Party Hardy...

It’s no secret that once you become a parent, the social life you enjoyed Pre-Offspring is Long Gone.  It’s not that you never go out, it’s just that you have moderation in mind when doing so.  Because when a two year old with poop in her diaper is your wake up call at 5:23 in the morning, you tend to behave...differently than you would if your wake up call is, well, nothing at all.  

But...not always.  

No, no, no...while many Saturday nights out are spent simply with friends and an extra glass or two of wine and home in bed by 11, some Saturday nights still need to be spent with your balls to the wall.  Some Saturday nights you need to remind yourself that YOU STILL GOT IT.   

Husband recently blew off moderation when we hit up Offspring’s Preschool Fundraising Party.  Yeah.  I said preschool in that sentence.  And party.  And while I was dancing in uncomfortable but oh so cute shoes, I looked around and thought to myself, damn.  These parents know how to PAR-TAY.  And so, I present:

Ain’t no party like a preschool party and here’s why:

1: There is a theme which may require costumes and all the women get to dress slutty.  I mean, sexy.  We’re over 30 now.  

2: You can talk about your kids and not feel that you are like, totally boring.  These people understand you, man.

3: It starts at a reasonable hour so the babysitter gets to put your kids to bed.  HOLLA!

4: There is booze and fried things.

5: Put a bunch of parents of small children in a room with a stocked bar and an 80’s cover band and see what happens.  It’s awesome.  

6: Possible hangover the next day does not need to be reminder of bad choices made the night before-only as reminder that you helped improve your child’s education.  Vodka/Soda=new book in classroom.  

7: Don’t worry; you’re not the only parent at pick up the next day keeping a low profile because you weren’t the only parent dancing on tables.

So, maybe we’re not as skinny as we once were; perhaps we talk about poop a little too frequently and some of us don’t have as much hair as we wished...but, damn it, we STILL GOT IT.  There is still fun to be had after kids... and it might just be the time of your life.  Let’s face it, it could be months before you think again that last call at 2 A.M. is like, SO LAME, so take advantage.  Also, how often do you get to eat pizza at 2:30 in the morning and not feel bad about it?  (If the babysitter knows what’s good for her...there will be pizza leftover.)   

Predictably, you will have a T-Ball game to attend the next day at an unusually early time for sporting, but such is life.  At least you had your balls to the wall the night before.

A little love...

For those of you who may know Husband personally and question Him while he is out and about with the common-Dude, how can you let her write that about you?-you need to know a few things about Husband; first, he knows who he married and she has been making him squirm with sometimes inappropriate laughter for almost 9 years.  Also, Husband is a pretty confident man and a few jokes about his inability to close closet doors isn’t really going to shake him up too much.

But most importantly, what you may not know about Husband is that HE LIKES THE ABUSE.  He admitted as much to me the other day when he said my blog is funnier when I am making fun of him.

To which I immediately replied...No problemo!  And also...um...honey...you know if you give me an inch, I take 10 miles, right?  

But, it’s Valentine’s Day, and although Husband and I aren’t all mushy-gushy about such holidays, I suppose I don’t need to devote a post to Him about how sometimes I’m not sure if I’m living with a teenager or a grown man on a day that is supposed to be devoted to Love. 

So instead, I will devote this post to all the wonderful things about Husband, because he’s more wonderful than anything else.  So...dear Husband...on this Hallmark Holiday (don’t forget to get me a card!) I think you need to know the following:  It’s been almost nine years since that day you tripped over my bike and I made fun of you and you left without my number and then came back and “bumped” into me after work to make sure you got my number and then a couple of weeks later we ate fish tacos and you “tried” to let me beat you at darts at Summers in El Porto and what I remember the most is how much fun we had together and how much we laughed.  What my parents remember is the fact that the first time they met you, you tried to outsmart them and buy dinner and although they didn’t let you, my mother would have sold me to you if I was for sale because you were Very Impressive. (And cute.)  And over the last nine years, we got married, went on some pretty great trips, had a couple beautiful geniuses, and I still can’t stop making fun of you and you still love me and I still love you.  What you may not know, Husband, is that the very best gift you give me each day is the fact that you let me be me.  I know I can be selfish and petty and stubborn and I really don’t like to admit to any sort of fault whatsoever, but you are my rock and without you...I don’t know where I’d be or what I’d be doing and I love you.  

Oh, and one more thing.  Can you please rinse out the sink after you dump the old coffee and coffee grinds out?  I know it’s hard to see the black coffee against the white sink, but if you could maybe take a second and do that, I would love you even more.

And, also, feel free to come home with flowers.  Roses are overrated and please no carnations.  I prefer lilacs, because the smell takes me back to being a kid in Iowa where I played Barbies in our lilac bush for hours at a time, but seeing as you probably can’t come home with a lilac bush, or Barbies, hydrangeas and lilies are a fine substitute.    

Happy Valentine’s Day to my Valentine....and to all of you.  

Playing favorites...

Have you ever wondered if your parents had a favorite child and if so...was it you?  I was the youngest, so clearly I believed that I was the favorite even though I got picked on the most and my brother farted on my head.  My sister was the oldest and I’m pretty sure she thinks she got gypped because she had to be Responsible and Babysit Us On Her Summer Vacation.  Also, she was the guinea pig of the bunch...I mean...the oldest has to be, right? My brother...well, he was the middle and the only boy, so, you know, he was the Handsome Hero.  Who farted on my head.  (Did I mention that?)  Then there was yours truly, who will forever be remembered for sitting on a banana in the car while on Pike’s Peak in Colorado and also the fact that I once ate a handful of birdseed while waiting in line at a store.  CAN WE STOP TALKING ABOUT THESE THINGS EVERY HOLIDAY DINNER PLEASE?  But as a kid, I don’t remember thinking that my parents had a favorite.  (But if they did, I would totally get extra points for being so entertaining.)

I was so naive.

Of course they had a favorite.  Just not the same one all the time.  

I know this because this morning when Daughter threw her sneaker at my head, protesting the very idea that sneakers might be a better choice for a rainy day than her $10 leopard ballet flats from Target, and then escaped my grasp and slammed the door in my face, she was sooooo not my favorite.  My favorite at that moment was Son, who was trying to lure Daughter into wearing her sneakers by showing her an “awesome trick.”  

But last night at dinner, Daughter was totally my favorite when she ate vegetables.  Willingly and without effort on my part.  She’s so awesome when she does that.  She is also equally awesome in the fact that she never protests bedtime...just lays her head and goes to sleep.  Amazing.

But then, Son is clearly the favorite anytime he poops because one-he does it in the toilet and two-he wipes his own ass.  Daughter struggles with both these things; also, I cannot convince her that her...lady parts...are not called a butt.  I’ve given up on that one.  Yes.  It’s your butt.  Sorry to suggest otherwise.

Son also takes the cake when it comes to running errands.  Although Daughter does tend to be more “entertaining” by running down the aisle taking her shirt off and hiding in the clothing racks, Son has a much more peaceful approach that usually includes just walking beside me, with only the occasional need to shoot heat vision at nice, unsuspecting strangers.  (I have to admit...Daughter is kind of my favorite when she yells GRANDPA at, shall we say, distinguished, gray-haired gentlemen waiting in line to pay.)  

Obviously, I love them both equally and endlessly, but what’s the harm in letting them know that once in awhile, one of them is on the shit list and the other one gets ice cream?  (Just kidding...I could never deny them the pleasure that is ice cream.  Unlimited ice cream consumption is a basic right of anyone under 10.)  Whenever I look at photos of my childhood and come across yet another one where my back is turned to the camera while the rest of my family is happily smiling with arms around each other...I’m pretty sure I was on the shit list at that moment.  

So I guess maybe my sister was the favorite, especially all those times when she stood up for her brother and sister, taking her rightful place as Protector.  But then again, my brother was obviously the favorite because he was so thoughtful and there is just something about a little boy that melts your heart. But don’t count me out as favorite because I was always good for a bit of humor on the side...and my mom probably felt sorry for me because my brother farted on my head.  

So don’t worry, dear Daughter.  Although you left this morning not being the favorite, you could, at any moment, become it.  Hint: try taking a nap.  That one gets you straight to the top of the list every time.

Training Day(s)

Recently, as I began the potty training process with Daughter, I was quickly reminded that there is Potty Training and then there is Poop Training.  Potty training is all M&M’s and Unicorns but Poop Training is more like hellfire and rodents.  Now, this is only my experience as I understand that there are kids in this world who just ...go poop...in the toilet...like it’s NO BIG DEAL.  (Flashback to Poop-Training Son: saw a friend with his boys at the park and his son had just taken a poop.  In the park bathroom.  With no trauma inflicted on either party.  I. Was. Amazed.)  I held out a very small sliver of hope that Daughter would just poop like a normal person on the toilet and we would laugh and dance about how wonderful and easy it was to both potty and poop train her and she would become my new favorite child.  But Daughter will not be so swayed.  Daughter has her own ideas about where her poop should go and it’s not the toilet.  Or a diaper.  She prefers to just hold it as long as possible, sometimes a day or two, and then just...go. Most likely in her adorable princess undies.  Which, although somewhat pleasingly poetic to me that she chooses to quite literally shit on Cinderella, is mostly annoying.  And kind of gross.  (Not to mention there is no money saved on diapers if I must keep buying underwear because I’m just...not...going to clean the offending Princesses.)  

There is supposedly a theory that girls are easier to potty train than boys.  That theory is false in the Gelato House.  When Husband reminded me that Son, too, had accidents, I reminded him that Son had three accidents in a year and Daughter has three in a day.  Not that I’m comparing them or anything...God...who does that?  But I do have to remind myself that this, too, will pass, and she will eventually poop on the toilet and hopefully stop demanding to wear Ariel on her butt.  This whole process is just another gentle reminder that kids are hard and having expectations can prove foolish and, oh yeah, Daughter is the boss of me.  Because who else gets to poop in their pants and then demand that I play 6 rounds of Curious George Discovery Beach Game and by the way get me a snack and I would like ice in my water, please.  

I know...I know...one day I'll be that lady, watching a young mom stroll through a store with her kids and I'll stare longingly, wondering where the time went, but before I tap her on the shoulder to harass her about enjoying each moment, I will remember that she probably has to go home, clean poop out of someone's underwear and then make a dinner that nobody will eat, so instead I will give her a silent cheer, an evil laugh...and be on my way.

Unplugged (?)

Lately I have been pondering with the idea of pulling an Oprah on my kids and denying them the pleasure and magic that is television.  Really, the only thing stopping me is because I know how painful it will be.  For me.  Now, if you are one of those parents who’s kids “don’t watch TV,” well, let me be the first to congratulate you.  And then call you a dirty little liar.  I’m sorry to call you names, but I have a hard time believing that there is no TV.  But also, if it is true that you are so magnificent and wonderful that your kids do not watch or need television for you to maintain moments of sanity, well, then, calling you names makes me feel better about myself.  (And I worship you.)

No matter how much or how little television my kids watch, I always feel a little bit bad about it, like I’m doing something wrong.  Maybe it’s because those high-pitched voices of Dora and Diego make me want punch myself in the face or maybe it’s because I feel like I’m not being creative enough or that I should totally be doing a craft with my kids instead of fast-forwarding to the good parts of The Real Housewives to try to finish the episode before the 23 minutes of Curious George come to end...but I am tired of feeling such shame over television.  (Like we need something else to feel guilty about.)  Now, don’t worry-the Gelato Kids are not sitting in front of a glowing screen all day, unless, of course, one of them is barfing or if I am barfing and let’s just say that if there is barf involved-that damn thing is on.  Like most kids, their TV time is monitored by Husband and myself.  But I completely depend on the magic of television at times and I’m not quite sure what would happen if I unplugged that thing for a day, a few days...a week.  What would happen when Daughter struts into our room at 5:48 am and I tell her sorry-no Wild Kratts this morning?  I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t be reasonable about it.  Or those times when I need a little personal space while making dinner?   Or just personal space in general?  Frankly, I’m worried about my own personal safety.

Perhaps I feel guilty about it because, let’s face it, watching your kids watch TV is...scary.   The glazed over eyes.  The little spittle of drool dripping down those chins.  The constant desire for a SNACK!  Just a couple of junkies getting their fix.  But, oh my God, it’s so quiet.  And you don’t even need to be scared about that quiet because, no, nobody is drawing with a black sharpie marker on the inside of their ear, nobody is getting partially to fully naked, nobody is eating crayons...no, no, no...they are simply killing brain cells silently on the sofa and it is wonderful.

But what’s really pushing me to even consider turning the tube off for a bit is The Offspring’s incessant need to ask for television.  Can we watch a show?  Please?  Can we watch another one?  When can we watch a show?  I want to watch a show!  LET US WATCH A SHOW!  These pleas followed by an emotional breakdown when told No, Sorry, Nope, I said no, Too bad, Go cry in your room, YOU DON’T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT, are exhausting.  There is really no need for them to be so consistent in their badgering of me for television.  You would think they have no toys or games or scooters or markers or IMAGINATIONS, which of course, they have all of those things.  I think part of the problem is how easy television is these days; you can watch any show at any time without commercials-not like when WE were kids and after walking UPHILL both ways from school, were lucky to catch an episode of The Brady Bunch before flipping that thing off and heading for the backyard, because, you know, there was nothing on.

So, to watch or not to watch, that is the question.  I may need a bit more time to mentally prepare for the possible void of television in the house; I mean, how many rounds of Go Fish and Sorry can I play before I start twitching?  But I am intrigued by what this experiment could bring our family.  

Oh, and don’t think that thing wouldn’t come on at 7:30 pm when all is quiet in the house.  Really, Mama can’t miss her shows.  These are my brain cells and I’ll kill them if I want to.

And now...what?

I sat here for some time staring at a blank computer screen wondering how to start this post, which is exactly what this post is about.  Where to start.  How to start.  Again.

For the past five years, my daily existence has been one consisting of parks, snacks, diapers, potty training, tantrums, maintaining sanity, sleep training, tantrums, bribery, board games, library trips, lots and lots and lots of walks, and the occasional tantrum.  And while it’s been hard and lonely at times, it has mostly been wonderful and I feel so grateful that I have had this time with my children.   While my kids are still young, in just a couple of short years they will both be at school full time and that forces me to wonder...what’s next?  Where do I go from here?  It’s not Tennis Club, that I can assure you.

I met Husband when I was 22.  I married him when I was 24.  He knocked me up when I was 25 and at 26 I was a first time mother, overjoyed with this new person in my life, but at the same time wondering what happened to my Other Life; the life I was hoping to create when at 18 I moved to New York City to study theatre.  A life I continued to create when I moved to LA at 21.  Along the way I worked the usual round up of restaurants, coffee shops, theaters, the random office gig, usually two or three jobs at once to scrape by, while I hit up acting classes and auditions.  (And it really was fabulous, by the way.  If you’ve never been young and broke in New York City...you kinda missed out.)  And then suddenly, I had this new life-a life that surprised everyone, including myself.  But I dug in and devoted myself to Husband and my son and then my daughter and each day I feel a little bit bad about the things Husband has missed-those moments that only I was the lucky witness.  (I also kind of hate him for...other... things he misses.  Let’s keep it real.)

So now I’m left with this question: what do I go back to?  While many twenty-somethings use that time in life to figure out a career, I was figuring out a family and now all I feel is anxiety about getting a job-not because I don’t want one (I mean, just not wearing flip-flops every day is enough to tempt me) but because I’m so unsure of what it is I could do.  I’d be happy to wait tables a few nights a week, but that’s not really a long-term solution.  Even Husband knows how miserable He and I would both be if I got a job answering phones.  I feel like there is still life in my dreams but that’s a difficult road to climb again.  What do you do with a resume that has a 5 year hole in it?  What do you do with a resume that says you studied theatre for God’s sake?  There are insecurities happening here, people and it’s intimidating to think about going back to a world that, while you were home raising babies, was progressing without you.  Friends get promoted, technology seems scary, and the only skills you feel you possess can get you a job...watching children.  

I know I will figure it out; I have usually managed to figure most things out eventually.  I mean-come on-my kids were on a sleep schedule by the time they were four months old so I can do anything.  And who knows-maybe there is something new out there waiting for me.  Maybe there IS a job description on Craigslist that says Wanted: A Stay at Home Mom Hoping to Make Some Money Who Studied Theatre.  (Actually...come to think of it...there probably is a listing like that on Craigslist but maybe not under the...category I’m looking for...).  My hope is that the next five years will be spent working on my dreams again...however it is that they may have shifted and rearranged themselves. Some dreams don’t die for a reason. You never know....maybe in the next five years this Gelato Mama will be the one bringing home the bucks while Husband stays at home with the children.  I just might have to have another baby in order for him to fully experience the good life...(Don’t be scared, honey...just think of all that SEX that comes along with procreation...)

I love you, I love you not, I love you...

Here’s a secret: right now I’m thinking about Food. In ten minutes, I’ll still be thinking about Food.  Two hours ago, I was thinking about Food. What I ate for breakfast, what is available for lunch, what should we have for dinner?  Will The Offspring be completely offended if I dare serve chicken that is not breaded?  What if I put peas on the plate?  How many calories are in that slice of bread?  Wait, no...no bread.  God, I miss bread.  Do we have snacks?  Did I pack snacks?  My stomach is growling.  Did I remember to eat breakfast?  Crap.  I forgot breakfast.  It’s 2 pm, maybe I could eat lunch now?  Do I have the makings for a salad?  Why is Trader Joe’s out of the chicken burgers?  Don’t they know I put those in my salad?  Maybe a veggie burger today.  Can I eat carbs for dinner tonight?  What’s for dinner again?  I want a cookie.  

I don’t want to think about Food so often, but I can’t help it.  Not only my Food consumption, but the consumption of my children and if I am setting them up for a lifetime of failure based on the fact that, yes, sometimes I bribe them with delicious things to get them to do what I want.  Judge me judge me judge me.  I know you are, anyway.

Here’s the thing: Food has spoken to me and it wants me to know that I am it’s bitch.  It will rule my thoughts, strike fear in my soul, and hold me hostage.  It needs me to understand that it is the boss of me and if I don’t obey, there will be trouble.

For instance, Food goes ahead and makes something so wonderful, like Bread.  And here we are, happily eating Bread.  But then Bread says...hey, lady...you can eat me as much as you want, but there will be Consequences.  Let me introduce you to my friend, Lettuce.  And Lettuce is all....hey....put some turkey in me, roll me up and call me a sandwich.  I’m delicious and crisp!  YOU ARE NOT A SANDWICH, LETTUCE.  But, okay.  I guess I’ll have Lettuce to avoid those Consequences.

But then other times, Food is all....what’s your problem, lady?  I introduce you to Bread and you blow it off for Lettuce?  Bread’s feelings were really hurt and you should apologize.  Go get Bread now and eat it.  EAT IT NOW.  

Still yet, I see Food sitting there on The Offspring’s shoulders and it’s whispering-Don’t eat that.  Don’t you dare even pretend to eat it.  Don’t even let your fork touch it.   Tell her you don’t like it. Tell her again. Why would she put Broccoli on your plate?   Really, Broccoli?  Start whining.  Louder.  Really loud.  Now leave the table and cry.  BWHHHHAAAAAAAA!!!  Now, come back, quick, and ask for a treat.

And then of course there is this: Chips.  Salsa.  Why can’t I stop?  Why can’t I stop?  Someone take my hand and remove it from the chip basket.  Oh, that’s delicious.  Why is this so delicious?  Stop.  No. I can’t.  I WON’T!  Yes-FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WE WOULD LIKE MORE CHIPS!  You know, for my kids.  

I can’t be the only one with these thoughts...right?  This is just one area of my life where I wonder...is this normal?  Am I doomed for a lifetime of feeling guilty about pizza?  Because I really, really love pizza and I need it sometimes.  Do men think like this?  Because as I watch men eat, it just doesn’t seem like they...worry too much about the fact that they just ate a burrito that rivals the size of my 2 year old.  They seem so...free...with their food.  They are not Food’s bitch.  Food is their bitch.  I want Food to be my bitch.  And I’m working on that.  But until then, I’ll go ahead and order the burrito bowl...yes...a burrito in Lettuce.  And good God, don’t put rice in there!  But, I’m going to need some more chips.