Strange Things are Afoot

In addition to the general oddities that come with this whole person-cooking process, some really strange behaviors are starting to break through my previous rational and logical schedule.

When my skin feels itchy and dry, I water the plants. Because if I'm dry, the plants must be too? (Last pregnancy, I repotted all my plants because they looked 'confined' in their pots.) I am unbearably warm all the time, so my darling child is prancing about in a tee shirt and shorts. My poor fish have been issued a warning - it is their responsibility to stay alive with minimal assistance from me. Apparently my mothering instinct doesn't apply to fish....

But the weirdest thing that is happening this week is the continuous presence of earworms. EW! No, not actual worms. Earworms are songs that get stuck in your head and repeat until your subconscious is somehow distracted by something more important. (Oh, look! Something shiny!)

I've been listening to the same CD for four months, because the CD player in the basement is frightfully old and will only play Chris Isaak and Pink Floyd. Until this week, none of the Chris Isaak songs have stuck with me past breakfast. Now I run through the entire CD at least once a day. Not just one song over and over, but one song and then the next one, and the next one...

And they don't go away. I am now permanently haunted by songs in my head, whether it be Chris Isaak, Barney or a stupid commercial jingle. (Five dollar foot looooong, anyone?)

Sometimes, this new form of torment produces some funny results. I was singing along with the song in my head, which happened to be the Sarah Palin rap from SNL. (By the way, props to Amy Poehler for going on with the show at the very end of the third trimester!) I happened to be in the same room with Darling Child at the time, and said "All the mavericks in the house, put your hands up!"

Baby Girl put down her crayon, put her hands in the air and said "What what!" and then went back to coloring.

I've never laughed so hard in my life.

Holiday Ideas

Husby and I were discussing possible gift ideas for the Darling Child, who has recently shown an increase in imagination (see previous post). He had observed how much she had enjoyed playing with the Fischer Price playhouse at her Nana/Papa's house, and suggested we look into something along those lines.

"Lets get her a kitchen playset!" he enthused, delighted with his new idea.

"Honey," I reasoned, "who is going to show her how to use it?" He got quiet for a minute, pondering the reality of such a troublesome glitch.

"When is your sister coming into town?" he asked.

"February, probably."

"Oh. Good. One of these girls is going to have to learn how to cook. Seriously - where are we going to go for Thanksgiving in twenty years?"

Oooh, another sticky wicket. We fell silent for a moment, again pondering the bleak future of a Microwave Thanksgiving. Then inspiration struck...

"We'll go to my sister's house! She can totally cook Thanksgiving."

And so our holiday plans for 2028 are set, we are going to Aunt Lissa's house.

My OTHER Daddy

I was at the doctor's office with Darling Daughter (whose gastro-intestinial escapades will not be recorded for posterity). I had already gotten the stink-eye from some of the staff, who thought I qualified for "Crappy Mom of the Year" because I hadn't brought her in at the first sign of trouble. Knowing full well that I would have gotten nominated for "Over protective, get-her-off-the-internet Mom of the Year" if I had brought her in earlier, I mentally flipped them all the bird and carried on my merry way.

Until...

Darling Daughter, dressed in butterfly wings and paisley pants, sat patiently through most of the exam. After tolerating my meaningless conversation with the doctor about her health and well being, she chirped "Momma, I want to go see my other daddy."

Uh....what? I couldn't help myself. I looked at her and asked "Who?" She repeated, several times, that she wanted to see the OTHER daddy today. The doctor had politely averted his eyes at this point, to avoid embarrassing me if my 2.5 year old was really ratting me out for some illicit affair.

Apparently frustrated that I wasn't getting the message, Darling Child escalates her request. "Momma, I want to see my other daddy, you know, the Black Daddy." I swear I heard the doctor laughing at me as he added "adulterer, most likely with multiple partners" to my list of mom-crimes.

I decided that the worst thing I could do was attend to this random request, thereby validating her warped little reality. So I ignored her, and tried to continue my conversation about her diet with the doctor.

The doctor, whom I now suspect is horrified by my affairs with so many different people as to have to identify them according to their race, issued some perscriptions with a bit of a chuckle. As far as I know, the suspicious staff has not yet notified the authorities. I'm hoping I didn't make the list on the doctor's nightly recap to his family..."You'll never believe what this toddler said to her Mom today..."

Husby, to his credit, laughed at the idea that I have multiple Baby Daddies to manage. He merely inquired if the Black Daddy was rich, or could cook...

Funny things Husby Said

"Oh, honey, don't worry. You don't make it look easy at all."
-In response to my assertion that people think I've got it made because from the outside, everything I do looks effortless.

"Oh yeah? What kind of car do you drive?"
-In response to my assertion that I'm not stubborn or defiant and that Darling Child probably got those traits from him.

"Well, you need to take a class in 'Nice'."
-In response to my assertion that he needs to take a class in how-to-set-an-alarm.

"We need to think about maybe painting the baby's room."
-Oblivious to the fact that I've shown him the can of paint I bought to paint the baby's room.

"What are you going to do, get a tattoo and dye your hair?"
-In response to my assertion that being 45 years old will be more liberating than 30.

Cooking A Person

Last night Husby made some crack about how he has to do everything around the house...so I was obligated to remind him of all the things that I have to do.

My tirade, said occasionally in earnest but this time in jest, finally wound to it's inevitable conclusion. "And," I barked, "I already cooked you one person, and then you asked for another person, and I'm cooking that one too!"

The mood changed, and Husby got very serious. He said "You cooked my favorite person. You're really good at cooking people, and I can't wait to meet the new person."

:)

Overruled

Overruled!

I suggested Taco Bell for lunch. I believe I got something akin to an eye roll from my unborn child, but she seemed willing to go along with the plan. I told one of the other therapists that I was going to go get some lunch, and I wasn't going to eat salad one more time this week. As soon as I mentioned the "s" word, it suddenly sounded like the most delicious thing I could possibly eat.

Now, I'm not a total carnivore, I do eat salad on occasion. But this week, I've had three. THREE. And instead of using that guilty "you'll feel better and your pants won't squeeze you so much" logic, I actually wanted to eat each them. Each salad has been a feast, almost like a brownie sundae.

Now, seriously. What kind of baby craves salad? Is this someone I really want to have in the house? Can't you just hear it..."Mom, we're out of fresh vegetables AGAIN. When are you going to the store?" or "Mom, there is too much junk food in this house. Why can't we ever eat the good stuff?"

I've already got one kid that prefers salty foods to sweet, and really doesn't care for chocolate. Am I going to be totally outnumbered by these freakish children?

(I also want pineapple and lemonade. What the hell is going on here?)

The Way I See It

Upon arriving home from work yesterday, I flung open the door to the bedroom to allow for maximum air circulation. It was ghastly hot that day, and we could have used the cross breeze, but we have to keep our door closed to keep our renegade dog off of our bed.

(this is the same dog who allegedly has such bad hips that he can't climb the stairs, but is quite capable of getting on and off my bed at a moments notice. More to follow on that subject, you can be sure.)

In addition to the ghastly heat, there was a distinct odor in the room. I soon discovered the offending source of the odor, and resolved to temporarily suspend my vow to not nag Husby. Just this one time, right?


Husby, whom we all know and love, is an avid sailor. And avid sailors have extra bags for their sailing accoutrement, like spare shorts, socks, shoes, sun screen and Labatt's Light. After a full day of sailing on Sunday, this extra bag smelled EXTRA bad. I've previously admonished him in my gentle, dulcet tones to get that stink bag off my bed before I throw it out. The bag wasn't on my bed this time, but was offensive enough just sitting in the corner.


I lovingly gestured to his corner of the room which is stacked up knee high with assorted piles of clothes and said "Whatever is in that pile that stinks, move it." He sniffed the air and reluctantly agreed that something in that general area didn't smell great.


Now, if it had been my pile of stuff that stunk, and this fact had been brought to my attention, I would have acted promptly and removed the offending odor causing item. Right? (I do have a pile o' crap of my own, you see. I am not a germ-a-phobe or a neat-nik. It is just that my piles of junk are much, much smaller. And considerably less stinky.)

You don't need me to finish the story but I'm going to anyway - of course, the offending bag is still in the corner of the room, happily stinking up the joint. I might as well have let the dog into the room.

On the other hand, an offhand comment from him along the lines of "these rooms look un-finished. Should we finish them?" has resulted in a flurry of activity. In two months, we have new blinds, window treatments in three rooms, paint colors picked and plants perched cheerfully on tables. I have new pictures hung all around and a new light fixture coming in the mail.


My question is this: How is it that one comment from Mr. Male Privilege results in all sorts of productivity, while a simple request from Ms. Amazing Wife gets a nose wrinkle and a nap?

Hard Work

My birthday was this Friday, and one of my oldest and dearest friends treated me to a spa facial. (To clarify: by "oldest friend" I mean that we have been friends for over 20 years, not that she is chronologically old.)

The amazing woman that did the facial asked me about my skin care routine, and I described the years of potions and harsh chemicals and gnarly exfoliating scrubs. Very kindly, she offered a bit of insight. Perhaps I was trying too hard? She had a few suggestions, all gently pointing to the fact that working too hard can actually worsen the problem instead of solving it.

Perhaps this principle can be expanded upon. Things are a bit out-of-kilter these days - a new baby, graduation, huge elevation in social status following meteoric rise to the top of the academic heap. (Alright, I made up that last bit.) Throw in a dash of political uncertainty, a big scoop of stock market crash, and shake until well blended. Congratulations - we now have a tall glass of "What the hell do I do now?"

(those who aren't pregnant can mix in a preferred alcoholic beverage to take the edge off.)

My first instinct is to relieve this discord by problem solving. By working harder, planning more, getting a new calendar or a bankers box or something tidy, the future might become clear. I've even gotten out my feng shui books to see if perhaps we should move our bed to the southwest corner of the room. (Husby loves this crap, he really does. Isn't he lucky to be married to me?)

Perhaps there is another way to approach the situation. Perhaps more of the hard work, the same tools and skills that have gotten me this far, would actually be detrimental in this situation. I'm wondering if there is a different solution, a different strategy, to achieving peace in the face of turmoil. Perhaps struggling harder against turmoil to get to peace is actually counter productive.

If that is the case, how do we achieve "not struggling"? I'm guessing it isn't as easy as switching to a new face wash, but perhaps it is even more important than refined skin tone.

Of course, what the hell do I know about any of it? It is 12:30 and I don't have the sense God gave to a goat, or I would have gone to bed an hour ago.

Pizza Guy

I have a thing about bankers boxes. They are tidy, organized, surprisingly sturdy, and oh so conveniently stackable. Aaah, organization....

Anyway, I was folding up the lids for my newest bankers boxes, and my darling daughter wandered by to see what I was doing. She picked up one of the lids and yelled "Pizza Box! Pizza Guy!". They do look remarkably like pizza boxes, but still...

(She has also embarrassed the crap out of her loving parents by exclaming "Pizza Car!" when a delivery car drives by with one of those angular signs on the roof.)

I made some "pizza" out of wooden blocks, put it on the lid, and she happily pretended to take it to her Daddy who apparently sometimes sits in the corner of the basement and needs pizza and milk.

Just an example for those of you that don't believe me when I say I don't cook.

Heartburn

I have heartburn more often than not, which is supposedly pretty common for a woman growing another person. In fact, I think Baby Blarney is going to be born with dreadlocks, as heartburn is supposed to indicate hair growth. Of course, this comes from the same information sources that claim parenthood will bring this glowing sense of contentment and fulfillment. Riiight.

This weekend I was decidedly uncomfortable and decided that there was a chance that I was having pre-term labor. I brought the list of symptoms up to Husby, who patiently went through each line item.

1. Pressure? Check.
2. Discomfort? Double check.
3. Increased back pain? Well, now that you mention it, yeah...
4. Grouchy? How did you know??
5. Vague sense that something is wrong? Wow, now you're reading my mind!

I've mentioned that Husby is a smart man, and this time he said "Honey, you ALWAYS have a vague sense that something is wrong." Ooooh. Yeah, you're right. I do.

Examples:
-Even though the political polls (and, lets be honest, all of popular media) are hopeful and encouraging that Obama is going to win, I am still queasy at the thought of another McIdiot as president.

-Even though I have no proof that the coffee pot is a renegade that will turn on us and burn down the house if I don't check on it, I'm still suspicious and watchful. Ditto the dishwasher, clothes dryer, any plug in air fresheners, and random arsonists. Don't EVEN get me started on the curling iron, which I rarely use due to my total lack of trust that it will turn off even if unplugged and put into the sink.

-Even though I've only been rear ended once in my life, I still frown and shake my finger at all drivers that come up behind me too fast.

-(this is the funny one) I worried, when completing my paperwork to turn in for my final graduation authorization, that the words were going to fall off the page with the required signatures on it, and that I would have to wait until December to apply for a professional counselor license.

So, my persistent heartburn could be related to my newest child having a mohawk, or it could be due to my subconscious belief that something really bad is about to happen. Either way, I'm hoping I remembered to check on the coffee pot one last time before leaving the house this morning.

Rocky Mountain High

There are a few John Denver songs on my MP3 player, and they sometimes sneak up on me. I only keep a few on hand, not because (as some falsely believe) it is cheesy or irrelevant music, but because it strikes a distinct and occassionally painful chord in me.

I am suddenly struck with an overwhelming sorrow for Colorado. I can smell the trees, the fall air. I can see the blue sky and the bear that jumped on our dumpster until the lid caved in so it could have a snack.

Mancos is a little town, halfway between Durango and Cortez. There is a gas station and not much else, despite a cheerful little sign hopefully boasting "Business District" with an arrow pointing off to the left. Drive straight on 160 past Mancos and go through Cortez, turn right three times and go back through Mancos, Hesperus, D-West, and eventually back to Durango.

The whole loop takes about two hours. Be sure to pack at least one regular coke and a water, a carefully selected assortment of mix tapes, and some cigarettes. The existential angst is the fuel that pushes us over the mountains, and it was packed in the car long before anything else.

There are sheep, cows, the Sleeping Ute in the distance. There is a small ski area, one of the loneliest National Parks in the country, and a place to rent VHS tapes. There is self discovery and experience. There is something there that sets it above most places in the country.

I have no idea what to call it. I just know that I miss it, and want to go back there with a desire that is occasionally so fierce that it hurts. Right now is one of those times, when the opening bars of a John Denver song brings tears to my eyes and I can almost smell the mountains.

Silly Mommy

Do you ever have those moments where you realize what a bad idea it was to talk just after you opened your mouth? Good insight, but bad timing?

This morning, I was writing a note to my Mom on the back of an envelope on the kitchen counter. My darling child, ever present and watchful, saw my pen and said "Momma, I have that? I need that. I NEED that, Momma."

Genius that I am, I said back to her "Then why don't you get your step stool and climb up here and get it?" Her eyes got really big. She said "Thep thool?" Oh, crap. Was it too late? I said "No, never mind." She said "Thep Thool!" and took off at a gallop.

Back into the kitchen she comes with the stool in hand. I watch, shaking my head at my own stupidity, as she hops up and reaches the pen on the counter. I watched as she reached past the sharp knives, the half empty cups of water and a pile of bills. She was able to reach all the way to the back of the counter, isn't that something?

Yeah, it is something. Something that just made my life exponentially more difficult. Not only did I just erase any hope I had of keeping anything of value on my kitchen counter, but do we really think it would stop there? I increased her reach, universally, by twelve inches straight up.

Silly, silly mommy. I'm going to spend the whole weekend moving everything in my house two feet higher, and have no one to blame but myself.

Not that one, this one.

For what seemed to be the thousandth time that hour, my dear child told me "Not that one, mommy, this one!" when I did something in her service. Not that cup, this one. Not that shirt, not those pants, not those shoes, not that fork, cup, spoon, plate, juice, stroller, phone, book, pyjamas, step stool, toothbrush, socks or toy, but THIS ONE. No, no NO, Mommy! No!

I finally handed her the cup and told her that I'm the boss, and she has to do what I say. She said "No, Mommy, I'm the boss." I stared down at her from what I hope to be an intimidating height and said "I'm the boss, and I will be the boss until you are the Mommy and then you'll be the boss." She said "No, Mommy."

So I stepped up my game. I told her that once she was the Mommy, she would learn the cruel irony of what "being the boss" really means. She cocked her head at me in that baby bird way that she has, and I continued to explain the concepts of sacrifice, perseverance and delayed gratification. (It keeps me going to think about her being a cool 25 year old that finally realizes how amazing I really am.)

Who is the boss, really? Did I want to go to Babies R Us today and make a complete fool out of myself while praising her to the sky for picking out a potty seat? Not really. I would much rather be at the Blarney Stone, drinking beer and smoking. And that, as any parent will tell you, is the most basic of examples.

I do things All The Time that I'd really prefer not to. At the swimming pool, I'd love to be one of those perky breasted young women or even one of those paunchy older men that can sit in cheerful isolation with a book and a glass of water. No, I'm waist deep in the water, staring off into space while darling child splashes around and shouts "Look at ME! LOOK at ME, Mommy!" Arg.

Of course I love her, of course I would lie down in traffic, chop off my arm, give every last dime for her. But I didn't do my homework - I didn't realize that it would be like this, a constant exhortation to Use Your Inside Voice, Say Please, and Because I Said So.

I told husby the other day that I couldn't wait until I was fifty and could have my life back. I admitted that I would most likely be old, crusty and grouchy at that point in my life and would not know what I wanted to do with myself. He said fifty wasn't old, and didn't argue about my disposition. (He's not just pretty, folks, he's smart too.)

Needless to say, darling child did not give a crap about my explanation about the finer points of irony. She hollered at me through dinner, told me it was my birthday and I should eat a hot dog and that she was very dirty and needed a bath. Bath time brought more hollers - not this crayon, that one, this one is wet I need a new one, I'm NOT done yet and it ISN'T time to get out!

sigh. I'm sure there is a message in here about looking back on this and laughing. There is always the insidious, grim reminder that I'm going to MISS this when it is gone. Then there is the "wait until she is a teenager, then you'll know what real pain is" message that is so utterly infuriating. I'll get to all that in a minute, right after I clean up the dishes and make the coffee.

Right now I'm just accepting that having a toddler is a pain in the ass.