The Power of Two

Of late my husband and I have been delighting in watching our sons' growing relationship. They have finally begun taking joy in each other's company, now playing together regularly and occasionally even tackling tasks together.

A few nights ago my husband and I were sitting down to a late dinner and reminiscing about how far we had come. Our oldest had just turned four with his brother 19-months younger, and I'd been arguing for some time that having kids so close together would eventually pay dividends. As we listened to them frolicking behind their closed bedroom door, it seemed that I had been right. 

So David and I lingered over our meals, delighting in the payoff for the years we'd spent keeping the two of them from doing each other great bodily harm. 

In their earliest days, the relationship between our sons went something like this:

• CHILD #1 PLAYS WITH TOY

• CHILD #2 OBSERVES CHILD #1 PLAYING WITH TOY

• CHILD #2 VIOLENTLY MUGS CHILD #1 FOR SAID TOY

• TEARS, WAILS OF DESPAIR, AND FLYING FISTS ENSUE

I mean, this happened like 1,000 times a day.

But as we sat listening to our guys giggling together in their room, we felt like we were seeing -- for the first time -- the light at the end of the tunnel. 

We finished our meal, cleared the dishes, and realized that we should probably shoo the boys back into their beds as it was getting late.

We opened the door...

...and realized exactly how wrong we had been.

What we'd heard through the door as good-tempered merriment was in fact a duel-pronged campaign of room-destroying terror. 

It seemed to have started with some sort of baby powder fight. The air was thick with white clouds and every surface in the room was covered with the stuff. This apparently then whipped them into a clothes-throwing frenzy. The drawers of three dressers were opened and the contents scattered in all directions. Next there seemed to have been some sort of babywipes-tossing competition. 

At some point a crayon was found.

Actual footage from the crime scene

Suffice it to say the room was trashed. The gleeful laughter was not, as we thought, the happy sounds of two young brothers enjoying the wonder of each other's newfound company. 

Instead it was the sound of them working together to destroy us.

A new chapter begins...

Off the Rails

One ongoing problem I have as a parent is an underdeveloped ability to recognize when things are going permanently and irrevocably into the crapper.

While I don't really consider myself an optimist, I find that as a Mom I possess an astounding ability to expect a positive outcome even when it involves blinding myself to some very obvious realities.

Take, for example, last Monday.

The plan was simple: My oldest was in pre-school, so I took my two-year-old son and 9-month-old daughter to try out a music class. We are actually music class veterans, but last semester my two-year-old had a bit of a "rough time" in class. Instead of participating in the music-making, he would spend class time dancing in front of the mirror like a possessed monkey, after which he'd move on to stealing other children's shaker eggs and hurling them about in all directions before occasionally running into the bathroom for some rhythmic toilet flushing.

He was such a music-room menace that I had chosen to forgo class this semester in favor of something more appropriate to his needs, like, say, toddler alligator wrestling. But then I heard they were offering a test-class and I decided we would check it out on the off chance that my son had experienced a change of heart.

We arrived and things got off to a good start. My son seemed elated to see his old teacher, and the fact that my baby was sitting up meant that she was able to participate without the constant threat of being trod upon by one of her marching classmates.

I had a glimmer that this was all going to work out. 

And that glimmer was the beginning of the end. For almost immediately after said glimmer appeared I realized that my baby stank of poo. Rather than try to hump down the hall to the bathroom I opted to discretely change her in one corner of the room, safely hidden behind a pile of tambourines. As my happy two-year-old was rockin', rockin' in the middle of a circle of new friends, I opened my daughter's diaper to realize that I had A BIG PROBLEM.

The moment I saw the DEFCON 5 diaper disaster in my chid's pants I should have admitted defeat, dragged her stank butt to the car, and headed home.

But no, my music class menace son was having a ball! He was playing the triangle like an angel! He was dancing with whimsy! I couldn't leave.

And so I decided to stay and fight, armed with the only weapon in my arsenal - a 1/2 pack of slightly dried out wipes. I was massively outgunned. There was poop everywhere. The neck was involved. One wrist was affected.

The class was becoming distracted by my grunts of frustration and concern as they tried to enjoy a rousing round of "Jumpin' Josie". At some point I realized that I did not have a spare outfit, but still I pressed on. In my desperation I thought perhaps I could create some sort of protective layer out of wipes between my daughter's back and the most profoundly affected areas of her clothing. I was way past the point of reason.

I finally accepted that my daughter's clothing was a lost cause at which point I reached into the diaper bag only to discover that I had only brought Size 5s. Which meant that I now had in my possession about four dozen hideously grotesque wipes, one disastrous diaper, a two-piece garment full of yuck, and a completely nude baby clad only in a diaper that came up to her neck.

At which point I admitted defeat.

I stuffed my now screaming baby into her car seat before grabbing my dancing son by the arm, dragging them both towards the door as my son screamed, 

"NOOOOOOOO! MY EGGGGSSSSS!!! NOOOOOO!"

and my daughter wailed in stinky frustration.

As we limped out the door leaving a fetid trail in our wake, the music teacher looked up at me with a wan smile and said,

"Come back anytime!"

Not totally sure she meant it.

Eye Care for Dummies

I realize that the blog has gotten a little...morose of late.

http://www.gotbrainy.com/flashcards/show/1130

Between complaining about my weight, boo-hooing over career disappointments, and reminiscing about lost children it's been rather a perma-downer around these parts.

And I'm aware of it.

But unfortunately for us all, the only thing of note that has happened in the past week is that my three-year-old had eye surgery. AND IT SUCKED. Which means I must subject you to one more slight bummer of a post, and then I'll try to write something a bit more amusing next time. Deal?

Turns out the Snood had a condition which is medically known as strabismic amblyopia, but is often referred to by its more common name, "googly eyes".  I had the same thing when I was a kid, which meant that as soon as I started to notice one of his eyes going rogue when he looking at books, I high-tailed it to the opthamologist.

We met Eye Doctor #1 when Snood was around two years old. It didn't go all that well. Eye Doctor #1 kept us waiting for over an hour. And I get it, things happen, but it meant that by the time we saw her my kid was HIGHLY CRABBY. When we were finally seen, Eye Doctor #1 told Snoodie to get up into her giant chair and then without warning began shoving large object towards his face and asking him to identify them. Snood was displeased and slightly terrified and reacted by flailing about like a caged baboon before making a concerted effort to punch Eye Doctor #1 in the face.

It was not our finest hour.

It was also not Eye Doctor #1's finest hour as she began shouting and saying highly unhelpful things like,

"Your son has a serious eye problem but I'm not going to work with him if he can't get it together."

You know what two year olds aren't the absolute best at Eye Doctor #1? GETTING IT TOGETHER!

She went on to add,

"He's not scared, he's just being a baby."

The entire appointment was firmly off the rails by the 90-second mark. Eye Doctor #1 continued to berate us for our grotesque conduct and at one point it is possible that I lost my head and threatened her with bodily harm.

About two and a half minutes in I grabbed my son and high-tailed it out of the office with no verdict on Snood's eye situation.

After telling my husband my sad tale of woe he did two totally awesome things:

1. He told me that I was totally right and the eye doctor was totally wrong and also mean and dumb.

2.  He found us a new eye doctor who was super awesome, saw us promptly and had all these fun puppets and videos that he used to help the kids get their eye exams done without being psychologically scarred.

Which was great, except that after some adventures in patch-wearing we found ourselves in the surgical ward last Thursday having my kiddos eye's repaired.

To be honest, the procedure was fairly simple. Also, to be honest, there is nothing on Earth that prepares you for walking into a recovery room and seeing your little guy in a hospital gown with tubes coming from all directions, an IV, and an oxygen mask.

Then you take him home and he asks you the soul-crushing question:

"Why did that doctor have to hurt my eyes?!"


thirty times a day.

But we got through it and now we're on the mend. The only lingering difficulty is the ointment that we are supposed to squeeze into the Snood's eyeballs three times a day. I though it might be helpful to explain to him that even though he didn't like it, the medicine would eventually make him fell better.

Which has resulted in my child running from me in terror and screaming, 

"I DON'T WANT TO FEEL BETTER!!!!"

Whenever he sees me rounding a corner.

Yeah, so back to the drawing board on that one, I guess.

When It's You

When I was three years old I got lost.

My entire family was at the beach in Milford, CT visiting my Grandmother who had a house that sat right up against the shore. On the morning of "the incident" my brother and sister and I were making sand castles under the watchful eye of our babysitter LeAnn until I decided that I was ready to head back to the house. LeAnn watched as I walked across the beach and onto the front lawn of my Grandma's house, and then went back to supervising the other kids.

At that point, for reasons unknown, I abruptly decided to pull a u-turn and managed to walk off down the seawall that ran the mile-long stretch of beach.

Off I roamed. The beachfront at that time was almost entirely undeveloped and so I was able to wander away without anyone taking notice. I only remember flashes of the day, but I distinctly recall turning around to look for the house and then, not seeing it, I turned again and again until I'd completely lost my orientation as to which way was home.

I chose a path and marched off in the exact opposite direction of the house. Confident that my Grandmother's blue house would surely appear around the next bend, it never occurred to me to stop and ask the few people I passed for assistance.

Meanwhile, back at home my mother had come home from a game of tennis to discover that she was, most certainly, a child short.

She immediately called the police who arrived and set a search into motion. As my grandmother high-tailed it to church to make some fervent appeals to St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost things, my description went out on the radio and my parents' friends and neighbors began to comb the beach (and the water) in search of me.

It wasn't until several hours that later that my walk of doom finally ceased when the seawall hit a dead end at a small marina. Finally accepting that I must have chosen the wrong direction and that my Grandma's house was nowhere to be found, I sat down on the dock and started to cry. 

Luckily a couple sunning themselves on the deck of their boat spotted me and came over. The husband picked me up, smiled, and said,

"I think you must be the little girl that everyone is looking for."

He and his wife called the police and then waited with me until they came to take me home to my overjoyed parents.

Last week my own three-year-old got lost. 

He was due home on a bus home from school between 1:20 and 1:40. Because school was just back in session and there had already been some confusion with the buses I wasn't that surprised at 1:50 when there was no sign of him. But then I called his teacher who informed me that his bus had left on time at 1:15. 

The school is less than a mile away and our house is the first stop. I couldn't figure out where he could be. By 2:10 I called the transportation supervisor who said she would try to call the driver and call me back. By 2:20 no phone call and I was pacing on my front porch craning my neck for any hint of a yellow school bus headed my way.  By 2:35 I was back on the phone with transportation, screaming about my missing toddler and vowing to call the LAPD if I didn't have him in my hands by 2:40.

Two minutes later the bus arrived. The very apologetic substitute driver explained that he'd accidentally driven the route in reverse and then he'd gotten lost. My son was happy as could be, thrilled to have gotten extra time on the bus. I brought him in for his nap and made myself a nerve-calming afternoon cocktail.

And I understood the "Time You Went Missing" story from my childhood in a different way for the first time. From the Mom's side.

And I called my Mom and told her for the first time that I was very, very sorry for wandering off.

                                                      

She said it was alright.

Losin' It

It's time to lose the baby weight.

To be frank it is PAST time. My daughter is nearly 7 months old and I've somehow managed to gain ten pounds since her birth.

And when I say "somehow" I guess I mean "by eating 3,500 calories a day as if I were still pregnant". That whole "the weight will just fall off from breastfeeding" thing has proven no match for my unique ability to consume half a dozen $100,000 bars at a sitting.

                                   

After my first pregnancy I had about thirty pounds to lose. I thought about how to approach this dilemma and realized that I could either

a.  Radically alter my eating habits and begin a strict exercise regimen.

or

b.  Get pregnant again.

I chose Option Number B, restocked my freezer with dozens of Good Humor bars, and never looked back.

When Baby #2 left my bodily premises, I found myself once again struggling with the motivation to lose weight. 

But as it turned out, motivation found me in the form of a grey chiffon bridesmaid dress. As a member of my sister-in-law's wedding party, I'd had the following non-delightful conversation with a dress consultant three months after giving birth.

"Well, let's see here, according to your measurements you're a size 16 bust, size 20 waist, and size 12 hips."

Rather than ordering three different dresses and having them patched together Frankenstein-style, I decided that I should probably just go ahead and lose some weight. Fired up with chiffon-based motivation, I managed to drop thirty pounds over the course of the next eight months. 

And as much as I hate to tell people who ask me expectantly, 

"How did you do it?"

I did it by just eating really reasonable food and exercising a whole lot. Boring, but it worked.

Me at the wedding. Please note insane man arms resulting from my sister's innocuous suggestion that "as long as your arms look good the rest of you will look good". Easy on the free weights, crazy!

Exactly one week after the above picture was taken I found out I was pregnant. And now a year and a half later, I find myself with a beautiful daughter and 25 pounds to lose.

Because we've had what will almost certainly be our last child, I think there is a part of me that is really rebelling against getting back on a normal eating program. It's as if something inside of me believes that once I give up the massive caloric free-for-all that has marked each of my pregnancies, the door to eating anything fun is closed to me forever. And, to be frank, when you are home all day with three kids under four it can be easy to see food as one's nearly sole source of comfort.

"I've changed a dozen diapers since 8am and gotten puked on twice so no one is going to deny me my right to eat 7 slices of pizza as I watch the Real Housewives after they've all gone to bed!!!!!"

But it's time to turn the corner. To remember how much better I feel when I'm making healthier life choices. To acknowledge that I want to be a good food role model for my kids. To PUT THE ICE CREAM DOWN.

And I'm feeling pretty motivated. Though if you wanted to do me a solid you could ask me to be a bridesmaid in your wedding sometime in early 2013. 

It would really help me out.

DISAPPOINTED!

Last week I had to deal with a pretty major disappointment.

It wasn't a huge life tragedy -- more of an exciting career opportunity that I thought was a lock which instead fell through in spectacular fashion.

Do you remember that scene in "A Fish Called Wanda" where Kevin Kline opens the empty safe and then gasps a couple of times before shouting,

"DISAPPOINTED!!!!"

Look, I found it on YouTube so you can watch it for yourself:

Well, that's kind of how I felt.

I've written before about the challenge of continuing to care for kids when you are sick. I've talked at length about how hard it can be to drag oneself from one's sick bed and continue to provide for and look after one's offspring when one is wildly under the weather.

But last week I realized that dealing with kids when you've taken an emotional hit can be even more complicated.

I mean, before I had kids, upon receiving what we'll simply call "the email of doom" I would have responded thusly:

1. Emit lengthy cry of epic despair.
2. Commence cavalcade of cursing while tearing around home looking for items to burn and/or destroy.
3. Find items. Hulk SMASH.
4. Locate scores of sugary foodstuffs.
5. Devour above while lying in bed weeping copiously.
6. Commit to multiples days of ill-advised television viewing, salty snacking and occasional bouts of sobbing.
7. Begin heavy drinking phase.
8. Regret above choices. Advanced tummy troubles commence.
9. Light at the end of tunnel glimpsed.
10. Recovery and moving on.

And I gotta say, that system worked pretty well for me.

But when the "email of doom" arrived last week, I found myself at home with three little kids to take care of, which meant steps one through eight were pretty much entirely unavailable to me.

I was lost and confused.

Growing up, my parents had a real knack for, for lack of a better term, keeping their stuff together. I know they faced plenty of tribulations of various sizes throughout my childhood, but while they generally spoke frankly with us about what was going on, they always managed to maintain a stiff upper lip when we kids were around.

Which I'm all for. 

I remembered my own parent's calm last week as I sat sobbing in my room. My three-year-old son wandered in, looked at me with concern on his tiny face and asked, 

"Why is Mommy sad?"

So I told him that there was a job I really wanted that I didn't get, and that it was making me feel really sad. Then I stopped crying, went outside to play ball with the kids for a while, and then made them dinner, put them in the bath, read bedtime stories, and tucked them in, all with a smile on my face.

Which SUCKED.

But I did it because it seemed better than the other option. I'll admit that finding this balance is going to be a challenge for me. I think I'm probably too emotional to manage my parents' air of constant calm in front of my kids, but I also know that I need to control myself so that my ups and downs don't become theirs.

After I got the kids to sleep I sat on the sofa, did some quality cursing and sobbing, and accepted the fact that I'm still working to figure out the balance.

And then I devoured an ill-advised amount of ice cream, broke a couple of things in a quiet manner, and went to bed.

Well, that was a bad idea.

Let me tell you something you don't want to do when you have three children under four.

You pretty much don't want to write a blog post about how fully you are CHERISHING the tender moments with your children when they wake up in the dark of night because you've come to realize how precious that time really is.

Every night since publishing that post my children have been throwing insane all-night baby and toddler parties in what we can only believe is some vague attempt to kill David and I both.

The source of the problem is that we've been attempting to get all three kids to sleep in one room at the same time. We have a two-bedroom house, so unless we are willing to have a child residing under the train table, this is pretty much our only option.

Now, when you have one child sleeping in a room alone there is always some chance that something will go wrong on any given night. When you have three kids sharing a room the chances of something going awry increase exponentially due to what I've dubbed "the domino effect of disaster".

Allow me to illustrate with an example from my own life.

Our problems almost always originate with our 6-month-old. She's teething and thus tends to wake up loudly and angrily sometime around 3am.

The interaction that follows tends to go something like this:

ME: Shhh. OK, baby. It's OK, here's a little pacifier. OK back to sleep now.

BABY: Wah!!!!!!

ME: OK, shush now. Let's just calm down.

(Furious rocking of baby begins)

BABY: Wah!

(Shushing recommences)

THREE-YEAR-OLD: Mommy?

ME: Oh, crap!

BABY: Wah!

THREE-YEAR-OLD: I'm going to Disneyland for my birthday right? 

BABY: Wah!

THREE-YEAR-OLD: RIGHT????

ME: We'll talk about it in the morning. Go back to sleep.

THREE-YEAR-OLD: (beginning to wail) I want to go!!!! I want to go!!!!

(Holding and shushing baby, while attempting to make soothing gesture towards older son with right foot)

ME: OK, fine, you're going. Yes. Now be quiet.

BABY: Wah!

THREE-YEAR-OLD: I WANT TO GO!!!!!!!

ME: FINE!!!! I SAID FINE!!!!

BABY: ARGH! WAH!!!!

ME: Sorry baby, I wasn't yelling at you.

BABY: Wah!

THREE-YEAR-OLD: I want to see Mickey Mouse RIGHT NOW!

ME: (over sounds of baby's wailing) Oh, Lord.

(Suddenly, a voice from the Lightning McQueen toddler bed).

TWO-YEAR-OLD: Mommy?

ME: NOOOOOOO!

TWO-YEAR-OLD: I love airplanes!

Cut to 5am, by which time husband and I have banished the baby to the pack-and-play in the living room and convinced both boys to return to sleep with promises of trips to Disneyland and/or the airplane museum.

We stagger back to bed, grumble in each other's general direction and attempt to grab another hour of sleep before the day begins at 6:30am. 

And you know what we DON'T DO???? 

A whole lot of cherishing. 

Or any cherishing at all, to be honest.