I hate paint. It's a visceral reaction. Wait, I love some paint. I love paint-the-wall-a-new-color paint and already-on-a-beautiful-painting paint. More specifically, I hate paint that is intended for my children to use as a creative outlet. I'm just not a creative outlet kind of momma. The problem with creative outlets, you see, is that they are messy, which conflicts directly with my orderly, type-A personality. Inevitably, my children find that their creativity cannot be contained by the appropriate medium (i.e., paper) and must be spread across their entire immediate environment (i.e., my table, the chairs, themselves).
Last fall, in the first months of the school year, I felt tense and a little sick when we walked into our coop toddler class. I kid you not, actual nausea. Teacher Glinda is one of those artistic, let children be children types. They need to explore! They need freedom! They need paint in little pots set out for them every day in case they feel the need to create! Which mine did. Every time. Of course, because they don't get to paint themselves, the table and the wall, eat paint, paint others and run with paint at home. Their mother is too busy stifling their creative hearts with activities like coloring with washable crayons in their booster seats with bibs on.
When I signed up for coop, I thought I was on board with the whole 'a place to grow, expand minds through creative play' philosophy. I thought GREAT, they can expand their minds and create mess in someone else's space!!! After the first two weeks of free range painting, I thought about quitting school altogether. I know how insane, bordering on OCD I sound right now, but the mess still drove me nutty. The smearing. The spilling. The paint brush wielding running toddlers. The exhaustion of trying to herd them back to the appropriate paint zone with Cue strapped to my front like a fifteen pound, paintbrush-grabbing appendage. I needed a Zofran prescription and a paper bag to get through two hours of toddler school.
My not so well hidden distress (and a few magnificent tantrums from Ess when I insisted (the cruelty of it all) that the paint stay in the general area of the painting table and that she wear an apron over her clothes) caused Teacher Glinda to pull me aside. It's okay, she explained. We encourage creativity here. We want them to explore. Ack! Yes, Teacher Glinda, I know. I thought I wanted them to 'explore' as well, but as it turns out, I would prefer that they play with the fake kitchen, or the dress up clothes or an open flame, shards of glass, anything that can't be spread about and smeared on passing classmates playing happily with the shopping carts. Not usually a comparer, I couldn't help but notice that most of the children in their class, sat down, painted a picture, hung it up and moved on to other activities. Where as my children, in particular my daughter, happily smeared paint on anything in her immediate vicinity for the entire 'free hour.'
Perhaps, I ventured to Teacher Glinda, in a small, timid voice, aware of my free-spirit squashing tendencies, aware that my children would grow into little automatons of orderliness without a creative bone in their bodies as a direct result of my compulsive need for things to stay neat and relatively clean, perhaps we don't need to sit out paint pots every single day. Perhaps, (I was begging now), we could have some paint-free days. The kids love play dough. They love to cut paper. They love to glue. It doesn't need to be so...messy...every week? She judged me, I know that she did, but she graciously started to skip the paint every so often. We had several sessions that revolved, blissfully, around making fake sandwiches in the kitchen. The crafts became more directed, with a defined beginning and end. I found, at the midway point of the year, that I felt much more relaxed on school days.
A nagging guilt remained. Teacher Glinda would never name names, but I suspected talk behind my back. I imagined the other parents discussing the paint kill-joy over coffee. I pictured them mulling over likely suspects and bemoaning the audacity of a parent to crush their little Picassos and Rembrants because she couldn't handle a little extra laundry. And then, one morning, I overheard an actual conversation about the lack of paint. It went like this: Thank god those little paint pots aren't sitting out any more. I know, I hated those things, Jimmy always went right for them with both hands. I KNOW, and it doesn't wash out of clothes either!
Fellow paint haters. Who knew? Parenting is funny - in so many ways - but in particular in that, just when you think you are most alone, that you are the one and only one, it turns out that, actually, others think a lot like you do. No one wants to do extra laundry.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
The Great Privacy Debate
HSSH and I are having a debate about the Internet and privacy. Yeah, I know, a cutting edge issue. We thunk that one up all by ourselves. Here's the crux - I want to post pictures of the most stunning children in the universe for others to fawn over. He objects on the grounds that a few strangers in Minot might peek at our kids every once in a while.
I'm not sure cyber-stalking of our children would have even occurred to him if I hadn't become obsessed recently with the little map that I added to the blog page (bottom right, can't miss it). It tracks where people are when they visit the site. It fascinates me. First, you have to appreciate how untechnological I truly am. Until a couple of years ago, when my brother-in-law mocked me severely, I called the "processor" the c-drive. Because, you know, when I save things and I want them to stay on my computer as opposed to going away to a CD or something, I send them to the c-drive. Yes, thank you, it has now been pointed out to me that all of the various drives are on the 'processor' aka the big tall thing that collects dust on the floor under my desk and houses the computer on button.
Point being, the idea that brilliant computer people out there in the world somewhere can tell the exact location of every computer that is used to visit this site and are willing to map it for me for free is just magic to me. If, leaving my children aside, there are two things in life that I love, they are maps and lists. (Also leaving SB chai tea lattes aside. And, dark chocolate. And, rum and coke.) This is a MAP that illustrates a LIST of people who like to read about my CHILDREN (that I can peruse while drinking a CHAI tea or a RUM and coke and eating CHOCOLATE). Holy grail, basically.
HSSH found it a little alarming that a few unidentified dots exist on the map. I told him that he shouldn't look at it as a map of possible locations for people stalking our children. It's actually just a friendly Grandma competition. The size of the dot over their general area tells us which Grandma adores her grandchildren the most. Kidding. (But Ohio Grandma is currently in the lead. COME ON, Jewish Grandma, your converted roots are showing. What kind of yenta are you? I even had boys. A real JG would be all over this site every day. Her dot would be the size of Cleveland by now and she would call around five every afternoon to ask why there wasn't something new posted about the lights of her life. Honestly, stop gallivanting around the world enjoying your empty nest and click your computer buttons. Here, I'll give you the secret to her success, because you have a lot of catching up to do, she gets her FRIENDS to click on the site too. That makes your dot grow faster.)
That's the difference between HSSH and I. I am beside myself with delight when I get a new dot. He wants to know who I know in that location. Unimportant. I am a collector (it goes with the type A, control freak, list writing territory). Right now, I collect dots. The flip side of this coin is that I can also now tell which of our friends and family are uninterested in our children. That's okay. It really is. But, in the interest of my new hobby, if they could click on the website just once, so that I could collect their dot, I would really appreciate it. (Roop and Georgiegirl I am talking to YOU. I want those Africa dots. You can't go out and get, like, the coolest lives EVER and then deny those of us who stayed behind in bread and butter suburbia the pleasure of a little dot on the map from your incredibly cool locale!!)
Back to the debate. A compromise is in order, I think. I've developed one after fifteen minutes of research stalking other people's children on their blogs. Pictures are okay, but I won't use their names. Instead we'll have alphabet soup. Introducing (from their latest photo shoot):
The lovely Ess (S) and the incorrigible Gee (G)..
... and, adorable Cue (Q).
Feel free to comment on how gorgeous they are. That might make me happier than dots.
In other code, my husband will be HSSH because it amuses me. If you want the nickname behind the acronym, you'll have to visit my profile. If you know me at all, SB should be obvious. I remain Stacey. No one is stalking me.
I'm not sure cyber-stalking of our children would have even occurred to him if I hadn't become obsessed recently with the little map that I added to the blog page (bottom right, can't miss it). It tracks where people are when they visit the site. It fascinates me. First, you have to appreciate how untechnological I truly am. Until a couple of years ago, when my brother-in-law mocked me severely, I called the "processor" the c-drive. Because, you know, when I save things and I want them to stay on my computer as opposed to going away to a CD or something, I send them to the c-drive. Yes, thank you, it has now been pointed out to me that all of the various drives are on the 'processor' aka the big tall thing that collects dust on the floor under my desk and houses the computer on button.
Point being, the idea that brilliant computer people out there in the world somewhere can tell the exact location of every computer that is used to visit this site and are willing to map it for me for free is just magic to me. If, leaving my children aside, there are two things in life that I love, they are maps and lists. (Also leaving SB chai tea lattes aside. And, dark chocolate. And, rum and coke.) This is a MAP that illustrates a LIST of people who like to read about my CHILDREN (that I can peruse while drinking a CHAI tea or a RUM and coke and eating CHOCOLATE). Holy grail, basically.
HSSH found it a little alarming that a few unidentified dots exist on the map. I told him that he shouldn't look at it as a map of possible locations for people stalking our children. It's actually just a friendly Grandma competition. The size of the dot over their general area tells us which Grandma adores her grandchildren the most. Kidding. (But Ohio Grandma is currently in the lead. COME ON, Jewish Grandma, your converted roots are showing. What kind of yenta are you? I even had boys. A real JG would be all over this site every day. Her dot would be the size of Cleveland by now and she would call around five every afternoon to ask why there wasn't something new posted about the lights of her life. Honestly, stop gallivanting around the world enjoying your empty nest and click your computer buttons. Here, I'll give you the secret to her success, because you have a lot of catching up to do, she gets her FRIENDS to click on the site too. That makes your dot grow faster.)
That's the difference between HSSH and I. I am beside myself with delight when I get a new dot. He wants to know who I know in that location. Unimportant. I am a collector (it goes with the type A, control freak, list writing territory). Right now, I collect dots. The flip side of this coin is that I can also now tell which of our friends and family are uninterested in our children. That's okay. It really is. But, in the interest of my new hobby, if they could click on the website just once, so that I could collect their dot, I would really appreciate it. (Roop and Georgiegirl I am talking to YOU. I want those Africa dots. You can't go out and get, like, the coolest lives EVER and then deny those of us who stayed behind in bread and butter suburbia the pleasure of a little dot on the map from your incredibly cool locale!!)
Back to the debate. A compromise is in order, I think. I've developed one after fifteen minutes of research stalking other people's children on their blogs. Pictures are okay, but I won't use their names. Instead we'll have alphabet soup. Introducing (from their latest photo shoot):
The lovely Ess (S) and the incorrigible Gee (G)..
... and, adorable Cue (Q).
Feel free to comment on how gorgeous they are. That might make me happier than dots.
In other code, my husband will be HSSH because it amuses me. If you want the nickname behind the acronym, you'll have to visit my profile. If you know me at all, SB should be obvious. I remain Stacey. No one is stalking me.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
All I Got Were These Dern Babies
Did any one see the little snippet in the latest Parents or Parenting or one of those drivelly magazines about 'Push Presents.' It came in the mail a few days ago and I flipped through at nap this afternoon. These days, we are instructed, it is good etiquette to give your wife a present (preferably expensive and sparkly) for pushing out your baby. Good girl. Here's your biscuit. Just don't bite it too hard, it's real. Sit. Stay home with your new kid.
No, seriously, I missed out. I had no idea. I pushed and pushed. I pushed newborns out of my body. I pushed paperwork for over a year. What did I get? Oh, I mean besides the two sons and a daughter. Nothing. I am sure it can be a lovely gesture, but HSSH just isn't the kind of person who spends money on rocks for special occasions. Unless, of course, they are rocks to go in a ROCK retaining wall in our thus far unlandscaped back yard, or possibly, sheet ROCK for one of his many home improvement projects.
So, I didn't get an eternity diamond necklace, a la breathy, romantic ads telling us to celebrate the journey of our lives. However, HSSH did give me some classic lines to remember for all eternity. After pushing for three hours and finally convincing Gee to exit my body, I got this one: "Oh, my god, he's huge. I'm so sorry." I will treasure that spontaneous, from the heart apology forever. After watching her grow from a tiny newborn to a toddler in pictures and finally traveling to Haiti to bring her home, I got a daughter, Giardia, pinkeye and this from HSSH: "Your eye is popping out of your head. Maybe you should go to urgent care." Good marriages are built on deep concern for each other's well being. After pushing for thirty minutes, I got Cue, quickly followed by emergency surgery including intubation and a million needles that I really, really had not wanted in my body, quickly followed by Cue again, thrust at me in a hurry as my husband raced for the door yelling over his shoulder: "The nanny has to leave in forty-five minutes." Okay, that one may be exaggerated, but it was my labor, my memories, and it was close. Gems, every one, don't you think?
Of course, there are also the three flawless, absolutely too perfect for the universe children. They throw gems, and rocks, my way every day. Like the little pearly white on Cue's lower gum this morning that made a long, long, LONG, sleepless night more palatable. (Finally, a tooth. Next week, maybe he'll get his knees under himself and crawl like a real baby.) Mostly, I am able to duck the rocks.
No, seriously, I missed out. I had no idea. I pushed and pushed. I pushed newborns out of my body. I pushed paperwork for over a year. What did I get? Oh, I mean besides the two sons and a daughter. Nothing. I am sure it can be a lovely gesture, but HSSH just isn't the kind of person who spends money on rocks for special occasions. Unless, of course, they are rocks to go in a ROCK retaining wall in our thus far unlandscaped back yard, or possibly, sheet ROCK for one of his many home improvement projects.
So, I didn't get an eternity diamond necklace, a la breathy, romantic ads telling us to celebrate the journey of our lives. However, HSSH did give me some classic lines to remember for all eternity. After pushing for three hours and finally convincing Gee to exit my body, I got this one: "Oh, my god, he's huge. I'm so sorry." I will treasure that spontaneous, from the heart apology forever. After watching her grow from a tiny newborn to a toddler in pictures and finally traveling to Haiti to bring her home, I got a daughter, Giardia, pinkeye and this from HSSH: "Your eye is popping out of your head. Maybe you should go to urgent care." Good marriages are built on deep concern for each other's well being. After pushing for thirty minutes, I got Cue, quickly followed by emergency surgery including intubation and a million needles that I really, really had not wanted in my body, quickly followed by Cue again, thrust at me in a hurry as my husband raced for the door yelling over his shoulder: "The nanny has to leave in forty-five minutes." Okay, that one may be exaggerated, but it was my labor, my memories, and it was close. Gems, every one, don't you think?
Of course, there are also the three flawless, absolutely too perfect for the universe children. They throw gems, and rocks, my way every day. Like the little pearly white on Cue's lower gum this morning that made a long, long, LONG, sleepless night more palatable. (Finally, a tooth. Next week, maybe he'll get his knees under himself and crawl like a real baby.) Mostly, I am able to duck the rocks.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Chemical Dependency
I am currently, as I type, right now, stressing about my decision to stop breastfeeding Cue during the day and switch to formula. Not for the usual reasons like breastmilk is good for him or I feel sad about nursing only at night. Not because I am against formula or feel an insane need to breastfeed exclusively until he's five. (Not that I think that's insane, just not for me.) No, it is because I am too lazy and cheap to buy all new bottles. And, just a few days ago Canada officially announced that baby bottles are poisonous??
Normally, I am not really a freak about these kinds of things. Chemicals exist. My kids eat them. Since I am not a farmer (or even a gardner, growing things shrivel when I walk towards them) and I feel a little overwhelmed by the idea of checking everything we eat for eight million possibly harmful ingredients (lazy, see above) and anything labelled organic is apparently grown in gold soil (cheap, see above), I don't know what to do. My attempt to raise children that are not genetically modified by their food involves buying many types of milk: 1) regular, chemicalful for HSSH and I because surely we have pretty much done all the damage there is to do to ourselves at this point; 2) organic, hormone-free for Gee because for some reason the whole cows full of hormones thing gives me the heeby jeebies and, oh, I don't know, MILK should be wholesome; and 3) lactose and hormone/chemical free for Ess for the same reasons plus real milk makes my diaper changing duties unpleasant.
I know that this isn't new. I had heard the bottle concerns before and shrugged them off because I mostly breastfeed and Cue rarely got bottles and yikes already how many things can you worry about. But, Canada is a real place with standards, etc. They do experiments there before banning things. I felt that I should probably at least read the article -(http://www.greenmom.ca/glife/0408BPA.html) if you are interested. And, there at the top of the poisonous bottle list, is AVENT, the bottles that I have recently started using to feed my nine-month-old son. Worse yet, my bottles are old and cracked and extra specially leachy because I bought them back when my first son was four months old and my nanny had to feed him from poisonous bottles. Don't get me started on sippy cups. The toddlers have been using the same four cups in everlasting rotation for their entire sippy cup history.
There's no reason I can't breastfeed Cue full time except that it is really (really, really) convenient to use bottles during the day. I have two two-year-olds for the love of HP. It's nice to be able to go places and not live in fear of how I will legally tie my toddlers down while I feed the baby. Plus, Cue is slightly behind the eight ball in the eating arena. He likes milk. Other types of food don't interest him as much. He'll eat bananas and sweet potatoes, if they are shoved into his mouth, but he could take or leave them. Any kind of grain cereal - Gee's staple by this point in his eating career - makes him break out in horrific eczema (not looking forward to discussing that with the pediatrician, can you say scary, epi-pin-carrying food allergies?). On a really selfish note, it was nice not to have to worry about my daily caffeine consumption.
The solution seemed easy - order some new, improved, chemical free bottles - until you read down in the article and discover that the poison in question is also in the lining of some formula cans. Lovely. As I said, I am not ultra cautious in these arenas and new bottles will probably suffice for my piece of mind, but sheesh - in the formula cans? Thing is though, that it's in the lining of all metal food cans. I will sheepishly stand up and admit: Hi, I'm Stacey and I feed my family mainly from metal cans. Metals cans which I keep on the bottom shelf of our pantry cupboard above the heater. Where I have suspected for some time now that it is too hot to keep food. Which makes the part of the article about BPA leaching faster in heated containers alarming.
I called my husband and told him that we are switching to frozen vegetables. I think I am going to go and have a poisonous sippy cup of wine now and put my chemically altered self to bed.
Normally, I am not really a freak about these kinds of things. Chemicals exist. My kids eat them. Since I am not a farmer (or even a gardner, growing things shrivel when I walk towards them) and I feel a little overwhelmed by the idea of checking everything we eat for eight million possibly harmful ingredients (lazy, see above) and anything labelled organic is apparently grown in gold soil (cheap, see above), I don't know what to do. My attempt to raise children that are not genetically modified by their food involves buying many types of milk: 1) regular, chemicalful for HSSH and I because surely we have pretty much done all the damage there is to do to ourselves at this point; 2) organic, hormone-free for Gee because for some reason the whole cows full of hormones thing gives me the heeby jeebies and, oh, I don't know, MILK should be wholesome; and 3) lactose and hormone/chemical free for Ess for the same reasons plus real milk makes my diaper changing duties unpleasant.
I know that this isn't new. I had heard the bottle concerns before and shrugged them off because I mostly breastfeed and Cue rarely got bottles and yikes already how many things can you worry about. But, Canada is a real place with standards, etc. They do experiments there before banning things. I felt that I should probably at least read the article -(http://www.greenmom.ca/glife/0408BPA.html) if you are interested. And, there at the top of the poisonous bottle list, is AVENT, the bottles that I have recently started using to feed my nine-month-old son. Worse yet, my bottles are old and cracked and extra specially leachy because I bought them back when my first son was four months old and my nanny had to feed him from poisonous bottles. Don't get me started on sippy cups. The toddlers have been using the same four cups in everlasting rotation for their entire sippy cup history.
There's no reason I can't breastfeed Cue full time except that it is really (really, really) convenient to use bottles during the day. I have two two-year-olds for the love of HP. It's nice to be able to go places and not live in fear of how I will legally tie my toddlers down while I feed the baby. Plus, Cue is slightly behind the eight ball in the eating arena. He likes milk. Other types of food don't interest him as much. He'll eat bananas and sweet potatoes, if they are shoved into his mouth, but he could take or leave them. Any kind of grain cereal - Gee's staple by this point in his eating career - makes him break out in horrific eczema (not looking forward to discussing that with the pediatrician, can you say scary, epi-pin-carrying food allergies?). On a really selfish note, it was nice not to have to worry about my daily caffeine consumption.
The solution seemed easy - order some new, improved, chemical free bottles - until you read down in the article and discover that the poison in question is also in the lining of some formula cans. Lovely. As I said, I am not ultra cautious in these arenas and new bottles will probably suffice for my piece of mind, but sheesh - in the formula cans? Thing is though, that it's in the lining of all metal food cans. I will sheepishly stand up and admit: Hi, I'm Stacey and I feed my family mainly from metal cans. Metals cans which I keep on the bottom shelf of our pantry cupboard above the heater. Where I have suspected for some time now that it is too hot to keep food. Which makes the part of the article about BPA leaching faster in heated containers alarming.
I called my husband and told him that we are switching to frozen vegetables. I think I am going to go and have a poisonous sippy cup of wine now and put my chemically altered self to bed.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Touching
Cue said his first word last week. He squirmed his nine month old bottom around in my arms as we walked down the stairs, reached for the wall and said 'touch.' It did sound more like 'ta' and the only reason I recognized it as an actual word, as opposed to baby babble, is that it is a Daddy ritual to lift the kids he is holding up whenever he descends the stairs and let them touch the wall above their heads. When I held Cue closer, so that he could run his pudgy hand along the textured surface, he rewarded me with his wide, the-world-is-so-freaking-amazing, still-toothless (no idea when this kid will finally sprout teeth) grin. I could feel the joy and dawning understanding emanating from him. I spoke. She performed. Life is good. It's all any of us strive for, isn't it? To communicate. To be understood.
Life is good, except for Mom, who is still reeling. I am not quite sure I'm ready for my third talker. I've only been a mom for two years and eight months, so really? Three talkers? I kind of like being the one who does all of the talking around here. Truthfully, the angst stems from my realization that I will not be a mom of babies and toddlers forever. (I'm a little slow, bear with me.) I can't keep having babies just to preserve the feeling of mothering a little one, touching that softness, the contented clucking sound of a nursing baby. There is a point in the not to distant future when I will be a mom of kids who go to elementary school. What are those Moms supposed to do exactly? How do they cope? Because I'm just getting the hang of this baby thing. And then, before I even get my mind around elementary school, I imagine they head off to Junior High. My stomach hurts just contemplating it.
Someday, I will have to let go of being a mom to babies. The way I had to let go of co-sleeping and counting their ages in weeks. Change is hard for me - it pained me to say they are two (and then two and a half, and in just a few short months...three) - and they change so fast. The lightning pace leaves me gasping for breath and grasping desperately for ways to hold on, slow down and remember these baby days. I want them to grow and change and develop. It's just that my brain doesn't hold things well and my pictures are all on my hard drive, where, let's face it, they will probably remain forever, despite all my good intentions.
Which explains the list I jotted down, entitled Things To Remember, Spring 2008:
Gee in his green knit hat. He's been wearing it all winter (endless winter! we are supposed to get more snow tonight, um on April 20th. enough already). He likes to wear it without the fold, pulled all the way down so that he has to peer up at me from under the edge of the fabric.
Ess and Gee don't get the hiccups, they get the 'sippy cups.'
Fuzzy-headed Cue in his booster chair begging for me to feed him cheerios with his big toothless mouth wide open because he can't figure out how to open up his fat little fist and put them in his mouth himself.
Gee laughing until he drooled the other day when I tripped over a pillow and then saying 'That's a good one.'
Ess asking me every time we get in the car, 'You need coffee, momma?'
Cue in the bath, which he is positively joyful about as long as I am in there with him. Otherwise, not so much. We will need to conquer this particular milestone sooner rather than later.
The stroller touching game. The toddlers reach across Cue in the triple-wide and touch mittens and then laugh as if it's the funniest thing ever invented. I don't know why, but I laugh too, harder than I have since Friends was funny back in season one (and that dates me).
Yesterday. The contractors set up two huge fans in our empty living room to dry out the new ceiling. S and G ran back and forth between them laughing again like it's going out of style and letting the powerful air blast their hair backwards. Cue nearly kept up, army crawling between them on his tough little elbows (no idea when or if this kid will ever crawl for real). Suddenly, they stopped together, mid gallop, like they had planned the moment telepathically. It had occurred to them that I was missing out on all the fun. They asked with concern 'You want to run in the fans, momma?'
Yes, I did. I do. I want to run in the fans. I want to keep every yesterday on my list so that I don't forget what we did. And, last but not least, I don't want to be so busy with my lists that I miss out on all the fun.
Life is good, except for Mom, who is still reeling. I am not quite sure I'm ready for my third talker. I've only been a mom for two years and eight months, so really? Three talkers? I kind of like being the one who does all of the talking around here. Truthfully, the angst stems from my realization that I will not be a mom of babies and toddlers forever. (I'm a little slow, bear with me.) I can't keep having babies just to preserve the feeling of mothering a little one, touching that softness, the contented clucking sound of a nursing baby. There is a point in the not to distant future when I will be a mom of kids who go to elementary school. What are those Moms supposed to do exactly? How do they cope? Because I'm just getting the hang of this baby thing. And then, before I even get my mind around elementary school, I imagine they head off to Junior High. My stomach hurts just contemplating it.
Someday, I will have to let go of being a mom to babies. The way I had to let go of co-sleeping and counting their ages in weeks. Change is hard for me - it pained me to say they are two (and then two and a half, and in just a few short months...three) - and they change so fast. The lightning pace leaves me gasping for breath and grasping desperately for ways to hold on, slow down and remember these baby days. I want them to grow and change and develop. It's just that my brain doesn't hold things well and my pictures are all on my hard drive, where, let's face it, they will probably remain forever, despite all my good intentions.
Which explains the list I jotted down, entitled Things To Remember, Spring 2008:
Gee in his green knit hat. He's been wearing it all winter (endless winter! we are supposed to get more snow tonight, um on April 20th. enough already). He likes to wear it without the fold, pulled all the way down so that he has to peer up at me from under the edge of the fabric.
Ess and Gee don't get the hiccups, they get the 'sippy cups.'
Fuzzy-headed Cue in his booster chair begging for me to feed him cheerios with his big toothless mouth wide open because he can't figure out how to open up his fat little fist and put them in his mouth himself.
Gee laughing until he drooled the other day when I tripped over a pillow and then saying 'That's a good one.'
Ess asking me every time we get in the car, 'You need coffee, momma?'
Cue in the bath, which he is positively joyful about as long as I am in there with him. Otherwise, not so much. We will need to conquer this particular milestone sooner rather than later.
The stroller touching game. The toddlers reach across Cue in the triple-wide and touch mittens and then laugh as if it's the funniest thing ever invented. I don't know why, but I laugh too, harder than I have since Friends was funny back in season one (and that dates me).
Yesterday. The contractors set up two huge fans in our empty living room to dry out the new ceiling. S and G ran back and forth between them laughing again like it's going out of style and letting the powerful air blast their hair backwards. Cue nearly kept up, army crawling between them on his tough little elbows (no idea when or if this kid will ever crawl for real). Suddenly, they stopped together, mid gallop, like they had planned the moment telepathically. It had occurred to them that I was missing out on all the fun. They asked with concern 'You want to run in the fans, momma?'
Yes, I did. I do. I want to run in the fans. I want to keep every yesterday on my list so that I don't forget what we did. And, last but not least, I don't want to be so busy with my lists that I miss out on all the fun.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Postage
Two days ago, I took the kids to the post office. Let me just pause for a moment, so that you can take out a calender and properly appreciate the stupidity of that statement.
Go ahead, I'll wait.
Back? Yep, that's right, April 15, 2008, at 3:30 p.m., I waltzed into our local post office with the baby in the stroller, a package balanced above his head on the handle, and the toddlers holding onto either side. They had bright red envelopes in their other hands to mail to their Grandmas. I didn't waltz far because the line was out the door and halfway down the vestibule. In addition to having the oldest average clientele in the USA (some of them may have arrived in Washington via wagon train), this post office is staffed by two of the most disgruntled federal employees from whom I have ever had the misfortune to need action (with the possible exception of the woman responsible for approving Ess's visa to enter the USA). On a good day with a short line it takes the combined power of deaf customers and deliberately obtuse postal workers a solid twenty minutes to process three people.
As I paused at the end of the line and contemplated my tax day error in horror, Gee procured my keys and departed to work on opening the 'yittle boxes' that line the entryway from floor to ceiling. I was just collecting my thoughts (Read: cursing my ridiculous inability to keep track of the date. In my current world there are Daddy's-home or Daddy's-not-home days and Teacher-Glinda or no-Teacher-Glinda days. There are few actual dates.) before I laboriously reversed the toddler train and carted them all back home. About then, Gee ran up to me and announced proudly, I mail it, Momma. Yes, great. We are going to go. Please hold the stroller. Gee mail it! Good. Wait. WHAT? You mailed what?? The loud metallic clang I'd heard seconds before suddenly loomed large in my consciousness. Grandma's envelope.
And, of course, he had. He'd mailed it. Pulled down the big, heavy door labelled 'METERED MAIL ONLY' and mailed it. For the love of postal workers and the IRS and various other Higher Powers with which I would now be forced to deal. I can not tell you the depth of my sadness. I now had to stand in line, the line which hadn't moved one tiny minuscule inch in this entire time, on tax day. And, then, when I got to the front, I had to tell thing one or thing two that he must leave his post, on tax day, and go and root around in the metered mail bin for my envelope to which no postage was yet affixed.
Oh, we should not be here, we did not want to play
No, we should not be here this cold, cold tax day. - Stacey Seuss
Maybe I need to back track a little to explain why I could not possibly leave the envelope to the mercy of the postal system. There is this photographer and I am addicted to him. He is an evil genius and he peddles something close to crack for mommys. I don't know because I've never tried it, but I think an actual crack habit might be cheaper. He makes children look like they are always happy and clean and smiling. He captures them in perfect, idyllic moments and freezes their adorable chubby little faces and limbs in poses that make my heart hurt and my knees weak. After a photo shoot, he sets his cursed wares to music and settles his unsuspecting mothers into comfy chairs and then flashes gorgeous pictures of their children before their eyes until they are on their knees begging for mercy. He did Cue's six month photo shoot and I went in swearing that I would just look, that I could not spend another cent on his pictures until I take all the kids to him in July, when there is no doubt that I will leverage their college educations to get a hold of the prints. I left with my tail between my legs after placing a hefty order. I am a true junkie.
The reason this is important is that I bought two of his photos printed in gold as Mother's Day presents for Cue's Grandmas. Any one care to hazard a guess as to what was in the red envelope? If the envelope had not been bright red, I might have left, despite the pain of abandoning the photo, but I figured I had a chance of convincing thing one or thing two to at least glance in the metered mail and try to spot a bright red puffy envelope.
Fifty minutes and uncounted renditions of twinkle twinkle little star, I'm a little teapot and slippery fish later, we reached the counter. I took a deep breath, looked my bitter, neighborhood postal employee in the eye, held up the second red envelope and said, I had two of these, my son put one in the metered mail slot. The collective groan from the line behind me made me wince, but thing one was positively pleasant. I made his day. He made his escape back into the yawning depths of the post office and returned eight minutes later with my red envelope. It was a painful eight minutes, during which I think thing two may have handled two of the bitter, angry tax payers, behind me, but it was worth it. The envelopes went on their way to Grandma one and Grandma two, proper postage in place. We managed to leave the post office without any one hurling insults at me or my young mailman-in-the-making, at least not out loud.
Appreciate those envelopes, Grandmas.
Go ahead, I'll wait.
Back? Yep, that's right, April 15, 2008, at 3:30 p.m., I waltzed into our local post office with the baby in the stroller, a package balanced above his head on the handle, and the toddlers holding onto either side. They had bright red envelopes in their other hands to mail to their Grandmas. I didn't waltz far because the line was out the door and halfway down the vestibule. In addition to having the oldest average clientele in the USA (some of them may have arrived in Washington via wagon train), this post office is staffed by two of the most disgruntled federal employees from whom I have ever had the misfortune to need action (with the possible exception of the woman responsible for approving Ess's visa to enter the USA). On a good day with a short line it takes the combined power of deaf customers and deliberately obtuse postal workers a solid twenty minutes to process three people.
As I paused at the end of the line and contemplated my tax day error in horror, Gee procured my keys and departed to work on opening the 'yittle boxes' that line the entryway from floor to ceiling. I was just collecting my thoughts (Read: cursing my ridiculous inability to keep track of the date. In my current world there are Daddy's-home or Daddy's-not-home days and Teacher-Glinda or no-Teacher-Glinda days. There are few actual dates.) before I laboriously reversed the toddler train and carted them all back home. About then, Gee ran up to me and announced proudly, I mail it, Momma. Yes, great. We are going to go. Please hold the stroller. Gee mail it! Good. Wait. WHAT? You mailed what?? The loud metallic clang I'd heard seconds before suddenly loomed large in my consciousness. Grandma's envelope.
And, of course, he had. He'd mailed it. Pulled down the big, heavy door labelled 'METERED MAIL ONLY' and mailed it. For the love of postal workers and the IRS and various other Higher Powers with which I would now be forced to deal. I can not tell you the depth of my sadness. I now had to stand in line, the line which hadn't moved one tiny minuscule inch in this entire time, on tax day. And, then, when I got to the front, I had to tell thing one or thing two that he must leave his post, on tax day, and go and root around in the metered mail bin for my envelope to which no postage was yet affixed.
Oh, we should not be here, we did not want to play
No, we should not be here this cold, cold tax day. - Stacey Seuss
Maybe I need to back track a little to explain why I could not possibly leave the envelope to the mercy of the postal system. There is this photographer and I am addicted to him. He is an evil genius and he peddles something close to crack for mommys. I don't know because I've never tried it, but I think an actual crack habit might be cheaper. He makes children look like they are always happy and clean and smiling. He captures them in perfect, idyllic moments and freezes their adorable chubby little faces and limbs in poses that make my heart hurt and my knees weak. After a photo shoot, he sets his cursed wares to music and settles his unsuspecting mothers into comfy chairs and then flashes gorgeous pictures of their children before their eyes until they are on their knees begging for mercy. He did Cue's six month photo shoot and I went in swearing that I would just look, that I could not spend another cent on his pictures until I take all the kids to him in July, when there is no doubt that I will leverage their college educations to get a hold of the prints. I left with my tail between my legs after placing a hefty order. I am a true junkie.
The reason this is important is that I bought two of his photos printed in gold as Mother's Day presents for Cue's Grandmas. Any one care to hazard a guess as to what was in the red envelope? If the envelope had not been bright red, I might have left, despite the pain of abandoning the photo, but I figured I had a chance of convincing thing one or thing two to at least glance in the metered mail and try to spot a bright red puffy envelope.
Fifty minutes and uncounted renditions of twinkle twinkle little star, I'm a little teapot and slippery fish later, we reached the counter. I took a deep breath, looked my bitter, neighborhood postal employee in the eye, held up the second red envelope and said, I had two of these, my son put one in the metered mail slot. The collective groan from the line behind me made me wince, but thing one was positively pleasant. I made his day. He made his escape back into the yawning depths of the post office and returned eight minutes later with my red envelope. It was a painful eight minutes, during which I think thing two may have handled two of the bitter, angry tax payers, behind me, but it was worth it. The envelopes went on their way to Grandma one and Grandma two, proper postage in place. We managed to leave the post office without any one hurling insults at me or my young mailman-in-the-making, at least not out loud.
Appreciate those envelopes, Grandmas.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
There and Back Again
Once upon a time, before children, I was a world traveler. An adventurer. Kind of cool, even. No really, I was. I only have one continent left to visit. I have ridden a horse across Mongolia. I have floated down the Mekong, hiked the Himalayas, and visited most of the capitals of Europe. I have seen Angkor Wat, Buckingham Palace and Ephesus. I have backpacked through Eastern Europe, Southeast Asia and Australia, unafraid, able to handle the worst disasters, a stolen passport in Romania, food poisoning in Nepal, the wrong train station in Moscow, a night spent guarding bags on the floor of the filthy Rome train station, a large drunk man passed out in front of our apartment door in Bucharest, being trapped in downtown Petionville, Haiti, without a taxi, as barricades were erected on the streets and the mood changed from a quiet afternoon to the hysterical excitement that precedes a riot. It occurred to me to be careful, but never afraid. The payoff of seeing the incredible beauty out there in the world was too great.
These days things are different. I swore I would not change my world outlook when I had children. I scoffed when others expressed trepidation. I would continue to view the world as welcoming and wondrous. I would show my children how wide and amazing the earth is by taking them out into it whenever possible. I still feel that way, but the young woman that country-hopped with ease didn't realize that she would one day be unable to avoid the fears. That one of them would get sick, that someone would hurt them, that a bus, plane or car would crash and I would be unable to help them, unable to protect them. Fears that existed, I suppose, when I traipsed around alone, but that I didn't take seriously. It is an awesome thing to be responsible for someone else's well-being, let alone three someones that you love more than you ever thought possible. We still go. I am still willing to take them most anywhere, but I will never again travel with the same light heart as in my backpacking days. I will always carry the nagging worries with me. For that matter, I will never merge onto the highway in our hometown with the same carefree attitude. I am forever conscious of the responsibilities in the seats behind me.
And then, leaving aside the anxieties that children bring, there's just the sheer quantities of their needs. The stuff. The poop. The unbelievable amount of snacks required for a six hour plane ride with toddlers. The potential for annoyance of other people (and I know because I use to be one of those annoyed other people). No question, things are different now. Our travels are laced with humor and sometimes flirt with disaster. There was the trip home from Asia alone with six month old Gee during the last few of hours of which a cheerio explosion ripped through first class. There was the trip to Washington, D.C., six months pregnant alone with Gee and Ess, when I did permanent damage to my bladder because there is no possible way to pee travelling across country with eighteen-month-old twins. Ah, the trip to Indiana to HSSH's family reunion. Just us, three kids under two and a pukey virus that I am pretty sure we spread across all of North America, if not beyond. In case you've wondered, projectile baby vomit is annoying to other passengers. The most recent trip to Mexico went well, which would be great except that it required three extra adults to make it a smashing success.
Given those interesting experiences, I set off alone for New Orleans two weeks ago for my first trip by myself since Gee's birth with enormous pleasure. I looked forward to it for months. I anticipated the joy of finding my old self, the girl who whisks through airports with one tiny carry on bag, fashionably dressed, confident. The girl who gets to browse the bookstore while sipping coffee during her lay over (instead of frantically changing three diapers, quarantining poop covered clothes, acquiring new snacks, fixing the stroller the gate check people bent, nursing the baby and reloading on the next plane).
I found her. She's still in there and it was really fun to spend time with her again. But you know what? She's a little lonely. She has a lot of time on her hands. My heart swelled with I've-still-got-it pride when I was pulled out of the main security line and into the 'experienced traveler' check line. I watched with empathy (instead of my old pity and horror) as the family with two strollers and two car seats tried to negotiate the security check next to me. Funny enough, I found that I noticed all the little ones traveling (and not with passing horror or brief please-don't-let-them-sit-by-me prayers). Things seemed too easy, too quick. I felt strangely anonymous. I realized that no one smiled at me all day, no one asked me my kids' names or ages. No one told me stories about their kids or grandkids at home. I traveled efficiently, expertly, but also isolated and silent. There was no reason, no excuse, for connections or conversations.
That, in a nutshell, is how children add more to travel than they subtract. Their presence, their enthusiasm, even their problems, open doors and ease awkwardness. They provide fodder for conversations, comparisons, and laughter. We can not visit our neighborhood grocery store without attracting attention and meeting friends - another mom who meets my eyes in shared exasperation, a kind older woman who wants them all to say their names, an on-edge new mom, cautiously venturing out with her tiny three month old, who tells me she would never leave the house with three. Yes, in our travels, down the block or across the country, we have encountered the odd grump, the annoyed traveler, the woman who rolls her eyes at my son's tantrum. But, overall, overwhelmingly, my children are a source of pride and positiveness, not criticism. They are a commonality in a big world, across cultures, economic backgrounds, languages and lifestyles. When I travel with my kids, I am not just seeing the world, I am in tune with and connected to the people around me in a way that I missed when I was just ticking countries and experiences off of a list.
Despite how much I enjoyed my weekend away, I found myself, at times, watching the mom across the aisle and wanting to tell her about the exact thing that I was escaping - Me too! I'm a mom. I have three children. I spent weeks planning my trip, looking forward to portraying that accomplished, polished woman that I once was. It was fun to do. But, on that last, late-night flight back into Spokane, with the lights dimmed and the plane full of quiet people anxious to get home and get to bed (and a few screaming, unhappy, overtired little ones), when the older man next to me struck up a conversation and asked me if I attended Gonzaga or EWU, while flattered, I didn't even think about playing along. I smiled and said no, I have three little ones at home. I'm a mom. We talked about his grandkids.
The traveler is definitely still in me. As hard as it is, I hope to take my kids to all the beautiful places I have been and all the places still on my list. I hope they will love seeing the world as much as I do. The thing that I failed to understand before kids was that every trip to a grocery store can be an adventure. Annoying, yes, but kind of cool, too.
These days things are different. I swore I would not change my world outlook when I had children. I scoffed when others expressed trepidation. I would continue to view the world as welcoming and wondrous. I would show my children how wide and amazing the earth is by taking them out into it whenever possible. I still feel that way, but the young woman that country-hopped with ease didn't realize that she would one day be unable to avoid the fears. That one of them would get sick, that someone would hurt them, that a bus, plane or car would crash and I would be unable to help them, unable to protect them. Fears that existed, I suppose, when I traipsed around alone, but that I didn't take seriously. It is an awesome thing to be responsible for someone else's well-being, let alone three someones that you love more than you ever thought possible. We still go. I am still willing to take them most anywhere, but I will never again travel with the same light heart as in my backpacking days. I will always carry the nagging worries with me. For that matter, I will never merge onto the highway in our hometown with the same carefree attitude. I am forever conscious of the responsibilities in the seats behind me.
And then, leaving aside the anxieties that children bring, there's just the sheer quantities of their needs. The stuff. The poop. The unbelievable amount of snacks required for a six hour plane ride with toddlers. The potential for annoyance of other people (and I know because I use to be one of those annoyed other people). No question, things are different now. Our travels are laced with humor and sometimes flirt with disaster. There was the trip home from Asia alone with six month old Gee during the last few of hours of which a cheerio explosion ripped through first class. There was the trip to Washington, D.C., six months pregnant alone with Gee and Ess, when I did permanent damage to my bladder because there is no possible way to pee travelling across country with eighteen-month-old twins. Ah, the trip to Indiana to HSSH's family reunion. Just us, three kids under two and a pukey virus that I am pretty sure we spread across all of North America, if not beyond. In case you've wondered, projectile baby vomit is annoying to other passengers. The most recent trip to Mexico went well, which would be great except that it required three extra adults to make it a smashing success.
Given those interesting experiences, I set off alone for New Orleans two weeks ago for my first trip by myself since Gee's birth with enormous pleasure. I looked forward to it for months. I anticipated the joy of finding my old self, the girl who whisks through airports with one tiny carry on bag, fashionably dressed, confident. The girl who gets to browse the bookstore while sipping coffee during her lay over (instead of frantically changing three diapers, quarantining poop covered clothes, acquiring new snacks, fixing the stroller the gate check people bent, nursing the baby and reloading on the next plane).
I found her. She's still in there and it was really fun to spend time with her again. But you know what? She's a little lonely. She has a lot of time on her hands. My heart swelled with I've-still-got-it pride when I was pulled out of the main security line and into the 'experienced traveler' check line. I watched with empathy (instead of my old pity and horror) as the family with two strollers and two car seats tried to negotiate the security check next to me. Funny enough, I found that I noticed all the little ones traveling (and not with passing horror or brief please-don't-let-them-sit-by-me prayers). Things seemed too easy, too quick. I felt strangely anonymous. I realized that no one smiled at me all day, no one asked me my kids' names or ages. No one told me stories about their kids or grandkids at home. I traveled efficiently, expertly, but also isolated and silent. There was no reason, no excuse, for connections or conversations.
That, in a nutshell, is how children add more to travel than they subtract. Their presence, their enthusiasm, even their problems, open doors and ease awkwardness. They provide fodder for conversations, comparisons, and laughter. We can not visit our neighborhood grocery store without attracting attention and meeting friends - another mom who meets my eyes in shared exasperation, a kind older woman who wants them all to say their names, an on-edge new mom, cautiously venturing out with her tiny three month old, who tells me she would never leave the house with three. Yes, in our travels, down the block or across the country, we have encountered the odd grump, the annoyed traveler, the woman who rolls her eyes at my son's tantrum. But, overall, overwhelmingly, my children are a source of pride and positiveness, not criticism. They are a commonality in a big world, across cultures, economic backgrounds, languages and lifestyles. When I travel with my kids, I am not just seeing the world, I am in tune with and connected to the people around me in a way that I missed when I was just ticking countries and experiences off of a list.
Despite how much I enjoyed my weekend away, I found myself, at times, watching the mom across the aisle and wanting to tell her about the exact thing that I was escaping - Me too! I'm a mom. I have three children. I spent weeks planning my trip, looking forward to portraying that accomplished, polished woman that I once was. It was fun to do. But, on that last, late-night flight back into Spokane, with the lights dimmed and the plane full of quiet people anxious to get home and get to bed (and a few screaming, unhappy, overtired little ones), when the older man next to me struck up a conversation and asked me if I attended Gonzaga or EWU, while flattered, I didn't even think about playing along. I smiled and said no, I have three little ones at home. I'm a mom. We talked about his grandkids.
The traveler is definitely still in me. As hard as it is, I hope to take my kids to all the beautiful places I have been and all the places still on my list. I hope they will love seeing the world as much as I do. The thing that I failed to understand before kids was that every trip to a grocery store can be an adventure. Annoying, yes, but kind of cool, too.
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