School Days

First day of school.  I remember the anticipation of a new year; the fresh school supplies, the new shirt, the promise of a new beginning.  I remember my mom waking us up each first day of school singing to us about reading and writing and arithmetic.  It’s hard for me to believe that this is already the third ‘first day of school’ my son has had.  Granted, preschool is a bit different, but still-it’s a big day.  I wonder sometimes how it is that I am somebody’s mom.  Not just one somebody, but two somebody’s.  I wonder-what will they remember about me as they grow older?  Will they look at dated pictures of me when they’re grown and think, wow-Mom looks so young! What was she wearing?  Will they remember the back tickles and the countless renditions of ‘Babymine’ at bedtime?  Is this a moment they will remember?  Just another day at the park; just another trip to the beach?  How will they remember their childhood?   Am I doing enough to make their life feel special? Because it goes by so fast.  Really ,really, really too fast. How can I prove to them each day that they are the most amazing experience; that they are the ones who have given me so much purpose; that they are the silliest, most loving, wonderful people I have ever know?  That is my duty.  My mother fulfilled her duty in so many ways; the memories I have of my childhood are ones filled with the simple pleasures of being a kid.  Long bike rides.  Walks to get ice cream. Lightening bugs.  Night games with the neighborhood kids.  And chores.  We always had our chores. Most importantly,  we always felt safe and loved-and special.  

So forgive me for getting all sappy but as I send my son off to school this day, I cannot help but reflect on days past.  Because tomorrow I’m going to wake up and I’m going to have teenagers who wear weird things and talk in funny codes and wonder where the time went.  But today...today I get to give huckle-buckles and sing lullabies.  Today is a good day.

Crybaby

Having both a boy and a girl, I can't help but notice the differences in gender from birth.  Boys really are born using their finger as a gun while making fart noises with their armpits and girls are, shall we say, full of...emotion.  Lots and lots and lots of FEELINGS going on there.  Not that my son isn’t sensitive; he has been known to throw a tantrum or 400...but my little sweet princess...well, she can make a grown man stoop to levels he never thought possible to make her PLEASE STOP CRYING FOR THE LOVE OF SWEET JESUS!  There are days when my sole purpose is to keep her calm at the expense of everyone else’s happiness and safety.  Don’t make your sister cry!  Please!  What are you doing!  Who cares if she’s throwing a rock at your head...AT LEAST SHE IS LAUGHING!  And it’s not so much that she’s particularly loud and obnoxious, it’s just that she has the ability to cry for a Really. Long. Time.  (Although she is apparently loud enough for my neighbors to corner me at the block party and alert me to the fact that I sure do have a cryer on my hands!  I’m guessing this means they think it’s...cute?)  There are days when my daughter will come find me only to drop to the floor and have an emotional breakdown.  Just because. Something to do, I guess.  I suppose I have to take some of the blame for this Drama Daughter of mine, me being female and some (Husband) might say I can be...a tad emotional and at times a bit...moody.  But what I have learned since becoming a mother is that I was BORN LIKE THIS!  I can’t help it.  Just as Husband wanders around pointing his finger at me like a gun while making actual fart noises, I wander around looking for reasons to cry.  Just because I can.  And although I am truly terrified to experience the teenage years with my little fireball, I can tell already that she is going to make someone a terrific wife one day.  Right, honey?  (RIGHT?)

Squishtastic

The other day, my four year old way resting his head on my stomach and he looked up at me and said, You know why Mama’s have the best tummies?  Because they’re squishy.  He then poked at my stomach to prove it’s squishiness and said, See?  It’s squishy! Oh, gee, thanks, bud.  I wipe your ass and you get to tell me I’m fat?  AS IF I DIDN’T KNOW THIS.  As if I didn’t know that yes, my stomach is still squishy even after losing 35 pounds of baby chub.  As if I didn’t know that yes,  my stomach is still squishy after fitting in the size six’s again.  (Which, as if I didn’t know, is still kinda fat in LA LA land.)  But instead of crying and reaching in the freezer for a handful of emergency chocolate chips, I burst out laughing.  Shall I also point out to him the stretch marks that will apparently NEVER GO AWAY?    Which, for reals.  We can’t find a way to rid our bodies of stretch marks?  This is what I get for creating life?  Unsightly lines on my stomach that laugh at me when I try on bathing suits and a roll of belly fat that mocks my workouts?  But I will not make him suffer this day with a guilt trip of LOOK WHAT YOU AND YOUR SISTER DID TO MY BODY!  I have years and years of guilt trips ahead of me.  (Hi Mom!)  Instead, I will simply laugh and let him poke.  Because you know what?  This scarred, squishy stomach was totally worth it.  (But if you know how to get rid of those stretch marks, don’t hold out on a sister.)

Guilt Trip

One of my soon-to-be-a-Mom friends asked me what Gelato Mama would do if she was stuck at jury duty in Compton while very preggers and Husband was away wine tasting in Santa Ynez.  First of all, Gelato Mama would be THRILLED at a chance to do jury duty!  See, that’s the thing about NEVER HAVING PERSONAL TIME.  Jury duty, gyno appointments, root canals...all these things that seemed so...inconvenient before are sadly now the only time you might sit in peace and thumb through a back issue of People magazine.  So what if you are in fear of your life, have a cold metal tool shoved up your whoo-ha or a drill is about to be inserted in your tooth...you are ALONE.  Enjoy it.  Get a latte on the way home.

As for Husband away drinking wine, well, fuck him.  Get your guilt trip going, make sure he comes home with plenty of baby celebration wine (you can soooo drink and breastfeed...it’s all about the TIMING!), and maybe just kind of ignore him for a while.  My husband LOVES that.  And for at least the next few weeks when he starts to perhaps... annoy you..., all you have to do is say SANTA YNEZ.  COMPTON. This will be a quick reminder of how selfless and superior you are and he should just stop talking and take the garbage out.  All I have to say is LAKER GAME and my husband is taken back to that painful night all those years ago and hangs his head in shame.  (More accurately, he hangs his head over his ipad where he continues to look at Bruin stats, but you get the idea.)  

Lastly, I know it’s difficult to be pregnant, especially so close to the end.  I know how exciting it is to think about finally meeting your baby and being a mom and how you just want it all to be over.  But let’s remember one thing-that baby is never going to be easier to take care of than right now, safe and snug in your belly, while your butt is hurting on a hard, uncomfortable bench.  Buckle up.  A baby changes everything.

Good jeans

I have found that attempting, oh-anything, with a two and four year old in tow is almost pointless. Each time I find myself with an errand to run that doesn’t involve Trader Joe’s or Target (CAN YOU IMAGINE?) I have to pump myself up.  They’ll be FINE.  Just bring snacks.  And handcuffs.  I gave myself this pep talk as we walked into the Gap to look for jeans for the kids.  Oh, a denim sale?  How perfectly timed am I?  This is going to be a piece of cake!  Silly woman.  Do not pat yourself on the back so soon.  Do not forget that the racks and racks of clothing have a power that is greater than threats, greater than bribery, greater than ALL THAT IS.  They will swallow your children and leave you in state of panic and embarrassment as you shout their names and look under and over each rack as khaki covered 18 year olds stare at you in wonder and fear.  And before I could stop it, I had turned into THAT MOM.  Can’t she control those kids?  Why are they running around so much?  Is she sweating?  Did she just call them shitheads?    Hey, guess what?  You know what happens when you don’t LISTEN TO MOMMY IN THE STORE?  Only Mama gets new jeans.  Sorry suckers.  (Although thinking handcuffs might be completely genius idea.)  

Say what?

The thing about being a stay at home mom is that you don’t miss anything.  Nothing.  Ever.  Not one thing.  And if you do happen to miss a certain minor detail of a short person’s life, it will be relayed to you in tiny, confusing details that you must piece together and you are only freed from this guessing game when you put the puzzle together...you...and your sister were...playing dinosaurs...and...someone...got hurt?  She punched you in the face?  You pulled her hair?  She pinched you?  SHE PINCHED YOU!  Got it.  Okay.  Now get the fuck out of my face and go play. Mommy’s Facebooking.