Nap Nazi

The first time out, you are Perfect Parent.  You read books, cry a lot, wonder what happened to your life, cry some more, read more books because someone HAS TO HAVE AN ANSWER...right?  Sleep Schedules and Poop dominate conversation.  In fact, sometimes you get pooped on while discussing sleep schedules and for some reason...it doesn’t really seem that gross.  There is poop on my hand and I am okay with it?  While I fumbled through the first few months of being a new mom, there was one thing I did do PERFECTLY: The Sleep Schedule.  No matter the pain it caused me, no matter if my son cried and wanted love and affection, that kid was going to SLEEP.  Nobody, and I mean NOBODY was allowed to fuck with my sleep schedule.  What happens if they mess it up and He.Doesn’t.Sleep?  I would surely jump from kindofalmostcrazy to OMGIAmNowCrazy.  My mom called me the Nap Nazi; Husband rolled his eyes and took long, deep breaths.  But by the time he was four months old, my son was on two perfect naps a day and slept 12 hours a night and I didn’t hear anyone complaining about THAT.   The fan must be on.  The room must be dark.  The music must be on low.  We speak in hushed whispers and walk on tip toes by his room.  

Flash forward to second time out; you are Making it Work Parent.  You now realize infants are incredibly easy compared to two year olds. You want to sleep?  Great.  Not so much?  Okay, we’ll try again later.  Nurse a baby while making a grill cheese sandwich?  No problem.  You just puked up on my shirt?  I’ll change it later. (Maybe.)  And while my daughter did eventually get her two naps and twelve hours, I did not force it upon her; I just let her lead me-a lesson I wished I had learned the first time out, but that would not be Perfect and I could not deal with that. 

My son has planned his bowel movement to correspond perfectly with my daughter’s nap-time.  Instead of a quiet, dark room filled with lullaby’s, her nap-time routine often sounds like this:

In the great green room-DON’T GET PEE ALL OVER!  POINT IT DOWN, PLEASE!-there was a telephone and a red balloon and a picture of-WHAT?  JUST WAIT.  NO I’LL WIPE IT UP WHEN I’M DONE!-the cow jumping over the moon.  And there were three little bears sitting on chairs-I’M READING TO YOUR SISTER!  I CAN’T CHECK RIGHT NOW!  JUST COME HERE!  And two little kittens and a pair of mittens.  And a little toy-house and a young mouse-YOU MISSED SOME!  BRING ME THE TOILET PAPER!  And a comb and a brush and a bowl full of mush and a quiet old lady who was whispering hush.  OKAY, LOOKS GOOD.  GO FLUSH AND WASH YOUR HANDS PLEASE.  Goodnight room.  Goodnight moon.  Goodnight cow jumping over the moon. I DIDN’T HEAR YOU FLUSH!  Goodnight light and the red balloon.  Goodnight bears-FLUSH PLEASE!-Goodnight chairs.  Goodnight kittens and goodnight mittens.  Goodnight clocks and goodnight-WASH YOUR HANDS!  DON’T FORGET SOAP-socks.  Goodnight little house and goodnight mouse.  Goodnight comb and goodnight brush-I DID NOT HEAR THE WATER GO ON!  WASH YOUR HANDS!-Goodnight nobody.  Goodnight mush and goodnight to the old lady whispering hush.  PUT YOUR UNDERWEAR ON, PLEASE!  And goodnight to the old lady whispering hush.  Good night stars, goodnight air-UNDERWEAR PLEASE!  WHY DO I HAVE TO ASK YOU FIVE TIMES TO PUT YOUR UNDERWEAR BACK ON?  Goodnight noises everywhere.  

Kisses, hugs, sweet dreams... PLEASE GET OUT OF HERE!  I’M PUTTING YOUR SISTER DOWN!  Nighty night, angel.  Now don’t wake up for 2.5 hours.  

I Remember

I remember.  I was fresh from New York to Los Angeles, a couple months gone only.  I was awoken very early by my yellow phone in that first apartment in Hollywood.  The voice on the other end was my sister April saying only-I’m so happy you don’t live in New York today; turn on your TV.  And there it was.  Smoldering twin towers.  My jaw hung open, the phone dropping from my ear.  We exchanged I love you’s and hung up.  

I remember I had to go to work that day in Beverly Hills, ignoring customers as I called friends in New York, what’s happening, are you okay?  Have you heard from her?  Have you heard from him?  Please call me back.  Please call me back.  Why is this place open?  Why am I here?

I remember I wanted to be there.  I wanted to go back to my city.  The thing about living in New York, however short or long a time it is, you feel as if it always belongs to you.  A New Yorker once, a New Yorker forever.  I earned that badge and I ain’t ever gonna give it up.

Ten years later, I remember the victims.  I take my children to the local fire station, where I gently explain why we are leaving flowers.   Of course, they can’t understand and look at me strangely while tears fall from under my sunglasses.  We head to the park, where I watch in wonder as dozens of young children play...these children who ten years ago were years still from existing.  They’re laughing, playing, fighting, eating, running...they are free.  I honor the victims today; today I remember the pain and the overwhelming grief; and today, I run with my children...for we are free and we will live today, and each day I hope, with gratitude and grace for those who have been taken from us to soon.  

Mutterings

 I wish I had more inspiring words today, but I spent the morning being held hostage in a beige room with a 2010 issue of Real Simple magazine.  Some prisoner before me had already ripped out the recipes so I was left to learn about how to wear chunky bangles.  USELESS.  When do I get to wear chunky bangles?  (And if I do wear them why would I need instructions?  Don’t you just...put them on?)  Three hours at the eye doctor is not how I envisioned my 4 hours of freedom, I mean, time without Beloved Children.  To top it off, the doctor seemed confused that I didn’t know exactly what my prescription was; left eye, right eye, potato, patoto, aren’t you the EYE DOCTOR? WORK IT OUT.  By the time they took off the handcuffs and freed me from my cell, I had only a few spare minutes to pick up Beloved Children.  Of course, the lure of coffee in the middle of the day forced me to pull over to Starbucks where I was suddenly tortured prisoner of Person in Front of me who ordered five, YES FIVE, pumpkin spice frappacinos with special requirements on each one.  Hey, here’s an idea, Starbucks.  Start a Frappacino Store.  Let the rest of us order and drink our very normal coffee in peace without having to wait in line behind a 7 year old who is getting a smoothie.   The good news is I made it to pre-school pick up, with my coffee, to be greeted by 2 year old who was overly relieved to see me and 4 year old who could care less about me.  And next week, I get to return to eye doctor for “20 minute” follow up.”  Yeah...I’m going to need that in writing....

Shhh.....

Last night, as I was drifting off to a lovely sleep, my phone made the tiniest little sound and jolted me awake from dreams that were sure to include me and Ben Affleck.    Although only moments before I was practically asleep, my body decided that I was now to be Awake.  For a Long Time.  Eventually Husband came rolling around to bed as he likes to stay up later than me and watch The Real Housewives and eat bon bons.  As I listened to him drift off to sleep, I couldn’t help but hate him for just a minute.  After all, why should he get to sleep when I just get to lie here and listen to him sleep?  And good Lord, why is he breathing so loudly?  He wasn’t snoring; not yet.  First is the heavy, open mouth breathing.  Then comes the quiet, rolling snore, as if to say: I’m about to snore louder, but I want to give you a gentle reminder of HOW MUCH YOU HATE IT first.  To be fair, last night he never broke out in the Great Snore.  Great Snore’s are reserved for Great Nights of Drinking.  But this got me to thinking-why is it I can breath so quietly while he seems only to breath so loudly?  Why is it that I can do so many things quietly that Other People in my house seem to do only at an unnecessary volume?   Although I tried to count sheep, I instead began composing this list in my head:

Things Only I Seem to Do Quietly:

Breath.

Chew.

Burp.

Open doors at 1 am when coming home from “a couple beers at the club.” 

Make midnight snack after “couple beers at the club.”

Sleep.

Crunch ice.

Wake up.

Sneeze.

Yawn.

Announce intentions to poop.  (Actually, I do this silently, not even quietly.)

Fart.  (Also something I try to do silently, or at least not in front of Others.)

Close doors. (Unless, for dramatic effect, it needs to be slammed.  I’m only human.)

Now, I’m not claiming to be perfect; I see Husband writing in his diary about some of the unfortunate habits I may have.  Fear of the telephone.  Inability to retain knowledge regarding technology.  Lack of desire to make decision about which restaurant to eat at.  But while all these things may annoy Husband, even he would have to admit that I do them quietly.  Very very quietly.  

WANTED: VICTORY

When I started dating Husband all those years ago, his first order of business was to brainwash me into becoming a UCLA Bruin fan.  Now, me being somewhat of a sports fan, this wasn’t too difficult to do; also, the fact that I have a hard time losing to my four year old son at Go Fish might suggest I have a bit of a...competitive...streak.   First and foremost, I am a Nice Girl From the Midwest.  My heart will always remain to the Hawks and the Cubbies, but it is big enough to allow for the love of other’s beloved teams.  I was HAPPY to put on a blue shirt, bust out a couple eight claps, hate the Trojans, (not hard to do) and take long walks on the UCLA campus as Husband recited soliquies about Days Past as Stupid Frat Boy.  (Side note; when I was 13 my family vacationed in SoCal and took a drive around UCLA campus.  Husband would have been college freshman. The joke goes, I saw a young man barfing in the bushes and thought to myself...THAT’S the man I’m going to marry one day!) (Side side note-yes, he’s that old.    And I’m that young.)  Point is, I took my role as Bruin Fan very seriously.  The first year of my fandom, we went 10-2.  I like to think of this as my courtship with the Bruins.  They held the door open, nobody scratched their balls in front of me, we held hands.  It was all very sweet and full of victory.  Eight seasons later, the Bruins seem to think they can take a huge shit right in front of me with the door open and STILL expect me to go to bed with them.  You know what, Bruins?  I am Seriously. Over. Losing.  I deserve better than this.  I didn’t even GO to UCLA and I had a mad affair with you and now I think you should get your ass to the gym and WORK OUT because otherwise, Gelato Mama may be on the market for a new team.  I can’t cheer for my alma mater because I went to New York and studied ACTING FOR CHRIST’S SAKE!  We didn’t play football!  We ACTED like we were playing football. And we could maybe kick your ass.  Now, I am more than happy to continue taking my kids to the Rose Bowl, buying them frozen lemonades and football jerseys, but only if you get it together so they know what it feels like to cheer for a winning football team.  I will not set them up to live a life of frustration and close calls.  You may not miss field goals.  You may not blow a turnover.  You may not get injured in the first quarter of the first game of the season.  

So, to summarize, I’m going to need you to get your shit together.  Other teams are...flirting. I’m thinking the Hawks could have my full devotion.  I’m thinking Boise State was looking pretty good.  I’m thinking I could cheer for Oklahoma just to piss off my sister-in-law.  I’m thinking I have LOTS of OPTIONS.  Now, I will be at the Rose Bowl this Saturday tailgating, drinking beer, playing catch with the kiddos.  I will stand and cheer for you.  I will eight clap the hell out that place.  But you better bring it.  Cuz Mama’s hands are getting tired.

Birth Order

It’s so true what they say about birth order.  I say that like I’ve done actual research about birth order, but please know that I haven’t.  I speak only from birth order experience.  I am the youngest of three and I pretty much did what I wanted because no one had the time or energy to care.  I mean...to watch me.  I mean...you know what I mean.  My mom has told me  that I was really easy to potty train.  She just woke me up one morning and said, Okay!  This is it!  No more diapers!  And I then said Okay!, put on my undies and never had an accident or an issue.  Although I prefer to think this was because I was a potty-training genius, I’m pretty sure that it means I was perhaps a bit...older...than the normal potty training child and my mom was just...busy...looking after her other two kids who had REAL problems like homework and potty training was a serious pain-in-the-ass issue that could be dealt with later.  To which I say AMEN SISTA!  I only have two children, one who is potty trained OF COURSE because he was the FIRST and I did everything TOTALLY RIGHT and the other who, one could argue, might need to be potty trained but...I’ll do it later.  

I’m sure my son will grow up to be just as clever and smart and curious as I believe him to be.  He better be because he had the proper amount of tummy time.  I expect him to be a “good example for your sister!”  (Yes...I actually say that.  And then cringe.)  His shit needs to be IN ORDER.  After all, we did flash cards.  As for my daughter...well, she will probably have her own reality show one day.  Not that she won’t be capable of great things, but when she takes her shirt off in Target and runs down the aisle laughing and shrieking with joy, I can only assume she is...crying out for attention? No, her every move was not captured on film.  She does not have a baby book.  She did not do tummy time, and miraculously she can hold her head up despite that fact.  She is not potty trained, but I’m sure she will be before kindergarten.  She is hilarious and a little bit raunchy, which I know is a weird way to describe your two year old daughter...but if you know her you are nodding your head right now going...OMG-she IS kind of raunchy.  I can just keep my fingers crossed that she uses these powers for good instead of for the pole.  Or a terrible show on Bravo that I would surely TIVO if it was on now starring someone else’s daughter who clearly was not potty trained until she was 7.  

I’m not really sure the point of all this except to say that I do believe we are shaped by the order of which we were birthed.  It’s impossible not to be.  I just hope that my kids grow up knowing that Mom always tried the best she could...sometimes failed...but always always ALWAYS loved and cherished them equally.  And, oh my God, I just know if we have another baby, that one will be BLOGGING about it one day.

8 Hours

My 2 year old joined her big bro at school today, as she will every Tuesday and Thursday, which means that for eight hours a week I. Am. Alone. And suddenly...confused.  I can just get out of the car and shut the door and walk away?  I can go to the bathroom with nobody fighting over who gets to hand me the toilet paper?  I can go to a coffee shop and sit...with a computer...and write?  Oh...the things I have missed!   (But, seriously, what in the hell are all these people doing in this Coffee Bean?  Don’t they have to go to work?  How much free time do these people have?  Lucky bitches.)   I remember back in the day....way back in the day...when I was a single gal living off of cheap wine and veggie burgers, I used to come to coffee shops and write.  (With an actual notebook and pen, not this fancy computer that I can’t really figure out.)  Even then, it always felt like an indulgence to be sitting somewhere in the middle of the day drinking coffee and putting pen to paper.  As I sit here, laughing a quiet, evil laugh at the man trying to wrestle a chocolate milk from his daughter’s death grip, it’s hard to believe that all these years later I am able to do this again.   I’m sure Husband would prefer me to be doing something that makes actual dollars appear in our bank account, but damn it, I’ve earned this day.  This four hours of uninterrupted time.  You give so much of yourself to everyone else as a mom and today I am taking it back! Do you hear me?  RISE UP MY MOTHERS!  Okay, I’m getting excited.  The truth is, today I AM going to indulge in this four hours.  After I finish this delicious coffee, I plan on a pedicure.  And a trashy magazine.  But very soon, these 8 hours a week I have to myself will turn into time to get shit done without any helpers.  Closets need to be cleaned, houses need to be kept after, diapers need to be bought, dinner needs to be made...and God forbid I make a doctor’s appointment without clearing it through Husband’s schedule...but one thing I have told myself as this school year gets under way is that it’s time for Gelato Mama to find herself again.    (Cue Rocky-like inspired music.)  I love my kids more than anything, but the last thing I want to be in ten more years is a woman who has lost herself completely to play-dates and soccer schedules and wholesome, nutritious meals that nobody will FUCKING EAT.  Gelato Mama is getting her grove back, damn it.  She will also clean the closets and potty train the little one, but Not.Today.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I need a refill.