I was talking to a friend recently and she commented how she couldn't wait for 2013 to be over because it sucked. Just a lot of commotion and not enough joy. And that is exactly how I feel. It seems when I reflect at the end of the year I always think of the bad things and how I want the next year to be better. Which I guess is sort of human nature?
I was super duper looking forward to selling our house this year that we had been in for 9 years. And WE DID IT! Do you know what happens when you sell a house that you have been in for any length of time? You have to pack. And there is so much packing that in order to do it properly you should take your time and think about it and sort things and be practical and get rid of things. Since Workaholic and I are champion procrastinators, you just know that didn't happen. Packing up a 4100 sq. ft. house into boxes sucked. Especially since the house was empty when we moved in and it was FAR from empty when we moved out. Workaholic wasn't (isn't) quite as willing to part with certain things like I was (am).
For example, all the furniture we inherited or took in as hand-me-downs so we could fill our big new house? He wants to keep. Or not just give away. I say, "Let's become Craigslist's best client." Bedroom furniture, office furniture, living room furniture, rugs, toys, bedding sets, and more I would be happy to part with in a big fun bonfire. I know it sounds stupid, but I'd rather not have a matching bedroom set of dressers that I don't like than have mismatched pieces of furniture that I do. AND, as it turns out, Workaholic and I have quite the different taste in...well, everything.
As a result, the story-and-a-half much smaller house that we bought has things in it that I really like. And a basement full of crap that I don't. Don't get me wrong, there are also things down there that I like. Kitchen gadgets that don't fit in our new cabinets, kid's clothing, Christmas decorations, Halloween costumes, fine china, and toys that I swear we'll bring out and the girls will play with them. Then there are other things...like Workaholic's dozen boxes of paperwork on I-have-no-idea-what, boxes of wires that belong to electronics that don't exist anymore, and OH-EM-GEE THE EMPTY BOXES. We have at least 20 LARGE cardboard boxes that are piled into a corner. This does NOT include that pile of broken down cardboard boxes that are in the same corner. There are also random assorted piles of wood and tools and sawhorses and electronics that actually DO work. And let's not even talk about the boxes (that I packed) of meticulously packed toys that were no longer played with that were unceremoniously ripped open and the contents tossed all over the basement. I walk down there and it is so overwhelming I just turn around and go back up the stairs.
Common sense and a host of hoarders experts would say that you take the big project and break it down into small projects and tackle them one at a time. A while ago I found out I have this lovely personality flaw trait called the "all or nothing". Which means if I don't think I can do it immediately and do it perfectly, then why even attempt to do it at all? I've been this way as long as I can remember and I have no idea how I graduated from college. With a somewhat decent GPA. Almost the only time I can get any type of large project done is when Workaholic is there pushing me. His unending energy and relentless desire to get everything done (and done perfectly) makes it almost impossible to just sit around. Not to say that I work as hard or as long as he does, but at least I do put in some time and energy and amazeballs, I get shit done!!
Our new home has very few decorations hung up and the Christmas decorations are half-assed at their best. And were mostly done over last weekend. I'm not a decorator at heart and I definitely cannot imagine what an entire room should look like based on one piece of furniture. I'd hire an interior decorator but HOLY SHIT THEY ARE EXPENSIVE. Their hourly rate doesn't sound bad, until you have them put in a few hours at your house and a few more shopping and all of the sudden you are looking at a couple paychecks worth of services.
Anyway, so that is where we live. The house we moved out of was perfectly decorated because I hired someone to make it look perfect for the real estate listing, and the new house is a scattered physical rendition of my brain.
The house that we were in and that we are in now is only a part of why I am looking forward to 2014. In between houses we decided to live in the cottage in Michigan for the summer. I commuted an hour-and-a half to work twice a week, while Suky and the girls spent the summer on the lake. And Workaholic came up on the weekends. Let me repeat that...Workaholic came up on the weekends. So during the week I got little sleep because of the commute and the working and the fact that my daughters didn't like sleeping in their own room or going to bed at a decent hour or not waking in the middle of the night to come in and crawl in bed with me which then woke me up. On the weekends family and friends were there and FUN ENSUED. (It really did.) Then they went home and I drove to work and finally caved and let the girls sleep with me all the time just so I could get more than 2 hours of sleep at a time. Even with Suky there, the stress level was at an all time high. She missed her friends and working out at her gym, the girls and I missed Workaholic more than we ever thought possible, and then there was a host of other things happening that added to the fun. As much as I was looking forward to living at the lake for the summer, I honestly can say that it will never happen again unless I have a) a drastic personality shift, b) a promise of 8 uninterrupted hours of sleep every night, and 3) an exponential increase in energy. So...when pigs fly. (insert smiley face here)
2014 is going to be an awesome year for a multitude of reasons. We are "settled" into our new house. Which is smaller and much more manageable. We WILL get the basement cleaned up and out. The house that my father-in-law and brother-in-law and husband are building will be finished by Memorial Day. (It better be.) I will continue to work on my all-or-nothing personality and therefore hopefully will be able to more fully enjoy every moment. Good or bad. Stressful or not.
I'm not really into making New Year's resolutions because they are crap and I never keep them. (See aforementioned personality flaw.) And I am not making them this year. This year is going to be a continued resolve of the things that I have worked on in the past. I may have fallen off the bandwagon, but damn if I'm letting it go on without me.
The other day I was driving somewhere with the girls down a relatively well-traveled road. I noticed ahead of me a couple of motorcycle cops with flashing lights, and at a stoplight they did a couple of circles in the intersection and then proceeded to head my way. There was a red light ahead of me, but the line of cars I was in didn't move even when there was a large space between them.
I was confused for about a half a second until I saw the motorcycles. Dozens and dozens of them, all riding behind the police motorcycle escort. Every summer there is a big motorcycle ride, I don't know where all it goes, but it always drives by the lake. The sound of a couple hundred Harley's makes the air shake. I called to the girls and told them to look out the window because they were about to see something very special. Seeing as how it was Veteran's Day weekend, I figured this was a fundraising ride of some sort and rolled down my window and gave a thumbs up, and waved for a moment.
The men all drove past. Staring straight ahead. In perfect rows of three. And then I looked further down the road, saw a long line of cars with headlights and small red flags stretched out as far as I could see, and sandwiched in between them and the motorcycles was a gold hearse.
Boy I felt like a dumbass.
Not a fundraising ride. A funeral. A funeral for a soldier.
I don't know if it was an active duty or veteran, but it really didn't matter.
Sam had started her running dialogue of questions when I tell her to look at something, and for a moment I couldn't answer her. The lump in my throat wouldn't let me. A couple of tears let loose and then I was able to compose myself as car after car after car passed me.
I have never really known a soldier. My grandfather was in the Navy, but he never really talked about it, I never asked about it, and he died when I was in college. None of my good friends from high school enlisted. I didn't hang with the ROTC crowd in college. And even though my dad's cousin's son (first cousin once-removed?) is in the Army, I don't know him well and we would only see each other about once a year. So it isn't like I have close, personal experiences with soldiers. The closest I have come is watching Army Wives. (and yes, I understand that doesn't count)
But I have heard stories. I have seen photos, read books, watched documentaries, and of course M*A*S*H. (as if that counts too) Certain stories stick with me. War sucks. I've never lost anyone that I was super duper close to, much less had them killed in a foreign country probably scared out of their minds.
So I have empathy. And respect. And seeing a parade of veterans on motorcycles honoring their fallen comrade tugs at my heartstrings.
When Sam asked who died, I told her a soldier. She asked what a soldier is. How do you explain soldiers and war to a four year old girl who is scared of the dark and dinosaurs and loud noises? I'm not even sure what I said, something about a guy wearing a uniform with a gun who goes far away to other countries to help people. She was quiet and then started asking questions about panda bears. I was fine with that.
I think as a country we are getting better at thinking of veterans more than just on Veterans Day. We see the difficulty their families have while they are gone, the trouble they have when attempting to acclimate back into normal life, and the wounds they have suffered...inside and out. And that is a good thing.
Of all the people I have never met in this world, hands down the person I respect the most is a soldier. And that is how it should be.
I was reading through some old blogs over the past few weeks and realized that last year was a pretty tough year for me. Us. Me and Fonz, that is. I mean, I lost him, he hurt his foot (again) and got an ear infection (again). I am so infinitely happy that this year is going much, much better. Even though I gave up Coke and it was a two week detox. Not kidding. Even a little bit. There was nausea and crabbiness and general misery. My pants fit better, and even though I am not doing well in the food category, I am trying to make better choices.
A couple of weeks ago I took Fonz down to see Dr. Nadene so she could do something about his foot. The hole in his toe never really healed from last summer, and now when he walked he would leave little red spots all over my hardwood floor. Super annoying. He had began to limp a little more recently, and I noticed that his back end had given out more than usual. Dr. Nadene decided to amputate the toe, a decision that did not surprise me in the least. But then, while prepping his foot for surgery, she realized that he was also missing a toenail on the same foot, and it was all gnarly looking. So she decided to focus on that instead. Since he has been home, the limping and falling has greatly decreased and had the most adorable bandage on his foot. I think that, for now, we have resolved one issue. Eventually though, that damn toe will have to come off. Have I ever mentioned how much I wish we had pet insurance on him??
Do you see the heart? And the K? And the flowers? I love Dr. Nadene and her peeps.
One night, we got a shit ton of rain. Over the past month, I had stared into my back yard at the dead yellow grass. There was barely a green blade to be found. It was so icky looking that I had absolutely no desire to go pick up the poop that litters the whole entire yard. But then the rain came. And I looked out one morning and THERE IS GREEN GRASS GROWING! It happened! Spring is here!! AND NOW?? The whole damn yard is green. And the grass cutting guys showed up right on time. It looks friggin' beautiful.
The appearance of spring has made me ruminate over our family. Fonz is getting older, but he is still strong and young at heart. Kale is also getting older, more mature, but still insanely food obsessed. I recently got the name of a local certified behavior specialist in hopes I can elevate his level of awesomeness before everyone sees us again for the summer. No promises, but if I have someone I have to be held accountable to, the more likely I'll actually follow through on his training. He has big shoes to fill, and it doesn't happen overnight. Sampson is, well, Sampson. He is in and out all throughout the day and comes home every night. He is a big boy at over 11 lbs, yet still expects treats whenever he comes in the house. Like, "Hey, I came home, right? Gimme candy." I was so fortunate as to open the door the other morning and found his first present of the warm weather season for us on the back porch, a lovely robin. Dead. Under our patio table. In my screened in porch.
The biggest change, obviously, has been in the girls.
Sam is now a mature little four year old. Going on fourteen. She rolls her eyes and sighs and tells us that she hasn't been to school in nineteen years. She loves to say the word truth, but has little idea about how to use it correctly. She treats the dogs and the cat and Charlie exactly the way I do...which means she scolds them when they piss her off. It is so cute, but yet...you are not their mom!
The other day she was telling me "I swear that the toy was under the seat in our car. I swear it was!" She has the memory of an elephant. Of course she always has, but it drives me crazy when she overhears us say that someone died and a week later she asked how and why that person died. I also had no idea what to tell her when she asked me exactly HOW does the baby get in the mommy's tummy?
Her favorite activity is to watch You Tube videos on the iPad or play games on Workaholics old phone that he just gave her. She has to take it everywhere. "Wait mom! I forgot my phone!" (Oh boy.) Don't worry, it isn't actually a phone anymore, more like an iTouch. Another one of her favorite activities is to play with her Barbies and Littlest Pet Shop toys. She watch videos on YouTube where a little girl acts out scenarios with her toys, and then Sam runs and plays with hers. I'm assuming she is mimicking, but since she doesn't want us to watch what she watches or listen while she plays, I'll just keep that as an assumption. She loves anything baby...her favorite Free Willy movie is number three. She calls it the "big Jessie" movie, because he is older. But she mainly likes it because at the end, Willy's girlfriend Nikki gives birth. Like, actually gives birth. Workaholic is grossed out by the scene, but Sam loves it. Alternately, in many movies, she says her favorite scene is the one in which someone dies. Like in Pocahontas? When Kokoum gets shot by Thomas and he dramatically falls into a stream, dead? Yep, her favorite. I'm not quite sure what that means, although I am guessing it is the one which has the most impact on her so she has no idea how to handle her feelings.
She also has developed modesty and she notices what people think of her. Both of which make me infinitely sad. The modesty is expected, but I am just afraid it is because she doesn't want to be laughed at. Which I know because she has told me so. She goes to pre-school two days a week, and now that it is April, I think she is quite ready for summer break. She just doesn't want to go anymore. She also LOVES to help. As long as it is her idea. Since her fourth birthday she has taken to saying no when I ask her to do a task, like let the dogs in. It depends on my mood as to how much I push that issue, also how fast she turns around and walks away. I don't like chasing kids, too tiring. I am trying VERY HARD to have patience and try to impress upon her how it feels when she is rude to me or others. Sometimes I feel like she is just trying to be "cool." At four years old. But maybe this is the girl drama that everyone always talks about. Starting at four. years. old. (Actually, it really started at three, but has kicked into high gear lately.)
The things that have come out of her mouth over the past few months have been priceless. I wish I have written more of them down.
"Daddy, put that knife down before you hurt yourself."
Sam was talking to Sook after having lunch with Sook's sisters and dad. She asked her, "Why did your dad give you up? Does he not want you anymore?"
I have to preface the next story by saying that we do NOT talk about salons and manicures and pedicures a lot in our house. If ever really. And it is in the context of "I really want to get a pedicure." We also don't talk about people of different races and stereotypes, as I am very conscious of how impressionable our kids are. That said, Sam got taken to get her finger and toe nails painted once. It was months ago. Yesterday, she and Sook were sitting down to play nail salon, and Sook lined up all the colors and told Sam that she was going to paint her nails, she just needed to pick the color. Sam responds with, "OK, but can you pretend to speak another language and not English?" O.M.G.
Sam also is teased mercilessly by Workaholic. Actually, both kids are. Sam just has a more direct way of dealing with it..."Daddy, I've had enough." I love how little kids have no concept of time. Sam will often say that she hasn't been to see grandma in 13 weeks, even if it has only been two. She is slowly learning that when we go away for the weekend, it is for 2 nights and 3 days, and it does seem like she really understands that. When we recently told her that we may be moving to a new house, she was extremely concerned about leaving her doll house and her fairies and Sook. Once I promised her that everything was coming with us (God help me pack), she became very excited and wants to know the color of the new house and her new room. So I guess that means she might be able to handle change well? Hopefully better than me. She is forever telling stories that she makes up as she is telling them. Usually they involve her panda bear and his mom and dad and brothers. She makes up pretend friends who have names that change all the time, and are half of one name that she likes and half of another name that she likes. Although that is only for girls, the boys names she chooses are strictly the names of the little boys that she plays with, the sons of my friends.
In general, she is a beautiful, incredibly smart 4 year old who never. forgets. anything. Yesterday she brought up when Oma fell down the stairs when she was carrying Charlie. And how Oma cried. She was two. I have a feeling she'll be spending a lot of time in therapy when she is older.
Charlie. Oh Charlie. Our fearless little girl. Here is her climbing up on the counter.
Normally she can do it in 2 seconds flat. I need to get her in some sort of tumbling or gymnastics class, she is forever jumping from a table to the couch. Or from the couch to the floor. Or from the bed to the floor. When we went and visited Uncle T at his boat store, she climbed up onto one of the Mastercrafts and hopped from the open bow to the open bow of the boat next to it. While it really was only about 6 inches of open air, it was a good 7-8 feet in the air over a concrete floor. Talk about a heart attack.
Her talking is getting much better every day. If you ask her to do something, she'll say "Of course mommy." While she often speaks in whine, she gives the best hugs and she is really hard to resist. She has this terrible habit of whipping things over her shoulder. Done with a toy? Throw it back. Digging through the toybox to look for something? Toss all the toys in the way over your shoulder. The higher and farther they go, the better. It isn't unusual for her to whip something across an entire room. While is actually is pretty good at picking up, she is definitely her father's (and grandfather's) daughter in that it has to be her idea. Otherwise crying ensues. And she is a master at producing crocodile tears.
Charlie revels in playing the little sister role. One of her favorite activities is to take something that she knows is near and dear to Sam at that exact moment and run. Sam plays along with her game like a puppet, screeching and chasing her through the house while Charlie laughs manically. She can be kind to Sam though, and it is in those little moments that I know that we're doing something right and they really do loves each other. I love to hear, "Here you go Sam" because it means that my little Tyrant is actually being thoughtful and mindful of her big sister's feelings.
Neither girl seems to be enamored with the animals, although they each love to feed the dogs. In Charlie's case, that means both putting Kale's dog food out for him and also feeding him her food from her chair. She is not so fond of sharing her food when he takes it right from her without her consent though. I guess I get that, but I always tell both girls that if they don't want the dogs to bother them while they are eating, then they should SIT IN A CHAIR AT THE TABLE INSTEAD OF WALKING AROUND. Just my little attempt at instilling common sense.
Long story short, my girls are growing up. I hate that when parents of grown children tell you to enjoy it because before you know it, your babies are adults are right. I'm trying to savor moments and remember the little things...hence the reason for this post. Enjoy some pictures of my little (growing-up-fast) little girls. And yes, Charlie did get herself up on the banister.
There are
times in your life where you look back and say, “Oh…that is what was going on
with me.” Like when you have a newborn and PPD, and you look back four years
later and think, “So THIS is how I was supposed to feel. I wish I would have
reached out more back then.” Or once your new puppy is housebroken and has
stopped chewing up your shoes; and the infant that you already had when you
acquired said puppy is now feeding herself; and your husband isn’t working 100
hour weeks. I look back and think, “WTF was I thinking? That was a lot of shit
to deal with in a short span of time!” That is how I feel about last week. I decided to
go with the meal replacement plan. It sounded ideal. Easy as pie smoothies (did
you know that pies are actually not that easy to make?), bars for meals, bars
for snacks, and a yummy sensible dinner. I also decided that on the
EXACT SAME DAY I would give up Coke. Did you hear that? I would GIVE UP
COCA-COLA CLASSIC. It wasn’t a conscious decision in that I said, “As of 5pm on
March 8th I am finished drinking my most favoritest carbonated
beverage in the whole entire world. No, I just didn’t have any at home. On Saturday,
day one of the meal replacement plan, I was hyper-focused on eating healthy and
following “the plan”, so going to McDonald’s drive-thru for a treat wasn’t
exactly high on the list of things that I wanted to do. I mean, sure…I WANTED
to go, but then I figured taking a nap was just as good. And it was. Sunday
wasn’t much different; I treated the caffeine headache with Excedrine and lazed
around all day. Monday was more of the same, except while laying around, I also
worked on my laptop.
Part of the
plan is to make smoothies for breakfast and either lunch or dinner, with two
scoops of flavored protein powder mixed in. I thought, “Oh! This will be great!”
And then I actually tried making a smoothie with my new blender that I only spent
$53.99 on. Yeah…not so great. I wound up fighting with the ice or frozen fruit
most of the time (I lost one battle, my kitchen and my clothes and the ceiling paid
the price…did you know that berries stain?), and the other times I put in too
much of something disgusting and I had to choke the damn thing down, and then struggle all day to
keep it down. By Thursday morning, I’d had it. All week I had been nauseous and
could barely get out of bed. The thought of fighting my blender was too much to
bear for the powder-tasting concoction that I was whipping up. I was exhausted,
felt like shit, knew I had been complaining to my co-workers entirely too much,
and was questioning the meal plan decision. As it turns out, easy as pie also
tastes like shit. And therefore isn’t easy as pie.
The only
good thing about my days were the evenings. Most days I was too nauseous to eat
anything, so by dinnertime I was starving. And I could give a shit what I ate.
Leftover sour cream and cheese enchiladas? Yes Please! Leftover lasagna? Hand
it over! Toasted ham and cheese sandwich? I am drooling. Food had never tasted
so good. The best thing about the whole week though was that I did not have a single
Coke. NOT ONE. I did not celebrate that victory as much as I should have. Thursday
night rolled around and it was time for bed. The girls had been extra energetic
lately; cabin fever is reaching its pitch. In other words, I wanted to strangle
them. Actually no…that isn’t true. I wanted to lock them in a soundproof room
and leave them in there for 24 hours. Someone else could make sure that they
had food and bathroom breaks and diaper changes. And whatever the hell else
they wanted. (THIS toy, to paint, THAT sippy cup, MOM!! CHARLIE PUSHED ME!!) I
was ready to snap. I think the girls finally got the hint and lay down to
listen to me read the ONE book I begrudgingly agreed to….5 Minute Princess
Stories. (Five minutes my ass.)
After the
stories were read I tucked in my little angels and tried to leave the room. I
still felt like shit and just wanted out. I wanted to go watch an adult show
(like NCIS or Parks and Recreation…not that XXX stuff you all are thinking) and
play on my phone. I wanted to snuggle my favorite yellow blanket and hide from
everything that was bothering me. And then I heard the little voice, “Mommy,
snuggle?”
Sigh. The
guilt. Oh the mommy guilt. I agreed to snuggle with my little girls and fetched
my yellow blanket and iPhone. I nestled myself in between the girls and wrapped
myself in the coziness that is my yellow blanket and Workaholic's blue blanket. I turned on
Candy Crush Saga and began trying to beat level 65 for the hundredth time. Charlie was
the first to snuggle up close. She was the one who wanted me in bed with them
in the first place, so I wasn’t really all that surprised. She loves to watch
my phone when we’re in bed at night, the lights turned off, no TV on, the glow
of the screen illuminating her beautiful long eye lashes. It doesn’t matter if
I am playing a game or on Facebook or reading Scary Mommy Confessions, she puts
her little head on my shoulder and presses up next to me as close as she can. A
couple of minutes later Sam crawled out the cave she had created for herself
under the covers and did the same thing on my other shoulder. Before too long I
heard the long steady breaths of little kids dreaming as only little kids dream.
For all the drama before bedtime, they were out like a light once I got them to
hold still.
I put down
my phone and stayed there a while, taking it all in. The soft chirps of the
sound machine in the background, the heat from two little bodies pressed up
against me, the quiet that resonated throughout the rest of the house. At one
point Sam, in her slumber, began stroking my arm and Charlie reached up and
laid her little hand on her face. The softness of their skin when they are
clean and being gentle always makes me pause. These are my two little girls. At
the end of the day, I can come home and burrow myself in their arms, caress
their soft hair and live in the moment. I can stop thinking about how tired I
am and how hungry I am and wonder if I just go throw up would it make me feel
better. Life at its simplest. The purity of kids is never more apparent as when
they are sleeping. I eventually made my way to my bed, desperate for a good
night sleep.(only to be awoken at least twice by my little angels).
Friday
morning came and I was more tired and nauseated than ever. The cycle was
starting again. I wanted to cry, but couldn’t, because we had a doctor
appointment to make in Chicago. I had to push through. It was when I sat down
in the passenger seat of the van where I finally caved. I couldn’t take it
anymore. I forced Workaholic to pull into McDonald’s for ONE Coke, and threw in
some fries for good measure. By Saturday
I had decided to give up on the meal plan because the thought of that powdery
smoothie made me want to vomit. The nausea was starting to go away, and pizza
and beer on Saturday night with friends made things much, much better. By Monday
the nausea had pretty much disappeared, and I was eating healthier but not
eating any of the meal replacement food.
Looking back, I realize that drastically
changing my diet at the same time as giving up the caffeine and fake sugar that
I depended on every day was probably not the smartest thing to do. I was having
full on withdrawal. Even though I supplemented with Excedrine, my body was
PISSED OFF that I would take away the yummy deliciousness that is high fructose
corn syrup. I can’t believe that I was so hard on myself. Giving up pop (or
soda, depending where you live) is a HUGE accomplishment. Screw those
disgusting protein bars and smoothies that piss me off. Screw the “guilt-free”
snacks of raw carrots, celery, and broccoli. Screw feeling guilty and ashamed
that I “can’t do it.” Fuck. This. Diet. I. Gave. Up. Coke.
My ultimate
goal is to have more energy and lose weight and be a happier person, without
meds. I am going to do this. But I have to take baby steps. Really little baby
steps. Teeny tiny baby steps. Coke is my first. (OK, so quitting Coke is like a
baby taking its first step and falling down the stairs. It hurts, but no reason
to stop!) Daily fast food is my next. I am trying to only eat out twice a week…that
includes lunch AND dinner. This will be a huge fete for me as well, seeing as
how a month ago I probably ate out a dozen times a week. I wonder
what I will think a year or two from now when I look back. Will I think that I was
getting my life in order? Or will I think that I was crazy for trying to quit
all of the things that I loved? Only time will tell!
Ask any parent, and I bet they can tell you a moment in their child's life where that kid shone brighter than any star in the sky. The parents beamed from pride and there was a choir of angels singing "hallelujah". An aura formed around the child, and s/he was slowly lifted up in the air, set atop their pedestal, from which they would reign until the next big screw up on their part.
Those moments are few and far in between. Even the things that your kids do every day that are actually kind of incredible get boring day, after day, after day, after day. And then there are things that your child doesn't do so well, but you know that they'll come around and catch up, so you don't push it.
I've always thought that Charlie was smart. The light in her eyes tells me that there is a spinning brain in her head, full of thoughts of how to make my life hell exhausting. Unfortunately she really never gets to tell us how smart she is because Sam never. stops. talking. Lots of people say that the older child "talks for the younger child." I wouldn't say that is our case. In our case, Sam just talks, and Charlie never gets a chance to input her two cents.
This is especially evident in the car, where Sam will chatter on about the dead squirrel she just saw, and why did it die? When did it die? How did it die? And then she'll tell me how much she misses that squirrel, and she wishes it wasn't dead. For 10 minutes straight. Meanwhile Charlie is sitting quietly in her seat, probably wondering why the hell her mom hasn't changed the conversation to something more enlightening than roadkill.
Our house has had a touch of the flu lately, with fevers and aches and pains and coughs passing between the two kids but thankfully (knock on wood) staying away from me. I just get the midnight, 1am, 4am, 5am wake-up calls and then the 6am vomit. In my bed. On my side. It's been awesome.
When Workaholic got home from work today, he was in dire need of sleep and so was Sam. So they trekked up the stairs and cuddled on the still-sheetless bed for a few hours. Charlie and I were finishing up some holiday baking and then she started pulling things out of cabinets and drawers and bins. I started to see chaos and I could feel the breath being sucked out of my body as I envisioned the mess I'd have to clean up once she was finished. I couldn't take it. I also knew that I needed powdered sugar. And I knew that taking one kid to the store is cake compared to two. So we bundled ourselves up (which took 20 minutes) and drove to Walgreens (which took 3 minutes).
After finding out that Walgreens does indeed NOT carry powdered sugar, I thought we'd spend more quality time together, just the two of us, outside of the house. We headed to the next town to see some Christmas lights. There, I could go to another store to get what I needed and kill enough time so that she would be ready to go to bed when we got home. You know, since she had been up since 4am.
We arrived at the local butcher shop and she beelined for the suspiciously low table chock full of candy. And I'm not talking M&Ms here. No sirree. I'm talking fresh, locally made gummy worms and chocolate covered anything and even just cubes of pure sugar. All packaged in these convenient clear tubs, spread out on the toddler-eye-level table. She snatched up a container of sour gummy worms and bolted for the nearest aisle. By the time I caught up with her, she had the lid off and was saying, "Look mommy!" as she dangled the worm over her mouth. And then it was gone. Since she had been so good in Walgreens and generally had a pretty good day, I decided that it would be OK for her to have them. They are seriously her favorite candy. She once ate two bags before anyone noticed she even had them.
This particular town has a very old and large congregation of Catholics who just built themselves a brand spanking new, beautiful (so I've heard) church, complete with gift shop. (I kid you not.) Seeing as how the Catholics own a majority of the main strip through town, they are free to put up as many Nativity scenes as they want. So they do, and I think there are five. In about a 3 block stretch. It actually is very nice, a constant reminder of the reason for the season, and they are beautiful sets. Not the plastic light-up ones you see on people's front lawns. Oh no, these are custom built wood mangers, just like where Jesus was born, with life sized figurines and straw and spotlights that illuminate them at night. There is also a star above, in case there are any additional shepherds that need to find their way.
The whole time Charlie and I had been in the car, I had pointed out every house that had good Christmas lights, and asked her, "Charlie, do you see those pretty lights?" And she would respond, "Yeah," in that tone that says she is just humoring her silly old mom. I am sure by the 20th time I asked she was wishing Sam was in the car to ponder about roadkill.
We finally pulled up to a stop sign next to a manger and I was admiring the handiwork of whoever made it. All of the sudden I heard Charlie say, "Look mommy!", in the same excited tone I had tried to use with her when we were looking at Christmas lights. I turned on the interior light and looked back at her. I was so proud that she had finally noticed something, the beautiful lit-up manger on the corner next to our car. I even thought, briefly, that perhaps she would point out the baby Jesus, or the star over display. "How sweet", I thought to myself. The choir was starting to sing and I was preparing her pedestal.
When I turned to see what she was pointing at, I saw a truly wondrous site. Instead of pointing at the manger, she was holding up one of the sour gummy worms as high as her little arm could stretch. Looking in the exact opposite direction of the manger. I can only assume she was amazed that the light from a nearby streetlamp was illuminating each bump on the worm and highlighting the color change from head to tail. The worm actually shimmered in the glow of the nightlights. And while it was pretty, it was at that moment that I knew that we needed to talk about baby Jesus more often. And perhaps put the angels on standby. And keep the pedestal in storage. While kids are fantastic at making you proud, they are even better at giving you a reality check. Mine for the day is to not expect a two year old to notice anything but the candy in her hand. I'm sure I can call on the choir of angels tomorrow.
I'm going to start this by saying, I love my children more than anything, and I would do anything for them. They come first, no matter what.
That being said, they are about to drive me insane. They have already driven me to drink, which, let's admit, wasn't much of a stretch. But my little angels are full blown GIRLS.
I asked facebook last night if girls truly are more emotional than boys, even as toddlers, or if it was something I did to cause this. This...daily battle of meltdown after meltdown because YES YOU HAVE TO GO TO PRE-SCHOOL TODAY. The tantrums that are thrown when you tell a child that they cannot stand on a chair on top of the fireplace hearth to reach up and grab the ornament on the top of the tree that just happens to be made of glass. (Why oh WHY did I not put up only plastic or cloth ornaments this year?) (Like it would have really made that much of a difference, Charlie breaks everything.)
The general consensus was summed up best by my sister, the saint who is a mother of three darling little humans of the female variety, two of whom are twins. Her response was, and I quote, "Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes." I presume one Yes for each of our girls.
One of my facebook friends said that it greatly depended on the child and parental reaction. Which, apparently I have two more emotional than less emotional girls. And as far as parental reaction? I have tried everything. From ignoring to calmly responding to screaming, to mimicking the tantrum at a lesser level, to putting them in their room or timeout. I've tried to sympathize with them, let them know that I DO feel their pain (which sometimes calms them down), there is just nothing I am going to do about it.(which gets them fired back up again) The only thing that consistently works is to give in and let them have their way. Which...no. Does not work for me. At least all the time. Life isn't fair, and I guess my kids are learning that young.
As the parents of four girls, I sincerely do not know how mine survived. One definite side effect is that my dad no longer attempts to talk if there are female relatives in the room. Sometimes he will raise his hand at dinner, but no one ever calls on him, so he doesn't get his turn to speak. Poor, poor man. My mom made us dinner every.single.night of our childhood. And she always kicked us out of the kitchen, saying it was too small for more than one person. Which, OK, maybe it was. But I see now that making dinner was the only alone time she really ever got. If there had been a door, I am quite sure she would have shut it. And put in ear buds if those existed back then. Poor, poor woman.
Another thing I remember from my childhood involved our parents getting mad at us for fighting. And the thing is, I am not even really there yet with my girls. What gets me is the attitude I get my teenager preschooler. She takes longer than anyone in the house to get ready. And when you tell her it is time to go, she responds with, "Ugh! I'm coming!" When I am trying to help her clean her room and all she is doing is talking about Baby Panda Bear and I am doing all the cleaning and so I start scolding her, I get, "Ugh! Mom! Why are you so mean? Just calm down!" She'll make a clicking sound with her tongue, "Well mom, (click) I know that we are going to get ready for bed now, but how 'bout I just watch the iPad for a little while until I get tired?" It is more of a statement than a question. And when I respond with a, "Yeah, that's not going to happen," the meltdown begins.
When the girls make a mess, they know that they must clean it up. And then we tell them to clean it up. Five times. Eventually, Workaholic gets mad and tells them he is going throw out everything that is on the floor. Which creates an instant and very loud negative reaction from Sam, and Charlie usually just wanders away. I supposed she figures she'll let Sam get the attention for this, and Sam is more than happy to be dramatic enough for both of them. Last night, I came home to two screaming, sobbing, clearly traumatized children. Daddy had "thrown out" all their toys. Workaholic said that when he got out one trash bag, Sam immediately ran over to the cabinet where they are kept and tied the handles together with a string, and then ran back to him to try to rip the bottom out of the bag. He was pretty impressed with her problem solving skills. I was less impressed with that than the endurance of my kids.
I know that kids thrive on routine and positive reinforcement and all that jazz, but sometimes that shit just does.not.work. And what do you do then? Besides tear your heart out and chug a bottle of wine. I actually totally get why Brittany shaved her head, being the parents of two kids, especially that close in age, will make anyone want to do something drastic.
I know that in 20 years me and my girls will have an awesome mother/daughter relationship. At least I hope.
I stopped at the park for a few minutes over lunch since the girls were there with our nanny. This particular park is on quite a busy street. Cars go by every few seconds, if not more often. After parking, I noticed a little kid about Charlie's age and height running towards me. Since I was still pretty close to the street, I kept an eye on him as he realized that I was NOT his mom and turned to run the other way.
I kept watching him, and he kept wandering closer and closer to the street. Actually, the kid was making a beeline for it. I thought to myself, "He's going to stop, he's going to stop," (you know, because toddlers totally know to stop at the curb), but the kid was determined. I started walking his way and then had to break into a (pathetic) run to catch him before he hit the pavement.
Just after I put out my hands to stop him, a big white SUV drove past. There was no way they would have seen him, since we both were behind a car. I guess if they saw me running and put two-and-two together, but let's not bank on that.
The kid started pointing across the street and said "Mommy" and tried to get around me. Now here is where maybe I am weird. I didn't pick him up. I didn't want him to freak out on me and start screaming and draw all kinds of attention and make me look like some sort of child kidnapper. I kept trying to herd him back to the park, and after what seemed like forever, (more like 3 seconds) I look up and his mom is running. She thanked me profusely and was shaking and hugged him tight. He looked like he could give a damn about the whole situation.
At that point, I realized my heart was pounding. I'm not sure if it was from the 30 feet I had to run or the adrenaline that rushed through me when I realized what was going on. And what could have happened. We smiled at the new mom and went back to getting my kids to play on the playground.
And here's the thing. I totally get that your kid got away and you didn't know. Hell, I hope someday someone is there to stop Charlie from crossing the street before an Expedition rolls over her. I was totally NOT judging the mom, I was just happy that I was there and could help. But not 10 minutes later, while we were at the swings, I noticed the little boy again. He had wandered over and was trying to play with some little girls who had a wagon. Who were vehemently against a little boy joining in their game. And the mom was probably a good hundred feet away, in a totally different section of the playground, talking to some other moms.
I get that kids get away. Some more than others Some are hell bent on giving their parents heart attacks. But don't you think that after your kid almost got hit by a car you would keep an eye on him at least for a few minutes? He was probably by us for 5 minutes before the mom came over to get him. She had no other children with her, so I couldn't give her that break. She was just really focused on the conversation at hand with her playgroup.
Am I crazy for thinking that she maybe should have been a tad more vigilant? I know that moms should support each other, and I am all for that, and that none of us are perfect, but her toddler ran away twice, and she didn't notice for several minutes.
Now that I have put it out there, I am sure that Charlie is going to run away and have to be brought home by the police before I realize she is gone. Karma is a bitch.
There are lots of things I don't remember from when my babies were newborns. The first time they smiled, the first dirty diaper, the first time Charlie slept through the night.
I do however, remember the first time Sam slept through the night. I had heard all these stories from moms about how the first time their firstborn slept "through the night" (which typically means 6 hours or more), they would jerk awake and rush to see if the baby was still alive.
That didn't happen for me.
I was at my parent's house, and it was about 6:30 in the morning. I heard her cry, looked at the clock, and all I thought was, "Please, please sleep a little longer." It had been 7 1/2 hours. I should have been ecstatic, but instead I was really sleep-deprived. Luckily for me, Sam continued to sleep through the night, until about...oh...the past few months.
In those precious times, bedtime was a joyous occasion. We had a good routine with Sam, and she was pretty easy to put down. Bottle, swaddle, bed. As she got older it was bottle, books, bed. Sometimes Workaholic would put her to sleep and we would enjoy a nice, quiet couple of hours before going to sleep.
The reason I say those were joyous times is because before and after those times, bedtime is the worst time of the day. Worse even than getting up in the morning. My kids seem to save up all of their energy for after dinner, at which time they run screaming around the house, tickling and tackling each other, stealing each others toys, and generally being wild animals.We've tried to set a routine...sometimes a bath, then brush teeth, get into pajamas, read books, snuggle, sleep. Oh how we have tried.
The past few weeks have been, well...hell. Take tonight, for example. Workaholic is working, so it is just me. I give them a 20 minute warning, at which Sam protests. Charlie says, "OK!" only because I think she likes to say that word. When I announce it is time for bed, Sam starts whining and asking for things, and Charlie bolts. I chase her down, drag her into her room, and wrangle her into a diaper and PJs. I turn on the sound machine, turn down the lighting, and we read books. At least five every night. And then I tell her that we can either rock and snuggle or she can go to bed. At which she tells me no.
Eventually she wriggles out of my arms and climbs into bed. This is where the hell begins. (as if the fighting beforehand wasn't bad enough) We've gotten into a terrible routine of putting her in bed, me walking out, her getting up, me putting her back into bed. After about 15 times of this, she starts to get really upset. This isn't a game she wants to play anymore. She has figured out that I will rock her if she is insistent enough, and cries hard enough. I'm talking the can't-breathe-sobbing-pathetic cry that toddlers do that sort of break your heart. And it also sorta makes you roll your eyes because you know that they are just tired and WHY THE HELL WON'T THEY JUST GO TO SLEEP??
So I rock her, and then tell her that it is time for her to go to her bed. She goes willingly enough, and a few seconds after I walk out of the room, the crying begins again. And the getting out of bed, getting put back in bed routine starts too.This can be a cycle, I might give her more than one chance to rock and snuggle if she gets upset enough. I figure if she is crying THAT hard, there is no way she'll calm down enough to sleep. (I think I need to get a harder heart.)
Tonight, the process took and hour and half. AFTER we went into her room. AN HOUR AND A HALF PEOPLE. I could be watching valuable television, or posting witty things on facebook, or blogging for goodness sake. I could be trying to regain my sanity after a crazy day.
I am all for spending 30 minutes on a bedtime routine. But seriously, 90 minutes?? And that is just Charlie! Let's not even talk about Sam! The best part of the 90 minutes is when I came out of Charlie's room to see that Sam had fallen asleep waiting on me. In my bed, of course, but at least she was asleep. And this isn't the first time it has taken this long.
Sam's biggest complaint is that she "is not tired" and that she wants to sleep with us. Yes, we have caved more than I would like to admit and let her sleep with us. It started out as a necessity of staying in beds that weren't ours. Then it turned into her begging every night. And if she doesn't get her way (yes, we do say no most of the time), then she will often get up at 4 or 5 in the morning and want to come in and "snuggle" with me. (read:push up against me until I fall out of the bed)
So not only am I not getting my alone time at night, but I am getting woken up almost every night by at least one, if not both kids. I'm not sure how to handle this. I need my sleep. I NEED MY SLEEP. They don't get sugar or juice at night, and I am limiting how much they watch the iPad and TV. It doesn't seem to be helping.
Does anyone have any other suggestions? I just don't have it in me to fight both kids at night and it seems ridiculous that I have to. Maybe this is just karma being a bitch.
I saw something on Twitter recently where someone said, "Whoever coined the phrase the Terrible Twos probably felt like an idiot when their kid turned 3."
So let's look at things. I have a three and a half year old. She is smart and cute and wants to do everything BY HERSELF. I now also have a two year old. And adorable, beautiful, smart, stubborn two year old. Life is about to get very interesting up in here.
I will begin Charlie's 2 year old tribute with a little story. Last night, it was past her bedtime, so Workaholic put her to bed. (Actually, Sam rocked her and read her books, Workaholic just lifted her into the crib.) This pissed Charlie off. Like, really pissed her off. She was screaming and crying and I am pretty sure she was cussing us out in the baby babble she uses when she doesn't want to think of real words. This wasn't the typical "I am fussing because I am a little kid who hates bedtime because it is my duty as a little kid to hate bedtime" whining, it was the all out "hear it down the street if the windows are open" crying. Girl was angry.
There are few things that make Charlie that angry, and so I thought that maybe she wanted the new doll that she had gotten for her birthday the night before. It is one of those where it has a zipper and snaps and buttons and other things for little kids to amuse themselves with when they are stuck in a crib at bedtime. I set off clipping off the dozen paper tags on it that explained what each thing was (because 2 year olds can totally read) and headed upstairs to calm her down.
I did NOT hear the thump. I did, however, notice that there was no more crying,
And then her door opened. And out crept the birthday girl. Carrying her blanket and stuffed turtle-that-is-really-a-dog-toy, and her sippy cup of water. The little shit crawled out of her crib.
Shit. Shitshitshit.
The best thing about Charlie, other than her big blue eyes, incredibly long eyelashes, and sparkling personality, is that she loves to sleep. And even if she isn't sleeping, she loves to hang out in her crib, playing with her toys or whatever it is she can reach. (Lately, her nightly goal has been to rip down one of the plastic blinds that hangs across the sliding glass door in her room. There are about half of them left...which doesn't really help to keep the light out when the sun comes shining in every morning.) She will routinely, on weekends, stay in her crib for 5-6 hours. Whenever she gets a little...touchy, I put her to bed, she plays and then sleeps. It is kind of awesome. I can relax, watch How I Met Your Mother on Netflix, take a nap, whatever! It is much easier to get anything done while a toddler sleeps than when said toddler is whining and crying and hanging on you, or running out the door down the street. (Yes, she does both.)
I was hoping the crib thing was a fluke. A random moment of intense anger followed by a stunt that she would never do without the blind courage that rage brings.
I was wrong.
This morning I heard the thump. I heard the short cry. And by the time I got to her room, she had her blanket and turtle and cup and looked at me with the smile and those eyes and giggled. She laughed at me. I am soo in trouble.
I've mentioned before how I don't deal with change well.
In January, new K left us and J joined us. That went...OK.
The other day, we had to let J go. She left for the day, and Workaholic didn't hear her say she was leaving, and she didn't take Charlie to him, and so Charlie was left all alone in the house for about 10 minutes.
In 10 minutes she played in my vanity.
While I am not one to usually envision worse case scenario, in 10 minutes she could have gone outside and wandered into the street and gotten hit by a car. Or stolen by a stranger. Or fallen and hit her head and be all alone, unconscious...until I pulled into the driveway and found her.
But it still took about 30 minutes of pondering how I could rationalize with an outraged Workaholic to allow J to return to us for me to realize that I just could not trust her with my girls anymore. If she was that blase about leaving, when else was she so casual about? I was sad, but immediately started worrying about my childcare situation. Charlie was fine, and I needed to keep her and Sam that way.
Yesterday I spent the day running around, figuring out what the heck I am going to do with them while I am at work.
Workaholic came home in the morning, and informed me that the 2 hours I thought I was getting to run errands had been reduced to 45 minutes. My brain started racing, as it is wont to do when I am experiencing change.
I have to go to the doctor's office. If the girls are going to get into daycare then I have to get a copy of their immunizations. I wonder if I should call the doctor on the way there so they can have it all ready. I wonder if I will have time to run by the post office and Walgreens. I hope that I can arrange a part time payment instead of paying full time, it seems like such a waste of money to pay for 5 days when they will only be there 2 or 3. I think I'll call ahead to the doctor....WHATTHEHELLWASTHATNOISE????
In backing out of the garage, I had managed to hit Workaholic's van. With the front of my van. How does one do that?? Oops. Oopsy. Big oopsy. I managed to damage the front bumper, front quarter panel, the windshield washer holder thing, and possibly the hood. When I drove away, it made this sound when I turned because the wheel well was rubbing against my tire. And I thought there was no damage because when I got out and looked at our vehicles, I looked at the BACK of my car. I hit him with the FRONT. I will never live this down. Like, ever. In 20 years, my in-laws will be sitting around talking about the one time that Charlie was left all alone in the house with a butcher knife for an hour and I how backed into Workaholic's van, totaling both vehicles. (What? Stories don't grow in your family?)
A couple of hours later, we were headed over to J's apartment to return some things she had left at our house and to pick up things of ours that she had. Plus, her and the girls needed to say good-bye. I anticipated an awkward and sad encounter, and hadn't thought to pop a Xanex ahead of time. I was nervous about what J would say, if she would try to get her job back or argue with me or start a fight. I just didn't know.
Sam was not in a good mood, and she spent most of the car ride over telling me that she was NOT going to go into J's house! I had forgotten her shoes, and that 3 year old tone just got to me. I finally said, "Sam, you have to go in to see J because this will be the last time you will ever see her!" I really felt that honesty was the best policy and I really just did not know what else to tell her.
Cue the whiny crying. "Why, momma, why?"
"Because you are going to go to school now, Sam."
Her response was immediate and harsh, "I am NOT going to go to SCHOOL!"
OK, whatever.
We walk into J's apartment after a fight over whether I would carry Sam without shoes or Charlie, who is perfectly capable of walking herself in, but didn't want me to carry Sam and not her. Juggling 2 kids, the diaper bag and the bag with J's things was just fantastic, and a spectacle all people of child-bearing age should witness.
Sam wandered around for a few seconds then said in her best pathetic little girl whiny voice, "J, this is the last time I'm ever going to see you! I'm going to miss you soooo much."
Every once in a while, I take the trip to my alma mater alone for a home basketball game. I love Purdue, I love Mackey Arena, and even though my seats aren't as good as my boss's (can you say courtside?), I love the view I have when watching a game. It is totally worth the trip. Especially if I get to hang out with one of my nephews in the process, like I was able to the other night.
The part that sucks about going down for the game is the drive home.
Sure, it is easy. Straight up the interstate for about an hour. Just count the miles between the exit numbers, wave good-bye to the windmills and hello to desolate, open farm fields. (Am I the only one in the world who knows exits on the interstate by their number? I mean, my parent's exit is 175, my friends is 178, mine is 249. There is 74 miles between my exit and my parents, and 2 miles between my exit and the first one I come to after I get on, then 7 miles until the next one. Doesn't everyone do this??)
After the red blinking lights at the top of the windmills faded in the distance, I noticed how windy it was. It had been windy on my way down, but I was way too focused on what time I would get there and where I would park to worry about much else. Oh, and keeping the car on the road.
But on the way home, the adrenaline from the win was wearing off, and as I occasionally cross the white line between me and the median I wondered what would happen if something happened to me. And, as always, my mind drifted to what would happen if I got home and something had happened to Workaholic or the girls.
The mind, it is a weird place. I rarely obsess or worry about if I died, how would my family continue without me. Or how would Sam and Charlie turn out as adults. Maybe it is because of that weird thing where I think nothing bad happens to me. Or maybe I just assume that they would be OK. That they would be fine without me, as long as they had each other.
What I do "obsess" over is if something happens to someone I love. If Workaholic dies in a car crash on his way to work, how would I react? Would I sell the house? Of course I would...I can't afford it on my own. But how would I get it in shape to sell? Would I stay in the town where I live or would I move back to my hometown? Would I find someplace to bury him in a plain pine coffin like he wants? Hopefully. How long would it take for the realization that he isn't coming back to hit me? Would I be able to work? How much time would work give me to grieve?
I am all about the stupid, minute details.
In a terribly shocking way, my mind drifts to how I would react if something happened to one of my girls. Which one would it be? Would I react differently? Would I be that mom on TV shows that drops to the floor sobbing? Would I just stand there? Would I talk at her funeral? I start to think of what I would say...and then I force myself to stop. Stop thinking like that. WHO THINKS LIKE THAT? And then I start thinking again...
Would I react differently if it was Sam or Charlie? Would I quit my job? How would I get through it? What would go through my mind? And immediately I know...regret.
Regret that I didn't spend enough time with them. Regret that I didn't teach them as much as their little sponge brains could absorb. Regret that I yelled too much or didn't read Charlie enough books. Regret that we would never get to have breakfast with the princesses at Disney World. Or teach them how to ski, or surf, or hit a softball.
I shake my head and turn up the radio.
Taylor Swift pulls me out of my funk, and before I know it, I am singing "Dear John" and "Mean" as I exit at mile 249.
I forget about the thoughts until I have another quiet moment, but then I don't let them take over.
Am I the only one who does this?
Who else thinks of the stupid details if one of her loved ones dies?
As I write this, Charlie's hour long temper tantrum ended and I put her to bed, with less than one book. It was all she would allow. Sam is watching videos of someone singing the alphabet on You Tube.
I'll just try not to think again for the rest of the night.
It is past midnight right now...waay past my bedtime.
I'm just laying in bed, facebook and Twitter have me wishing I would have gone to the Guns N' Roses concert in Indy and generally not keeping me as entertained as I would like.
My mind is spinning.
It spins to dinner tonight, where Sam leaned over to me and hugged me and said, "Mom, you're my best friend." I don't know where that came from, but I liked it.
And then my mind spun to my post from the other day, where I talked about how my kids are the greatest bestest most stupendest in the world.
And I got to thinking, "Geez Gail, I really hope that no one thinks you an asshole for writing that. Like, your kids are better than other people's kids, for reals."
So I just had to write this and say, Look. I hope you know that I know that all of you moms out there think the exact same thing about your kids than I do about my kids. And, for that matter, all you dog moms think the exact same thing about your dog versus other people's dogs.
Basically, I don't want you to think I am an asshole.
Which is kind of funny, because the whole reason I wrote that post is because I am often afraid I come off as an asshole about my kids in real life.
If you ever see me IRL, and ask me about the girls, I will probably sigh, roll my eyes, and say something to the effect that they drive me to drink. (Which is actually not really true, I have never once joined the #wineparty on Twitter.) I then will tell some terrible story about how Sam pushed Charlie off of a chair. Or how proud I am that Charlie is now starting to fight back.
I tell stories about times like tonight, I was Skyping with K, and realized Charlie was just being a tad too quiet. And how I turned around, and she had oh-so-carefully climbed from the floor onto the ottoman onto the couch, and had gingerly climbed onto the glass coffee table and was preparing to stand and fist pump the air like she was King of the Mountain. I *rushed* to get her down so she didn't fall and split her head open, because I was really not in the mood for our first ever ER visit tonight.
I am afraid that I make it seem like I am not very concerned with my children's well-being, or that they are a thorn in my side, all of this responsibility. And, just to be clear, THAT COULD NOT BE FURTHER FROM THE TRUTH. I hope that my sarcasm comes across in real life, just like I hope it comes across on my blog. THAT is why I wrote that last post. So when/if my kids grow up and read this blog and they are talking to their therapist and saying how I never talked to the strangers on the internet about how I loved them, there was one clear post about how I felt about my girls.
Sometimes I wonder if people who know me IRL doubt my mothering instinct, since I seem to be such a lax parent, I want them to know that I DO care. (I also have this thing in my head that bad things don't happen to me or my family, even though bad things continually happen.) I just can't fathom a devastating illness, a horrible car crash, or a terrible accident happening to me. To my kids. So I may allow my kids a bit more freedom that others. And that is OK, to each his own. I just want people to understand. Or at least know the most important thing...I really do LIKE my kids. And love them. So there.
But, just so I am clear, they are really cute and adorable and awesome and generally, sort of, well-behaved (in public) (most of the time). They drive me nuts, force me to take more deep breaths in one day than in an entire lifetime before they came along, and can make me forget with one look that there are other people in a room. I guess that is what kids do to you. Damn kids.
I like to talk about my kids...but I don't like to be one of those people who talks about their kids. Today I am going to make an exception.
The other week, Pink tweeted that "ummm i just have to say that my daughter may be the most bestest amazingest stupendoustest baby ever made in the history of the planet."
And you know what? I totally get that. I do. But let's be honest...I kind of think I have the best kids ever.
For one...everyone is always telling me how cute they are. Like the woman in Target who was watching Sam roll all over the floor with her head on her jacket, instead of putting on her jacket like I told her to. And when she walked by and I smiled sheepishly and said, "Sam, seriously?" She smiled and me and said, "She is just so darn cute!" Random strangers in Target think my kids are cute even when they are crawling on dirty tile floors! (As this was happening, Charlie was trying to give the old lady in line behind us a heart attack by repeatedly standing up in the seat of the cart. She knows how to wiggle out of the seat belt. She'd stand up, look at the lady, giggle, get a smile out of her, and sit back down. Repeat.)
Number two...They say the darndest things. And have impeccable timing. Last week, Sam wanted Papa (grandpa) to make her chocolate milk. She pulled out the cup and the milk and the Carnation chocolate. (I know, I know, it is Nestle Quik in my house, but he drinks Carnation malted milk.) He was trying to tell her that she needed to use a sippy cup, because the last time he made her milk in a "real" cup, she spilled it. And she looked at him and said, "But Papa, that was your fault,remember?" Already using her cuteness (and knowledge of adult-onset memory loss) to get out of trouble. Then the other day she asked for juice. I told her, as I do every evening, that she could have water or milk. She put her finger to her lips, looked to the ceiling and said, "Hmmm...I think I'll have milk." And then she watched me open the door to the refrigerator. As I stood there, staring at the lack of skim milk (Sam's) and the small amount of whole milk (Charlie's), she popped off, "Oh mom! We are out of MY milk! And I don't like Charlie's milk! Maaybe I should have juice instead." Master manipulator, that one. And Charlie? Her first words were "NO KALE!" I mean, come on...how much more awesome does it get??
Three...Charlie sleeps about 18 hours a day. That leaves 6 hours for eating and playing. And let's be honest, after eating, there are only about 2 hours for playing. Which is only 2 hours a day that I have to keep an eye on her to keep her from destroying the house. Not to say that she doesn't destroy the house on a regular basis, but it is a lot better than a kid who goes to bed at 11pm and gets up at 5am and refuses to nap for more than 15 minutes. The best part is, when we do decide to jack with her schedule and keep her up and drag her all over hells' half acre, she is totally cool with it. Like, she stores up extra sleep to give her the energy to get through outings, and the holidays. She wanders around where ever we take her without a care in the world, stopping to say, "What's that?" and "Mommy!" (she calls everyone mommy) People are dropping dead at her cuteness when she passes by.
There are a gazillion more reasons why MY kids are the bestest. (I suppose everyone has those reasons about why their kids are the bestest.) And I know I don't always show how great I think my kids are. Oftentimes, when Sam is doing something that she really shouldn't be doing and random strangers or family members see and open their eyes wide and shake their heads, I will just roll my eyes and say something like, "Oh Sam, she really is something, isn't she?" as I drag her away from the edge of whatever cliff it is she is poised to jump off of. (Unless, of course, she already has, in which case I have to go pick her up and dust her off. Unless of course she has already landed and is off and running again.) And they will nod and look away, obviously thinking, "You really should do something with that kid." People don't realize that every day, we are trying to figure out how to outwit her. And we haven't done it yet. I mean...look at her! What is she...16??
But honestly? Her and her sister are the bestest amazingest stupendoustest babies ever made in the history of the planet. Really.
Today I am thankful that my kids have never done this. And yes, I know that they are totally capable.
(Apparently there is some controversy on the Internet that this was staged and is not real. Those people obviously are not parents of 2 young toddlers.)
Little kids say the damndest things. Here are just a few things that Sam has said to me lately.
"Mom, I'm leaving. You be good. And be careful. And have fun."
"Mom, here is a piece of paper. These are your markers. Only draw on the paper, don't draw on yourself. If you draw on yourself, I'll take away your markers, because drawing on yourself is bad."
"Mom, this is MY work. Don't bother me when I am working, because that is NOT nice. You work on your work, and I'll work on my work."
"That's such a great idea!" (usually referring to something she thought up)
"Awww...that is sooo cute!" (complete with little girl high-piched squeaky voice)
(talking to Sampson) "Sampson, you are such a good kitty. I'll pet you nice and that way you won't scratch my face or bite me."
She was talking to 2 tax assessors I let in my house the other day (don't get me started on how bright it was of me to let complete strangers into my house) and when they asked her the cat's name, her response was something like this...
"This is Sampson. We had another cat too. But FelixRoger doesn't live here anymore. He didn't like it here. He lives down the street. He didn't like it here so he went and moved down the street."
So I am totally not a fan of co-sleeping, but when we go to the cottage in Michigan, Sam doesn't have her own bed anymore. Damn kid outgrew the pack n play. So she either sleeps with Oma and Papa or me and Workaholic. It used to be she would climb the stairs and throw her hand backward and say, "Nite mom, I'm sleeping with Oma. See you later."
But ever since this summer started, she has this thing that she just has to sleep with mommy. Bonus if daddy is there, but she is quite adamant about sleeping with mommy. I feel flattered, but also am exhausted most to of the time. Because Sam, like most little kids, is a cuddler.
You see, I am not a cuddler. Workaholic and I have had real, honest-to-God fights about the fact that I will not sleep in the nook of his arm. He says that I must not really love him if I don't want to lay on him all. night. long. But seriously, who can sleep like that other than people on soap operas and Private Practice?? TV totally puts unrealistic expectations on us...but I'll not go into that now.
So I was laying there the other night, trying my best to make due with the 12 inches of bed I was allotted, and I figured that if I rolled over and snuggled up to Sam, maybe even throw my arm over her, I'd have a little more room. And you know what?? It wasn't that bad. I was able to fall asleep, and sort of stay asleep for most of the night. True, I woke up exhausted and a little achy, but there really is something about sleeping all snuggled up with a little kid. I get why co-sleepers do it...just not all the time.
But while I was trying to fall asleep, I thought of something else. Little kids rarely remember much that happens in their lives before the age of 5. And you know what? That SUCKS. Because Sam won't ever remember our beloved Buster. She won't remember her first time on the beach. She won't remember playing on campus or Easter egg hunting (this year) or when the giraffe ate her cracker. And she won't remember cuddling up with me the other night.
There is so much cool stuff that we do with our kids, and they remember, like, none of it. I have few memories of my childhood...although I am sure that my parents read books to me and cuddled with me, I don't recall any of it. While I know that it is super important in my kid's development to do all the parent-y stuff, like cuddle and give hugs and read books and tell them that I love them, the pure fact is that if I died tomorrow, Sam would have precious few memories of me and Charlie wouldn't have any. And that just sucks.
That doesn't mean that I'm not going to keep making those memories. (I may try to get more of them on video) But when it really comes down to it, the things you do when kids can't remember form who they are as adults. So I'll try to not lose my cool as much. I'll try to cuddle more. And give more hugs. And try to be the awesome person I want my kids (and dogs) think that I am.
