Count Your Blessings...

So, in case you didn’t know, I have two Children: Son, who is almost 6 and Daughter, who is 3 and a half.  (Going on 13.  She’s totally getting her period.  I’m sure of it.  That would explain so much.)   Having two healthy, happy children is a blessing.  A huge blessing.  Some days I have to remind myself of this as my two little blessings are toying with my mental sanity....and I just repeat to myself...Blessing.  Blessing.  Blessing.  But that being said, they are getting to an age where the light at the end of the tunnel starts to burn your eyes just a teeny tiny little bit.  They’re more independent.  They can get their own snack.  Play by themselves.  Brush their own teeth.  It’s these little things that make a huge difference in a parent’s life.  To not be so needed all the time; not that being needed by a child is a bad thing...it’s just all consuming...and until you start to eek out of those first few years of a child’s life...you don’t realize how needed you were.  

This being needed thing has been on my mind lately because it’s no secret to those who know me that I kinda sorta maybe think I possibly maybe kinda want another baby.  Maayyybbeee.  But, maybe not.  Ohhh....babies.  They are so sweet. And little.  And fresh.  Sure, they wake you up a lot, but it’s usually not too complicated to get them to settle down.  Feed them.  Hold them.  Love them.  They haven’t learned to use their armpit and hand as a farting machine.  In fact, they don’t even think that farts are funny, only that they feel better once they do fart.  They haven’t yet learned the sassier side of the English language; don’t know how to talk back; don’t know how to use a black sharpie as a weapon.  When a baby cries out, nobody stares at you in judgement; they simply keep oohing and ahhing and, oh, isn’t that baby so cute when he cries?  Babies.  Are.  Wonderful.

But when I think of having another baby, I have such mixed emotions.  Of course, I would never regret having a child, but, the third time around, you go in with eyes wide open.  The pregnancy.  The diapers.  The sleep schedule.  The breastfeeding.  That phase where your back is in constant pain from the hunch of holding little hands as they learn to walk.  (But, what a sweet pain it is.)  Just thinking about it is kind of exhausting. Do I want to do that again?  I think I do.  No.  I don’t.  I’m not sure.  Which means the door is open.  Unless it’s closed.  But there is a crack.  Do I slip through the crack or do I just keep peeking in?  I mean, The Offspring are doing nothing but getting older, same as their Mama.  What would it be like to have two in school and a newborn?  Would it be lovely?  Would it be more difficult?  Do I jump back in?  Do I want to do it All.Over.Again?  Yes.No.Yes.No.Yes.No.Yes.  

Clearly, I’m a very decisive person.

As I look at women with newborn babies, I try to remember that eventually that tiny, little, sweet, babbling baby will learn how to speak.  Loudly.  And scream NO! while snot and tears collect in a puddle on your freshly laundered shirt.  And those first few years of being so needed...they are hard.  But they are magical.  Most importantly I must remember that watching a child grow is a gift.  A privilege.  So for now...my two blessings keep me feeling very busy...very tired...but extremely lucky.  

And let’s be honest; sometimes I still really...need...my mom.  I guess that never really goes away.

Blessing.

Can I Get A Volunteer?

I may have once or twice mentioned the following facts:

1.) Walking into a room of strangers causes me great discomfort.
2.) This discomfort often causes me to swear while telling inappropriate stories.
3.) Moms scare me.

So imagine my level of anxiety as I walked into a room overrun with moms, most of them strangers, all of them appearing waaayyyy more savvy and smart and put together than me. I’m pretty sure the moment I walked into the room, I dropped an F bomb.  To myself, of course.  Nobody was talking to me.  (Because I was hiding in the corner like a scared little kitten.)  What was the purpose of this gathering, you may ask?  Well, here’s something that if you don’t have kids you may not know: the pressure to volunteer at your kids’ school, especially if you’re a Stay At Home Mom Who Clearly Has Nothing To Do But Work Out, is overwhelming.  I understand the need for the volunteers.  There’s no money, there’s not enough teachers, there’s too many kids, but sometimes it feels like a competition of Who Can Be The BEST Mom?  Who Has Their Shit TOGETHER?  And I often feel like I do not have my shit together...that everyone is in on something that I’m missing out on.  (It’s a lot like those awkward middle school years, come to think of it.)  But I’ve gone...light...on the volunteering in the past years, so I decided that I needed to step it up this year.  First year of kindergarten and all.  Can’t just spend all my time at the gym in Lululemon for goodness sake.  So, I took that number 2 pencil and I put my name down on that list and then there I was...at an Enrichment workshop with a couple hundred other moms where we were to be taught how to teach art to kids.  (Because, you know, kids don’t get art.  Or music.  Or gym.  Or anything that is fun and extremely beneficial to the rest of their lives.)

Walking into that room felt like the first day at a new school where everyone knows each other and you feel invisible.  I had to give myself a pep talk and man up.  Or Mom up, rather.  I strolled around, grabbed a cup of coffee, found my table.  I sat down, introduced myself to the woman sitting across from me and immediately began lamenting to her my insecurities in a curse-riddled monologue.  Lucky for me, she did not seem offended, she laughed, and caught me up on what exactly it was I was volunteering for.  As the table filled, it was obvious that most of these women were familiar with each other; they had older kids; they had been around the block; but I fell into an easy conversation with them because, as I had to remind myself, this is MY TRIBE.  This is not scary. These Moms are not scary.  I can volunteer.  I will figure out where that “shed” is with all my “supplies” are and I will teach the kids art.  I WILL BE OKAY.   

And while I will again experience anxiety as I walk into a room full of strange five year olds (I will do my very very best not to curse), I’ll just look to my own personal tribe, my Son, beaming with joy that his mom is there.

Volunteering.

Kindergarten Blues

Kindergarten.  A milestone event for any child; a not to be missed photo opportunity.  A day where parents stand proudly, with tears in their eyes, strapping crisp backpacks on to small backs.  Children stand nervously, not quite knowing what is about to hit them. A patient teacher tells you it’s time to leave and 5 year old sweaty hands release their grip and walk bravely into the unknown.  Mom and Dad watch, swallowing the lump in their throats, until the door is closed and then slowly shuffle away, hand in hand, marveling at how fast the time goes and secretly fearing the homework packet that will surely take over their lives. 

Unless your My Son. 

If you’re my Son, you prefer to temporarily go insane and cling yourself to my body, or perhaps try to climb back into it, only to peeled off by a nice lady who’s very job it is to deal with these...special...cases, and scream out MAMA! with your arm out, as if it will be a lifetime, and not just a few hours, until those little eyes are reconnected with mine.  Husband slowly backs away with Daughter, for surely she is taking notes on How To Act On The First Day Of Kindergarten, but she would do it louder and with more...flair and the very thought sends shivers down my spine.  Parents stood around me, nodding their heads, feeling badly for us, yes, but also thinking, Holy Crap I’m So Happy That’s Not Me.  There was no picture.  There was no walk off with a trickle of tears.  There was only chaos, screaming, and psychologists standing by.  (For me or Son, I’m not sure.)

When it was over, I felt like someone had beat the crap out of me.  I cried.  A lot.  I felt helpless.  And then I felt an arm around me.  A mother who I did not know, comforting me.  Familiar and strange faces alike gathered round me, their eyes filled with genuine concern and kindness; their words encouraging and asking me how can they help?  My phone rang and beeped all day, mothers and friends calling me, giving support, advice. A playdate was arranged with a new classmate for that very night, in hopes that the next day would be easier.  These women, these Mothers, may think that their gestures were small and insignificant, but they inspired me.  They made me realize that it really does take a village.  We stumble along this motherhood thing, trying to figure it out and make the right decisions along the way, but we need each other. We need to lift each other up and lend a hand.  To be strong for one when another is weak.  Because being a Mother is hard, hard work.  Joyfully hard.  And we don’t need to do it alone.  We just need to look to our left or to our right and realize a tribe surrounds us. A Mom Tribe.  

It’s been over a week now since that First Day and I’m happy to say that Son skipped off to school this morning, right alongside his new friends.  I watched him disappear into the classroom, the door closing as tears filled my eyes and I sauntered slowly off...marveling at just how fast the time has gone.  I may not have a photo of him smiling nervously on the first day of school, but what I got is better than that.  

I got a Tribe.

Church Camp

Summer is in full swing here in Gelato Land and as much as I’d like to lie in the grass and watch the clouds float by, we don’t have any grass and they only thing I can watch here at the beach is the fog rolling in.  Again.  So after a couple weeks of being blissfully bored and lazy, it was absolutely time to have someone else entertain Offspring.  For at least a few hours.

Enter: Church Camp.

I’m not sure why some of my friends...laughed...when I said my kids were hitting up Church Camp.  Granted, Son did one time ask if Jesus and Chuck E. Cheese’s were the same thing.  And then, of course, there was the time I attempted to explain the meaning of Christmas to him and he walked away believing Jesus and Santa were brothers, but that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in God or talk to my kids about Him.  Daughter requests a prayer each night before dinner and while she usually thanks God first and foremost for tic-tacs, she is praying.  I must have done something right.  After all, I was raised Catholic.  For years, my Wednesday nights were spent at CCD instead of watching 90210 like every other kid my age- but because of that TOTAL INJUSTICE...I don’t remember...everything...those lovely teachers talked about.  But I do appreciate the fact that I had a foundation to build my beliefs on and while I swear, really, that one of these Sundays the Gelato Family will start going to church, I am more than happy in the meantime to scoot my kids over to a specially designed camp run by highly energetic, seemingly impossibly happy people who did backflips of joy at the opportunity to share their love of God with my children.  I was also doing backflips of joy at the prospect of three solo hours. 

But Church Camp had a little slick trick up their sleeve. Church Camp was on to me.  Church Camp knew that there would be moms out there like me who were more than willing to sign up for Church Camp simply because it was cheap.  Like super cheap.  Like ‘a pair of shoes from Target’ cheap.  So what Church Camp conveniently didn’t mention about the price of admission was that it included your very own copy of Church Camp’s Greatest Hits.  And that each song is played at Church Camp with it’s very own dance moves.  Isn’t that just fantastic?  Church Camp knew that no child can resist an infectious beat paired with sign-language inspired dance moves.  Church Camp knew that as soon as my kids saw that shiny little compact disc, they would relentlessly ask to play play play it louder louder louder until the only thing I’m praying to God about is to Make.It.Stop.Please.  Church Camp knew that if I were to reject an invitation to have an impromptu dance party to their Greatest Hits, I would be Judged and deemed a Mean Mommy.  So I listen.  And I dance.  And I think...

Well played, Church Camp.  Well played.

All joking aside, The Offspring totally loved Church Camp.  And I was grateful to be sending them to a place where everyone was so...nice.  Really, really...almost like really? nice.  And turns out, I do need to brush up on my Bible stories as I still can’t figure out why Son came home with a box of Irish Spring soap one day.  And PS-what is IN Irish Spring soap as my entire home, while not being very big, smelled like a leprechaun for 3 days.

So...maybe it wouldn’t kill me to buy a Children’s Bible and talk about Jesus in a way that doesn’t involve me cursing.  The Lord...he really does work in mysterious ways.

Pregnant Pause

Four days ago, I was kind of pretty sure that I was pregnant.  This morning, Mother Nature, along with two negative pregnancy tests, have assured me that I am not pregnant.  Today, I am equal parts relieved and sad by confirmation of no bun in oven.    

It all started 37 days ago when a Certain Good Friend was all...you don’t keep track of your period?  (Yeah. Girls talk about their PERIODS, okay?)  And I was all, um, no.  It just comes. I get cranky, I get bloated, I get a zit, I cry a lot, and then It comes. It’s never not come...oh....except for that one unexpected time when It didn’t come..now referred to as FIRST BORN.  

The point is, I decided, 37 days ago, that maybe Certain Good Friend was right.  It really wouldn’t take too much of an effort to just make a mark in my calendar when I got It, even though that would mean finding a pen, and a calendar.  Which I did and so I did. 

And then, I’m sitting around, feeling cranky, bloated, and sad about the zit on my chin when I realize, oh...well, It must be coming.  Any day now.  It should be happening.  Hmmm.  Why isn’t it happening?    Where is that calendar?  Maybe I should count the days.  31?  31 days?  No.  Let me count again.  31.  Hmmm.  Found out I was pregnant with Daughter at 32 days.  No.  I can’t be!  With a .01% chance?  Impossible.  (Practically.)

Day 32.  Day 33.  Day 34.  Day 34 I feel nauseous.  I was dragging on my run.  I had a headache.  OH SHIT I’M TOTALLY PREGNANT.

Here, a sampling of thoughts that were spinning right round baby right round the duration of Day 34:

Shit.

Oh, a baby!  I love babies.  I want a baby.  Yeah!  A baby.

Crap.

How will Son and Daughter take it?

I’m doomed.

Oh, God, Husband might pass out.

Good. Lord.

I always said I wanted another one.

Shit.

I do want another one.  Do I want one right now?  

Oh, crap.

Oh, God, I don’t want to have to lose all that weight again.

Motherf*&#@er.

Such a fun summer planned.

Damn it.

Now a sober summer.  BOO sober summer!

BOO.

The playroom will have to go back to a nursery.

Annoying.

It was so nice to have that room as a playroom.

Damn it.

I love babies.  I want a baby.

Lord.

But I just got my mojo back.  A baby, although one that will surely be a beautiful genius, will totally kill my mojo for at least one year.

I liked my mojo.

Goodbye mojo.

Hello leaky boobs and sleepless nights.

I need a drink.

Crap.

Evening 34: Husband bought pregnancy test and heartburn medicine.  Test: negative.  Oh.  

Day 35: second test.  Negative.  Really?

Day 36: Waiting.

Day 37: It arrives.  Doesn’t even apologize for being tardy.  Just shows up, like, oh yeah...sorry about that, lady.  Happens sometimes.  Get over it. (Yeah, my period is totally a dude.  Obviously.)

So, now I’m getting over it.  Summer plans resumed.  Thoughts of cooing baby pushed out of mind.  And then realized that I DO want another baby...but I could wait a couple of years.  And also, Husband didn’t pass out when confronted with possible third child. Didn’t have anxiety.  Gave me a hug and said, it would be wonderful.  

It will be wonderful.  One day.

And Husband...Husband is wonderful.

And, most likely, relieved.  For now.

Hollywood or Bust

I’ve been driving a lot lately. Normally, my daily driving is confined to a 3 mile radius, but due to a play I’m acting in and also my attempt to Contribute Financially by convincing someone to hire me to sell toilet paper, this Gelato Mama’s Volvo has been burning up the freeway with several weekly trips to Hollywood and back.  Actually, that’s a lie.  As if I would ever take the freeway to get anywhere in LA.   At about 45 minutes each way, Volvo and I have been getting to know each other again after years of being forced to share our time together with Little Children, while, although they are quite cute and charming, have been known to inflict severe stress and harm upon car and driver.   But, aside from the ulcer I have developed from the seemingly constant need for last minute childcare due to last minute notification of opportunity to sell toilet paper, the driving...well...it’s not so bad.  It’s quiet and peaceful.  And I can listen to songs with bad words.

It was on these solo drives that I realized just how completely and totally distracted I usually am while driving with the Offspring and perhaps, juuusstt perhaps, the act of parenting while driving should be deemed illegal as it is likely more dangerous than texting and driving, which here in California, is illegal.  Don’t believe me?  Consider, while in the car with Offspring, the following is happening:  

Besides being threatened with a complete breakdown by Daughter if she doesn’t get a GREEN! and an ORANGE! tic tac within 1.7 seconds of asking, I am simultaneously watching the road,  searching for a snack in my Mary Poppins purse, singing a song while playing ‘I Spy’, threatening to turn this car around, reaching directly behind me to grab water thermos from toddler before it is thrown at my head...not to mention that I’m trying to focus on my kegals and squeeze in a few abdominal contractions.  Pair this with fact one or both of my children are trying to get away using the words Poop, Pee Pee, and Fart as frequently as possible, usually singing it out the wide open windows, and you may start to get the idea that I might be a teensy- weensy- bit distracted while driving.

But, the good news is that I have a solution to the Distracted Parents Driving Problem: all cars should be equipped with a sliding window that divides the front seat from the back seat.  You know, like in a limo.  Or a police car.  Whichever one of those you happen to frequent most.  Do I even have to sell this idea?  No, I don’t.  But I will anyway.

Imagine this scenario: You are on the way to Target with the Small Children.  Once safely buckled up and on the way, Small Children ask for water.  Well, Small Children, Mama didn’t bring water.  You’ll have to wait until we get to Target.  Now, instead of listening to the declarations from Small Children of torture and thirst that they are being forced to endure on the 5 minute car ride to said destination, Mama can just clllooooose that window up and peacefully make her way to the Mecca of Target without issuing a single threat.  Yes, with just the simple zip of a window, you have not only increased your mental stability but decreased your chances of not seeing that asshole who cut you off in his fancy 7 Series BMW.  DON’T YOU KNOW I HAVE CHILDREN IN HERE, MAN?  And if you still happen to get cut off by impatient drivers, feel free to curse out loud because no little ears can hear you.  Win.Win.Win.  It's possible that I may have also just solved world peace with this little idea because, as we all know...if Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.  And this...this little dividing window could make Mama very...very...happy.

Now...onto my next mission: who wants to watch my kids on Friday?  I need to drive to Hollywood and convince someone I’m the perfect face to sell...toilet paper. 

Camp: Bored

Ahhhh....did you hear?  Summer is upon us.  In just a few short weeks, the aisles of Target will be crammed with hyper children.  Trips to Trader Joe’s will become less pleasurable and more contact sport.  And the sanity of mothers everywhere falls slowly, but surely, from Somewhat Intact to Holding On By A Thread.  At first, the seduction of summer sucks you in.  A break from the every day “let’s go let’s go let’s go let’s go get your shoes on get your shoes on get your shoes on get your shoes on” is a welcome one.  After all, long, lazy summer days are pretty much the greatest thing about being a kid.  That and unlimited amounts of ice cream, obviously.  But how quickly we forget in those first few weeks of laziness that summer is not over Until. September.  

My kids are still pretty young, so I’m used to spending MASS AMOUNTS OF TIME with them, but I’ve been giving myself a pep talk to prepare for school-less summer days.  I have visions of sleeping past 630, enjoying morning coffee on the porch while Offspring play lovingly with each other, sharing and giggling.  Then we all sit down together and decide what is it we want to do today?  Shall we hit the beach?  Perhaps a museum?  Ride scooters downtown?  Nobody fights, everybody is tan, and getting in the car is a rare occurrence.  

My visions are rudely interrupted by reality.

See, I have a Five Year Old now.  And Five Year Olds apparently aren’t allowed to just sit around and do nothing all summer.  Five year olds are aggressively engaged in the local Summer Competitive Sport of: HOW MANY SUMMER CAMPS CAN YOU AFFORD?  also known as: WHY HAVEN’T YOU SIGNED UP YET? possibly you are more familiar with: YOU KNOW YOU HAVE TO BE A RESIDENT, RIGHT?  or even: YOUR KID IS SO SCREWED AND WILL NEVER GET INTO COLLEGE IF YOU DON’T PUT HIM IN 14 CAMPS THIS SUMMER.  And, my favorite: WE CAN’T DO CAMP THAT WEEK BECAUSE WE’LL BE IN HAWAII.  

Seriously, can we bring it down a notch?  I’m having heart palpitations just thinking about the fact that I came thisclose to not getting Son into the “cheap” beach camp.  I have only my kind, thoughtful, more organized friends to thank for reminding me that I needed to register Son ASAP or else I would surely have had to donate either my arm, leg, or $500 to get him in at a later time.  This whole summer camp thing stresses me out.   My kids are so far from being over-scheduled it might embarrass those more mighty than me.  This isn’t out of laziness or ignorance, it’s just that...like...when did parenting become so...competitive?  Why are we expected to fill fill fill the time up?  Will my kids really be better people if they spend all of their time away from me, being shuffled from activity to activity, eating healthy, organic, homemade snacks in the car?  I say no.  No.

I, for one, just want to slow down during summer.  After all, we have the entire school year to feel rushed, to feel like we’re always missing something, to feel guilty about not signing your kid up for...something; during the eight weeks of summer, can we just...live?  My memories of summer as a kid growing up in Iowa are nothing but happy; sure, there were days when I was bored, but oh my, how lovely it was to be BORED!  To lay in the grass and think thoughts; to ride my bike nowhere for hours; to put on a rollerskating show for no one in particular...how lucky I was to learn how to enjoy being by myself.  Are kids even allowed to be bored these days?  Stimulation is everywhere and we are all guilty of putting a smartphone in front our kids’ faces from time to time instead of letting them just...be.  Maybe I’m naive, maybe I’m crazy, maybe I’m actually the smartest one in the room, but as a parent, I am going to do my best to be bored with my kids this summer.  After all, it’s only a matter of time before they will start choosing their friends over me, and I want to make sure that they have had the proper amount of time to not do anything but eat ice cream, play in the hose and think that their mom is like, the coolest cat around.  After all, what do I have to lose?  Sanity?  Ha.  I laugh in the face of sanity. 

So, make sure to give the Gelato Family a call this summer if you feel like doing nothing.  We’re sure to be experts come September.