Morphing into Mama

Beyond Flow

You think that spider's busy?  Huh.  You should see what's been going here at Casa MiM.  Puts that lazy-ass bug to shame. 

I started my internship, Husband is out of town for several days, and the kids have been on break from school since last week, so the wee ones and I have been gardening, building, drawing, train-track laying, market hopping, and bra shopping.

"Mama?  WHY NEED TO BUY NEW BRA?  OLD BRA BROKEN?" 

Ten people turn their heads to stare at the lady with the broken bra.  "Is she wearing it right now?" they ask themselves. 

"Yes, you nosy bastards, I AM," says my return look.

"Yes, Bud.  My old bra is broken."

"Oh.  OLD BRA BROKEN?  Okay."

Gah.

Having the kids home 24 hours a day for the past 10 days, 12 hours, and 45 seconds, with only a 4 hour work break two days a week, has been -- well, honestly, I don't even know how to describe it.  I mean, it's been . . . ugh.  I just don't have words.  At least not words that don't sound like one of those horrible fucking Hallmark cards that make you both nauseated and teary-eyed at the same time.  You know the ones I mean.  That card your mother-in-law sends you for Mother's Day with the computer-generated cursive and the flower on the side.  The card with the kind of  sappy sentimentality that makes your skin crawl, yet it's so sweet you feel like you could cry a river, but you can't because you're slightly nauseated with your own I-could-cry-a-river reaction. 

So, yeah.  The only way I can describe how this time has been is: heaven.  That kind of "you complete me" heaven.  That blissful heaven that fills your heart so full of love you feel like your chest could split open any moment but instead of an alien, Paul McCartney and Wings pop out singing one of those silly love songs.  And following them is Doris Day because you feel as if you're wearing one those fitted and flared dresses, living the perfect life with the most perfect children ever created.  I mean, it's been beyond Mama Flow.

That's not to say we've been without conflict.  Don't forget, I live with 2 toddlers, so life without any conflict would be . . . something other than life with toddlers.  Plus, I'm not raising two compliant little robots -- which would be impossible even if I wanted to, since nature would undoubtedly clobber nurture on that one given the stubborn genes they inherited from their father and me.  But the conflicts, compared to what we experienced this summer, have been easy.

So, rather than managing bastardly punk-ass behavior, I've been enjoying the little people who are my children.  Enjoying their big personalities, stubbornness and all.  Talking with them about trains, bunnies, and babies (Bah-bie's babies, that is).  Watching Tod-lar teach Bah-bie how to build with Legos and run the trains on the track.  Laughing with them as we all run through the house with towels draped on our heads so they're flowing behind us like Superman capes.  Witnessing Tod-lar's creativity with drawing and sculpture. 

Witness Sanford and Son.

And below is one of Tod-lar's water drawings, Dinosaur, otherwise known as Holy Shit!  It Really Looks Like a Dinosaur!:

Next week, the kids return to school five hours a day.  Two weeks after that, I return to school, which means they'll be spending a little more time away from me.  Just thinking about it makes me sick.  In that miss-you-and-wish-you-were-here-with-me-24/7- Hallmark kind of way.

You know what I mean.

Essence

Even though Tod-lar can sometimes behave like this, I know his essence is really this:

I Almost Had to Call in The Special Forces

"So, Bud, did you have a good time with Miss Barbara today while I was at work?"

"Yeah!  Miss Bahbwa let me watch TV!"

"Oh?  What did you watch?"

"I watch a dinosaur!  He tawked!  And he was real funny!  I want to watch him again!  Can I watch him again, Mama?"

"You want to watch him again, huh?  Well, we'll see if we can fi-- WAIT A MINUTE.  What did this dinosaur look like?"

"What?"

"Was he really big?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, silly question.  Did he sing?"

"Sing?"

"Yes, did he sing?  Did he sing about love or anything else?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?  Think, Bud, THINK!  Did he SING?"

"I don't know, Mama."

"Okay, alright, uh . . . was he purple?"

"Purple?"

"YES!  Was he PURPLE?"

"I don't think so.  He was orange.  Yeah.  He was orange."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"You're absolutely sure he was orange?"

"Yes.  Oh, and I 'member now, he didn't sing."

"He didn't?"

"No.  No.  He didn't."

"Good.  That's good.  He was orange and he didn't sing.  Okay.  Alright then.  I think it's safe to say that we'll try to find him on TV so you can watch him again."

Thankfully, operation "Never Have to Watch Barney -- EVER" is still in effect and has not been unwittingly sabotaged by our sitter.

We SO Wang Chunged Last Night

Last night, I stuffed my post-pregnancy-wide feet into pointy high heels, slid into my favorite black, bottom-hugging skirt, and pulled a waist-slimming but boob-enhancing knit camel top over my now chin-length head of hair.  As I stumbled my way downstairs like a schoolgirl wearing mommy's 3-inch heels, I could hear Husband explaining who the hell Luke Perry is to the babysitter.  When I walked in, the sitter's face showed absolutely no sign of recognition -- even after Husband described that little show known as Beverly Hills 90210. 

God, we're old.

When I looked at the television, I realized they were discussing the man with the nod who once made young girls swoon -- with the exception of this one -- because the Wheel of Fortune contestant looked quite a bit like him.  And Dumbo.  My God, I had no idea human ears could be the size of my feet, which, according to my father, are so large I could probably be the next barefoot water skiing champion of the world,  if only I applied myself.  And liked water skiing.

Anyway . . .

Husband looked very James Bond (I prefer Sean Connery, but Husband has Roger's coloring) in his suit and tie, and was so very suave and smooth as he rushed ahead of me to open my car door, which I almost didn't let him do because I had no idea what the hell he was doing. 

When we arrived at the restaurant, we gave the bottle of Dom Perignon, vintage 1996, given to Husband by some vendor trying to get his business, to the hostess to chill.  As the petite young thang glided with total ease to the bar in her 3-inch heels and bottom-hugging skirt, I asked Husband one more time, "Are you sure that's not Don Perignom?"  You see, it's not that I don't know the name of that classy cliche champagne, it's that I can't believe some vendor gave it away to a potential customer, who, by the way, remains potential to this day.  He swore it was the real thing, and while I don't know for sure, I can tell you that it was very, very tasty -- says the woman who would much rather drink a vodka martini than champagne.

For the next two hours we grazed on tomato heirloom salad, crab cakes, sauteed spinach, mahi mahi, and a petite filet cooked medium.  We gazed into each other's eyes, spoke without barely a pause, and laughed over memories, some very old, others very new.  We toasted our five years of near marital bliss and marveled over the next anniversary we get to celebrate early next year: 25 years of friendship. 

After downing the last of the ice cream topped with a lit candle by our bucking-for-an-awesome-tip waiter, we left the restaurant hand-in-hand, our bellies perfectly full, and our cheeks glowing -- oh, and we were giggling.  Well, I was giggling, and Husband was doing whatever manly men do instead of giggling.  I believe it's "chuckling."

When we arrived home, we hurried the babysitter out the door, went upstairs, and engaged in an intimacy that had the excitement of infatuation and the sensuality that only comes with familiarity. 

When I woke up this morning, my cheeks were still glowing (the ones on my face, that is), and there was a spring in my step. 

God, we're young.

Conflicting Agendas

You know what's great about Tod-lar turning 3? 

His language skills are so much more advanced. 

Now we get to have all kinds of interesting conversations.  We talk about his friends at school (but not in a gossipy kinda way).  We reminisce about past events -- including things that happened LAST YEAR (note to self -- kid has a good memory).  Tod-lar tells me about things he wants to do in the future, like fly an airplane, climb Dada's office building, and ride an old train.  He warns me when sharks are approaching at the supermarket (don't ask, cause I don't know), and reminds me to buy Dada's coffee.  He even corrects my English.

"Careful standing on the railing, Bud." 

"No, Mama.  Dat's not a wailing.  Dat's a gate.  Dat's a wailing," he says pointing to what is so obviously the railing as he stands on what is so obviously a gate.

"Oh.  You're right!" 

Maybe he should start editing my blog posts.

But you know what's a little more than slightly annoying about Tod-lar turning 3? 

His language skills are so much more advanced.

Now, whenever I tell him to do something, he says, "Okay.  But first I need to . . . " and then we have to negotiate whatever it is he needs to do first.  Or sometimes he'll just say, "No, thank you.  I don't want to." 

At least he's back to being politely defiant. 

As the Tod-lar gets older, not only does he have his own agenda (which, frankly, he's always had), but now he has the words to express and negotiate that agenda.  And while it's cute and wonderful and all that happy horse-shit, it also makes me long for the days when I could just dress him myself and get his ass out the door on the time.  Sure, even back in those days he'd still poop just as we were walking to the car, but he couldn't help that.  Now, however, he has control over his poop, yet we're still on the verge of being late because Tod-lar can't get his shoes on because he's "busy," or he can't brush his teeth because he's "still talking to Bah-bie." 

At night, Tod-lar negotiates his agenda in a more sly way.  Right when I'm tucking him into bed, he suddenly wants to discuss the meaning of his existence ("Why I here, Mama?"), or show me every little bump and bruise on his legs and tell me each of their stories, or ask me questions about myself.

"Why you have new gwasses, Mama?"

"Honey, you know my glasses aren't new, and you asked me that question last night."

"Oh.  Why you have new wegs, Mama?"

Uh, yeah.  You're not fooling anybody, pal, with that bedtime-stalling-maneuver.

"That's the last question I'm going to answer tonight, Bud.  You may ask me more questions tomorrow.  After I answer that question, I'm going to close your door and go downstairs to spend time with Dada, understand?"

"Yes!" 

"Good.  Now, I got new legs because that shark you're always warning me about ate my old ones."

"Oh [giggle, giggle]."

Tod-lar doesn't care that I have places to go, things to do, and people to see.  My agenda, as far as he's concerned, is nonexistent, which is why his agenda is far more important.  I can tell him I have things to do, but he doesn't care.  He doesn't care that I have to be at my internship for parent ed training at 9:30 a.m.  Nor does he care that Husband is downstairs pouring me a glass of wine and fixing hors d' oeuvres, so we can finally sit and discuss our days.  And why should he?  Tod-lar's "busy," discovering the cure for cancer or something of equal importance, or he's in the midst of discussing with Bah-bie the real solution to ending the Mid East conflict, or he just needs to know right now why I have "new wegs." 

What's most annoying about all this is that his agenda is important.  It may seem unimportant at 8:59 a.m. that Tod-lar's busy building a "hewacopter" with this Legos, but it's not.  It may seem especially unimportant when he wants to discuss my "new wegs" at 6:59 p.m, but even that deserves respect.  So while I'd like to say, "LOOK!  YOU NEED TO DO WHAT I SAY NOW BECAUSE I HAVE THINGS I NEED TO DO!"  I can't.  It would only send Tod-lar the message that my agenda is more important than his, which would be like Husband telling me his career is more important than mine. 

Instead, I need to treat his agenda with respect so that he, in turn, will respect mine (while keeping in mind that there will be times when my needs will have to override his -- but you get my general drift, I'm sure).  So far, giving him plenty of warning and a minute or two to finish whatever he's doing is satisfying him.  There was one time last week, however, when he refused to put down his Legos and put on his shoes, so he had to walk to the car in his socks (a choice I gave him and which he said he didn't want to do but had to take since he didn't put down those Legos -- you know the drill).  When he protested as he soiled his bleached socks in the dirt and leaves, I just shrugged my shoulders and said, "I know you hate getting your socks dirty, Honey.  You had two minutes to put them on and you didn't do it, but you can try again tomorrow."  He did and succeeded. 

Sometimes, I think this parenting gig would be a lot easier if I didn't have any place to be, or I didn't have any needs at all.  But then I wouldn't be human.  Instead, I'd just be some sort of alien creature sent to this planet with the mission "To Serve Children" -- which wouldn't be too bad, I guess, if "To Serve Children" was a cookbook. 

[And there you have my very lame attempt to incorporate one of my favorite Twilight Zone episodes into one of my very lame blog posts.]

The Summer of Ebb

This summer was nothing but ebb.  I tried to make it flow, but the Tod-lar proved to be far more tenacious than I ever thought possible. 

He was so tenacious, in fact, that at least once a day during the past six weeks, I considered either a) running away from home (with Husband, since he doesn't cause me stress), or b) driving Tod-lar to a far away location, slowing down just enough to open the door and yell "Drop and roll!" then speeding off before anyone could take down my license plate number. 

It was as if every single thing I spent the last nearly three years teaching him was wiped from his brain overnight.  He stopped being polite and made incessant demands.  He retaliated with poop.  He challenged my Enforcer status and actually ran AWAY from me when I told him it was time to leave the park.  He cried and whined instead of using his words.  He called us names.  He even spat in Husband's face at one point.  And he opposed everything -- every little fucking thing.  Even fun, happy things.

"So, Bud, your birthday's coming up.  Should we invite all your friends from school to your party?"

"NO!  I DON'T WANT A PARTY!  I DON'T WANT FRIENDS!"

Well, that's good, cause you sure ain't gonna have any with that fucking tude, Dude. 

To make things even more challenging, in addition to being Mr. Contrarian, Tod-lar was simultaneously experiencing a very heavy mommy phase.  He wouldn't let Husband do a damn thing for him.  Husband couldn't feed him his dinner, read him a nighttime story, or wipe the kid's ass without Tod-lar pitching a fit for "Maaaamaaa!"  So, while on the one hand he tried to boss me around like he was Mel Sharples reincarnated, on the other hand, he insisted I do every little fucking thing for him.  It was a push-pull like I've never before experienced. 

Then, one day last week, as I was dropping him off at school, he said to me, "I want you, Mama!"  For a second, I was a little dismayed at his demanding, whiny tone.  But I dismissed my dismay as the meaning of his words echoed in my ears, telling me what I'd long suspected was true.      

I bent down, looked into his pouting eyes and said, "I want you, too, Bud." 

He didn't know what to say at first.  Then his brow softened, and in a quiet voice, he repeated, "I want you, Mama."

I hugged him and whispered, "I want you more."

He giggled, gave me a big a kiss and arm hug, and cheerfully went to play with his friends, blowing me more kisses all the way.

Since then, he's been less oppositional and more cooperative.  He's back to saying "please" and "thank you."  And he's hugging his daddy instead of spitting at him.

For Tod-lar, you see, this summer wasn't the summer of ebb, it was the summer of major change.  In the last six weeks or so, Tod-lar has learned to do the following unassisted:

• pee and poop in the potty (well, he still needs a little help with wiping)
• remove and put on his clothes, including his socks and shoes
• wash his own hair and body
• brush his own teeth with an electric toothbrush

He's even pouring his own milk, drinking out of actual glasses instead of plastic cups, and this afternoon he made his own peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch.  For a little boy who was used to having mommy help him with all these things, this is major change.  And, while he was pretty enthusiastic to do these things himself, I think he was also wondering what it meant for mommy to stop doing them.  He loved the taste of more independence, but I suspect he also feared I wouldn't be there for him, or that I might even actually stop loving him.  And, of course, it didn't help that I'm still providing Bah-bie assistance with most everything. 

Tod-lar is moving from passive to more proactive member of our family.  He's learning to rely a little more on himself and a little less on Mama.  This is both exciting and frightening.  To me, his behavior (or misbehavior) this summer was his way of processing this profound change.  It's what he needed to do.  And my job was to manage it.  I had to keep behavioral expectations high and follow-through on consequences, while providing a little more reassurance than usual that I still loved and supported him, but without giving in to the mommy phase.  This balancing act is difficult, especially when the misbehaviors occur constantly for weeks on end, and you have another child who also needs your love and attention. 

The teenage years are going to be fun, eh?

Now, Tod-lar is worrying less about mama and is focusing more on his excitement about growing older.  Yesterday morning, when Husband, Bah-bie, and I awakened him by singing "Happy Birthday,"  he smiled and proclaimed, "I'm big now!  I'm 3!" 

Yes, you are, my little man.  Yes, you are.  And I couldn't be more proud of you.

And Just When I Thought Things Were Getting Too PC Over There . . .

Someone sent us this story of true parenting grit!

Another Reason Why I Need to Stop Going to Starbucks

The other day, while waiting in line at Starbucks (yeah, yeah, I know), there was a young woman in front of me who was wearing the biggest diamond stud earrings I've ever seen.  They were SO big (how big were they?), I'm pretty sure if I'd grabbed her head and cocked it to one side, I could have sent a signal to the International Space Station -- from INSIDE the building.

They were SO big (how big were they?), when she turned her head to gaze at the scones, I panicked as I was sure the irritable man mumbling behind me would jump ahead once he realized I was BLINDED by those earring posing boulders. 

Thankfully, the blindness was only temporary, but as my sight slowly recovered, all I could see was miles of monogrammed canvased leather.  Its gleaming golden brass closures threatened to sting my already sensitive eyes, yet seemed to beckon me at the same time.  "Laura," they called.  "Laura, Laura, La--"My hump, my lovely little lumps!" 

The young woman parted the monogrammed canvased leather and fumbled for her tone ringing Razr phone. 

"Hello?  Oh my God, HI!  Yeah, I totally saw him last night.  He is sooo awesome!  Do you think he likes me?"

Her voice jolted me out of my designer handbag stupor, throwing me back into reality where people are starving in the world, and items with screaming logos only insult the intelligence of someone who knows fine craftsmanship (says the woman who buys her clothes at Target). 

This young woman was, indeed, young.  She was probably only 16 or 17 years old, yet she had more money on her than I spend on groceries to feed my entire family for several months.   

And so I wondered to myself, "Self, if you had a LOT of money, would you buy your kids diamond earrings or designer handbags that cost more than it takes to feed an entire third world country?"  No.  Definitely no.  I mean, doesn't it seem . . . I dunno . . . weird to buy such lavish items for a teenager who couldn't afford those luxuries on her own Blockbuster salary?  Doesn't buying that stuff teach children they're entitled to live the lifestyle of their parents without needing to earn it?   

As I continued asking myself these questions (while also wondering why it was taking 5000 years to order my latte -- entitlement, anyone?), I became disgusted with the girl's parents.  And then I got slightly annoyed with the girl.  I mean, really.  Who she think she is?  Miss Thang.  Prancing around with her Louie and giant rocks and . . . petty jealousy, anyone? 

Just because my own father wouldn't (not couldn't) pay for my college or trips to the orthodontist so I wouldn't have to wear braces as an adult doesn't mean parents can't give their children nice things.  And for all I know, that young woman did earn those items.  Maybe that bag was her reward for getting straight A's and all honors in school.  Maybe her grandmother willed her those earrings because the young woman used to scrape the ol' gal's bunions.  Or, maybe she bought those items with her allowance, which she'd saved since she was five.  I mean, really?  I didn't know her story.  Who was I to judge?

I felt better as I watched the young woman order her mocha frap.  I felt less negative, more positive.  I was pleased with my open-mindedness.

The young woman pulled out her matching Louie wallet and gave the cashier a bill.

"Uh.  Yeah.  Do you have anything smaller?  I can't break a hundred."  He handed the bill back to her.  Several people shook their heads as they stood watching and waiting for their drinks.

"Oh? [giggle, giggle]"  She put the bill back in her wallet and began easing her finger over her gold and platinum credit cards.  She finally chose one and handed it to the cashier. 

So much for open-mindedness.

I Think This May Have Backfired

Remember when I demonstrated how to calm the impatient In-fant (who is now "Bah-bie") with a little Patience?  Well, now whenever I tell her she needs to be "calm" or "patient," she responds with a "Yeah, yeah, yeah."  Only, it doesn't sound like the "yeah, yeah" from the song.  Instead it sounds like, "Yeah, whatever, Mom.  Blah, blah, blah." 

This is definitely not the response I was going for.  I may need to rethink this one.

This is Why I Buy My Clothes at Target

"I got a really nice compliment today."

"Really?"

"Yeah.  I was called 'pretty.'"

"That's nice.  By whom?"

"Oh, some guy."

"Some guy?  What?  Some random guy just walked up to you on the street and called you pretty?"

"On the street?  Honey, you know people don't walk in LA.  And, no, it wasn't some random guy."

"Then who was it?"

"Just a guy."

"Who told you you're pretty."

"Well, he didn't tell me I was pretty."

"He didn't tell you?  Then who did?"

"His mother."

"His mother told you you're pretty?"

"Noo.  His mother told me that her son called me pretty."

"Uh-huh.  This 'guy' wouldn't happen to be 3 years old and in Tod-lar's class would he?"

"So what if he is?  When you're walking around with some sort of dried bodily fluid on your clothes 99% of the time, you take what you can get."

"I was wondering what that was on your shirt."