what it will and see where it leads me.  Kinda fun, right?

Coping mechanism down!

I know, it's been a while since you've heard from me, but let me share a recent train ride that made me feel the angst of being a mom...  

Since I've been pregnant, especially in the last few weeks, I admit, my coping mechanism has been less than stellar. I feel more like my mother on days like these. Being like my mom isn't a bad thing, by the way, it's just that she isn't very zen when things go awry (I think/hope she'd agree) nor am I. I long for the calm and in control look that I see in some moms that have two kids, eight bags and a coffee in their hands. They seem to cope with such steel resilience. I, apparently, do not have that. At least not at the moment.  

Evidence is in Exhibit A:

Here was the plan: Tommy would come downtown with me on the train while my husband went to an interview that would overlap an hour into my workday and then he could come pick Tommy up and all would be good.  Simple enough, right?  Easy peasy. 

Well, yes, that is until I remembered all the crap that comes along with making an almost 3 year old happy at the office.  The trick was that in order for it to be there, I had to get it on the train.  This would be easy if I was traveling with a boy who actually is as "big boy" as he claims.  What I found out was that his motivation to be a big boy hasn't grown so big that it helps him conquer his fears.  He's only a big boy until he has to do something hard.  Then he's “just little” and has no shame in being carried.  So, along with two bags, a stroller, his Thomas the train backpack, which he promised he'd carry by the way, we waited for the train to approach hand in hand.

Our first attempt at the 8:51 was an epic fail.  To really provide full disclosure, I was also attempting to carry a full coffee amongst my many bags and stroller which, in hindsight, was a bad idea. So, at 38 weeks pregnant, I got three bags, a stroller and coffee on my person like an alpaca headed out for a climb of Mount Everest when suddenly my son is "little" and needs to be carried onto the train as well.  In my best “Im in charge” mom voice, I say no and hold his hand to walk up the stairs like a big boy.  But I'd forgotten about the secret weapon that my son has at his disposal.  The death scream. 

The scream being used to get his cousin
away from his cake on his birthday.
No, I didn't teach him that maneuver...

The death scream has a radius of about 1/2 a mile and can take down your average person in seconds.  He pulled it out just as we started to get on the train causing even the person cozily wrapped in a car far up front look up and cringe. As well, this was a rush hour train and it was filled to the brim with people who were embracing the quiet of the train because they had happily left their children at home.  It was then that I, cowardly, decided to abort the mission until the next, less crowded train came 30 minutes later.  The relief on people's faces as the train eased away was audible.  I, on the other hand, in response to my son's meltdown, decided to have my own on the phone to my unsuspecting husband. 

So, I turned around,head hung, with my son crying and yelling next to me, "you hurt me mama! You hurt me!" loud enough to summon DCFS.  Yes, I had probably squeezed his hand too hard when I saw that getting on the train wasn't going to happen, and perhaps less than gently, guided him down to the bench that would harbor us for the next half hour. Judge me if you will.  Don't worry, I'll willingly pay for it in therapy appointments down the road.  In a true life ending fashion, I told my husband that we couldn't come downtown and this was a disaster of epic proportions.  There was a silence on the phone of a man trying to find the right words, who truly realized that this had been a mistake to let his swollen bellied wife attempt, but she had insisted... unfortunately, there was no going back.  He was already half way downtown for an interview for a very much needed job for our family.  Now, he had to figure out how to make it better and cheerlead me through getting on the next train.

"I'm sorry about this babe.  We really shouldn't have planned it this way.  I'm sorry.  Next train, ask the conductor for help and if he doesn't help, get his name and I'll beat him up, I'll have words with Metra.  Seriously, promise me."

I hung up vowing to to do that and sat in silence, tears flowing down my face, my kid leaning against me with tears drying on his face, and drinking a coffee in 95 degree heat, sweating like Blagojevich on sentencing day. Defeated. 

The beauty of me, if I do say so myself is that I can get really down on a situation in one moment and then really buck up in the next.  I got five minutes of quiet from my son, finished my cup of coffee, and by the time the next train was approaching, I was determined to make this happen.  I loaded my stroller and my computer case on one arm, the Thomas backpack (did I mention that he said he'd carry it) and the diaper bag on another and, this time, when my son balked at getting on the train, I heaved him up on top of my large belly and got on the train.  It was much emptier than the previous one so we found a spot and hunkered down for the half hour ahead of us.  I sent a text: "Made it on the train. Sorry for the panic. Good luck!" hoping this would make my earlier scene a little better. 

I had conquered this episode of mommy-hood and felt pretty accomplished. I was one more step towards seasoned motherhood  So, when we got to the station, I put Tommy in the stroller for our 95 degree walk to my office, and I was actually able to have a giggle about the fact that my pregnant thighs were rubbing together to a most uncomfortable beat.  

Murder at 3514

One of my son's favorite stories is titled, "A Fly Went By".  It's cute and involves a various amounts of animals as well.  But, I have recently decided that flies are not funny, cute, or in any way, shape or form something a children's story or nursery rhyme should be written about.  Flies have been more accurately depicted in the movie "The Fly" with Jeff Goldblum.  Now that's the reality of a fly.  They're gross.

To be honest, I feel the same way about rats.  I'm a huge Disney fan and will go see almost anything they put to film, but when I went to see "Ratatouille", I left the theater disappointed and realizing the truth --- Rats, especially in the hundreds, don't warm my heart, even when Disney has gotten a hold of them and makes them as human as possible.  Once you've seen a rat run across an alley, scurry out of the way in a restaurant, or leave rat droppings behind in your apartment hallway, their humor ceases. 
I say this for ants as well. Though clever, the movie "Antz" left me itching.  Ants moving as a group, animated or otherwise, are just creepy.  By the way, mice get a pass... don't know why, but those guys in "An American Tale" & "Stuart Little are just down right charming.  I think Mickey Mouse really paved the way for the mouse.  

Okay, sorry, I digress.  The fly.  Not funny.  Not cute.  My feelings about this recently increased 10-fold.

You see, the days following a recent party at my house, we have been overrun with flies in the windows.  The buzzing alone is enough to make a woman lose her mind, but when I opened the blinds to find 15... that's right... FIFTEEN flies attached to my window, I actually lost time.  I became a crazy murderer armed with a section of the newspaper.  I had an out of body experience as I watched myself maniacally slam the window over and over screaming, "Die, you bastards!  Die!"

I'm a peaceful person.  Really, I am.  I like my husband to send spiders, moths and other things not welcome in my home, out the door to let their life unfold as it should naturally.  We have a rabbit problem where they are eating our grass and garden like we were holding a dinner party for them, and still, I won't let my husband use anything toxic to deter them.

So, you can imagine my distress when, once out of my hysteria and back safely in my own consciousness, I saw the remnants of my massacre lying on the floor below the dining room windows.

There were bodies everywhere.

I know how many there were because I counted as I picked them up with a paper towel, and I'm almost sure I heard little tiny bagpipes playing "Amazing Grace" in the background.
I half expected Horatio from CSI Miami to come in with his high tech equipment eying me as a primary suspect above his sunglasses.

I cleaned them up worrying that Karma would come to haunt me sooner than I would like.

Twenty minutes passed, and I had begun to recover from my temporary insanity, which I had decided to plea if Horatio actually did appear.  Then, suddenly out of the corner of my eye, I heard a buzzing against the window.

They were back.  There were four of them!  I put my husband on execution duty after that.  They continued to reappear for the next three days as if out of nowhere.  I was worried that Karma really was a bitch, so I Googled "Reappearing Flies".  The answer I got was something to the extent of something dead in the wall that had grown maggots which turned into flies --- followed by "the good news" of once they had eaten the dead thing completely, the flies would disappear with nothing to feed on.

Wow.  I feel so much better.