On Nudity and a Long Summer

As you might be aware, Tony, I mean WE, bought a boat this summer.  If I had romantic notions of spending my summer on the water, day-tripping out to the San Juans to hike and watch orcas, I was quickly disabused of them.  What really happened is Tony spent a boatload of time away from the family.  A boatload.

 

My only boat trip.

 

The boat is older than he is, so regardless of its purported “great shape for its age,” it had problems (with the engine, with the bilge, with the battery, with the lights, with the boat things that all boats have, apparently) that needed to be remedied right quick.  This resulted in Tony working on the boat through most of the Independence Day weekend.  And then he took Jamie and Charles and went “fishing” (working on the boat at the dock) for an entire week in July.  Then he missed a family camping trip to attend a bachelor party (thank the dear Lord my parents went camping, too).  Then he went fishing again, three weekends in a row, in August, once leaving me with all three children for a weekend.  It’s a wonder we’re all still alive.

 

This kid is one cute camper.

 

This one turned FIVE.

 

This one turned TWO (you can’t tell, but he totally has his hand in his diaper) (poop and chocolate cake batter look the same) (this caused problems for me)

 

Do I begrudge him the time spent away from us with his new lover toy?  Of course I do.  But the cascading problems with the boat engine were neither anticipated nor Tony’s fault, and they’re unlikely to happen again.  That is, I’m sure there will be other problems that require him to spend a few hours working on the engine in the future, but the hope, nay, the expectation, is that they will be few and far between.  In other words, next summer will be so much better.  I might even get more than a 15-minute ride on the boat myself.  So, I was angry about him being gone so much, for forcing me to shoulder the burden of a family of young boys and a puppy (what the fuck were we thinking?  That dog is basically on cocaine ALL THE TIME) during a busy summer while trying to manage my business and have a little fun and relaxation myself (I didn’t get to that this summer – maybe next year).  However, I have forgiven him because I love him and I know he wished it could have been any other way.

 

Except he’s probably happy to miss this 2-year-old bullshit.

 

I’d like to think I’m capable of running this circus on my own, but I swear, every time I turn around, someone has taken off his pants, the dog is eating God-knows-what, and more sticks and rocks than I could have imagined have been turned into swords and projectiles.  And bedtime?  Forget it.  I am ready to admit that I am not an empowered, amazing mother who can keep the home ship afloat while dad is keeping a literal ship afloat (I’m not sure which of us got the worse deal: me, touched all over with jam-hands or cleaning up toddler vomit at 2 am, or Tony, covered in diesel and troubleshooting engine trouble for hours on end).  Instead, I am the woman who buys ice cream, takes kids hiking and to the park, makes dinner, fills the wading pool, and then loses her shit when the toddler refuses to sleep and instead cries for 90 minutes straight and the big kids don’t listen to directions THE SAME DIRECTIONS EVERY NIGHT FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT’S HOLY, BRUSH YOUR GODDAMN TEETH.  Mama needs a consistent bedtime, too, people.  The wine and chocolate aren’t going to consume themselves.

 

The price of ice cream on a hot day: massive tantrums post-sugar crash.

 

Regardless, it’s been a good summer.  Charles went to several weeks of day camp and only had a few meltdowns and days he refused to go (his middle name is Stubborn).  He read probably 200 books this summer – it’s a constant trial to get him to look up and pay attention to ANYTHING besides whatever he’s reading at that moment, though a good movie will often do the trick (the kids enjoyed Spy Kids, The Mighty Ducks, The Three Musketeers, and The Goonies this summer, though their current favorite movie, THE BEST OF ALL TIME, is Shark Boy and Lava Girl).  If he wasn’t reading, he was riding his bike or his roller blades.

 

The damn dog has to be pinned down to stay still.

Jamie played in the dirt at preschool every single day and I almost never gave him a bath.  Sometimes he jumped into the shower with me and sometimes he stripped down and played in the wading pool with Freddie.  He was clean enough.  My priority was happiness, not cleanliness, and God knows there’s no fun dirt pile in kindergarten.

 

It’s a fake tattoo.

 

Freddie stripped down to nothing every hot afternoon and played in the wading pool.  The dog’s poop bags have been used to pick up Freddie’s poop from the backyard more times than I’d like to admit.  Freddie always throws a fit about having to put clothes back on.  He’s learned to push his diaper down and pee out the top, thus soaking everything in sight, because he thinks it’s funny.  He’s fascinated by his brothers peeing in the yard but doesn’t have the control to do it on demand just yet.  The other day he managed it and was so proud and excited: “Mama!  Pee-pee!  Mama!  Pee-pee!”  He’s cute, he loves to dance, and he doesn’t just say “no” like a regular two-year-old; he says, “Nononono!” while shaking his head.

 

 

And now, school.  It’s been a long summer.  I can’t adequately describe how tired and beaten I feel.  When does the coping stop and the living begin?  Maybe now that Jamie is in Kindergarten and Charles is in second grade,  Tony’s home for the weekends and the boat’s out of the water, we can all work on trying to kill each other within the confines of a regular schedule. 

 

 

The best part of the end-of-summer?  The school switched from a school-supply list to a flat fee per student so the teachers can buy supplies for their classes.  I’m planning to use the extra brain space that would have been occupied by comparing binder prices and parsing out ten-packs of pink erasers to restock the bar with carefully curated alcohols and mixers.  The dark days of fall are upon us and I plan to mix cocktails frequently.  Say, every time Freddie takes off his clothes.

 

Dadventures

When the kids go on trips with Tony, it's either an idyllic field trip into a world filled with motorized vehicles and cheeseburgers or a steep descent into a comedy of errors resulting in the use of a t-shirt for a diaper and marshmallows for lunch.  There is no middle ground.

 

A few weeks ago, Tony and Jamie had the first kind of trip. Tony decided on a Saturday evening to go check out a boat the very next day in some faraway Canadian town (note the utter lack of advanced planning, just like every trip he’s taken to look at a fucking boat). I went to bed at mom o'clock (after a cup of tea and falling asleep on the couch while reading) but was awakened near midnight to sign a hastily-written affidavit to the effect that I didn't mind if my husband took our child across the border. When I finally rolled out of bed the next morning at the late hour of 7:30 am, Tony and Jamie were long gone, probably on their second ferry ride of the day (they would do four total). By all accounts, it was a perfect trip. They ate ferry food and saw float planes land on the water and didn't buy a boat (I'm always a bit relieved when that is the outcome). 

 

It wasn’t a trip I’d ever take with a four-year-old, or any of the kids, really.  The day was long, there was lots of time spent in the truck – basically, my idea of a terrible time right there.  But Tony loves that sort of journey.  He eats it up.  Sports radio and looking at boats – that’s like heaven to him, and he’s stoked to share it with the boys.

 

Yesterday, Tony and Charles started out on a trip that, so far, is the second kind of adventure with dad. Before 12 hours had passed, they had missed a flight, stayed up way later than any seven-year-old should, and slept in their rental car in an in identified California city.

 

My husband and my seven-year-old slept in a car.

 

I just... Wow. Life is different on trips with Tony. With me, there are snacks in any bag I happen to have (and I have them all: purse, diaper bag, hiking backpack), plenty of water, changes of clothes, extra diapers, the gps coordinates to all suitable rest stops, children's museums, and restaurants, and kids’ music preloaded in the cd player.  With Tony, it’s fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants, don’t-bother-packing-underwear-but-be-sure-we-have-the-life-vests madness. 

 

I suppose this will be an experience Charles will never forget.  The stuff of family legends.  The stuff that keeps my blood pressure nice and high.

 

I haven’t heard from them in a few hours.  Things can’t have gotten much worse, right?  Right??

Searching for Happy

Last week, I honestly wondered if I was having a nervous breakdown.  But then I thought, if I’m aware of the nervous breakdown, is it actually a nervous breakdown?  Or am I just throwing a tantrum?

Jamie is four years old, almost five, and thank you, God, he is starting to show signs of moving out of the Fucking Fours.  I understand the Fucking Fours, though: his emotions outpaced his ability to cope with them.  Well, I think that’s what happened to me during the two weeks that followed spring break; my emotions outpaced my ability to cope.  So maybe Jamie’s not growing out of the Fucking Fours but my ability to empathize is increasing.

Do you know what’s not a good coping mechanism when you’re overtired, overstressed, and overwhelmed?  Texting your overworked, overtired, overstressed husband, “I quit.”  He couldn’t do anything about it.  I probably should have just given in and let everyone eat ice cream for breakfast, lunch, and dinnner for a couple of weeks. 

And then, at the culmination of tax season, we said our sobbing goodbyes to Buster.  He was physically healthy but mentally very unhealthy.  He perceived everyone outside of the family as a threat.  He was unsafe.



I miss him.  God, how I miss that stupid dog.  He wasn’t a very good dog – he never learned to fetch, he stopped being able to run with me a couple of years ago, his belches could clear a room, and he was aggressive – but I loved him.  The house is rather lonely without him, despite the tribe of rambunctious boys.  It hurts when I think of how he used to be many years ago, when I think of the dog he became over time, and when I remember our last moments with him as he slipped away.

Posting might be light here for a few weeks.  I need to find my happy place, the one inside my head, again.  I laughed with Tony a couple of times this past week, I mean really laughed, and it felt new.  I realized that I hadn’t laughed in a long time.

The thing is, it doesn’t matter how funny the joke is; it matters how light your heart. 

I’ll be back when I can be back, friends.

Legoland Adventure

I planned our trip to Legoland for spring break ages ago.  I coerced my mom into taking care of Freddie (and Tony) for a few days and I booked the flights, hotel, and park passes.



And then I sobbed when I dropped Freddie off the day we left.  It was my first time away from him and though I craved the sleep and the opportunity to sever our breastfeeding relationship (the chubby leech has been sucking until he exhausted the milk and started drawing blood every night for the last month), I was loathe to go without him for three nights.  Codependent much, Amelia?

Luckily for me, I had this bedmate while in California (even though he had his own perfectly good Lego pirate bunk):



Also, this guy watched over me while I slept, so I guess I was well-protected:



When we arrived, it was almost 8 PM, but the kids were wired.  We stayed up to watch the poolside movie with some hot chocolate (Lego Star Wars, of course).



The boys were up SO STINKING EARLY the next morning.





Too early, in fact, for the early-entrance to the park granted to those staying at the Legoland Hotel.  So they did a treasure hunt and built Legos to pass the time.



The weather was great, as you would imagine.











We spent the middle of both days at the water park, which meant that we missed the crowds for the rides.  It worked out pretty well.  Isn’t it great when you accidentally do something awesome?











I cannot say enough good things about Legoland.  The hotel staff was awesome.  The restaurants were perfect for kids.  The buffet was great.  There was an opportunity to embarrass my children every time we rode the elevator: when the elevator doors closed, the disco dance party started and they were mortified, even if no one else was in the elevator with us.  The park itself was perfectly sized and had a wide variety of activities besides just rides.  The water park was fun.  Two days spent there was just the right amount.







I had no personal agenda during this trip, other than to have fun with my boys.  We did the rides they wanted to do, we played what they wanted to play, we ate what they wanted to eat.  I (sort of) enforced bedtimes and teeth-brushing and that’s it.  I let them have control and there were no fights or tantrums.  It was wonderful.





The only shaky part was the trip home, and it was entirely my fault.  In a spectacular showing of idiocy, I did not so much look at the map from Legoland to the San Diego Airport (they’re about 40 miles apart) as glance at it.  We left a bit later than I intended, during rush hour (which moved surprisingly well on the freeway – certainly MUCH better than Seattle), and I took an incorrect exit when the freeway split into two freeways.  We went from a little behind schedule to a lot behind schedule.

We made it through customs and to our gate just before boarding, so I herded the boys over to the bathrooms and we took turns sitting with the luggage (all carry-on) while the others peed one last time before the airplane.  We left a bag at the bathroom, but I didn’t realize it until we were in that little tunnel, about to board the plane.

“Where’s the blue-and-white striped bag?  Oh, shoot!  We left it!  Boys, GET ON THE PLANE, I’m going back.” 

And then I left them to get on the plane.  Which was probably a stupid idea, but it all worked out, you’ll see.

I made my way, frantically, to the bathrooms and then back to security.  Luckily, we were in the small terminal at the airport – at the big terminal, I might have just said “to hell with the bag.”  The bag was at security and after a bit of panicked explanation that I was not trying to leave it behind, I was just absent-minded, I retrieved it.  I ran back to the plane and boarded just in time for takeoff.  The boys had their Legos and were playing, totally unconcerned.  The other parents on the plane assured me they had taken good care of them and that everything was okay, God bless them.

What a gift it was to have been able to do this for and with my big boys.  Next year, we’ll stick close to home, but I promised them we’d go back and do Legoland again when Freddie’s four.

Freddie, who only screamed at me for a whole day upon my return.  He wouldn’t let me put him down, but he screamed at me while I held him.  Pour chunk was so angry.  He’s over it now, and he hasn’t breastfed since.

Jaws of Steel

The universe is fucking with me.

 

I broke my night guard last week (because no plastic can withstand my stress-induced teeth clenching) and last night Freddie slept through the night for the FIRST TIME EVER.  And I hope to God it’s a trend, but it probably isn’t because I am not that lucky.  I did not sleep through the night because I kept waking to a severe pain in my jaw and teeth because of the clenching and grinding that is no longer prevented by a night guard.

 

That baby is still winning the sleep wars.  He’ll probably stop sleeping through the night as soon as I can sleep comfortably again.

 

I went to the dentist to get a new night guard and was summarily informed that I was now on “The List.”  That is, my dentist has a list of “maybe eight” patients who have broken two or more night guards.  Coincidentally (not), the last time I broke a night guard ($300!) was also during tax season.  The list exists because I have a new source of potential doom to worry about: sleep disorders.  Sleep apnea doesn’t just affect obese middle-age men who snore like freight trains; the stealth sleep apneaics are young, fit women in their thirties who don’t snore and who repeatedly break night guards. 

 

Huh.  That’s me.

 

So I might regularly stop breathing at night.  Or I might just be unreasonably stressed.  Hard to tell at this point, especially since I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in years.  It will probably take months of Freddie and the others sleeping through the night before I finally do – my body is trained to wake fully at the softest of sounds.  Plus, my super barf hearing is ALWAYS on high alert.

 

I’ll get my new night guard in a few weeks because this time the dentist wants to go for the full-jaw big guns instead of the two-front-teeth coughdrop-sized NTI I had (and broke twice) before.  In the meantime, I’ll be wearing a sports mouth guard for maximum fear factor when I get up with Freddie in the middle of the night (come on, we all know he won’t sleep through the night again until he’s four).  I imagine him screaming even louder when I pick him up with an overstuffed mouth full of molded plastic in some garish color.

 

The best part will be leaning over to Tony and kissing him goodnight with whatever mouth contraption I have to sport to keep from grinding my teeth to powder each night.  It’s almost allergy season, though, so soon he’ll have weepy, red eyes and a BreatheRight strip on his nose.  I tell you, as we move toward middle age, we just get sexier and sexier.

Thirsty

Freddie is 20 months old.  He has many words: car (“dar!”), da-da, doggy, Charles (“Darl!”), truck, cat, roar, frog, fish, night-night, ribbit, woof, choo-choo, mine (“maaaah!”), and outside, to name a few.  Also “agua.”  He knows how to ask for water, he knows where the clean cups are stored, and he knows that water comes from the tap or the fridge.  We have sippy cups full of water scattered throughout the house.  I couldn’t find any clean OR dirty ones a week or two ago, so I bought several new ones.  Right about the time they made it through the dishwasher, I cleaned underneath the boys’ bunkbed.  Apparently, that space is a cozy nest for the kids; it was filled with sippy cups (all only water, thank God), candy wrappers, flashlights, and books.

Anyhow, Freddie knows how to ask for water, but apparently we weren’t listening very well the other night.  We’re busy, we’re tired, normal brain function is inhibited, especially the “interpreting baby’s insistent cries, whines, and yelps” part, and we missed it.  So Freddie did what he does: he found a toilet, lifted the lid, grabbed a handful of toilet paper, dipped it in the toilet, and then sucked the water out of the paper.



Tony found him in the laundry room doing this, God only knows for how long.  He hauled him up the stairs with the most disgusted look on his face, pulling bits of paper out of Freddie’s mouth.  We are experienced parents who cloth diaper and who have a dog.  We’ve seen our share of disgusting, gross things in the past eight years.  Once, Buster ate some plastic wrap (it probably had some chicken on it) and when he pooped it out, half of it was stuck in his butt.  I had to quash my gag reflex and pull plastic wrap out of my dog’s butt.  Tony has dealt with every monster spider, dead bird, squirrel, or mouse we’ve ever had the pleasure to watch our dog masticate.  The kids have barfed and pooped all over us and the house and the cars.  We’ve done gross in this family, but I honestly can’t remember ever seeing Tony look so horrified as he did when he carried Freddie up the stairs and tried to wash the toilet water out of his mouth.



Now, if I pick up a stray sippy cup of water in the house, I make sure to place a clean, full one back in that room.  I’d rather have full water cups in each room than a child who drinks from the toilet.

Shoe Leather

I am unbelievably absent-minded when I am tired.  My house, desk, phone, and purse are littered with lists and appointments and Post-Its and notes to remind me to do things and sometimes they STILL don’t get done.  I’ve often wondered how Tony manages on so little sleep.  I also wonder why people insist on dropping off their tax information way into March when it’s pretty much guaranteed that their tax professional is living on coffee and a prayer.  Now, this is just speculation here, and I’m sure that Tony and his colleagues do a great job on tax returns no matter the day, but I think quality must be better the earlier you turn your stuff in.  You know, when the preparer is well-rested and less stressed.  They’re bound to appreciate you more, at the very least.

Last Tuesday, a day of school, work, the housekeeper coming (so I have to scramble to pick up ahead of time so she can get to the floors to clean them), gymnastics class, and my Y workout class, I forgot to plug the crockpot in.  Well, first I forgot to put the corned beef in the crockpot, but I put it in at noon.  Jamie came to work with me because he was still getting over having a bad case of the barfs on Sunday night (why must these things always happen in the middle of the night?), so we went home for lunch and a nap at noon.  I put the corned beef in the crockpot then, turned it on high, and forgot to plug it in.  Turns out it doesn’t work so well when it’s not plugged in (when, oh when, will appliances run on my desires alone?)  Three hours later, I realized my mistake.  Then I forgot that I had such an appliance as a pressure cooker even though my mom was just talking about cooking corned beef in a pressure cooker the day before.  Instead, I tried to cook it on the stovetop, which is a legitimate way to cook a corned beef if you can cook it all day.  However, I refuse to leave the stove on when I’m not at home, so I cooked it for an hour, turned it off, went to gymnastics, cooked it for another half hour, and left for my Y class.

Needless to say, it was as tough as shoe leather when Tony served it for dinner.  That’s kind of the point of corned beef, you know?  It’s a cheap, tough cut of beef that turns edible after hours and hours of slow cooking.  Except now it’s a novelty food served for Saint Patrick’s Day, a holiday that means next to nothing in our family, so it’s not so cheap.  Tony tried to make the kids eat it, regardless of how tough it was, and he’s too nice to say anything like “mom surely screwed this one up, you don’t have to eat it, I’ll make nachos.”  Or maybe he was just too tired to remember how to make nachos.  I wasn’t there to admit to everyone that I made a horrible mistake and we should just have nachos instead, so everybody cried, and Tony sent a paniced text around 7 stating simply, “everyone’s crying and they hate me.”  Been there, my love.

I won’t say all’s well that ends well because it really didn’t that night.  Dinner is not currently an area of success in our house.

At any rate, even without a note to remind me, I’ll probably remember these lessons: turn on the crockpot; remember your pressure cooker; nachos have the power to fix things only if you recognize them as a viable alternative.