The Autobutts don't cry over birthday cake

Junior turned five last week. It doesn't seem possible that five years have gone by and yet, poof, there you go.

Five years.

In the last few months the Thomas the Train decals have come down from his bedroom walls—"too babyish"—and the "big kid" toys have eeked their way into our lives. It's been challenging for me. I can build an elaborate train track for a Useful Engine. I cannot, however, transform Optimus Prime, the leader of the Autobots, from a truck into a robot in under 45 minutes.

 Even with the aid of the instructions—which are the size of a tablecloth.

Optimus Prime and his robot friends have met the Little People, though, so I guess they're here to stay.

I had wanted to write an eloquent post—a real ode to this child of mine who seems to outgrow a pair of shorts a day—but I find myself scrambling for the right words to express my feelings about Junior's fifth birthday. There's happiness, of course, that he's a bright, energetic and compassionate kid, but there's also wistfulness. How did it go by so quickly? Does he have to keep growing?

There's a little bit of frustration—for frick's sake he's five now, does he still have to whine?—and then there is appreciation. Now that Junior understands more and is more articulate, he feels more like a real person. There's actual dialogue. I appreciate his presence in a way that I didn't when he was a screaming, unreachable toddler.

Go figure.

There's curiosity. How will he handle kindergarten? There's anxiety. What if he's teased?

Yes, there's a bit of everything in this birthday.

I underlined a line in a book I'm reading, and I suppose it captures what I'm trying to say a lot more succinctly that I have. The book is Best Friends, Worst Enemies. When I grabbed it off the shelf I thought it was a book about siblings; it's actually about the social lives of children. The line is this:

"...a central paradox of parenting is that we securely attach with our children so that we can someday let them go."

Why didn't someone tell me this journey was going to be so damn bittersweet?

Happy birthday, Junior. You are loved.

5 ways motherhood has made me stealthlier. Alternate title: My brain now has tentacles

That was a bold declaration I made in my last post. You know, the one where I patted myself on the back and pronounced that I rock motherhood sometimes. It's true though, some days I do feel like I have a handle on things. I really, really do.

Then one of the kids will grow up a little more and change the rules a little bit and I'll look at him and think, Frick, this is uncharted territory. Now what?

It's like making it to the next level of a video game only to find that the magic torch and invisible cloak with which you'd defeated the wizard in the previous level are now worthless.

But I'm wiser for having children. Here are 5 ways how:

1. Reinforcing basic people skills ("Say you're sorry to Billy for taking his toy") has made me a better communicator.
Before having kids I would have sat back and enjoyed the fireworks of a good argument. Now, if someone is having a disagreement, I feel more confident helping them work it out. I've reasoned with this, after all:

2. Five years of explaining things to a child ("Trees produce oxygen, so we shouldn't cut them all down") has improved my professional career.
Before having kids I would have just written off a colleague as inept if she/he didn't understand a point I was making. Now, I know better how to put 1 + 2 together for him/her. Spelling things out makes everyone happy, especially bosses.

3. Trying to anticipate the irrational needs of a little person ("You wanted a blue one? But your favorite color is red!") has challenged me to prepare for anything and everything.
Before having kids I would have forgotten my own tampons. Now, instead of thinking in linear terms, the tentacles in my brain stretch to the far recesses. I pack supplies for everyone, even the cat. I trouble shoot for Scenario A, G, and Q. You'd be amazed at how often Q happens. 

4. Being continuously interrupted in the bathroom (Knock! Bang! "Mom, I need you now!") has made me a whiz at finding "me time" anywhere.
Before having kids I would have gone in, done my business, and gotten out. Now I sneak upstairs, lock the door, sit on the bath mat and read a few chapters from my favorite book or Real Simple magazine. If anyone were to call me out, a simple toilet flush would silence them (yes, two can play at that game, Chuck). 

5. Being under constant surveillance ("Mom, are you eating ice cream? Can I have some? Can I??") has made me adept at product placement.
Before having kids I would have shoved whatever I wanted into my mouth whenever I wanted to. Now, small beady eyes watch me like scavengers. I have to be better, faster, smarter. I'll put Oreos in the broccoli bag, chocolate bars in the soap dish. As long as you pass the first suspicious glance, you have a few minutes to actually taste the food on the way down. Although, it's amazing how much you can cram into your mouth while rummaging through the fridge for that darn apple juice.

Shoot, is it really 9:15? Arg. I just thought of another one: Being constantly robbed of my sleep ("Mom, I dropped my bear! I need to pee!) has made me a skittish sleeper. Dear God, they could be up at any hour for any issue.

Goodnight. Go to bed!

Please love socks forever, please love socks forever...

I keep a little pair of socks in a little bowl on my night stand. I keep them there because changing Everett's clothes or diaper is a major pain in my ass. He won't lie still. He thinks that flailing his arms and legs is a game. He likes to kick.

I've never mud wrestled or hog tied anything, but I imagine that this is what it's like. Reasoning with him doesn't work. Singing to him does nothing. He's impervious to "no" and "please stop."

So yes, socks.

This is what I do: I lie him down on the bed. As soon as he starts to squirm or flip over, I grab the socks and put them over his hands like mitts. As he laughs and tries to get them off, I quickly—and I mean quickly—slip on his clothes, take a shot of tequila, and/or praise the Heavens that this sock-on-hands game has worked again.

I know one day it won't.

I dread that day.

But let's not think about that right now. Let's think ahead to the day that Everett enrolls in puppet school so he can pursue his childhood dream of becoming a puppeteer. Guess what? I'm going to take full credit for birthing the next Jim Henson. I mean really, how great am I? Employing the age-old art of distraction and instilling in him a love of the arts.

We're seconds away from cotton ball eyes and pipe cleaner mouths! Seconds. 

Motherhood: we so rock this shit sometimes.

I don't want a hot dog. I want my baby back

Chuck's response to my last post—the one regarding his long-winded siiiiigggghs about the wobbly toilet seat—elicited this response:

"Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh."

Like I couldn't have seen that coming.

Just as I was about to torture him for a more concise response, my friend Rachel called, so I let him off the hook.

Rachel was a mess. Even more so than when she almost bought out Babies R Us. She had her first baby a few months ago, and she's kind of freaking out about it. To make matters worse, she's freaking out about the fact that she's freaking out.

When she called me, I told her what one of my wise friends had told me when I first had Junior: "Don't even try to get your shit together until, like, week 16. Just don't." (She also bought me "The Girlfriend's Guide to Surviving the First Year of Motherhood" which I highly recommend.)

It's true. You're a wad of hormones and responsibility. You feel guilty because you secretly wish the hospital would take your baby back so you can get some sleep and try to figure out what the fuck you did to your life.

You need some time to let the dust settle.

Poor Rachel—in the midst of all that settling dust, breast feeding and sleep deprivation—had taken her baby to a family picnic. Innocuous enough, yes, but she'd had a full-blown panic attack when her husband's aunt asked to hold the baby, then told Rachel to "go get a hot dog" and to "stop hovering."

"I didn't want a hot dog!" Rachel had sniveled. "I wanted to gauge her eyes out. I wanted my baby back."

Rachel's story hit a nerve with me because I had a similar experience with Chuck's mother at a party. Junior was three months old. We'd been nervous new parents, and so we hadn't taken him out much (i.e., ever). I knew Chuck's mom wanted to see Junior, but when I say that the woman was standing at the front door with her arms outstretched, I mean she didn't even give me a chance to get through the entryway before she grabbed him.

Then she planted herself on the couch and declared that she wasn't giving him back. Every time Chuck or I went over to retrieve him, she said no (!) and told us to relax/beat it/leave her alone. (It's true: I blogged about it.)

I ended up sitting outside on the stairs with Chuck's sister, who hugged me and told me it was okay to cry, even though I:

a) was the one taking Junior home with me and

b) had only been physically separated from him for about 30 minutes.

That conversation still strikes me as one of the kindest I've ever had. I sobbed snot on her shoulder for Pete's sake.

I told Rachel a lot of what Chuck's sister told me:

You just had a baby. That's a big deal. You love your baby. You want to hold your baby. There's nothing wrong with that. Maybe you don't want to share your baby. There's nothing wrong with that either. The person who is holding your baby will have to give him/her back eventually (I finally got Junior back from Chuck's mom when her bladder all but burst on the couch). If you don't feel up for sharing, set boundaries. Don't go out. Lock your door if you have to. Do what's right for you.

Most important, you shouldn't ever feel badly for putting your baby in the tub as soon as you get home because she reeks of your mother-in-law's/husband's aunt's rank perfume or because her forehead is covered in red lipstick/pieces of hot dog.

You didn't spend nine months caring for your belly to have it all effed up by Jean Nate and Oscar Mayer, right? 

Right.

I am woman, hear me flush

After my spider killing spree (hey, eight legs make it a spree), I got a serious case of woman-balls and decided to attack something that has been plaguing my family: the toilet seat.

Yes, our toilet seat has been a frightening place to perch these past few months. The things that hold the seat onto the toilet (they have a technical name, but that comes later) constantly come loose, and if you sit down on the seat and your butt cheeks are just a little askew, the seat slips and you fall off. (Yep, can't imagine why my mother and mother-in-law call our house a death trap.)

Even worse, every time I've asked Chuck to fix it, he's sighed like it was some major undertaking.

It was these heavy-winded sighs that have kept me from asking what the job actually entailed. He had me thinking there were multiple tools involved. A blow torch maybe? Surely spackle or lube. Perhaps a toilet troll whose favor we needed to win?

The sighs were so bad I even started apologizing before I asked him for his services.

"Honey, I hate to ask again but could you possibly—please?—fix the toilet again? My mother fell off and hit her head mid-stream. She's, um, covered in urine and crying. Pretty please?"

"Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh."

Then, yesterday morning, after Chuck went to work, Junior called to me from the bathroom to say that the seat was sliding around again.

I decided to take matters into my own hands.

"Stand aside, Junior."

I lifted up the white things behind the seat. I expected to find a labyrinth of gizmos and gadgets—or a mouse spinning on a wheel at least—but no, there were just...screws. Plain old screws.




I felt underneath the screws, just to make sure I wasn't missing something. A piece that needed to be soddered perhaps? A locker padlock? Something! There had to be something more than screws to make my handyman husband sigh so!

Nope.

Just two plain old screws.

I grabbed a....screwdriver.

Then I held the bottom of the screw while tightening the screw's head. I did this until the damn thing wouldn't move anymore.

Approximate duration of repair: 30 seconds. 

"Jump on," I told Junior. He did. "Now wiggle for me." He did that too.

The seat didn't budge.

The easy conclusion to draw here is that when we take matters into our own hands, it is quite liberating to discover we can reach a solution all by ourselves. QUITE. The not-so-easy conclusions have been running through my mind like a broken record for the last two days:

"That's it? Why the sighs? That's it? Just screws? That's it? Why the sighs? That's it? Just screws?"

Chuck, I'm calling you out on this blog. You have one day to respond. Ok, two, since tomorrow's a holiday.

(Happy 4th of July!)

Brrrrng, brrrrng. Is this the husband complaint hotline?

It's 11 on Friday night. I'm sitting here trying to format 600 pages of text. It's for a book I'm laying out for a freelance job, and it's tedious work.

So tedious I broke out the bubbly.

I deserve some bubbly. Chuck's been sick, and he's been an audible mess. Why must men moan so when they're sick? It reminds me of that old tree line, except my version—the haggard housewife version—goes something like this:

"If a man lies in bed with a cold and no one is around to hear it, does he continue to make horrible, suffering sounds?"

The answer: Yes, until someone, anyone, hears it.

To get the kids away from Moaning, Sniffling, Coughing Man, I spent the day sweltering in the heat while they cooled down in the waterslides at Stay and Play (if you live in Connecticut and you haven't been, you must go. Unlike other family establishments in Connecticut that rape you financially—The Dinosaur Place comes to mind—Stay and Play is a steal at $8. Could they have taken a cue from other family establishments in Connecticut that rape you financially—again, The Dinosaur Place comes to mind—and charged parents $1,000 more for access to the waterslides? Yes, but they didn't. I heart them).

So there's the set up. Me = burning the midnight oil. Kids = lucky as hell. Husband = still lying in bed groaning.  

Lada-tippity-type-ity-la.

And then, just minutes ago, along came a spider. A BIG spider. A big black spider with a shiny body and hairy legs. It ran right up my lamp shade and hid. I promptly did what any woman would do. I ran upstairs and demanded Chuck kill it. That's what husbands are supposed to do: kill bugs that crunch and ooze when you smush them. 

(If that's not in your marriage vows, it should be. Nothing enhances a wedding ceremony like the word "ooze".)

Chuck came downstairs—kicking and sniffling—and asked me where the spider was. When I pointed it out, he half-heartedly swatted at it. Looking back, I'd have to say that I've never seen such a pathetic display of spider hunting. Of course, the thing took off in a flurry of fur and legs.

"How can I work knowing it's still out there?" I cried. "It could jump out at me at any moment."

"It's dot hair. It's godn."

"What?"

"It's godn."

"Chuck, what language are you speaking?"

"I'm duffed up! I said it's GODN!"

"It's not gone. It's watching me!"

He promised me that the spider had run along home to its family in the basement. In fact, now that he thought about it, he saw it jump from my desk into the radiator and scurry away. Mmmhmmm.

"It's godn," he told me one last time, adding a coughing fit for emphasis. He slithered back upstairs.

I sat here, staring at my desk. I knew the spider would be back. I didn't buy Chuck's Hallmark tale, nor did I trust the observations of a man who has been swigging NyQuil for two days.

I was right. It came back. With a vengeance.

But surprise, surprise, I got it.



I smushed it and it oozed and crackled and I wanted to die, but I did it. Which leaves me with this: 

"If a woman kills a spider and no one is around to hear it, does she still make a sound?"

Damn straight. I think the neighbors called 9-1-1.

Head in the clouds

"Look!" I say to Junior. We are lying in the grass. Our feet are bare. Everett, the perpetual walker, is napping and it's just the two of us. We can be blissfully sedentary. I can't remember the last time I just laid in the grass and looked up. "That looks like a flying dragon. Or maybe a plane."

"Good one!" he says. "I totally see it! What else do you see?"

I don't know what tickles me more: the fact that my son is so encouraging about my cloud interpretations or that he pretends to see everything I see. Or, maybe it's that the last time I laid in the grass with a guy (a mere 15 years ago) and pointed out cloud shapes, he was only feigning interest because he was trying to get me into bed.

Whatever. It doesn't matter. None of that matters. All that matters is that summer is here and I am lying in the grass with Junior.

Ahhhhhhhh.