We have reached a point in our parenting career where a trip out of town was necessary. Husby's dear grandmother passed away in January, and we were to go to her memorial service in Indiana. St. Nana was called upon to let out our wayward (worthless) mutt, but we were unable to convince ourselves that letting the children out of the house twice a day to poop in the yard would constitute "good parenting". So we packed up the kids and headed out of town.
I made a list of all of the things required for three of us to appear presentable for an hour long function. (Husby, being male, requires no list. He has a bag with deodorant and a toothbrush in it and is good for about a week.) As the bags were filled and items crossed off the list, I began to feel like I was organizing a small army of invaders.
"Look out!" they would cry as the family marched across the state line. "The crazy family with all the wild floral prints is coming to bring an attempt at mid-century fashion to Indiana! Run for your lives!"
In my defense, I didn't realize that all three of us would be kitted out in big floral prints until we were all standing next to each other. I also didn't realize that my floral print raincoat, when paired with my crazy geometric diaper bag, would create such a grinding headache in anyone unfortunate enough to see me. And all that on top of my bright green dress? Oof. Sorry, everyone.
Our trip went very smoothly, meaning that I didn't use a quarter of the clothing I'd brought for the kids. I used only a small fraction of the formula that I'd packed for the baby, though I did deplete our supply of ibuprofen in an attempt to thwart my spring sinus headaches. My over preparation for every possible circumstance did come in handy a few times, so I can at least rest in the knowledge that my new obsession with plastic grocery bags as diaper containers is justified.
But even with my preparation, my amazing children and my ability to sing any number of Barney songs at the request of a tired three year old, 10 hours in the car is a long time. By the end of our journey, I felt a bit grimy and stiff. To combat this feeling, I plopped Fat Baby in a warm bath and used one of the bath toys to pour warm water on her chubby little self.
Husby was scampering about in an attempt to put away all of the supplies I had gathered for our trip. I called out to him from the bathroom to let him know that I wasn't just playing patty-cake with the baby. "I think I'm projecting," I told him.
"Why?"
"I'm pouring all this warm water on the baby, and I don't think she really likes it that much. I, on the other hand, would love a nice warm bath and someone to pour water on my head." I looked at Fat Baby, who actually did have a bit of a smile on her face. Hmm, maybe she did like it?
This gave me an idea. After I finished spoiling the baby, I called Darling Daughter over to the bathroom. "I have a treat for you! A surprise treat!"
"What is it, Momma?" she croaked in her raspy, croupy voice.
"A warm washcloth to wash your hands and face!" I was so proud of my idea.
Darling's face transformed in a heartbeat to one of tearful disbelief. Her bottom lip stuck out, her cheeks got all red, and she sucked in a huge lungful of air to launch a protest. "I want my surprise!"
"This is your surprise, baby! Doesn't that feel better, being clean?" My explanation didn't help at all. Husby was chuckling from the safety of the other room.
"No! NO! I want my surprise! I! Want! My! Surprise!" After voicing her articulate arguments, Darling abandoned reason and wailed wordlessly while I stood there with my damp washcloth.
"You know, that was a pretty crappy surprise," said Husby. "Good luck with that one."
I cast about for a replacement surprise while my tired and grubby daughter expressed her dissatisfaction with my parenting skills with increasing volume. Juice? We'd just brushed her teeth. A Popsicle? Way too late at night, and too messy. Nothing seemed to be a good fit.
Inspiration struck again, though I was a bit insecure about my version of "treats". I raced over to the pantry and poured an assortment of children's vitamins into my palm. I offered to let Darling pick out which one she wanted to eat. She settled on the purple Dino and grumbled quietly to herself as she wandered out of the kitchen. Whew. Saved by the dino.
The razzing continued long after Darling had gone to sleep. My husband wanted to know just what the hell I was thinking, offering a three year old a nice warm washcloth. "Here, dirty child, get clean! Won't that be nice?"
"You know, in first class they give you a warm washcloth to freshen up with after a long flight. It's lovely."
"Unless you are three, in which case you would be horribly disappointed that all you were getting was a modified bath!"
Fine. Whatever. But don't come crying to me when all you get with the next trip is a bag of peanuts!
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Tights on a Toddler
Putting outfits together has never been my strong suit. I have retreated to a safe position of neutral clothes (jeans + t-shirt = happy) and big funky jewelry. Some people have said things like "I wish I could wear a necklace like that, but I don't think I could pull it off." The secret answer is that my big necklaces keep you from noticing that I'm wearing last year's jeans. I go in for a bit of a "hippy/business casual/bohemian/this-was-the-only-clean-sweater-I-could-find" look.
So, styling Darling Daughter for a weekly appearance at church has historically been a bit of a trial for me. Do we go casual to show my disregard for the patriarchal insistence that women must be attractively kitted out from the moment of our birth? Do I let Darling wear her sweatpants to church to illustrate what a forward thinking Mom I am to let her make her own choices? (Sometimes, yes. And mothers everywhere share a slight shrug and an eye roll with me when they see us out in public in our party shoes, paisley pants and a football jersey that is a few sizes too small.) Or do I try, against all my good judgement backed up by three years of experience, to put together an outfit that matches, fits and is event appropriate?
Ambitious Mom took over this weekend, and I put Darling in a planned outfit of a skirt, tights and tunic. She wasn't very keen on the whole idea until I told her she could chose between her cow-boots and her party shoes. Fancy shoes? No, not the fancy shoes, the party shoes. Alright, then, she would do it, but she really did think the fancy shoes would go better than the party shoes.
Everything was going really well, believe it or not. There was even a girl at church that had the same shoes as Darling, though I don't think she was wearing them in a casually ironic way, which is the message I was attempting to send. The tights were a surprisingly big hit, and Darling mentioned to more than one person that she was, in fact, wearing tights that day.
We were enjoying a relativly snarl free Sunday afternoon at my parents house when it became clear to us that someone needed a new diaper. After elucidating the finer points of the being free of diapers and launching into a description of the brave new world of potty training, I changed her diaper and put her outfit back together. I was also telling a not-very-funny anecdote to Husby, St. Nana and Papa while hitching Darling's tights back up under her skirt.
I noticed that all three of my audience members were wearing a similar, odd smirk. I silently reviewed my anecdote in my head to figure out what they thought was so amusing. Finally, Hubsy snickered and asked if I was forgetting something.
Huh?
St. Nana and Papa were clearly holding in serious laughter. I looked around divine the cause of this amusement and came up empty handed.
"Did you forget to do something?" Husby wondered, unhelpfully. St. Nana and Papa were giggling. Nice supportive family I have, don't you know...
"The diaper. You forgot to put a diaper on her."
I looked at Darling, who looked back at me with as much confusion as I felt. Neither of us had noticed that I had completely forgotten to put a new diaper on her after clearing off the first one. I had simply carried on with the business of putting her matching outfit back together without bothering to supply an important, foundational layer.
Oops. I had to redo the whole process with my unsupportive family cackling in the background. At that point, I reminded them that Fat Baby is only eight weeks old and that they still have to be nice to me. It didn't work, though Papa did promise to keep the house stocked with Heineken Light so he, at least, is back in my good graces.
So, styling Darling Daughter for a weekly appearance at church has historically been a bit of a trial for me. Do we go casual to show my disregard for the patriarchal insistence that women must be attractively kitted out from the moment of our birth? Do I let Darling wear her sweatpants to church to illustrate what a forward thinking Mom I am to let her make her own choices? (Sometimes, yes. And mothers everywhere share a slight shrug and an eye roll with me when they see us out in public in our party shoes, paisley pants and a football jersey that is a few sizes too small.) Or do I try, against all my good judgement backed up by three years of experience, to put together an outfit that matches, fits and is event appropriate?
Ambitious Mom took over this weekend, and I put Darling in a planned outfit of a skirt, tights and tunic. She wasn't very keen on the whole idea until I told her she could chose between her cow-boots and her party shoes. Fancy shoes? No, not the fancy shoes, the party shoes. Alright, then, she would do it, but she really did think the fancy shoes would go better than the party shoes.
Everything was going really well, believe it or not. There was even a girl at church that had the same shoes as Darling, though I don't think she was wearing them in a casually ironic way, which is the message I was attempting to send. The tights were a surprisingly big hit, and Darling mentioned to more than one person that she was, in fact, wearing tights that day.
We were enjoying a relativly snarl free Sunday afternoon at my parents house when it became clear to us that someone needed a new diaper. After elucidating the finer points of the being free of diapers and launching into a description of the brave new world of potty training, I changed her diaper and put her outfit back together. I was also telling a not-very-funny anecdote to Husby, St. Nana and Papa while hitching Darling's tights back up under her skirt.
I noticed that all three of my audience members were wearing a similar, odd smirk. I silently reviewed my anecdote in my head to figure out what they thought was so amusing. Finally, Hubsy snickered and asked if I was forgetting something.
Huh?
St. Nana and Papa were clearly holding in serious laughter. I looked around divine the cause of this amusement and came up empty handed.
"Did you forget to do something?" Husby wondered, unhelpfully. St. Nana and Papa were giggling. Nice supportive family I have, don't you know...
"The diaper. You forgot to put a diaper on her."
I looked at Darling, who looked back at me with as much confusion as I felt. Neither of us had noticed that I had completely forgotten to put a new diaper on her after clearing off the first one. I had simply carried on with the business of putting her matching outfit back together without bothering to supply an important, foundational layer.
Oops. I had to redo the whole process with my unsupportive family cackling in the background. At that point, I reminded them that Fat Baby is only eight weeks old and that they still have to be nice to me. It didn't work, though Papa did promise to keep the house stocked with Heineken Light so he, at least, is back in my good graces.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Further Evidence that I need to Watch My Mouth
The bad news:
- "Mom, these pants are pissing me off."
- "Daddy, my friends are old. They are older than dirt."
- "Mom, I need a new blankie, this one smells really bad and it stinks too. Like you."
The good news:
- "Mom, you're a genius!"
- "The baby looks so cute in her raincoat! She's just darling!"
- "Mom, you're my best friend."
- "Mom, these pants are pissing me off."
- "Daddy, my friends are old. They are older than dirt."
- "Mom, I need a new blankie, this one smells really bad and it stinks too. Like you."
The good news:
- "Mom, you're a genius!"
- "The baby looks so cute in her raincoat! She's just darling!"
- "Mom, you're my best friend."
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Oh. My. Lord.
Our morning was progressing along in typical fashion - Darling was prancing about the family room dressed in nothing but a diaper. I was puttering around in the first layer of yesterday's outfit (a white tank with armpit stains and makeup on the front) and a face mask dabbed strategically on my latest spots. The house, as usual, looked a bit like the command center for a baby led mutiny - bottles overturned on the counter, step stools laying lifelessly on their sides or propped up against the pantry door. There were rings of dried formula on the counter, a toaster sprouting crumbs and empty cereal boxes next to last night's dirty bowls of late night ice cream. Toys had been rousted from their sleepy spots in the toy box or under the tv and scattered mercilessly around the room. I had wandered into the baby's room to check my email when a horrible sound pulled me away from my pleasant daydreams about squishy babies and long drives through the Colorado mountains.
The doorbell.
Oh. Crap. I looked around the room in horror. I gathered up my courage with both hands and went to the door to face the judgement of the visitor. I was so hoping it would be AT&T with another plea for me to sign up for their latest internet package, or a meter reader, or the good people from the Veterns for Clean Water group. No such luck. It was my next door neighbor, coming to see the baby.
Darling was delighted and showed off her sweet moves for the neighbor until I hissed at her to go find pants and a shirt to put on. I dashed over to the basket full of clean (praise be) laundry and pulled the first shirt I could find over my head. I glanced into my room to see if things were better organized than I remembered, which they weren't. The bathroom mirror had hand prints all over it, and Fat Baby's poopy outfit in the sink where I'd left it after rinsing off the worst bits.
I hung my head in shame and offered repeated apologies for the state of the house. I'd often thought about having her come over to see how I'd decorated it, because I knew she had seen it when the previous owners were living here in their Brady Bunch splendor. I almost asked if she wanted a tour, because I wanted to show off the murals I've painted in a few rooms. I thought twice, remembering that Fat Baby's room had dirty diapers on the changing table, laundry baskets in the crib, and my dirty outfit from a few days before wadded up in the corner.
Thankfully, my neighbor was gracious and said many times that this is what a house looks like when there are young children in residence. That helped a little. I also knew that I would look back on this and laugh...
But one can't help but feel a little chagrined at getting caught at their least attractive in the middle of the day. And my house, where I spend 27 hours each day, wasn't quite the shining jewel that I like it to be when people wander in.
Oh bother. At least she didn't want to go to the basement, where every item of clothing I own is scattered on the floor in an attempt to find anything that fits. And at least Darling didn't wander out of Fat Baby's room waving my bra, saying "Don't forget your bra, Momma..." because she'd already done that earlier in the morning.
Small miracles.
The doorbell.
Oh. Crap. I looked around the room in horror. I gathered up my courage with both hands and went to the door to face the judgement of the visitor. I was so hoping it would be AT&T with another plea for me to sign up for their latest internet package, or a meter reader, or the good people from the Veterns for Clean Water group. No such luck. It was my next door neighbor, coming to see the baby.
Darling was delighted and showed off her sweet moves for the neighbor until I hissed at her to go find pants and a shirt to put on. I dashed over to the basket full of clean (praise be) laundry and pulled the first shirt I could find over my head. I glanced into my room to see if things were better organized than I remembered, which they weren't. The bathroom mirror had hand prints all over it, and Fat Baby's poopy outfit in the sink where I'd left it after rinsing off the worst bits.
I hung my head in shame and offered repeated apologies for the state of the house. I'd often thought about having her come over to see how I'd decorated it, because I knew she had seen it when the previous owners were living here in their Brady Bunch splendor. I almost asked if she wanted a tour, because I wanted to show off the murals I've painted in a few rooms. I thought twice, remembering that Fat Baby's room had dirty diapers on the changing table, laundry baskets in the crib, and my dirty outfit from a few days before wadded up in the corner.
Thankfully, my neighbor was gracious and said many times that this is what a house looks like when there are young children in residence. That helped a little. I also knew that I would look back on this and laugh...
But one can't help but feel a little chagrined at getting caught at their least attractive in the middle of the day. And my house, where I spend 27 hours each day, wasn't quite the shining jewel that I like it to be when people wander in.
Oh bother. At least she didn't want to go to the basement, where every item of clothing I own is scattered on the floor in an attempt to find anything that fits. And at least Darling didn't wander out of Fat Baby's room waving my bra, saying "Don't forget your bra, Momma..." because she'd already done that earlier in the morning.
Small miracles.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Speak of the devil...
Ok, dear readers, show of hands...how many of you saw this one coming?
Yesterday, I was a totally blissed out stay-at-home-mom. Today, I am defeated, demoralized and dumpy. I am wearing yesterdays pajamas because I can't fit into my Mom-Jeans. I smell. I have a headache, a backache, a neck ache. I have stringy hair and acne. My toes haven't seen nail polish in over a year. Husby just cheerfully said that I look "cute" in his baggy sweatpants. I'm pretty sure he is making fun of me.
So, if anyone was planning on using yesterday's post as a blueprint for how to organize their own lives, I highly suggest thinking twice. Sure, Fat Baby is still adorable, despite having pooped so vigorously this evening that it came out of her diaper and extended past her elbow. (Honestly, how does one poop up to their elbow? I suppose I should have seen it coming because I'm the one that has been feeding her for eight consecutive hours with only one or two breaks. All that food had to come out somewhere, I guess.)
Sure, Darling is still precocious and sweet. Sure, Husby is still a great guy. Sure, I still know that this all goes by really fast and I need to cherish each moment.
But honestly, at this moment in time, I am daydreaming about a time when I can wake up, just once, to something other than the sound of someone screeching to be fed.
Yesterday, I was a totally blissed out stay-at-home-mom. Today, I am defeated, demoralized and dumpy. I am wearing yesterdays pajamas because I can't fit into my Mom-Jeans. I smell. I have a headache, a backache, a neck ache. I have stringy hair and acne. My toes haven't seen nail polish in over a year. Husby just cheerfully said that I look "cute" in his baggy sweatpants. I'm pretty sure he is making fun of me.
So, if anyone was planning on using yesterday's post as a blueprint for how to organize their own lives, I highly suggest thinking twice. Sure, Fat Baby is still adorable, despite having pooped so vigorously this evening that it came out of her diaper and extended past her elbow. (Honestly, how does one poop up to their elbow? I suppose I should have seen it coming because I'm the one that has been feeding her for eight consecutive hours with only one or two breaks. All that food had to come out somewhere, I guess.)
Sure, Darling is still precocious and sweet. Sure, Husby is still a great guy. Sure, I still know that this all goes by really fast and I need to cherish each moment.
But honestly, at this moment in time, I am daydreaming about a time when I can wake up, just once, to something other than the sound of someone screeching to be fed.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
They are a changin...
A few things have changed around our house in the last seven weeks or so. The arrival of our second daughter, whom we lovingly call "Fat Baby", has tipped the scales in favor of female dominance in the house. We always knew we would love her as soon as she made an appearance, but some of the changes that she has wrought in the house are completely unexpected.
- I cook now. A lot. Some of it is good, some not so much, but I have dinner on the table almost every night. I also make a big breakfast on Saturday, and have learned how to make cookies. From scratch. This goes against some of the major tenents by which I have lived my life, so I'm trying not to crush this burgeoning enjoyment of serving edible food to my family.
- Personal hygiene has taken a big hit. I am attempting to adhere to a strict "every-other-day" shower schedule to keep the flies at bay. I'm not always successful in getting a shower, and have been known to wear the same outfit for a few days straight. I used to scoff at the moms on makeover shows that claimed they only had time for a five minute beauty routine, but now I realize that having five minutes to scratch on some eyeliner is a rare blessing. I'm grateful if I get to shampoo my hair, much less find the time to research a haircut that will accentuate my best features. Next stop...Mom Jeans.
- I am a one handed wizard. I can do anything with one hand, because Fat Baby requires a lot of cuddling, carrying and feeding. So I cradle her with one arm, prop the bottle up against my chin, and carry on with my day. St. Nana and Husby have both expressed incredulous admiration at my ability to do so many different things with one hand, and I have a new appreciation for people with disabilities. I'm not sure if I can put this on my resume, but I think it will add to the list of things I can do at parties to impress people that have had a few glasses of wine.
- A wise friend of mine told me early on in the pregnancy that having Darling Daughter around was going to make all the difference in my stay-home experience. I thought she was a lunatic. But Darling Daughter is like a mini-adult, so I have someone to talk to and laugh with all day long. Darling also keeps my attitude in check. I am not allowed to wallow in any kind of self pity or depression for very long because she picks up on my mood and echoes it back to me in tantrums and tears.
But the biggest difference Fat Baby has made in my life goes beyond all of these things. For the first time in more years than I care to remember, I am seriously happy. I have this deep, inexplicable contentment that I never expected to experience in my lifetime. There are weeks when I don't leave the house for four or five days straight, and I don't really mind that much. I am actually enjoying being a stay-at-home-mom.
Make no mistake, I am still easily exasperated by Darling's tantrums and insistence on drinking specific beverages out of certain cups. Husby still drives me crazy by putting the dishes next to the dishwasher instead of in it. Fat Baby claims, at the top of her little baby lungs, that she is starving every two hours or so. Nursing didn't quite go as planned. I am still vaguely aware that I need to totally revamp our diet, start an exercise program, and find ways to structure our time so that we remain civilized and socialized. These things cause me no shortage of stress and anxiety, and I'm not too good to use Heineken Light to take the edge off.
But all of that nonsense falls within the average range of experience. I was expecting the apocalypse, and instead found a peace and comfort that I didn't know was possible. Depression is a black dog that lives under my bed - sometimes sleeping, sometimes snarling viciously and disrupting my life. I fully expected the arrival of another baby to wake the beast and unleash another torrent of suffering. Instead, the opposite has happened.
And this, dear readers, is as close to optimistic as I have ever been.
- I cook now. A lot. Some of it is good, some not so much, but I have dinner on the table almost every night. I also make a big breakfast on Saturday, and have learned how to make cookies. From scratch. This goes against some of the major tenents by which I have lived my life, so I'm trying not to crush this burgeoning enjoyment of serving edible food to my family.
- Personal hygiene has taken a big hit. I am attempting to adhere to a strict "every-other-day" shower schedule to keep the flies at bay. I'm not always successful in getting a shower, and have been known to wear the same outfit for a few days straight. I used to scoff at the moms on makeover shows that claimed they only had time for a five minute beauty routine, but now I realize that having five minutes to scratch on some eyeliner is a rare blessing. I'm grateful if I get to shampoo my hair, much less find the time to research a haircut that will accentuate my best features. Next stop...Mom Jeans.
- I am a one handed wizard. I can do anything with one hand, because Fat Baby requires a lot of cuddling, carrying and feeding. So I cradle her with one arm, prop the bottle up against my chin, and carry on with my day. St. Nana and Husby have both expressed incredulous admiration at my ability to do so many different things with one hand, and I have a new appreciation for people with disabilities. I'm not sure if I can put this on my resume, but I think it will add to the list of things I can do at parties to impress people that have had a few glasses of wine.
- A wise friend of mine told me early on in the pregnancy that having Darling Daughter around was going to make all the difference in my stay-home experience. I thought she was a lunatic. But Darling Daughter is like a mini-adult, so I have someone to talk to and laugh with all day long. Darling also keeps my attitude in check. I am not allowed to wallow in any kind of self pity or depression for very long because she picks up on my mood and echoes it back to me in tantrums and tears.
But the biggest difference Fat Baby has made in my life goes beyond all of these things. For the first time in more years than I care to remember, I am seriously happy. I have this deep, inexplicable contentment that I never expected to experience in my lifetime. There are weeks when I don't leave the house for four or five days straight, and I don't really mind that much. I am actually enjoying being a stay-at-home-mom.
Make no mistake, I am still easily exasperated by Darling's tantrums and insistence on drinking specific beverages out of certain cups. Husby still drives me crazy by putting the dishes next to the dishwasher instead of in it. Fat Baby claims, at the top of her little baby lungs, that she is starving every two hours or so. Nursing didn't quite go as planned. I am still vaguely aware that I need to totally revamp our diet, start an exercise program, and find ways to structure our time so that we remain civilized and socialized. These things cause me no shortage of stress and anxiety, and I'm not too good to use Heineken Light to take the edge off.
But all of that nonsense falls within the average range of experience. I was expecting the apocalypse, and instead found a peace and comfort that I didn't know was possible. Depression is a black dog that lives under my bed - sometimes sleeping, sometimes snarling viciously and disrupting my life. I fully expected the arrival of another baby to wake the beast and unleash another torrent of suffering. Instead, the opposite has happened.
And this, dear readers, is as close to optimistic as I have ever been.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)