The Outing

There are certain activities that are fundamentally incompatible with small children. My problem is that I seem to have a great deal of trouble correctly identifying these activities in advance of participating in them.

For example, when Snoodie was 8 months old, David and I found ourselves in Niagra Falls and so we decided it might be fun to take our BABY for a spin on 'The Maid of the Mist'.

We were incorrect. It was not fun.

Over a year later, it still seems difficult to fathom that there was NOTHING about an entirely open vessel heading directly into four million cubic feet of falling water that said to me, "Not for infants".

(actual footage from 'Maid of the Mist' outing)

All this to say that it should come as no surprise that when my sister (a major marine-life aficionado) called me earlier in the week to ask,

"Hey, you wanna go out to the beach some night this week and see some sharks that are swimming close to the shore?"

I replied,

"Sounds great! I'll bring the kids!"

Because hearing the words "shark hunt" and thus opting to leave the kids behind is just not how I roll as a mom.

(actual sharks, though not my actual camera)

As it turned out the sharks were the least of my problems. They were of the docile, non-human-eating variety, cool to look at, and downright fin-tastic. The issue was, as it often is, that no matter how much I try to prepare for all eventualities, the chance that the whole affair will go completely off the rails increases exponentially with each child I bring.

The main issue at present is the fact that the first of my children (Snoodie - 23 months) moves at all times at roughly the pace of a meth-fueled cheetah, and in far less predictable directions, while my second (Crinkles - 3 months) is a perma-inanimate object usually ensconced within 30-odd pounds of carseat.

So our trip to the beach went something like this:

We pull into the lot, and as soon as the car is in PARK Snoodie begins wailing for release with cries of, "UP! UP!" I rush to unbuckle him, and as I go to retrieve Crinkles I scream to my sister,

"Can you chase Snoodie? He's escaping!"

I haul the 18-wheeler-sized double stroller out of the trunk, snap Crinkles into place, and head towards the sand.

THE SAND! Yeah, so it immediately becomes evident that the only route to the shoreline is over 40 yards of beach, which makes the stroller a no-go. I go back to the car to return it and realize I'm going to have to carry Crinkles in his car seat so that he'll have a quasi-protected place to sit when I'm inevitably chasing his errant older brother around. Which means I can now carry only one of the four bags of beach supplies I've brought with me. I need to choose among

THE FOOD BAG

THE CLOTHING BAG

THE TOWEL BAG

THE DIAPER BAG

I decide the food bag takes precedence and head off, leaving my other supplies behind.

As I totter out onto the beach I can see my sister in the distance chasing Speedy GonSnoodez across the sand in the exact opposite direction of the sharks. Several beachgoers notice my struggle to stay upright under the weight of Crinkles' car seat and offer helpful suggestions such as,

"You should have carried the baby and left the seat, that's what I do when I come to the beach!"

As I lack a free hand to punch these people in the jaw, I continue on my snail-like journey towards the water's edge. I can tell by the increasingly loud cries of,

"NAIIIII!"

followed by a firm,

"Hitting me in the face is not allowed please!"

that my sister is managing to wrestle Snoodie in the direction of the shore, where we can already see sharks-a-frolicking!

We arrive and my sister, anxious to get a closer look at our finned friends, heads straight for the water as I stay behind to give a bottle to a now very agitated Crinkles.

EXCEPT! We've forgotten about Snoodie who has already spied the water, screamed 'BATH!" at the top of his lungs, and marched in up to his shoulders with all his clothes on.

I give chase but in the process leave Crinkles completely unattended on the sand 20 yards distant. People enjoying their evening strolls on the beach are congregating around him and murmuring in concern,

"Who left this baby here?"

In response I emerge from the sea soaked from head to toe and carrying a toddler who is screaming,

"Naii! Bath! Naiii! Bath!"

repeatedly. I attempt to tend to Crinkles in a way that conveys to the passers-by, "No need to call Child Protective Services!" but accomplish little other than causing him to become wet, sandy, and epically enraged. Snoodie, meanwhile, continues his tantrum and adds some rolling about in despair, thus managing to coat every square inch of himself with wet sand. (Hmm, perhaps I should have instead brought the clothing bag after all! A dry outfit for Snoodie sure would be handy right about now!)

My sister returns from shark peeping as I am stripping Snoodie down to his diaper, and we open the food bag to attempt a picnic dinner -- only to find that an errant sippy cup has soaked all of the contents beyond recognition. (Hmm, perhaps I should have instead brought the towel bag after all! Those things sure would be handy right about now!)

So we skip dinner and make our way back toward the parking lot. I'm once agin carrying Crinkles in his carseat, now with the added bonus of him shrieking loudly. Snoodie walks beside me, his wild running curtailed by the fact that his diaper is so wet that it is dragging on the ground between his feet as he whimpers softly. (Hmm, perhaps I should have brought the diaper bag after all! A proper diaper for Snoodie sure would be convenient right about now!)

And thus ends our outing. For those of you keeping track our scorecard looks something like this:

TOTAL LENGTH OF EXCURSION: 27 MINUTES

NUMBER OF FURIOUS CHILDREN: 2

AMOUNT OF CLOTHING WORN BY OLDER CHILD BY THE TIME WE REACH THE CAR: 0

NUMBER OF GLARES RECEIVED ON MY PARENTING TECHNIQUES BY STRANGERS: 23

NUMBER OF OUTINGS MY SISTER WILL AGREE TO ACCOMPANY ME ON IN THE FUTURE: 0

NUTRITION PROVIDED: 0

AMOUNT OF BEERS NEEDED TO COPE WITH EXCURSION BY 2 ADULTS: 5.3

What can I say, folks? Just another day at the beach....

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The Roads

I have tried to make a concerted effort on this blog to avoid just plain old ranting for ranting's sake (my husband would like me to add that, for the record, I make no similar effort in our day-to-day existence).

But, this week, I feel I absolutely must make an exception to this rule in order to rant copiously in your general direction on the pressing topic that is - JENNIFER ANISTON.

Just in case there is anyone out there who doesn't know (hi mom!) Jennifer Aniston is an American actress of limitless success, endless beauty and unknowable wealth. She is also, as unlikely as it may seem, a woman whom one is instructed to feel deeply sorry for on a regular basis because she is not married and does not have any children.

This is of particular interest to me being that, at present, I am Jennifer Aniston's opposite (one could argue in more ways than one, but let's not dwell on that point). What I mean is that I am currently married and have two children but my career, for lack of a better term, is what they call "in the shitter".

So while Jennifer Aniston represents to our collective imaginations...

DOOR NUMBER ONE: The successful career gal with a life full of martinis, shopping sprees, and general fabulosity (see also: Sex and the City) who is nonetheless haunted by the lack of children and home

...I linger instead behind...

DOOR NUMBER TWO: The hapless stay-at-home mom whose college degree and once-lofty career ambitions are now buried beneath piles of laundry, reruns of The Oprah Winfrey show, and the ceaseless demands of her perma-needy offspring.

Now, of course, there thousands of shades of grey between these black and white options. It's just that you wouldn't always know it from examining how the choices that today's women face are generally portrayed and perceived.

As I watch my friends struggle with the work/mom conundrum, I am struck by how every road has its own challenges. Before I met David I LOVED having a career. I enjoyed making my own money and was proud of my successes. At the same time, I admit that as long as I was single, I always felt somewhat haunted by the thought that without a husband and kids my life was missing something, without which it was difficult to think of myself as truly happy.

Then I got married and had kids and my career hit a brick wall and, as much as I adored my children, the longer I stayed home with them the more I became obsessed with the idea that "real" life was starting to pass me by as I sat home changing diapers, watching Baby Einstein videos, and cleaning barf out of my once well-coiffed hair.

This was underscored for me the other day when a friend from my old life called, filled with news from the working world. At the end of her long diatribe on life at the office she paused briefly to say, "Oh, I'm sorry, I haven't even asked how you are?" I replied that I was really busy and she replied with genuine confusion, "Busy doing what?" I reminded her about my two kids under two and she mumbled, "Oh, right...that" (the unstated implication being, "I thought you meant something real.....").

And, of course, being made to feel like what you've chosen to do with your life is deeply lame stings in the extreme. But, in my more rational moments (which can be few and far between considering the amount of sleep I am getting these days) I am able to realize that I am now living a life for which I waited several decades. I found a great guy and have two adorable kiddos. Looking back, if I'd known this life was waiting here patiently for me, I think I would have relaxed and tried to enjoy my life as a single working girl more than I managed to.

Because the truth is that life has phases. I bet Jennifer Aniston is actually pretty darn happy with her awesome life, and maybe someday she'll have kids and that will make her happy in a different way. And in the moments when I'm not actively trying to pull a Steven Slater, grab two beers, and take off down the escape chute of my entire existence, I have to admit that my own life is fairly awesome as well. Perhaps I'll even manage to head back to work one of these days and hopefully find new and rewarding things down that path as well.

But for the time being I'm going to enjoy living the life that is right in front of me.

Except for the part where I get vomited on. I'm never going to enjoy that part.

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Doctor's Orders

This week's offering is not so much a blog post as it is a Public Service Announcement.

So, you know how when you get a prescription (let's say, for example, from your OB/GYN to treat a burgeoning case of Mastits?) and (s)he tells you that you really need to finish the all of the pills in the bottle even if you start to feel better?

Yeah, well, it turns out that is REALLY useful advice and you should totally do it.

I, as they say in Hollywood, "went another way" last week after getting a 10-day course of medication. Instead, based on my vast array of medical knowledge gained from years of watching General Hospital episodes, I decided that since I was no longer symptomatic after 3 days on the stuff I probably didn't need to take any more. So, I stopped.

CUT TO TWO DAYS LATER and me looking pretty much indistinguishable from the girl from The Last Exorcism poster.

I spent several hours on Wednesday afternoon lying prone on the floor while my children played around my listless body (with Snoodie offering the occasional helpful commentary, "Mommy zzzzzz-zzzzzz!") before deciding it was time to pull the ripcord and call David at work. I managed to get out the phrase, "I can no longer care for our children" before collapsing again.

David rushed home and (having gained his own vast array of medical knowledge from watching guys get their ankles taped up during football games) felt my head and announced with an air of certainty, "I don't think you have a fever." I limped off to bed and left dinner and bath time in Daddy's capable hands while I proceeded to pray fervently for sweet death to take me, or at least to be allowed to slip into a mild coma until this thing passed.

By that night I was rapidly cycling between teeth chattering and sauna-worthy sweats, and I told David that I was pretty sure I did, in fact, have a fever. He eventually conceded that I did feel "a little warm" and we took my temperature. It was 103.2.

So we decided to called the advice nurse at the hospital. It was around 10pm when she informed me that she thought I should really come to the ER right away. I let her know that that I had two kids under two asleep at home and thus a multi-hour trip to the ER wasn't really looking too promising at the present moment. She explained that if I did not come in to the ER that would constitute "refusing medical advice" (a.k.a. lady, if you die it's on you - we tried to warn you). I tried to get some odds on how likely it was that I would actually expire if I didn't show up at the ER, but the nurse lady seemed fairly reticent on that score.

I told David that without a guarantee of certain death if I stayed in bed I wasn't going anywhere. I absolved him of responsibility for my care, pulled the covers up over my head and went back to sleep for the next two days (rising only briefly to drag myself out to the doctor where I was roundly scolded and set up with a new course of antibiotics).

So, as evidenced by the presence of this post, I managed to survive 'MASTITIS 2: The Return of Mastitis; The Terror Surfaces' but I'm telling you folks, it was NO picnic. So take my advice and take all the pills the nice doctor gives you, even if you feel better.

I promise you'll thank me later.

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Zzzzzzzzzzzz.......

Well, folks, things are not rosy here in Dictator-ville.

I am currently doing battle with the breastfeeding-born bacterial infection known as MASTITIS. And it blows.

The fact that I developed said infection during the same week that I had to travel cross-country and husband-free with my two head-cold-ravaged children has lead me to the firm conclusion that in a past life I was likely either an overly-aggressive telemarketer or perhaps a professional puppy assassin, because NOTHING ELSE could possibly explain the epic level of personal misery I have been enduring.

As the great Madeline Kahn might say...

..."I'M TIRED."

You know how they say that Eskimos have over 40 words for snow? By this same logic I would suggest that new mothers should have something like 19,000 words for tired.

It starts with the 'I'm so pregnant there is no possible way I can get comfortable so I'll just lay here until I finally fall into a desperate sleep only to be woken ten minutes later by the overwhelming need to pee' tired. Then it evolves into the 'Oh My God I had the baby and I'm so elated/freaked/busy with feedings that I can't shut my eyes' tired. This is followed by the 'week after week of night feedings' tired (augmented, in my case, by the always lovely 'my older child is distressed by the arrival of the baby and chooses to express this by refusing to nap' tired).

At the risk of stating the obvious, I've always been someone who really liked my sleep. The moment I slip under 8 hours-a-night I transform, Incredible Hulk-like, into a monster of terrifying proportions. When David and I first started talking about having children I solemnly laid out my two greatest reservations about the idea:

NUMBER ONE: Having do deal with other people's vomit.

NUMBER TWO: The lack of sleep.

And, I have to say, I am a GENIUS, because both of these things are, in fact, UNBELIEVABLY TERRIBLE! Leaving behind the vomit stories for the moment (oh, don't worry, they'll be back!) the interrupted sleep, lack of sleep, and constant threat of not sleeping has been my greatest challenge of being a mother.

When my Dad was young he had some sort of surgery, the result of which was that he was not allowed to drink anything at all for several days. He remembers that when people would come to visit him he would just stare at them and think, "Why aren't you drinking? How could someone who was ALLOWED to drink just sit there not drinking!?!" It's a form of crazy that I can totally relate to these days because it is the same way that I feel about sleep.

I think about sleep all the time. Despite having never been all that great at math I find myself during night feedings able to calculate exactly how much sleep I am losing each time I glance at the digital clock on the nightstand. It has become an obsession that colors my perception of everything. When we were flying back last week I was looking through the in-flight magazine at an advertisement for some exotic resort. All I could think of while staring at the frolicking beachgoers was, "Those folks should head into that nice looking hotel there and get some rest, that place looks really nice. And why isn't anyone using those hammocks, they look so comfy?" These days when I hear stories of people beset by dread illnesses, my first reaction is often, "At least it sounds like they are getting to lie down a lot."

Look, I'm not asking for a whole lot of sympathy here. I get that it's not exactly a groundbreaking revelation that a woman with two children under two might be a tad bit fatigued. All I am trying to do is express the simple fact that I'm tired, and talk a little bit about sleep.....delicious, delicious sleep....

...because, folks, as you may have already deduced, it is all I can think about.

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Five-a-days

I've had a most unhappy revelation.

A few weeks ago, I took a long and melancholy walk into our living room to break some sobering news to my husband.

"Honey" I reported with all due solemnity, "You and I are going to have to start eating vegetables. Like every day."

David was understandably undone by such news and demanded that I explain further. I told him that Snoodie, who had heretofore happily gobbled up any and all foodstuffs (and, to be honest, a number of decidedly NON foodstuffs) that were put in front of him, had suddenly begun rejecting a whole slew of items at mealtimes with EXTREME prejudice.

Gone were the halcyon days when I'd watch my little boy cram strawberries, broccoli, and pears into his gaping maw with abandon! Instead his preferred dinner had devolved to the point where he was regularly dining on six pieces of white bread. PERIOD.

Having rushed to my computer to google "my toddler won't eat" in a panic, I discovered that, according to the anonymous non-medical professionals at Ask.com, my dear son was rushing headlong towards a nasty bout of early-onset scurvy. And so, I became determined to dig in my heels and fight the nutrition wars with all I had.

I consulted Snoodie's pediatrician, who, much to my non-delight, explained to me the concept of FOOD MODELING.

See, it turns out that our kids are, like, totally watching us. And believe it or not, what we do in front of these children is apparently significantly more important than what we tell them to do. This means that the best way to get our children to behave in the way we want them to is for us to model that behavior for them every single day.

BUMMER, huh?

I shared this information with my husband over dinner. I talked through the doctor's points while enjoying a meal of 2 SuperPretzles, one frozen KitKat, half a peanut butter sandwich, and a Diet Coke. David listened intently while sampling from his three preferred food groups: Chocolate, Fried, and Beer. Or I should say, David listened as intently as he could manage, considering we were both sitting in front of the TV at the time watching a rerun of WIPEOUT and checking our iPhones as we ate.

Things haven't always been quite so dire chez nous. When we were first married, I actually took some cooking classes and was filling our newfound China with yummy and vaguely healthy meals on a semi-nightly basis. But, after birthing my second child in as many years, the fact is that my passion for spending an hour in front of the stove each night (as well as my ability to do so without misplacing one of my offspring) has gone the way of the rotary phone. And this downhill slide has led us to our current state - where we regularly dine on whatever items can be grabbed in under two minutes and consumed without hassle in front of the glowing box of joy.

But, as the Bradys will tell you, "When it's time to change, you've got to rearrange. Move your heart into what you're gonna be." (I would have sworn it was "who you are into what you're gonna be", thanks Google!). In any case, those singing kids are on to something! IT IS TIME TO CHANGE! I shall attempt to direct my almost two-year-old towards the plum on his plate while shoving him away from the pop tart in my hand NO MORE!

Instead, starting this month we will find ourselves all gathered around the table at mealtime, Daddy and Mommy smiling and ooohing over the deliciousness of our carrots and broccoli! Singing the praises of peaches as we eat them with abandon (and occasionally through gritted teeth)! And there, at our healthy family dinner Snood will sit, watching us in rapt attention....

..........while gnawing happily upon his pile of white bread. FOR NOW.

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Short Fat Vacation

In that I can call anywhere that I am with my two boys under the age of 2 "vacation" I am on vacation this week.

This means that in between 8 feedings a day (x2 for many of them), diaper changes, sunscreen applications and let's not forget the beloved cross-country airplane journeys, I will be RELAXING and not writing a blog.

Look forward to all new musings come next Wednesday.

Until then....

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The Hard Eight

This week Crinkles will turn eight-weeks-old, and, in my house, that means hope begins to return.

I remember talking to a friend of mine a few years ago who was going through a really bad breakup. She was trying to figure out what it all meant.

• What if the failure of this relationship meant that she was on some fundamental level incapable of any kind of real stability in her life?

• Where had it all gone wrong?

• Would she ever find love again?

At the time, I was in the middle of preparing for my first marathon and I shared with my friend a theory that I like to call:

"THE NEXT LAMP POST"

While I was training for the big run I found it WAY too disheartening to think of eventually having to run 26.2 miles, especially when I was struggling to run just 3 or 4. Instead, I got into the habit of breaking each run down into smaller and smaller pieces. I might not be able to run ten more miles on any given day but I could always make it to at least the next lamp past. So I just kept moving forward, one lamp post at a time, and eventually I'd finish my miles (for the record, I lived in Brooklyn at the time - VERY good lamp posts and an endless supply).

What I told my lovelorn friend was this - from the sound of things she was at about Mile 3 of her breakup journey and she wasn't going to make it if she kept trying to imagine the big picture. She was in a "next lamp post" place and all she needed to concentrate on was putting her head down and moving forward, nothing else, until she got through the worst of it. (For the record, this September that same friend is marrying one of the finest dudes in Christendom, so happy that!)

Having my first child brought the "next lamp post" theory home for me all over again. When they first handed me my baby boy at the hospital I was, of course, elated and overwhelmed. But I must admit that by the time we got him home from the hospital those feelings had changed to deflated and overwhelmed.

Questions flooded my mind:

• How am I supposed to know what to do with this guy?

• How long can I humanly survive on three hours of sleep a night?

• What if I actually murder my husband one of these days for claiming he will be home at 7:00 and then actually arriving home at 7:07? WHO WILL RAISE MY CHILD THEN!!!

I was going nuts.

Until I remembered my beloved lamp posts. During night feedings, crying jags, and late-husband episodes, I stopped asking the big questions. Instead, I would simply say to myself, NEXT LAMP POST, NEXT LAMP POST, NEXT LAMP POST.

I kept this up, day after day, for eight weeks. And then, at eight weeks, some amazing things started to happen:

• The days began to get more organized, meaning I didn't have to breastfeed 86 times a day.

• The baby started sleeping for longer and longer stretches at a time so that I was no longer lumbering through life like a brain-starved zombie.

• And, folks, let's talk about the SMILES!

The smiles started and, folks, it was GAME ON! Suddenly this being who has been little more than a demanding and oft-crying MOUTH started making eye contact with me and just BEAMING as if to say, "Oh look! It's you! The greatest person EVER! I'm just so happy to see you!" And then he'd look away for a minute before looking back like, "WHAT? You again? I LOVE looking at you! How did I get so lucky!?"

And this went on all day. And it was freakishly awesome! And it all happened at around 8 weeks...

...so thank God I made it that long.

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