A Makeover for Blair
These are my girls, Serena( in blue) and Blair (pink). They are a never-ending art project. They are also the names of the lead characters from Gossip Girl, which is undoubtedly my favorite television show. It’s not deep, it’s not really that smart, but it’s so much fun to just look at. Much like my fit, plastic models.
Blair will be getting a makeover, so stay tuned.
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The Sandman Cometh, The Sandman Runneth Away.
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oh Sleep. Sweet, sweet sleep. Like the smell of fresh violets. A glass of sparkling water when you’re so, so thirsty. A hot shower when you’re cold…Glorious, restorative, sleep.
At 3:45am I hear the annoyed cries of my daughter, requesting her usual gut-bomb and a fresh diaper. Luckily my body knows this routine, so it isn’t as painful as it used to be. I get up, feed her, then its back to A bed. I say “a” bed because I’m a nomad of ZZ’s. I don’t have my own bed anymore. Right now my giant toddler requires the full-sized guest bed. He also requires that I sleep with him in that bed, or I will be awoken even more than I am now. My husband snores. FACT. When you’re getting so little rest, you will take what you can get. I take quiet feet in the ribcage over loud snoring in the ears. So I slip into my son’s bed, on the very edge, as he has claimed the entire middle. I pull my corner of blanket, whatever I can score. He searches for me with his feet, to confirm I’m there. Little toes jab themselves into my ribs and seem to say, “you stay.”
I can hear my daughter cooing in her room. Full belly, perfectly warm, just letting me know she is still awake, letting me know I’m not to fall asleep just yet, she may need a little extra something while she sings herself back to dream-land (sleep training is a miracle. Wish I did it better with my son). The vibrating sounds of my husband coming from the other room, the cooing of my daughter and the gentle breathing of my son are magical sounds. But only for all of a minute. My mind is buzzing with things I need to do, it betrays me. It will not slow down.
As my daughter quiets, I start to feel that wonderful weight on my eyes. The Sandman, recharged from the deserts abroad has come to give me sweet relief. It is now 5:30am. I will have approximately 2 hours of potential sleep. Yes please.
5:35am, my husband gets up to use the bathroom. He is a giant man, our floors are old and creaky. He couldn’t be a ninja if our very lives depended on it. The cooing from the other room restarts. My mind, again, betrays, re-runs through the list of musts.
It is now 6:15am. The Sandman returns, he is MOST welcome. But he is vigorously chased away by the child’s finger that finds its way up my nostril.
“That’s MOMMY’S nose!” says my son, he’s up, practically caffeinated. Followed by the shrill cry from a freshly awoken baby who has undoubtedly taken her morning crap. Goodbye Sandman…
It BEGINS.
Swear to god, he’s not feral.
Anyone with small children will appreciate the difficulty of leaving one’s home and making it to their intended destination unscathed. It becomes more and more difficult with the increasing number of babies.
I just needed to go to the grocery store. I just needed Panko bread crumbs. Because if you’ve had baked chicken with Panko, versus ANY OTHER TYPE OF BREAD CRUMB, you will understand it cannot be substituted. I may have a pile of laundry scattered throughout the house ( thanks son, my bras absolutely DO belong in the oven)….but my family will have properly breaded Panko chicken for dinner, so help me…
Lots of parents bathe their kids at night, and I understand the importance of that ritual, though it never quite stuck for us. My house is a very charming, 1950′s home just at the base of some rolling foothills and a nature preserve. That’s my loving way of saying the house is really fucking old and needs a shit-ton of work to get it to the standards most people are accustomed to enjoying in the first world. That said, we do enjoy hot water, and electricity, usually. When the pipes in the basement aren’t broken…and so long as we don’t run multiple space-heaters at once, which is a lot to ask because we have no central heating. Spring/Summer living is just dandy. But its freezing in the winter, especially when snow is dusting the hills just above us…And we are spoiled and from the Bay Area, CA., not the tundra. I do not hunt seals, nor am I used to boiling whale blubber for fuel. So anything south of 50 degrees outside is pretty damn cold, even if the house is relatively insulated ( thank you nice windows) it’s still a bit uncomfortable to shower and go to bed with wet hair. My Mexican mother has warned me all my life of the IMMINENT DEATH that awaits when you go to bed with wet hair. Add to that a healthy helping of exhaustion and you have yourself a recipe for NO BEDTIME BATHS. This is all relevant to the story regarding my much-needed trip to the store for Panko bread crumbs…which there are no substitutions for….really, very critical for baked, breaded chicken.
We begin our day with breakfast and a bath. It wakes us up and we feel clean and smell good to start our day. I have a two-year old and a nine-month-old. There is no such thing as a shower to myself. So we all stuff ourselves into the shower and its tricky and slippery and exhausting and takes a good chunk of time. But once we are all dressed and cute, we are feeling GREAT and the challenges ahead seem minimal. Especially something as simple as getting Panko bread crumbs…for which there is no substitution.
On the way out to the car, my son decides, “why walk when I can totally drag myself across the grass. Oh look, it’s a little muddy. Even better.”
Of course I am powerless to stop it, as I have my hands full with a shockingly heavy baby and the diaper-bag plus keys and my purse. He went from perfectly polished to a little muddy. But onward we march, as there is no turning back. If we go back into the house, we will surely never make it out again. And I really need the Panko bread crumbs….for which no other crumbs compare.
Then he finds some stale Cheerios that he stored somewhere in his car seat, like a little chipmunk. He managed to make those three Cheerios into a paste that he proceeded to spread all over his entire shirt and face. You never knew three, stale Cheerios could cover so much ground. So we have muddy pants and hands, plus cheerio-paste everywhere in a matter of three minutes. But I say to myself, “ah, so it’s a little mud and Cheerios, no huge deal, he’s still somewhat presentable with a quick baby-wipe clean-up.” We get to the store and I realize the baby was playing with the baby wipes on the last car trip and pulled them all out and now they are dry and wont be cleaning anything. Whatever, bigger picture, we are at the store, and we need those bread crumbs( for which no crumbs compare).
Oh I wont bore you with the details of how long this went on…mud, cheerio-paste, blackberries, some kind of sticky, questionable substance (I don’t even know), an unexpected dump and a healthy helping of boogers.
The people in line were starring at me like I should really take more pride in my child’s appearance. Like he is some kind of feral child. And all I’m feeding him is a half empty container of blackberries and
….two boxes of Panko bread crumbs. For which none compare.
Santa is dead kids, I’ve killed him.
I would like to start off by saying I DO actually enjoy the magic of Christmas, I swear to you, I do. I love the lights, the warmth, the idea of family togetherness, food, even the hustle and bustle of gift making/shopping. My parents didn’t raise me to believe In Santa, nor did they tell me he was a crock of shit either. But I haven’t really gotten on board with the idea that my kids should go about their lives not understanding the true meaning of Christmas from the start. Which is economy-driving consumerism. Does that scream bahumbug to you? I fully plan on trimming trees and stuffing stockings and playing, “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas” adnauseum…So I will provide a certain special essence of magic, totally, but will I lie to my kids to preserve their innocence when it comes to baby Jesus and Papa Noel ? Nope. I will not. I can’t guarantee it will make them better people ultimately, but they will be informed. There is a place for pretend, absolutely, just not when the entire purpose of a holiday is to mask a machine designed to control their minds/future spending habits. I guess from this you can conclude I will not be raising my children to be good Christians either…and I don’t mean to say that’s an oxymoron…but….Anyway, they will have to be good just for the heck of it, not for the sake of getting into heaven or for gifts from a creepy man in red who invades homes and eats pastries, but just for the sake of being good.
Going on a diet of the brain
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When I was 5, a midnight trip to the bathroom might as well have been a battle for life or death. The hallway sprint, the olympic leap a few feet from the bed, all needed to be settled and quiet before the sound of the toilet finished its flushing. But hey, I’m sure most little kids do this. But do grown-up, 30-year-old women with children of their own do it? Two thumbs pointing right at me.
A creative mind is NOT without its severe disadvantages. I can memorize the colors of a sunset, mix and recreate the palate and spread it on canvas like magic. But I can also feel the creepy under-the-bed creature’s clammy hands on my ankles as I change my sheets in broad daylight. Being both a creative writer and visually artistic is a double whammy. I can think it with words, and see it with images so clear, you could jab a USB cable into my ear and print it out. The anxiety isn’t limited to myself alone, pretty much everyone I care for is in CONSTANT danger, both real and imagined. The danger isn’t just from terrible humans ( who are very real in this world) but from mythical creatures and even lions, tigers and bears (OH MY!). So what is an imaginative sister to DO?! I’m a work in progress. I’ve been trying to force myself to confront my very random fears. I’ll list the fears, and you can judge for yourself how incredibly irrational they are. This will give you a glimpse into how crazy, albeit creative, I am.
1) Fear of the basement. Ok, so maybe this isn’t too terribly out there. It is dark, gloomy, underground, isolated. There are children’s drawings on the cement walls ( not my children, the children who previously lived here). The “Scotts hiding place” written in a crawl space is particularly bone-chilling. I actually will not take my children into the basement as I believe “Scott” will try to possess or harm them.
2) Fear of Grocery stores. Now this fear, many of my mommy friends will relate to. I believe there are very evil people in this world, and I believe they are after me and my children and their preferred location of choice to take us down is at the grocery store. Nuff said.
3) Paralyzing fear that my husband will be in a car wreck or he will fall off a roof. Yes…A roof.Needs no further explanation.
4) Fear of Zombies walking up my street at night. Did I close and lock all the doors and windows? Have I stored enough canned goods and water to get us through what will be a rather “challenging” time?
5) Fear of Mountain Lions. I’m PETRIFIED OF BEING EATEN OR ANYONE I KNOW BEING EATEN BY A MOUNTAIN LION. That is in all caps because I cannot express just how scary this is to me. It seems like a very very real possibility. Yes, I live in the suburbs. Yes, it’s a bit far-fetched. Yes, it is goddamn scary.
So there you have it. When my son, who is now a little scared of the dark, points at nothing in the room and cries, I can’t say the hair on my neck wont stand straight up. Is he just seeing something with his innocent toddler eyes that I am not? Are we in danger? Do I need to draw a ring of salt and make everyone sleep in it?
Do I watch scary movies? NO. I would die from the terror. Just the damn 30 second commercials are enough ammunition to royally freak me out. That all being said, I would like to say I wouldn’t ask for anything different. Though the drawbacks are definitely there, being able to conjure up beautiful things is something to be thankful for. I just need to go on a diet of the mind and stop myself before I get carried away. No need to visualize the zombies walking up my street. I will just make sure all my windows and doors are properly locked, and maybe I’ll be sure we’ve got plenty of canned goods. for you know..eating and such.
That’s right restaurant, prepare yourself.
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Mid-scale restaurant employees, hear me:
I know you see me coming a mile away; hair disheveled, crying child strapped to my chest, mystery dried “goo” on my shoulder (to my credit I didn’t actually know it was there), fidgety toddler in hand, oversized diaper bag filled to the brim with sticky books and toys….I know you see me and say, ” Ahh….shit.”
But you know what, deal with it. Do you think I want to order the chicken fingers when I’d rather have a nice adult salad? I hate chicken fingers. It’s the only damn thing my toddler will likely eat here , so I will be a trooper and share my platter because we all know ordering him his own would be a complete waste of food and money, since we also all know everything that is specifically his, he treats like it’s been poisoned, everything mommy orders is golden and beautiful. So I will choke down the greasy fried fingers in order to get us moving along. I’m also sorry if my standing next to the table interferes with your walk way…I would really rather sit. But my infant daughter finds my sitting offensive. My only method of keeping all of us hearing properly and not ripping fistfuls of hair from our scalps, is to hold and bounce her on my hip. Standing and eating with one hand isn’t as easy as it looks, I’m certainly not doing it for the pleasure.
In general I actually don’t want to be at your restaurant. But I’m here because of simple math. #1, we are hungry, need to eat and I don’t have my own kitchen handy. #2, I’m actually outside of my home and going to a restaurant is one of those things that seems like, a really good idea at the time, even though it mostly ends horribly and is more stress than it’s worth (yet we are always optimistic that THIS time it’s going to be great).
I know I am being seated in the back, in the “child” section. But I understand, if you’re going to clean piles of food and chewed crayons from the floor you’d rather keep it in one general area. I get it. I also get that most of your servers don’t have children. CLEARLY. Because people with kids would notice the care I have taken to place all the silverware, drink menus, sugar packets, hot sauce and anything that could be thrown or even remotely used as a weapon on the opposite side of the table and yet, servers place hot and/or messy items directly in the danger zone. If I don’t want my kid throwing dull knives at me, you better believe I am not looking forward to a face full of steaming clam chowder.
Please understand that I am painfully aware of the difficulty in bringing small children to an eating establishment. I am painfully aware how annoying children can be with everything, in general. I am also aware that you’re in the business of customer service, and, as much as you may find us repulsive and irritating, we are giving you business and quite possibly a large tip ( especially, to my absolute HORROR, if you mistakenly cleaned the poo off my son’s hand with your napkin thinking it was just food….you know who you are, again, I apologize. It was a difficult stage for us that has thankfully passed).
One day, this will be a non-issue, but for now…restaurant staff…please know that my going there is actually more difficult for me than it is for you. The end.
The Mommy finally exhales…
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I’m not exactly sure why but my son likes to refer to all the important people in his life with a, “THE”. He even refers to himself as THE Julian. Which is entirely true. He is indeed The Julian.
Yesterday was an amazing day for me. I think it was a major turning point for me as mother and CEO of the house. It ran like a well-oiled machine. Everything that needed to happen happened, did the kids still cry and throw fits and make messes? You bet your ass they did. Was I able to efficiently take care of the problems and make progress in other areas? You better believe it. I even had a dinner party (6 adults) that went on without much aggravation, irritation or inconvenience. I even ENJOYED MYSELF. It was just a miracle day. Do I think every day here on out will be the same? One can only hope, but I am not so delusional as to think it’s humanly possible. That being said I still feel it has been a real turning point. Sleep is still a bit of a dream, but now that Julian has passed 2, it seems like the world has changed for us all.
Something has clicked. That is the best way I am able to describe it. I went from saying at least once a day, “Christ, how in the F&%# am I supposed to get through the rest of today,” to chasing Julian down the hall, Siena on my hip, all of us giggling like fools and “dancing till the world ends,” in the kitchen (thank you very much Britney Spears). I wish I knew exactly what caused this new enthusiasm and energy and, dare I say it, hope for a bright future and semblance of organization. I wish I knew because I would immediately share it with my mommy friends and there would be great sighs of relief all around the world from mothers who can barely comb their hair and scrape the oatmeal off the ceiling. But I don’t know. Perhaps its a combination of my son understanding my direction, and communicating so much better, or Siena finally on a schedule and becoming less and less helpless/needy with each day. The laundry doesn’t seem QUITE as daunting, though I still have a solid 5 loads in the basement. The work hasn’t really decreased, maybe it’s just shifted and for some reason seems more doable to me right now. I was just putting my kids to bed and I managed to get through a scream-fest without so much as a, ” Oh my god I am going to bash my face into that wall,” thought in my mind. It’s amazing!!! I’m going to just keep taking these omega 3 vitamin supplements because even though I have no idea if that has anything to do with anything, I dare not break the cycle that sparked a chain of events leading to this fantastic progress. Taking a deep breath….no longer waiting to exhale.
Dear Pre-Teen Me
I know there is a cute site called “Dear Teenage Me,” but honestly I wouldn’t have too much to share with high school me, as I feel like in more ways than one, I haven’t changed from that person, however pre-teen me could use some serious encouragement. Here we go.
Dear Pre-Teen Me,
The super thick, ’1/2 our total hair’ bangs that mom cut will actually grow out, though I know it seems pretty impossible to imagine right now. The horrible braces will come off by the end of 8th grade too, though the perk of changing up those colored rubber bands was pretty sweet, even if we did have to explain to people a billion times that it was not actually GUM stuck in our teeth. You’re really small and shy right now, like a little mouse, and you’re tired of people calling you rich bitch because mom drives a Mercedes and buys your clothes from the Gap and Express(which isn’t cool now but in a few years it will be and you will be shockingly ahead of the curve without knowing it). I know you really just want to hide and blend in enough to disappear. I promise, high school wont be AS ghetto, so you wont be singled out for a bunch of the stupid stuff anymore and as much as the boys ignore you now, they will freaking adore the hell out of you later ( though you are a bit oblivious to it).
As I type this I am wearing a fancy little thing called a tiara, which you get when you are PROM QUEEN. Yeah. I’ve got a box with 5 crowns in it. So all the slutty, overly made-up girls who are smoking and drinking can kiss your ass, because believe it or not, popularity doesn’t mean you have to be cheap, easy, mean and intoxicated. Being natural, being honest, being happy will always be a path that will lead you to greatness in every aspect of your life. You’ve stood your ground so far, keep it up and you will see. A joint or cigarette has still never touched these lips. You’ve never felt a strong desire to follow, so you trudge your own path (in everything) and that is something “grown-up you” is SO so proud of.
As hard is it may be…try to ignore the pathetic people who say stupid things like, ” white bitches can’t call themselves Mexican.” Those idiots don’t speak a word of the language and wouldn’t have an understanding of the culture if it ran them over with a goddamn lowrider truck. They are sad, uneducated, and you should feel sorry for them, more than insulted by them. Cuban and Mexican people come in all shades. Period. Keep up your cultural pride. It remains a big part of who you are now.
Here is a big one. There are a lot of people who don’t think your artwork is special, or they say mermaids are lame. Well, they can suck it too because guess who sells her paintings for THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS.
Don’t worry about not wanting a boyfriend, its a-okay, you are not ready and you shouldn’t be. When you finally have a real relationship, its with your soul mate, who has humor as dry as the Mojave, brains like a mega-nerd and a super rocking bod ( oh yeah, and he’s PROM KING too). He will make you happy and you will marry him and never look back. When you think of your life as a mom with a perfect son and a perfect daughter, know this: They may be dreams, but you get what you aim for in life. I just kissed your perfectly beautiful son, and your perfectly beautiful daughter. Keep up the laughing, keep up the dreaming, keep up the Sandy, baby. Your life is as beautiful as you make it.
oh yeah…..and tell dad to buy a bunch of stock in a little company called GOOGLE…
larger than life street art
T-R-U-S-T me.
The Great Manipulator and his trusty sidekick, Demanding.
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Once upon a time I gave my dad a sign that says, “I’d like to understand where you’re coming from, but I can’t get my head that far up my ass.” A truly genius and existential concept.
Blogging is pretty fantastic because it’s a simple way for me to allow my internal narrator to actually be heard. Some people find my thoughts funny ( you get me, I get you, we are ONE), other people find my thoughts disturbing ( to whom I say FAAACK off), but for me, gosh, its kinda liberating. It helps me grow as a human being, because I am able to admit things to myself, like not being patient, having a cruel sense of humor, accepting that I am not the world’s best mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend…but hey, I’m by no means the worst either. And its OKAY. I’m okay with it. I like to explore ideas of how my parenting techniques will affect my children, and honestly, I hope I do a good job. I hope they are happy. “Success is when your kids grow up, they still want to hang out with you.”- Founder of Kinkos ( remember Kinkos? before they were bought out by FedEx? wow, that seems so long ago!) I digress. Back to the topic….
I find myself wondering just how much of me is going into my children’s personalities and how much is just all them. My internal narrator, whom we will refer to as “Rita,” likes to think of my children as super heroes. Their challenges for the day are all so daunting and intense no matter how simple it seems to me. Rita regularly fills in the captions for my son’s thoughts if he were a super hero in a comic book.
” He tastes the air, testing the wind for the perfect opportunity to swoop in and capture the Mandarin Orange gem from atop Counter Mountain. He must move quickly, as evil dark Lord MOMMY approaches. Should he be seized and trapped, he’ll fight to the death rather than face the perils of the crib and the dreaded torture known only as naptime…”
Actually, if he were a super hero, he would be The Great Manipulator. Again, wondering who he’s picking these skills up from, and is it a good thing he has super powers of manipulation as a two-year-old? Will he dial-in the skill as he ages? Am I going to buy him a flashy sports car when he’s 16 and not even realize I’ve been totally conned? Here is what I’m talking about. He’ll say something ( mind you his vocab isn’t extensive, he’s two for christ’s sake) such as, “drive the car.” But I can’t quite make out what he’s saying. He keeps mumbling it, and I keep guessing until he says it just clear enough, and I repeat it, “oh, drive the car!” and he says crystal clear and with unrefined enthusiasm, ” OKAY!” Like I was totally the one who suggested the activity in the first damn place.
Of course, the enthusiasm of an excited and painfully-cute toddler is impossible crush, so what do I do, I take him to the car to pretend drive and I hit my head against the window because any sane person who isn’t high as a fucking kite and has any amount of grey matter in their skull will be bored sitting with a little kid in a car for hours as he turns on and off the radio, blasts your ears out, opens the windows, shuts the windows, turns on the blinker…again…and again…and again. Have I thoroughly painted a picture for you? So as much as I didn’t have it in the days plan to take him to the car for two hours, he totally manipulated me into doing it by working his magic. It’s really an amazing spectacle to behold.
My daughter, well, her super powers would be making her DEMANDS known. God knows, she gets what she wants. Rita thinks her captions would be this (and we really have no need to mix it up for the forseeable future): “Hello, can you not hear me over here? Have I not explicitly told you time and time again I am to be fed at exactly 5 past the hour, not a second more? Umm, diaper? Hello?! There is one drop of piss in it and I can’t be bothered with it. Change it immediately and cuddle with me. Oh! and I like it when you do the silly faces. Make more of those. Chop chop or so help me, I will scream until I’m purple and you will RUE THE DAY. RUE…THE….DAY.”
haha. god, I love ‘em.
Teasing is Loving…okay?! fool.
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Fascinating trick I learned today; if your kid is pigeon-toed, put his shoes on the wrong foot and it will straighten him out in a month (obviously not a trick for 16-year-olds). So instead of Julian running with a slight pigeon toe, he’ll be running with backwards shoes and strangers will whisper amongst themselves that I am a terrible mother, “who doesn’t even put her kids shoes on right.” To which I will respond, ” Bitch, I’m straightening him out, and tell your husband to stop trying to call me.”
I think I’m a slightly mean-hearted person. Because honestly, the things I find most humorous are a little on the cruel side. Take for example the way I interact with my son, who is exploring new ways of expressing himself. Lately he’s been doing what I like to call, “THE RAY CHARLES.” He closes his eyes and sways his head side to side with a huge, toothy grin. Aside from laughing at him ( laughing AT him, not with him) I am also telling him to stop because its one of those really dorky things that could get him picked on if he were to keep it up in say, junior high school. Or it would get him picked on in our house because, damn, its dorky. See that? Is that not totally mean of me? So mean. Two is not too early to not be an annoying little b. Okaaaay?! I buy him t-shirts that say, ” I shit bigger than you.” Instead of, ” I’m a cutie,” or “My Mommy Wuvs Me.” fuck that. If he’s going to survive and thrive in our house, he needs me, his number ONE, to start him off properly.
I really think I have to blame my family for my behavior. I grew up with seven young aunts and four uncles AND a big brother. A good time was making fun of each other. To tease was to love. And you better be good at it or you will get owned and you will cry in the corner by yourself and then you will cry harder once you’ve been made fun of for crying in the corner. So I guess you could say I’m initiating my son by being a little cruel with my humor. Perhaps in some way, I’m hoping it will instill a sense of resilience and quick wit, so that HE CAN do “THE RAY CHARLES,” and if anyone were to give him shit about it he could instantly point out the disproportionate size of their ears and send them crying in a corner. He would then follow-up by laughing at them crying in the corner and thus, continuing the cycle and shutting the bastards down PHO GOOD, son. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want him to be a bully. And it’s especially important he not be a bully because he is already physically HUGE. So the last thing I want is for him to crush a person’s soul before crushing their little sculls. But he should be armed in a way that will make him less of a target because nobody wants to fuck with that guy. This will help him to differentiate himself as an adult too. Instead of just being disgustingly handsome and smart, he will also be funny…perhaps with dark humor but still humorous none the less which is infinitely more important. Looks fade, smarts are important to a point (you know what ‘know-it-alls’ don’t know? How fucking ANNOYING they are), but humor is forever fun! So I am giving him the gift that keeps giving. In college he will have the hunnies lined-up and he will think to himself for a fraction of a second…”Thanks Ma.” Which is all a parent can ever hope for. Not that I am saying my dream is for him to be some kind of man-whore using the talents I’ve embedded for evil. Just because he has the hunnies lined-up doesn’t mean he has to go down the line trying them all on. I would be perfectly content should he go the route of his parents and find his soul-mate to laugh with at fifteen, but its good to have options.
Bring on the wonder years.
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I’d like to think of myself as an incredibly patient person, but I’m pretty sure I’m NOT. Its taken me almost 4 years to grow out my hair from a pixie cut, and that’s not because my hair grows slowly, it’s because I run out of patience and chop it off, right when I’m making progress. I paint and do other artsy things with lightening speed, not because i am THAT good, it’s because I am impatient and want to see the finished product already. I am willing to experience severe discomfort in the process to feel satisfied by swift end-results.
So I shouldnt be terribly surprised that I am impatient with my kids. I want them to grow up quickly so I can have real conversations with them and take them places, like the zoo, and enjoy watching the animals with them rather than peeling them off the ground that they’d rather lick than step on. You hear all the time, ” They grow up too fast..” and yeah, I get that, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting to fast forward a tiny bit of the rough and/or boring stuff. BLASPHEMY, I know. How dare I, as a mother, say my kids are at a boring or tiresome stage, but I’m just being honest with myself. Doesn’t make me love them any less. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t fart rainbows. I also don’t like wiping asses, or enjoy the feeling of dreading a trip to the beach (THE BEACH), because, let’s face it…sand + diaper creme= one screaming kid. I guess I’m just not big on the baby stage. I don’t have a nursery set up, for either of my kids, which is something “baby-lovers” are really big on. But it’s not because I don’t care, I’m just really practical. I figure, once I get to know my kids, as little people, WE can decide what they want in their room and I’m not shoving, say, The Little Mermaid down my daughters throat because it’s what I think is cute (if she chose that, I would MORE than encourage it). Maybe she’d want ballerina stuff instead or even race cars for all I know. I really want to encourage them to have a sense of self that isn’t overly swayed by my interests. I am ready to roll my sleeves up, and mural entire walls! But I want to know what they like first. Honestly, I envision myself being the best mom when my kids are in, late elementary through high school and beyond. I’m stoked for pre-teens, which is unusual considering that’s a tough age and parents are at odds with their kids.
Babies are cute and all, but…they are just a lot of work and not really much fun. Not to say I don’t enjoy anything about my babies at the stages they are currently in, I’m just saying I have a preference for slightly older kids, given my natural lack of patience and lack of desire to do “baby-eske” things.
I want to chase them at the beach and build sand-castles. I want to hear their stories about school and friends and watch movies together. I want to document my son catching his first wave with his dad. That to me, is the good stuff. I am not too excited or emotional about a first haircut or writing in the baby book ( I really need to get on that though). I’m sure there will be plenty of amazing and glorious moments before then, and I don’t want to miss anything, but I cant help but look forward to whats ahead. my kids growing up doesn’t scare me, or make me emotional. I’m stoked about it! Bring it!!!
Betsy-Wetsy was a misleading little biotch.
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Betsy-Wetsy. She was a great doll who pissed and crapped her pants. A little cold water and you could wipe the pretty little shit stains right off her plastic/strawberry-smelling ass and it was awesome. What a con for my innocent mind. What on earth made me want that doll. Maybe it’s (and this is a fat maybe) DNA, that somewhere deep down I am programmed to think of that as fun so I breed and populate the earth with my kind. Or perhaps its just exposure, the great marketing machine, whatever. Any way you slice it, Betsy-Wetsy lied to me.
I was at the store recently and saw a child’s toy. It was a shopping cart with a seat for a baby-doll on top and a compartment below for the (toddler-aged) baby-doll on bottom. Pure, potent anxiety rushed through my body like a steroid, causing my left eye to twitch and at least four grey hairs to sprout from my temple. “GOOD GOD,” I thought to myself, “How is that FUN for a little kid?” Of course, my ‘all too real’ current situation means I have a slightly tainted view of what would be considered innocent child’s play, but I felt a little sick at the idea that my daughter, in a few years, would participate in the kind of play that mimics behavior that comes with such a load of responsibility. Can’t she just pretend with some sticks and a towel-cape for a while? Or throw rocks at her brother, mix magic potions out of stuff from my spice rack, cut off barbie’s hair and draw on her face!? Why jump-start the serious stuff? But then, nostalgia takes over and I remember happily wiping Betsy’s little butt, and I let out a sigh, because Betsy mislead me to believe it was as easy as using a little towel with cold water. Betsy didn’t smell, she didn’t take off her diaper and throw it across the room, she didn’t have gooey, nasty, sticky feces all the way up her back to the nape of her little neck…Betsy lied. Betsy was a deceitful little bitch.
I have an interesting theory for population control. No need to pump 10-year-olds with birth-control pills anymore, just give them a slice of the real world when they are 6.
Instead of Betsy-Wetsy, we could have a more truthful, Vallerie-Vomit, Daisy-Diarrhea, or how about my favorite, Shelly-McShits-On-Everything. That will teach our girls to crave motherly responsibilities at such a tender, young age. Maybe, just maybe, if I had a Shelly Mc-Shits-On-Everything, I would be more psychologically prepared for toilet-training my son. Then again, there is the possibility that I would have by-passed motherhood entirely and been running for President. The world will never know.
I really, really, really, really, love shoes. Really.
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I don’t know when this obsession began. It could have been the tiny little heels my mom got me for Easter Sunday when I was eight, or the fabulous pair I wore for junior prom that couldn’t possibly match my lilac-colored, mermaid, sparkling dress any better. It doesn’t matter when it began, all that matters is that it’s here and its very real. I’ve got a lot of shoes.
I think shoes really tell you a lot about a person, but honestly, unless you’ve been out with me to a fun dress-up event or a night on the town, my shoes would actually lie to you about who I really am. I am not a pair of light-brown, leather, reef flip-flops. I’m not. And yet, that’s what I am wearing 99.9% of the year (even in the rain and hail). They are my “go to” shoes. They match everything, they are comfortable, and frankly their biggest selling point is they do not require socks. I hate socks. I have bought thousands of socks and yet, on a good day I can find maybe 4 pair. It’s not that I’m incredibly unorganized, even though I have some tendencies to be so, it’s because the clothes washer eats them. Any clothes washer. I’ve got yummy foot-sweat apparently. My reef’s are always there, always ready, always easy. I do like them very much, but I don’t love them. I don’t love them like my peep-toe espresso wedges from Aldo’s or my five pairs of espadrilles in varying shades of off-white from nine-west ( a MUST-HAVE for any lover of boho). Nine-West is my preferred brand for the money/comfort.
Shoes are like jewelry for your feet, only not creepy (like actual foot jewelry). There is just something magical about a pair of sexy shoes. It makes a whole outfit. Even men, clueless as they can be, could tell you if a woman has style based almost entirely on her choice of footwear. It doesn’t seem logical at all. Our feet are filthy. They walk in and out of public restrooms, step on absolute filth every single day. Our feet swell, they get the least fresh blood and oxygen circulation out of our entire bodies and most people have awkward toes. Not me, mine are perfect. But really, there are some pretty ugly feet out there. You get my point. Finger toes with jewelry… just creepy.
I wish I could show all of my beautiful shoes more often, but I rarely find an occasion worthy of the wear and tear. I’m dead serious. I actually consider wear and tear on my shoes. Not my car, which most people consider for long trips, but my shoes. I have a few pairs that I especially love and I especially go out of my way not to put on because I want them in pristine condition always. I know, it makes NO sense. It’s almost like I’m one of those sicko mothers who have a secret attachment to their daughter’s porcelain-doll collection. Not allowing her to play with them so they don’t get ruined. It’s not even like the shoes are expensive! Hardly! It’s just that there is never quite an occasion so deserving of their fabulousness. So I am making a life decision here, a choice to get my shoes out of their dust-proof plastic preservation bins and wear them. Wear them till I need to buy more shoes and wear those too. A blister here and there will not stop me either. Comfort be damned, I am not a pair of plain, leather, reef’s.
two children = what diesel truck just ran me over?
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I love my babies. Don’t get me wrong. I’m serious. Lights of my life, heart and soul kinda shit. But I would like to take a moment to express the drastic change in my life from one baby to two. Why not begin with the change of having just one. For those of you without children, who are in the planning process or already far enough along to actually be pregnant, you’ll probably faint when you read this. But you NEED to read this. It may very well save your life…your marriage…your plants. Or a combination of all.
I’ve been with my husband for, oh, a good 14 years now. We’ve survived long distance, a major remodel, the purchase of a new home, two energetic dogs ( one of which was crazy. CUTE as hell, but bat-shit crazy). So you could say our relationship has been tested on a variety of levels. Then we had our gorgeous son. It’s amazing how being forced to give up all selfish tendencies, like sleeping, eating and showering, can really begin to affect you. The delight of the little bundle of joy gets you through the trouble initially, but just initially. Until you get out of the delirious state and realize the throw-up on your shirt does actually smell terribly and you just want a shower to yourself. Just one damn shower where you can shave your legs, lather up, rise and repeat in peace and quiet. Luckily, just when you think you CAN’T handle it anymore, the stage changes and you get a break and miraculously find a way to dye your hair. In the nick of time too because your roots are like, 2 feet long and you aren’t actually TRYING to go for that trendy two-tone hair look and you would like your husband to think of you as a woman and possibly be attracted enough to you to have sex again….some day. In the far far future.
Once you think you’ve got everything tolerable and even somewhat normal, bring on baby number two. Hell, PREGNANCY number two. It’s not pretty. the fluids, the hormones, the extreme exhaustion. The need for green jolly ranchers to suck on because you want to puke your guts out and your husband (god bless him he’s TRYING to be helpful) brings home the damn chewy jolly ranchers and you are forced to choke them down because it does provide some temporary relief. At least until you’ve had 20 and you feel worse than before. Add one rambunctious toddler to the equation and you are pretty much in a dimension of hell that isn’t spoken about because you are supposed to be so ecstatic over the blessings for which many women would kill for. Yes yes, I am BLESSED. TRULY. I get it.
I went to Costco today. I have a 3-month-old and a toddler. A young toddler. Believe me, I had to hype myself up two days in advance for this trip. This is what nobody tells you about having two young children, back to back. Sure you had them, you only wanted two, you are done by 30, they will be so close, yadda yadda. All the positive stuff that I am sure to reflect on five years down the road. But nobody tells you, you have to hype yourself up for a Costco run. There is SO much strategy involved. #1 You have to leave early enough to avoid the crowds, so if/when your toddler has a meltdown because you didn’t let him lick the entire cart, there wont be nearly as many stink-eyes to deal with. #2 Has your toddler gone number two yet? Best to get that handled at home where there are plenty of clean-up materials. #3 Who’s eaten, have they eaten enough, how long can we last without them needing to eat again. #4 Will we make it back for Naptime, if we don’t how long will we be over, and can we survive the attitude should we miss the naptime window.A toddler who has missed his naptime window, is a toddler who will drive his mother to drink. #5 Just how badly do we need that extra-large container of humus and the two gallons of organic milk???Review decision to go at least 12 times. #6 Have the diaper bag pre-packed with essential snacks, napkins, wipes, toys, books, diapers, cremes, changes of clothing. I’m not even an over-prepared type of person. I’m really not. I’m incredibly laid-back. So you can imagine what type-A personality mothers have to bring.
We survived the trip. I lived to tell the tale. Yes, in five years this will all be funny. But right now, as I deal with colic & the terrible two’s at the same time, I assure you, my brain is asking me, why did we do this again? But of course, my heart knows exactly why. I wouldn’t have it any other way. So if your marriage is happy and healthy, have a kid or two. If you’re happy and healthy, naturally patient and up for a challenge, have a kid or two. If you freak out about not being on time, not having your hair and nails done, not going on vacation…or having to hype yourself up for a Costco run, definitely do not have a kid, and two is out of the question. Because your face will explode.
Oh Honda my Honda
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Element Ex, I love you. You are a green, milk-carton on wheels. You haul all the things I need and don’t need. You tolerate dog barf and kid barf and you clean up easy, without lingering, unpleasant odors. There is surf board wax and layers upon layers of sand in your every nook and cranny. I haven’t washed you properly in a year (aside from the occasional rain storm) and you are still presentable. An oil change is all you ask for, and even THEN, it’s merely a suggestion. You never throw a “check engine” light my way because you know it would stress me out. You don’t drink oodles of gasoline like many of your larger cousins either, but I could fit a couple of bikes inside you easily if I wanted, or more importantly, a few oversized canvases and gallons of paint… We have been up and down the California coast together. We have had many adventures and if you could talk, you’d have some hilarious stories, I’m sure. Thanks for taking me and the family around all the time.
A large, large man in a small, small world
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God bless my husband, it’s truly an uphill battle for a man of his size. He is a towering 6-foot, 6-inches massive. He’s in great physical shape though, so big and tall stores don’t offer nearly enough options for him, as we’ve come to learn that “big and tall” is actually code for large and really fat. I have to order all his clothes online, which is always hit or miss, and it’s very sad when browsing a regular department store and being limited to, “what might work” as opposed to, “what would he actually like.” I’ve become acutely aware of ceiling fans and fancy light fixtures, since I am the one who would be taking him to the emergency room, a place I am all too familiar with (but that is a topic for another time). Vaulted ceilings are not just a luxury but a must have. A romantic soaking in the bath tub together? Not unless you break his legs off, and even THEN, the broadness of his shoulders wouldn’t allow it. It’s wonderfully hot, don’t get me wrong, but certainly not convenient. I definitely feel for him though. Take travel for example. He can’t comfortably use the bathroom in an airplane, has to rely on the kindness of the airline staff to score an emergency row exit seat, or else his knee sticks out into the aisle and gets whacked by the beverage cart. One winter we took a fun trip to New York. It was great, except if you’ve ever been to New York you know very well the space limitations. Again, there were certainly issues with the bathroom and the bed. So what’s a giant man to do? moreover, what’s his average/petite wife to do? aside from getting him to reach things on the top shelf at the store, change light-bulbs, or most importantly, ceiling spider killings, there isn’t a whole lot. I certainly won’t be planning a trip to an amusement park for him as he’d probably break the coaster in a similar way he breaks our furniture. That, or possibly risk decapitation should the ride venture into a cave or tunnel. But let me also say, there is nothing as warm, safe and snuggly as an embrace from a person who could easily crush the life out of you. So until we strike it rich and order custom giant furniture, for our custom giant house and zoom around in our custom giant car, we’ ll have to make do with my beloved not quite fitting into the world around him. At least he fits in my heart perfectly.
Pregnancy: a blessing, a miracle…that Sucks.
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I know there are millions of women out there who truly enjoy the process of building a person in their womb, and let me say that I am truly grateful for the opportunity to do so….but let me also say…Pregnancy SUCKS. I mean, what the heck is good about it? I can’t say I enjoy gaining weight by the week, or squeezing myself into maternity pants that, in no way, shape or form, flatter my ever-expanding ass. Know the feeling of having to really pee first thing in the morning? How about experiencing it all DAY! like sleeping on your back? Too bad. Like eating tuna fish sandwiches? Too bad. A cold glass of wine after a long day? Nope. The baby kicking is cute until your organs become a punching bag and the super amazing hyper sensitive sense of smell is perfect in a rose garden, but terrible during a lunch trip to Milpitas, when the local dump has had a good soaking of warm sunshine. A compliment of “you don’t look pregnant in the face,” never feels as good as was intended. Why do I want to eat so much lemon, but absolutely can’t stand the basic taste of water? this is definitely my last time being pregnant, I wish it was April already.
The hair affair
My childhood obsession with “The Little Mermaid” was due to, in no small part, her flowing red hair that went all the way down to there. It wasn’t so much the color, though I have to say it’s vibrancy was epic. Long, glorious hair is, in a word, LOVELY. The vast majority of my childhood and early adolescence was spent managing my locks. It’s a pretty copper-brown color, full of body and bounce. It was also regularly full of knots, tangles, frizz and the occasional branch or leaf (I’m not kidding, not even a little). My husband referred to it in high school as, “foof.” I like to call it, Shakira hair.
One day I just decided to cut it. For anyone with long hair, cutting inches is like cutting large bits of your security blanket. Hair is something that can distract or hide. Its easier to be beautiful with long hair, it’s easier to be feminine and frankly, it’s easier to blend in which for many people, is a serious goal. For me, I had always lacked the interest to do any real upkeep with my mass of hair, so going short was for more practical reasons. I don’t even think I properly learned how to style my hair with a blow-dryer until college. Plus, change is good. I am a super big fan of changing your appearance. It keeps things interesting.
In college I went VERY short. About as short as a woman can cut her hair without buzzing it. Let me tell you….the liberation is so freeing and indescribable. It is truly a way to embrace what your mama gave you. You are out there, face forward, exposed, different and there is no hiding and no turning back. I believe every woman should cut her hair that short at least ONCE in her life to understand that level of freedom, and to fully embrace who she is and accept herself, flaws and all as ‘lovely’ even if it’s in an unconventional way. So now comes the time when I grow out my hair and argue to myself every day…Is long hair even ME? Sure its beautiful, but the upkeep…sure its sexy, but the hassle…sure its feminine but it’s so expected and even ordinary.
Let me say this, if you can feel sexy without long hair, and you can feel gorgeous without makeup, then you are truly free and nothing is as empowering. Now where is the number to my hairdresser….there is a pixie cut with my name on it.
Cloudy with a chance of…a daughter?
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I recently had an elective ultrasound to determine the gender of my impending bundle of joy. Of course it doesn’t really matter and I actually mean that. In many ways having another boy would make my life much easier, which I’m all for. When it comes to most things I am either seriously lazy or a hell-bent, obsessive, perfectionist. Can’t seem to find the grey in there, lord knows I have tried. Sort of.
Our little bundle ended up not having a penis. Which is also very cool. We only plan on two children, so now we have one of each. My husband still gives us a 30% chance of having a boy, only because he is under the bizarre impression that I would be horribly disappointed if the technician called it incorrectly. It’s a practice he employs that we lovingly call, “Mr. Collins Theory.” The theory dates back to high-school. In a nutshell, if you expect the worst and prepare yourself mentally for disappointment, you’ll be pleasantly surprised when it is a different outcome. It’s a very ‘Mike’, very “glass is 1/2 empty but we have a few glasses” type of mentality that I’ve grown very fond of over the years. But only when he does it. Anyone else I would have to call them a wet-blanket. Or wet jeans with sand, which is infinitely worse. Or maybe it has something to do with his mom saying at his birth, “Another BOY? Shit.”
Last night on the couch I looked at him and said, “aren’t you so excited to have a daughter? You can meet and scare the boys she dates, tell her the skirt she is wearing is much too short and be totally confused when she tells you, ‘you just don’t get it!’ and runs crying into her room.” He looked at me with an awkward smile….” there is still a 30% chance it will be a boy.”
My future: shaped by pink lipstick.
When I was 3, I wore dresses with white stockings. I ran around with two, tightly woven french-braids in my hair, fastened at the tips with colorful ceramic creatures that would fly up and clip my teeth. I considered myself to be a very grown-up, fashionista. I would sneak access to my mom’s beauty products whenever possible.
One afternoon, I was sitting in our quintessential 1980′s, black, Z-28 Camaro. My mom ran inside to make sure she turned off the iron (scatter-brained tendencies MAY run in the family). Of course, I immediately seized the rare opportunity to explore her purse.
Jackpot! Pink lipstick. The color was vibrant, glistening, beckoning. With wide eyes and adrenaline pumping, I opened it to the max and aggressively pulled it across my mouth and face. I didn’t stop there. I traced my forehead and cheeks until the lipstick was decimated.
I never got to see what I looked like, though I imagined it was “stunning”. I also didn’t understand my mom’s reaction when she returned to the car. I was certainly very annoyed when she took me inside to clean-up.
To this day, when I find a certain color (can be anything- paint, clothing, fabric) that really peaks my interest, I will say out-loud, ” I love this color SO much I could just rub it all over my face.”
Well, it’s no surprise where that comes from.
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