Burp Cloth Blues

The other day I got the urge to clean out the hall closet.  When these kind of urges strike, I must abandon all other plans before losing motivation because once I start...I cannot stop.  The Gelato Family tends to get a tad nervous when I get in these purging moods; nothing is safe, not too much is sacred and I am usually in a somewhat...aggressive mood because it’s safe to say that the need to purge came from picking up everyone else’s crap all the time.  You don’t want to pick it up?  Neither do I.  Let’s just trash it, shall we?

There I was, happily dumping old towels, random pillowcases, that big, scented bar of soap we all have for no apparent reason, old bottles of medicine, but I stopped in my tracks when I came across a single, oh-so-adorable, brown polka-dotted burp cloth.  I had a flashback of the last time I cleaned out this closet and came across the same burp cloth and after much deliberation, decided I could not throw it out.  This burp cloth, apparently, is my kryptonite, and I cannot bring myself to put it in a bag made for trash.

I sat down on the floor and gingerly picked up the burp cloth.  I held it in my hands, turning it over and over, as if searching for some sign of the life it used to occupy...like a flash of my newborn son would be shown upon it.  I am suddenly 7 months pregnant, sitting on a chair at my first baby shower, surrounded by a pile of mysterious things, each item, each little teeny-tiny thing, a symbol of new life, new hope, new expectations.  Opening the package of burp cloths, I imagined using them and slinging them over my shoulder and wouldn’t I look oh- so- great with not only the world’s most beautiful child, but also a very stylish burp cloth?  Clearly I had this baby thing all figured out.

The life of a burp cloth, however, is not a pretty one.  Especially when said beautiful child happens to randomly spit up, oh, hundreds of times a day.  By day ten of newborn’s life, it doesn’t really matter if you are cleaning throw up with a fancy burp cloth, your husband's t-shirt that he may or may not be wearing, or that leaf that luckily landed beside you while sitting outside because HOW COULD I FORGET TO PUT A BURP CLOTH IN THIS VERY LARGE DIAPER BAG?  It may be shocking, but turns out that having fancy burp cloths, expensive baby clothes or, good Lord, a thousand dollar stroller, actually makes no difference in how much you love your baby or your ability to care for him.  In fact, those things can kind of make you look like an asshole sometimes.

I’m not quite sure what it is about this particular baby item that makes my heart beat a little faster.  Over the years, I have purged loads of baby clothing, toys, hooded towels, blankets...you just can’t keep everything no matter how it breaks a tiny piece of your heart to throw it out.  I guess my brown polka-dotted burp cloth is a survivor, just like I was all those years ago when I had absolutely no idea what motherhood had in store for me.  It was there for Son, it was there for Daughter, and it should have a chance to be there for a possible...round three.  (Husband just had an anxiety attack reading that sentence.)  

So for now, I keep it again.  I know that one day it will be put in a box with other treasured baby keepsakes, and when I am feeling time slip by too quickly and say things like, Oh, I remember that age, I will crack open that box and cry.  And there will be my burp cloth, waiting to wipe my sentimental, old lady tears away.

Rules of Rest(room)

I’m going to go ahead and give a fair warning here; I will be cursing in this post.  I’ve been trying to be more ladylike and watch my language, but sometimes, certain things cannot help but bring out the truck driver in me.  (I will, however, keep it PG-13.)  I think you’ll agree with me as you read on.  Because the question of the day is:

WHAT IN THE HELL DO MEN DO FOR 20 MINUTES IN THE GODDAMN BATHROOM THREE TIMES A DAY?

This is a universal issue we need to address.  Frankly, if I needed to use the facilities for 20 minutes a pop multiple times a day, I might think about seeing a doctor.   I won’t pretend I don’t know what you’re doing in there: catching up on some reading, escaping reality, pretending you don’t hear the cries, maybe...other things, but, really, we’re going to have to lay down some ground rules if you gentleman are going to continue to need so many potty breaks.  I’ll do the honors.  

ONE:

You do not get to lock the door.  If The Offspring get to barge in on me at any moment, you do not have the right anymore to request “privacy.”  (I just laughed thinking about privacy.)  Hey guys-ever changed a tampon while your three and five year old are watching?  Yeah.  Didn’t think so.

TWO:

Sports or Business section, not both.  I’m lucky if I get to read my horoscope, which is only three sentences long.  One bathroom session=one newspaper section.

THREE:

Pick the damn paper up when you are done and put it in the damn recycling bag.  I like sports, but I am not going to read about them.  And I have enough to feel anxious about, so I’m certainly not going to loiter away precious minutes reading the Business section.  I’m pretty sure your intentions were not to leave the paper in the bathroom for me in case I needed some reading material for my 45 second bathroom session, but if it was-NO THANK YOU.  I will love you more if you just PUT.IT.AWAY.   (This is actually true about most things: laundry, dishes, your bath towel, shoes...and so on...and so on...)

FOUR:

Any shared reading material is Off Limits.  Gross.  Ryan Gosling’s picture in Vanity Fair will never be same to me if I know he was in there, sharing a session with you.  And your iPad has waaayyyy more apps than my mine because YOU HAVE SO MUCH TIME TO READ APPARENTLY, so why do you need my piddly iPad?  Let’s just leave my iPad out of the bathroom, shall we?

FIVE:

Needing to use the restroom is no longer a valid excuse to not deal with Whiny Children.  Hold it.  Yeah.  You heard me.  HOLD IT.  Guess what?  I have to pee, too.  I usually have to pee.  I kind of have to pee right now.  But I need to wrap this up, get to the post office and the library before picking up Precious Cargo at school, so I’m going to go ahead and hold it a bit longer.  And I’m pretty sure if our children can hold it for 12-18 hours, (or that one time when a certain Son held it for five days...) you can hold it for just a few more minutes while the Little Children realize that their world is not ending.  I’m fairly confident you will not have an accident.

Listen, I’m not trying to take away your bathroom breaks, I’m just trying to find a way to make them less annoying.  Isn’t that what relationships are all about?  Compromise?  Granted, I’m just going to go ahead and tell you what the compromises are, but, hey, you never know what kind of...mood...I could get in if certain compromises are met.  In a former life, massages and candles and champagne were romantic, but in present life, not seeing the newspaper on the bathroom sink just might be enough to do it for me.  

And you wouldn’t want me to cancel our newspaper subscription, would you?

Didn’t think so.

Dr. Doom

It’s almost that time again.  Time to sweat a little.  Time to question all the choices you made in the last six months.  Time to wonder why you just didn’t take that extra minute each night to get certain tasks done.  Yes; it’s time to take Son to the dentist for the fun game doctors everywhere love to play: How Good of a Parent Are You? For those of you who may not be familiar with the guilt trip accompanied by visiting any medical office pertaining to your children’s health, let me fill you in.  

ONE:

Here in Gelato Land, we can’t WAIT to visit the dentist!  There are VIDEO GAMES!  MOVIES!  TOYS TOYS TOYS!  And of course, the token GINORMOUS FISH TANK!  It’s like a Wonderland of everything your pediatrician advises you to set limitations on.  But the dentist isn’t worried about the pediatrician.  The dentist has plenty of other things to make you feel bad about.

Like flossing.  

TWO:

You will be interrogated.  And as your children get older, the medical professional interrogates you through your child.  Of course they don’t ask ME the questions because clearly I would lie and present myself as the perfect parent.  These people aren’t fools; they realize kids don’t know they are supposed to lie about flossing yet.  As the hygienist lets Son choose between 57 flavors of toothpaste and very thoughtfully asks him if he would like sunglasses on for his cleaning, I brace myself and send a telepathic message to Son begging him to please not throw me under the bus.  While she cheerily chirps away asking Son how often he brushes, how much juice does he drink, are his vitamin’s gummy or crunchy, does Mommy help you floss, do you think you’re well-adjusted, what colleges are you thinking about, how much TV do you get to watch, do you like vegetables, do you eat dinner together as a family...I just sit there and laugh nervously while tiny beads of sweat pop out under my arms and roll my eyes at his answers...like, oh...kids.  Yes of COURSE we floss each and every day and Harvard has been calling because they can’t believe the amazing hygiene this five year old boy has and did you know he has been accepted to the class of 2028?  Then I whisper a silent prayer pleasenocavities pleasenocavities pleasenocavities because I HAVE ENOUGH TO FEEL GUILTY ABOUT, OKAY?  It’s not that I don’t want my kids to have healthy teeth and gums, it’s just that sometimes at the end of the day, I want them to go to bed more.  So until I go all Alpha Mom on flossing, I’m going to have to rely on my superior dental genes and hope that it got passed on to my kids.  I mean, I did basically not visit a dentist for at least five years...those years when you have not one penny to your name and certainly not dental insurance...and my teeth not only survived but thrived.  (Except for that one tooth I had to pull out. R.I.P.) 

THREE: 

Just go ahead and accept that each trip to the dentist or doctor is a friendly reminder that, yeah, you could be doing things a liiiittle bit better.  As a mother, I already live with great amounts of guilt about what I did do, didn’t do, should do, want to do, feel bad for thinking about doing...just go ahead and add that I suck because I can’t seem to floss my kids’ teeth every night.  I’m going to be okay with that right now.   And, fingers crossed, so will The Offspring's teeth.

Booby Trap

I’m pretty sure that if you are a woman who has grown a child or two or three inside of your body, you have once or twice perhaps mentioned ways in which those pregnancies have forever ruined certain body parts.  When I was pregnant with Son, varicose veins started popping out of my leg and they frightened me.  When I was pregnant with Daughter, those veins only got larger and larger and they frightened not only me, but poor, unsuspecting strangers who couldn’t help but stare and ask me, What is happening to your leg?  THE MAGIC OF LIFE, LADY.  Leave me alone.  The sole benefit of the veins, which strangely only popped out on my right leg, was that I had On Demand Leg Rubbing from Husband.  Much to my relief, and I’m sure Husband’s, the veins did chill out after birth and although they still exist, I can now wear shorts in public without scaring old ladies before they tell me to put some socks on my kids.

But the unsightly veins were not the only thing to disappear.  Down went the veins and down went the boobs.  Yep...after ballooning up for nine months, then another nine months or so of being swollen, tender, and leaky, the boobs...well, they just...slowly deflated.  At first you think it must be your imagination. You look this way in the mirror, you look that way in the mirror...the boobs are still there, right?  But then, one day while standing in line at Trader Joe’s, you feel your Godforsaken Strapless Bra...sliding...slowly down your body.  And then you start to notice how all of your bras suddenly seem so big.  And then you have a pity party for yourself as you lament to your girlfriends and your Husband about how it’s just not FAIR that the reward for bearing and breastfeeding children is NOT those wonderful big breasts that grew during pregnancy, but instead, these small, almost apologetic boobs that have replaced them.  The only hope of having boobs again is to just go ahead and get pregnant.  And that just seems selfish.  Not to mention messy. 

So instead of getting knocked up, you shuffle over to the Lingerie Department where some Perky Bra Girl with too much makeup on will measure you and gently pat you on the back while you cry.  She then proceeds to inform you about amazing bra technology and uses words like ‘padded’ and ‘lift’ a little too frequently.  After handing you the three bras she managed to find in your size, she reminds you that you can always special order online, then closes the door and laughs. 

Standing there in the dressing room, a neon sign seems to flash across the mirror screaming BOOB JOB!  BOOB JOB!  BOOB JOB!  And for a few moments, it seems completely reasonable.  I mean, why not?  Why shouldn’t we all have perky, happy boobs? After all, I’m not asking for some Pamela Anderson, Real Housewife Boob Action; just your every day, round, bouncy, boob action.  I want my boobs to fill out a t-shirt, not my amazingly padded, lifted bra.  Don’t I deserve that?  Don’t we all deserve that?

Although I’m sure Husband would agree that perky, happy boobs would be fun, a boob job is very, very, very low on the list of priorities...if it even exists at all. (Besides, I would totally get those veins sucked out of my legs before anything else.)  So instead of getting down on myself about the boobs or the veins or the stretch marks or that bit of belly fat that refuses to budge...I will try to remember that all of my imperfections are simply a reminder of my two perfections...my children.  And let’s face it, I’d give up not only my boobs, but my life, for those two little people.  

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.