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.

Yes, We Will Talk of Poop

I do not understand why “potty humor” is humorous, but let me tell you, my kids understand.  I have come to accept it, and I think that’s all we can really expect of this poor, outnumbered soul (ME) whose days are filled with fart noises and peeing contests (their favorite thing is to cross the streams while peeing into the same toilet or onto the same patch of grass – it always makes me think of Ghostbusters).

 

In addition to the funny stuff, we have many serious discussions about poop in our house.  Did you go today?  Does it hurt when you go?  Are you done yet?  (Honestly, WHY does it take the male half of the human race SO LONG?  Do they want to hang out with their own stink for half an hour?)  Since this summer presented my children with some constipation issues (not enough water, among other things), we have been militant about fiber and water consumption and as a parent, I’ve been on a crusade to make it all work out, so to speak.  We’ve seen the chiropractor, the kids take supplements, and then there’s this:

 

 

Each person in our family now poops with a stool under his or her feet (with the exception of Freddie, for obvious reasons), and I can assure you that the whole process is much faster and better.  The problem, of course, is that one of my children is too short for his feet to touch the ground in a public restroom and is no longer willing to poop without a stool. 

 

So guess what?  I get to be the stool.

 

 

I can’t begin to count the number of times I’ve had to kneel on the floor in a public bathroom stall just so my kid can poop happily.  If that’s not a mother’s love, I don’t know what is.

 

I did, recently, find one poop experience funny: I had made some beet salad and was enjoying it when Freddie reached for some.  I let him try it, thinking that I would be treated to another of his “what the hell, mom?” faces, but instead he started shoveling in pieces of vinegar-soaked beets hand over fist until my lunch was gone (another example of maternal love: foregoing lunch for one’s tiny monsters).  We all know what beets look like, umm, later, so I warned Tony not to be surprised (spoiler: he was surprised).  After dinner, in a shocking display of good timing (for me), I left the boys to bounce off the walls together (I used to think that was just an expression, but oh no – it’s literal) while I ran an errand.  When I came back, there were purple spots all over the carpet, along with rags and carpet cleaner just waiting for a break in the action to be used (or, more likely, waiting for me to come home and deal with it).  Turns out the beets went right through Freddie and the resulting, fiber-rich movement could not be contained by his diaper.  I know I shouldn’t laugh at my husband’s distress, but I couldn’t help imagining him wandering around the house, wondering why on earth there was purple shit all over the floor.

Writing About Vomit AGAIN

Three things I learned last night:

 

1. I have super vomit hearing.  The moment a child of mine begins to hurl, I pop wide awake, even from a dead sleep.  No baby should have to puke without the comforting presence of a parent to hold them, so I instantly wake up and then I immediately elbow Tony in the ribs so he runs to the sick child.  Tony was barfed on three times last night, I wasn’t barfed on at all, so I think that makes this a superpower.

 

2. Freddie doesn’t chew his food.  The first bout of stomach upheaval reminded all of us that we had chili for dinner and had me and Tony picking up whole beans from the floor and out of the bathtub (the bathtub is a convenient place to hold a puking child).  Granted, Freddie doesn’t have many teeth, but I thought for sure that he gummed more of his bites than that.

 

3. Buster values his sleep.  Not even the nearby chunks of baby vomit or the frantic activity of two parents waving their hands over a sick baby will get that dog to move from his convenient sleeping spot in the middle of the hall.  He snorted at us a few times, though, obviously perturbed by the activity.

 

 

Poor baby.

AWOK (Away WithOut Kids)

 

My husband, God bless him, is not a gift-giver.  I used to really like receiving gifts, so this was tough on me early in our marriage.  I buy little gifts all the time and I save up big gift ideas for Christmas and birthday, which, in Tony’s case, come back-to-back.  Often, however, Tony will ruin my gift-giving ideas by just going and buying himself whatever he wants when he wants it.  Clearly, he does not punish himself with delayed gratification like I do.

 

When Tony does give a gift, though, it ends up being super thoughtful and extravagant.  Gorgeous sapphire drop earrings one Christmas, pretty, delicate wine glasses one birthday, and then, for no reason whatsoever, a night away from the kids and the house last weekend.

 

Okay, it’s not for no reason whatsoever.  It’s because I’m going batshit crazy.

 

It’s because Charles throws a tantrum about stupid math homework every other day – he could breeze through it in 30 seconds, but he thinks it’s so. stinking. dumb. that he has to do counting and basic addition and subtraction problems that he whines and cries about how he wishes he could go back in time and stop the first teacher who ever assigned homework from doing so, thereby preventing this demonic concept of “homework” from ever being invented.  Guess who gets to be the homework parent right after school each day?  Yep, me.  I talk that kid off a ledge all the time about that ridiculous homework and honestly, I think half of the reason I have so much trouble is that Charles thinks that I am possibly too dumb to understand his homework.  He won’t listen, no matter how I try to explain the concepts.

 

It’s because Jamie’s emotions outrun his reasoning skills 8407256 times each day, and I have to employ every negotiating tactic I’ve ever learned from watching formulaic cop-dramas (“Put the stick down so we can talk about it, Jamie.  Why don’t you come over here and give me your list of demands?  You don’t really want to hurt anyone, so just let go of your brother’s ear and walk away.  Time-out is no fun, kiddo, put the rock down.”) just to get through the day.  He’s often in time-out and he often loses privileges.  He just as often snuggles up to me and asks me to read stories, but geez, it would be nice to have some middle ground between “infuriating” and “sweet as sugar.”

 

 

It’s because Freddie never sleeps and he never, ever wants to stop nursing.  I can’t really remember what it feels like to be well-rested.  At this point, it would take me a month just to fill the giant hole of sleep debt in my life.

 

Tony, apparently, has been making plans for me to have a night away with some girlfriends for MONTHS.  That’s love, people, plain and simple.  My friend Jodi picked me and two other friends up on Saturday morning and drove us to Canada.  I felt like yelling to my children, “Sorry, SUCKERS.  I’m going to be in A DIFFERENT COUNTRY for the next 36 hours!”  Oh, sweet freedom.  We drank all day long, soaked in a hot tub, went shopping and walking, shared laughs, and gorged ourselves on fantastic sushi.  And then I didn’t get out of bed to nurse a screaming child once, all night long.

 

36 whole hours of ADULT TIME.  Best gift of the year.

Nurse Freddie Helps Out

My mom had hip surgery two weeks ago and I haven’t quite recovered.

 

She, on the other hand, is recovering quite nicely.

 

The surgery was September 30, and we decided to go ahead and do a big strategy retreat for our business a few days later.  The beginning of the month is always busy for me at work (bank reconciliations, sales tax returns, etc), but then we talked our way into a huge list of new tasks and undertakings at that meeting.  Additionally, Freddie has decided that he will never sleep again, so I face a raging sleep-deprivation-induced migraine every day while Tony steadily gets angrier and angrier.  We look like raccoons, so deep are the shadows under our eyes.

 

Mom came to stay with us a few days after her surgery, right after my in-laws came to stay for a day, which was right after the surgery and right after my dad was here for a few days while mom was in the hospital (that’s a lot of houseguests).  We kept mom in the basement, which sounds bad.  And maybe it was, but she had bathroom access and it was all one level, straight from the garage to the elevated couch (here’s a tip: if someone you know has a total hip replacement, raise your couch up several inches – six or seven – so they can easily get on and off of it).  Charles practiced piano for her, Buster guarded her during the day, and Jamie and Freddie were mostly out of her way.

 

Well, mostly.  Freddie liked to visit for a second at a time.

 

Leland had a hard time seeing our mom in the hospital and then in recovery at home.  I understand it – I mean, no one wants to see their mom as an invalid, in pain, unable to walk.  But after some self-examination (am I so hard-hearted that I was emotionally unaffected by mom’s state of health?), I realized that I was totally cool with this whole surgery thing because, more than anything else, it indicated that our mom was healthy and on her way to getting healthier.  Nursing a post-op patient is so much different than nursing a terminally sick one.  There were no big issues of life at stake here.  Rather, there is nothing but hope in her convalescence.  In a few months, mom will walk better than she has in years.

 

This is not to say that it was easy.  Caring for anyone is hard work.  After I safely delivered mom to dad (with the help of afternoon coffee on the long drive, something in which I don’t usually indulge), Freddie and I proceeded to clean house, grocery shop, and cook a dozen or so freezer meals for my parents.  Well, I did those things.  Freddie took care of grandma and practiced his cute.

 

 

So here it is mid-month and I’m still doing beginning-of-the-month stuff at work, Charles has early release all week so I go home early after not finishing my work at the office, I haven’t had time for a run in almost two weeks, and I am completely out of ideas for dinner.  No matter what I make, the children complain about it.  So, you know what?  I’m fucking done.  Breakfast for dinner and all the vegetables shoved into a smoothie.  I hope my mom gets better soon so she can come visit and take care of me.

Sleep Wanted

Before his haircut… clearly, it was time.

 

Every once in awhile, one of my friends talks about how their child didn’t sleep through the night until he or she was four months old and it nearly killed them.  Like, the parents in this situation nearly died because they were so tired.

 

I am so jealous of them.  When I think of the things I could do if only I could get enough sleep…

 

 Riding at Grandma’s

 

A couple of weeks ago, after YEARS of sustained sleep deprivation, I texted Tony at about 5:15 PM, begging him to come home from work so I could take a nap.  I did, then I got up around 7 and ate dinner, then went back to bed around 9 and slept until 9 the next morning, except for the three times I had to get up in the middle of the night to nurse Freddie.

 

Sure, HE gets plenty of naps.

 

Yes, he’s still nursing.  All night long.

 

 

You know, most people get over the “baby brain” thing when their children start sleeping through the night.  It’s no wonder I’m such a scatterbrain all the time; I’ve had “pregnancy brain” or “baby brain” for over 7 straight years.

 

 

It’s a damn good thing that my children are so cute and lovable because mine are trying to fucking BREAK me.  A day in the hospital?  A tantrum about wanting to eat “two halves” of a banana instead of a whole banana?  Climbing onto the chair and rocking until it falls over every time I turn around?  We’ve got it all in this madhouse.

 

 

Especially the climbing, both on and in things.  Climbing everywhere.

 

 

I shouldn’t complain.  I mean, just look at these cute boys:

 

 

But I sure would like a little more time to read, maybe even relaxingly enjoy some free time, instead of falling onto the couch in an end-of-day stupor, unable to focus on, well, anything.

 

 

I try to imagine my life in a few years, when Freddie is finally sleeping through the night and I have all three children in school.  I can’t, though, because other than on a few isolated vacations, I haven’t had a full-night’s sleep in so long that I can’t accurately predict what that will feel like.  I could be a totally different person!  Maybe, underneath these under-eye circles, I’m the type of person who does the NYT crossword every day!  Or someone who learns to play the piano in her 40s!  Or someone who has time to do volunteer work at the humane society!  Or someone who learns a third language!  Or someone who gardens seriously!

 

In all likelihood, behind the sleep deprivation is a mom whose voice is a little less shrill, whose patience is a little more consistent, and whose car is a little less dirty inside.  Only time will tell, but I have to live that long, first.

I Shouldn’t Be Surprised

You know how there’s always that one idiot friend in college who, love her though you do, is always doing stupid shit when she’s drunk?  Not, like, dangerous stupid, but potentially dangerous stupid and just plain make-sure-the-sober-sister-watches-out-for-her stupid.  It’s the girl who insists on insists on attempting feats of skill and strength while inebriated, such as climbing a giant metal sculpture of a horse.  It’s the friend who thinks she’s an amazing dancer (she’s not) and persists on loudly singing her own tune while dancing in the middle of a residential street at 2 am, despite her friends’ attempts to shush her.  It’s the girl who convinces everyone that it is a wonderful idea for someone else to push her around campus in a shopping cart while wearing a motorcycle helmet she found in a res hall storage room.  It’s the friend who thinks she’s hilarious and sneaky when she finds some poor child’s abandoned sidewalk chalk while walking home from a party and proceeds to tag the sidewalk the entire 1/2 mile walk home with illegible Strongbad quotes and sorority symbols.  It’s the friend who wants to make pancakes while totally sauced and begins by placing a bag of flour on a hot burner.*

 

Toddlers are like that drunk friend (except, of course, that they’re not drunk).  They throw food on the floor.  They are loud at the most inappropriate of times.  And they cannot resist doing stupid shit.

 

All done, so I’ll throw it on the floor!

 

Freddie, in particular, likes to stand or sit in things.  Buckets, boxes, bowls… Things with the potential for “in” hold a powerful attraction for that boy and, consequently, I am always pulling him out of the dog dishes or the plants or the toy box.

 

The real reason he goes through so many clothing changes each day

 

 

And then there’s the stove and any cupboard, but especially those with harmful chemicals, that any of us have been stupid enough to leave open.  He climbs in, on, and over anything and he will do it repeatedly and with gusto if he is told “no.”  Especially if he is told “no.”

 

I know you said it was hot; I just want to see!

 

Of course, Freddie has two excellent examples of ridiculous behavior with no attention to consequences.

 

There was a dirt pile – no other reason necessary.

 

You think you have escaped the drunk friend when you leave college, but really, she just lives on in her children.  Of course, this time, I’m dealing with them, instead of someone else dealing with me.

 

Right before he decided to throw all of the cereal in his bowl at the dog.

 

*Only one of the “friends” in the anecdotes above was not me.

He Walks

Freddie started walking this weekend, which is much cuter than I ever imagined it would be.

 

 

Isn’t that always the way: lack of sleep shades my expectations until I’m so sure that everything will either suck or at least be just another boring, exhausting life complication.

 

 

I’m reasonably certain that Freddie could have walked a month ago, he just chose not to.  He’s already a pro at it, but he takes these big, wide turns to change direction that are just so funny in their inefficiency.  And he’s delighted by the whole darn thing.  Walking?  Turns out we’ve been doing it all wrong for all these years.  You’re supposed to laugh and smile about your very ability to do it at all.

 

   

This summer is dragging on into one of the most difficult years I’ve ever experienced.  It has to do with a lack of hope for the future and a lot of drudgery right now that I’m not sure will ever pay off (see: lack of hope).  I’m wrung out stressed out and out of ways to fool myself into thinking that everything is wonderful.  But then the baby smiles like the goober he is, or Jamie sings songs throughout dinner, or Charles runs up to me at the fair and gives me a giant hug, only to zip off with his camp counselor, out of sight in a flash, and suddenly fooling myself isn’t so important.

 

 

This life I lead is difficult and unglamorous, but it’s filled with many blessings among the hardships.

 

 

This is what makes life worth living, not the deadlines, cash flow problems, mistakes, dirty dishes, nor sacrifice after sacrifice after sacrifice.  All that other shit sucks balls, but it doesn’t really matter.

 

 

I have hope for their future, and in resigning myself to the Sisyphean tasks inherent in giving them a future, I should try to remember that they will bring me joy as they grow.  I don’t have to seek it elsewhere and though I might never learn to love the sacrifices I have to make, I do love the results those sacrifices produce.

 

 

I don’t know if the balance of good and bad will change in my life anytime soon; frankly, I don’t think it will.  We’re not getting enough sleep, Tony will finish his insane studying schedule just in time for tax season to start in January, and my business is growing in a stressful way right now.  But I get to have stinky boys cuddle me all the time, and that keeps me going.

 

 

Who would have ever thought I’d get so lucky?

Low Standards

 

Hey, mom, how’d you sleep?  I’m still tired.  Can I nurse more?

 

I didn’t sleep.  You used me as a pacifier all night.  When I tried to un-latch you and put you in your own bed, you screamed.  I decided that dozing with you attached to my breasts was better than screaming.  I have no more milk to give you, and besides, it’s time for work.

 

 

Gee, you sound sort of annoyed.

 

Honey, it’s been a long week.  I’m driving a car that’s not mine, it’s over 80 degrees and our house is an inferno, and the dog has shed so much, my ice cream has fur.  Plus, you might have noticed that your dad is gone, so I have had no adult help with you and your brother and the house this week.

 

 

Here, have some cantaloupe.

 

No, thanks, babe.  You keep it. 

 

 

Okay, then, but you’re missing out.  Besides, I’ve noticed that you’re not so into cooking this week.  If you skip this cantaloupe, you might be limited to nachos and pancakes until you can find the energy to shop again.

 

Excuse me?  Am I not keeping you alive in this murderous heat, under less-than-ideal circumstances, and without the help of your father?

 

 

Sheesh, don’t be so touchy.  I only meant that you seem a bit lazy these days.  Here, have some baby corn (snort!).

 

Ha ha, very funny.  For your information, I’m exhausted, I had to do all the cleanup after we went camping, I broke our second vehicle after our first went kablooie and has been out of commission for a month, and it’s TOUGH to cook for one adult, one four-year-old, and one baby.  I think I’m managing just FINE, thank you, and there’s nothing lazy about it.  You have clean clothing, don’t you?

 

   

Mom, I’m just saying that things are starting to slip, is all.  I still love you.  And I’m still cute, which allows you to forgive a multitude of sins.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for bed.  Where are you going to sleep?

 

Sigh.  I have no idea.

I Have A Black Thumb, But with Cars

Do you know what’s not a good idea?  Taking a baby in a white shirt camping.  Ask me how I know.

 

Over the past month, I have driven five different cars.  Not like, test driven, but driven around, kids in the back, running errands, living my life.  First, our van broke.  The repair has taken FOREVER, but it might be (fingers crossed) that Toyota will pay for the whole job (including valve replacement and cam shaft something-or-another, I have no idea what all those words mean, but they are expensive words), so that’s lucky.  After my van broke down, I drove my parents’ Suburban for awhile, until they needed it to pull their camp trailer, so I swapped for my mom’s Mini Cooper.  My parents live 230 miles away, so car swaps are not easy for anyone, but it sure beats having to rent a car.

 

Then I drove Tony’s truck this weekend, though it remains to be seen whether or not he’ll ever let me drive it again.  Not that it’s MY fault that these things happen to cars I drive, just that I have the misfortune of being the driver when shit happens.  Case in point: When I was 17 years old, my boyfriend at the time (one of those great mistakes on a long list of many that helped me know what a fantastic catch Tony was) totaled my first car, so I had to drive my parents’ original Suburban (they had a 1986 model and now a 2001 model) for a few months to get myself and Leland to and from school and work and extra-curriculars.  After I had driven it for a couple of months, I told my dad that I was sure something was wrong with the engine; the truck sounded so loud and weird and was starting to smell (more than just over-perfumed teenagers with poorly-managed B.O., too).  Dad didn’t believe me.  He totally brushed me off.  So I told mom, and she drove it, confirmed that something wasn’t right, and crawled under the truck, at which point she noted that the entire exhaust system had rusted out.  My dad was livid – it’s no fun to be facing a multi-thousand dollar car repair after your daughter’s idiot boyfriend just caused the complete loss of another car in your fleet – but obviously it wasn’t my fault.  The injury had happened over years of driving it in the salt air.  To this day, though, he’ll say things like, “You only drove that truck for three months, but you rusted out the ENTIRE exhaust system!”  I think he’s mostly joking now.

 

Anyhow, I packed the three kids and the dog in Tony’s Dodge Ram pickup on Friday morning and headed south.  We stopped at the kennel in Stanwood to drop off Buster and his cloud of fur (seriously, he’s like Pigpen from Peanuts, only with fur, not dirt) and proceeded to wend our way through terrible traffic toward Olympia.  It used to be that we could leave early and blaze through Everett, Seattle, Tacoma, JBLM, and Olympia at or near 60 miles per hour, but not anymore.  In the last year or more, EVERY trip hits a slowdown in each of those cities/areas along I5, JBLM being the WORST.  So yeah, when we FINALLY made it to Tacoma, it was time to stop and have some late lunch.  Really late.  My poor, hungry boys were almost eating their own arms.

 

After lunch, we drove for another hour to Millersylvania State Park, where my family reunion has been held for the past several years.  Just as I pulled up to the ranger station, the engine (the big, burly diesel engine that makes me feel like a total fraud driving it – shouldn’t I have a sleeve tattoo or a gun rack or something?) started making this whap-whap-whap-whap-whap noise and smelling a little burn-y.  Not cool.  I drove to our campsite, turned the engine off, and was immediately greeted by a fellow camper smoking a giant cigar and drinking a beer (he’s the type of guy who should drive this truck) who said, “Sounds like you’ve got something stuck around your fan.”  Sure enough, the serpentine belt had split and half of it was wrapped around the fan.  Tony brought the appropriate part and tools and then he fixed it.  No big deal, I guess.

 

  Jamie the gearhead helped.

Then we camped.  The kids got dirtier than they’ve ever been, ever.  We ate, we hung out with family, it was great, and then it was time to leave.  Tony and Charles headed south with my parents for a week of fishing, while Freddie, Jamie, and I headed north in Tony’s truck.  Of course, I was immediately snarled up in terrible traffic.  The baby started screaming, Jamie fell asleep, and I began to dread the loooong drive home.  Maybe, I thought, we’ll be able to make it all the way to the Fife rest area before stopping.  Hahahaha!  I should know better than to tempt fate, because that’s just when I noticed the temperature gauge on the truck: it was pegged all the way to the right, a clear indication that something was WRONG.

 

I pulled over and killed the engine.  I was still on the freeway, but within sight of an exit ramp.  Still, I didn’t want to exit without at least cooling the engine a bit.  I popped the massive hood and couldn’t see anything wrong – there was no steam, no fire, all the liquid reservoirs were full.  Some young guys pulled over and checked to see if I was okay, but they couldn’t offer much help.  I chilled for a few minutes, fired it back up, cranked the heater on full-blast, and drove the shoulder to the exit ramp and pulled into McDonald’s.  For the second time in a month, I used my AAA benefits.  The tow truck didn’t arrive until almost 7:30 pm (it was 5 pm when we got off the road), so we had ice cream and a happy meal and waited. 

 

Though I wanted to cry, I quickly realized how blessed we are.  Not only was no one hurt, but I called around and family immediately jumped into cars to come help us out.  My uncle and aunt forewent an additional night of camping in order to pick us up and drive us to Kirkland, where my brother met us at our cousin’s house to take us home.  The tow truck beat us home by about 20 minutes and my neighbor drove our truck off the tow truck and into our driveway.  It was a stupidly late night for me and the kids, and Freddie refused to sleep anywhere but in the crook of my arm, but we made it. 

 

The most surprising loaner car has been the last one: Leland is allowing me to drive his 2015 Jeep Wrangler Rubicon until I get my truck fixed.  He is even allowing me to put my kids and dog in it (!).  I never thought I’d see the day when this would happen, but it just goes to show that he loves me after all.  In return, I changed all of his radio presets to the most obscure foreign-language stations I could find.  Hey!  Maybe he’ll learn Russian now!

Full Hands, Full Heart, Leave Me Alone

People OFTEN say to me, “Wow, you really have your hands full.”  And maybe I’m just insensitive, but I don’t mind.  Just like I don’t really mind when people say, “Treasure these moments, time passes so quickly and one day they’ll be all grown up!”  You know why?  BECAUSE IT’S TRUE.  I do have my hands full.  I am totally overwhelmed by my busy life most of the time and it’s kind of nice when strangers in the grocery store notice that.  And time is flying by.  I go to kiss Charles at night after he has fallen asleep and sometimes the only place I can reach to kiss is the bottom of his GIGANTIC foot (size 5 men’s… seriously, I swear he’s only six years old) and I know that time flies.  He used to be so little.  He used to be Freddie-sized. 

 

You know what I am kind of sensitive about, though?  Sanctimonious memes and articles and quotes.  I KNOW most people find them inspirational; they make me cranky and depressed.  For reals:

 

“You’re not ruined.  You’re a goddamn tiger who has earned her stripes.”  This, of course, is written under a photo of a super-fit, nearly-nude woman with extreme stretch marks photoshopped onto her flat stomach.  Meanwhile, I can go for days and days not thinking about my stretch marks or the various ways in which my body has changed since having children (hint: I’m a lot wider and saggier) and then I see one of these photos tossed around FaceBook and feel like shit about my stupid body and how ugly it is.  Why do we have to talk about women’s bodies so fucking much?  Can’t we just stop already?  No wonder we all feel like we’re being judged – women’s bodies are the biggest conversation in America, when we should be talking about politics or the environment or ANYTHING that matters instead.

 

“Dear mom who feels like a failure…”  Well, I didn’t feel like a failure before, but I sure as hell do now.  After all, articles like these point out that it’s not failing when you don’t get the dishes or the laundry done, it’s only failing when you don’t smile at your kids or don’t take care of their basic needs.  And then I realize that most of the words out of my mouth are things like, “No, honey, I can’t read you a story right now because I need to make dinner,” or “PUT YOUR BROTHER DOWN RIGHT THIS INSTANT!”  Or I realize that the baby is cranky because he hasn’t had a snack and he is just starting to eat real-people food and I am not in the habit of packing Cheerios wherever we go.  Shit, baby, I’m sorry.  Here’s a boob.  My four-year-old hasn’t bathed in a week, maybe more.  The dog is downright neglected.  Plus, in what world do we NOT have to do the dishes or the laundry?  Laundry and dishes and dinner prep are not really optional.  Failing?  Yeah, I think so.

 

“Remember, you will never be this loved again.”  Not much of a comfort when my four-year-old can’t bear to break contact with my body, my one-year-old can’t bear to be put down for even a second, and my six-year-old wants to hug me long and hard when I am doing the dishes or holding a pot of steaming broccoli or trying to put poopy diaper laundry in the washer.  I am over-touched.  The baby sleeps with us right now because it’s the only way anyone sleeps.  When I hand him off at daycare, he shoots me a look as though I have betrayed his trust and he is soooo disappointed and then he throws his arms around his teacher and doesn’t let go.  Sure, I will never be this loved again and I should embrace the loving, but instead I cry about the fact that what I want more than anything is for everyone to STOP TOUCHING ME. 

 

Tony keeps the same hours now as he did during tax season.  It’s tough, and it’s meant an extra burden on me to keep the household running with very little aid.  Tax season is a trial when it’s three months long.  We’re essentially heading into month seven and I can look forward to another nine months or so before it’s truly over.  Maybe then it will be easier.  Maybe then I’ll be more Zen about it all.  Maybe then I will have figured out how to show my children love and take care of the family needs and be an effective businesswoman and not feel like a volcano about to erupt.

 

My hands are full.  I am busy.  They’re growing up so fast.  And I have days when I just want to run away.

We Camp; We Are Campers

We took our brood camping last weekend, and conned five other families with young children into joining us.  Oh, we didn’t go far: just 45 minutes away to Deception Pass State Park.  But it was far enough to completely remove ourselves from the stress of running businesses and households.

 

    

I want my boys to grow up camping.  My family camped when I was young (my kids’ age), but it was not something we continued to do when we moved to Washington.  The family reunion was held in our hometown and my parents had a job (owning and managing a 50—room hotel) that kept them extremely busy.  When we did vacation, it was often to conferences so that they could learn how to improve their businesses and we could visit Disneyland.  As far as I know, Tony and his family never camped.

 

 

Let me be clear: I am not complaining.  Those trips my parents took us on as kids were great, even when they were horrible (Hwy 1 in California will make you sick, every time, and sullen teenagers are THE WORST).  But the way Tony and I have structured our careers means that we can take more time off than our parents did.  My hope is that we will do the hotel trips to Disneyland, Williamsburg, D.C., Boston, New York, etc, and that we will also camp frequently.

 

 

Camping is less expensive than the hotel trips and, to me, more relaxing.  When we “do” stuff camping, we go to the beach, hike, kayak, make s’mores, and spend hours talking with friends.  When we vacation to a destination like New York City, we spend our time going from place to place, tourist site to tourist site.

 

 

It is a lot of work.  Packing, unpacking, cleaning, realizing halfway home that, no, you shouldn’t stop at Starbucks because you haven’t showered in three days and you couldn’t smell yourself back at the campsite, but now you can and, hoo boy, you stink.  However, I think it’s worth it for the time spent with friends, relaxing outside, and s’mores.  Damn, I love s’mores.

 

 

Camping teaches us to make the best of things without all the sanitized conveniences of home (dropped your hotdog on the ground?  Give it another turn over the fire and eat it anyway).  You get dirty and there are no TVs, so you’re forced to hold conversations.  It’s a great opportunity for kids to learn new games and explore nature, even if it’s “state park nature.”  And I just LOVE group camping with friends.  Not much makes me happier in this life than a big group of people all hanging out together, sharing food and stories.  And s’mores.

 

 

Come camping with us, for real.  We’re going again as soon as I can talk everyone into it.

Hot/Puke

I’m being forced to slow down and do very little today.  It’s probably a good thing, as I am usually so busy that adding one more task to my weekly or daily to-do list is a recurring nightmare (honest, I dream about it), but slowing down this way is no good.  The baby is sick.

 

Charles spent most of the day Sunday vomiting.  I kept him and the littles home from school yesterday so he could fully recover and actually enjoy his last week (!) as a kindergartener (blah, blah, passage of time, I’ll probably cry on Friday, blah, blah…).  I have lots of work to do at the office.  It’s stinking hot so I am barely able to function during the day in my sweltering house and I STILL get things clean, meals created, shopping done (it’s like a field trip to air-conditioning land!), etc.  But now I’m stuck.  Freddie started vomiting this morning, so I know I’m in for 12 more hours of trying to keep a small human hydrated and not lose my shit thinking of all the ways this could end horribly.

 

Perhaps I’ll get a nap.  Considering that I maaaybe got four hours cumulative sleep last night, that could be a great thing for me.  And for everyone around me, come to that. 

 

The thing is, we Cooks, right down to the damned dog, don’t deal with heat very well.  It got into the mid-eighties yesterday and I thought we were all going to spontaneously combust.  Freddie got so tired of dragging his hot knees on the floor that he started to bear crawl.

 

 

Neither of the other boys did this as a precursor to walking, but now it’s all Freddie does.  I’ll admit, I can’t stop laughing at him.

 

When it finally cooled down last night, the dog wanted out to run and play, since he’d pretty much slept the day away.  And he barked.  And he made noise.  All night long.  And Jamie was up once to snuggle with us for 15 minutes.  And Freddie was up to nurse a bunch and then he plain WOKE UP at 3:45 am, ready to take on the world.  I laid down on the floor of his room and let him bear crawl all over me for an hour before he finally settled back into sleep beside me. 

 

I keep telling myself that I will SOMEDAY experience eight consecutive hours of sleep again, but I sure would appreciate it NOW.

The Trade-Off

         

I can’t pretend to understand the mysteries of the human heart.  How is it possible that the most grueling, demanding, thankless job in the world has been undertaken some 7 billion times, many of them (most? I hope?) gratefully, as if it were a favor to gain an uncomfortable amount of weight and carry a child for nine months, then push him or her out of an excruciatingly small opening with what can only be called extreme relief? And then you start worrying.  And cleaning up messes.  Disgusting, disgusting messes.

 

 

Parenting is unbelievably difficult, and being the primary parent (Do you have your children’s weekly schedules memorized, know what each of them is going to eat for each meal and snack every day, have the doctor’s number on speed-dial, and recall exactly what each of them wore to school this morning?  Then you’re the primary parent.) is a Sisyphean task that takes over your whole life.  Laundry, dishes, meals, school work, daycare bags, brushing teeth, tying shoes, reading… on and on, day in and day out.

 

 

It’s exhausting and it’s soul-depleting.  So many of the things I used to love, I no longer am able to do.  So much of my sense of self has turned into mommy that I’m no longer sure what else there is, what else is just “Amelia.”

 

 

It’s tough to know if I’m doing a good job.  If I take the time to think about it, I worry that I’m doing a terrible job.  There’s never enough, you know?  Never enough time spent reading or practicing letters and numbers.  Never enough imaginary play on my part.  Never enough activities, trips, vegetables, teachable moments, or unfettered fun.  And then sometimes, there’s too much.  Too much anger, too much yelling, too much frustration, too much unvoiced relief when they’re all finally asleep and I can eat the chocolate I’ve been hiding from them while I fold all of their laundry.

 

 

And it matters so much.  To screw up at this job means unbearable consequences, lending a certain (large) amount of guilt to every. single. action I take as a parent.

 

 

But something amazing happened when I became a mother: my heart and soul took that baby boy in my arms and felt that anything, anything, would be worth the strange payment I could get from him. 

 

 

Yes, I am paid to be a mother.  Paid in sticky kisses, sweaty snuggles, milky baby breath, baby giggles, and small-child belly laughs.  I’m paid when my son stops me mid-stride on our walk home from school to take my face in his hands, bend me down toward him, and kiss me all over because he’s just so happy that I’m making raspberry cobbler for dessert (this happened yesterday, for real).  I’m paid when the first thing my almost-four-year-old wants to do every morning is be cuddled in my arms.  I’m paid when the baby settles into sleep on my shoulder.  I’m paid by the light in their eyes and the joy in their smiles.  I’m paid in endless fart noises and wrestling grunts.

 

 

Somehow, despite how hard I work for these boys, how much I suffer and worry, how many sleepless nights I endure, it is all worth it for their love and the love I feel for them.  That is the truest and most unfathomable part of motherhood.  I thank God every day for those little boys and the ability of my heart to expand and feel that they are giving even when they are taking, taking, taking.

 

 

I know their love for me will change as they grow.  Someday, they might not want to hold my hands when we walk or kiss me on the nose before they go to sleep.  But as I still love my parents with a heart-breaking intensity, so, too, will they love me as we all age.

 

 

Mother’s Day is only once a year, and that’s enough.  The boys shower me with affection and gifts and words of love and appreciation, thanks in no small part to Tony (whom I have trained well).  It has always been a joy to me to thank my mom for her love and give her gifts to show her how much I love her on Mother’s Day – my boys are discovering that joy now, which in turn brings me more joy. 

 

 

What a wonderful (dirty, stressful, infuriating, fatiguing, ridiculous) life I lead.  How blessed I am.