It's kind of cute how Junior told Chuck, "I had a meltdown at Chili's." Kind of

Tonight I called my good friend D&W (aka Lisa) and asked if she and her two kids (ages three and oneish) wanted to meet me and Junior for dinner.

“Where should we go?” we wondered. We agreed on Chili’s. “They’re so kid friendly!” we giggled. “We’re such moms!” we laughed.

God, we were so naïve. Rather, I was so naïve. Junior had been a little off all day. He’d slept late and wanted to curl up in front of Curious George instead of play. The babysitter said he did fine during the day, but after she left Junior was still off. He was having meltdowns over small things. I know that in toddlerdome—where the winds are bipolar and rational behavior is scarce—that doesn’t necessarily mean something is wrong, but I should have known.

Dinner was ok, except for a toothy waitress who tried to push the chocolate milk even though Lisa said, “WHITE milk, please. WHITE.” We laughed about Hal the talking pickle, or whatever the hell he was, on the kid’s menu. We said, “Please sit down the right way” to our children ten thousand times. We actually managed five minutes of adult conversation.

We made it.

Then, the bathroom. If I could go back in time, I would run to the car with Junior instead of heading into The Bowels of Chaos.

Junior started to unravel at the bathroom entrances. He didn’t want to go into the women’s room; he wanted to go into the men’s. He wanted to go the bathroom before me. He didn’t want to go at all. He had to go. He didn’t.

After three Sprites, I did have to go. I really fricken did.

Now, while Junior and I were in the stall debating the line-up for emptying our bladders, another mom walked in with her two toddlers. She took the stall between Lisa and me. She was not a happy mom.

“Hands off the seat! Hands out of your mouth! Sit down! Stand up! You lousy kid! Get down! You’re crap!”

When I emerged from the stall with Junior, Lisa clapped her hand over her mouth and said, “Jesus, I knew that wasn’t you in there, but for a minute I was about to say, ‘Mrs. Mullet, take it easy’.”

Then the woman came out.

“Bathroom time sucks!” she growled.

And then we all saw it: the toddler stool.



Waiting for little feet to climb aboard so little hands could wash their own, well, hands. Lisa’s daughter climbed up. Junior was next. The woman told her kids they were after Junior. Grunting noises like those of restless, herded cattle came from behind me. We were three women watching Lisa’s daughter push the soap dispenser. Slooooowly. Carefully. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Everyone wanted the stool.

Dear God, why was there only one stool?

Then it was Junior’s turn. He climbed up. And then…

…He wanted to wash his hands. He didn’t. He did. He didn’t. He did HE DID HE DID WANT TO WASH HIS HANDS! No he didn’t! He DID NOT WANT TO WASH HIS HANDS.

The woman pushed her kids closer.

“Junior,” I said calmly, “if you’re not going to wash your hands, it’s time for someone else’s turn.”

He wanted to wash his hands. He didn’t. He did. He didn’t. He did HE DID HE DID WANT TO WASH HIS HANDS! No he didn’t! He DID NOT WANT TO WASH HIS HANDS.

More grunting and stampeding.

I picked him up. “We have to go, sweetie.”

That’s when it all went to shit. As I carried Junior out of Chili’s, he screamed, “I want to wash my hands! I want to wash my hands! I want to wash my hands!”

I kept my eyes on Lisa, my guiding light. People turned and stared. Pointed and whispered. I smiled so tightly my lips cracked.

We made it to the car, but it only got worse. Junior did want to say goodbye to Lisa’s kids; then he didn’t. I tried to hug him and calm him down but he was inconsolable. He was screaming, crying and flailing. I was actually scared.

“I want to wash my hands!" he cried. "I want to wash my hands! I want to wash my hands!”

Of course the young, childless couple in the car next to me chose to leave then as well. As they pulled out they shook their heads in that Aren’t you glad we haven’t procreated like these stupid assholes? kind of way.

Funny thing is, I used to think that way too when I saw kids having meltdowns. I used to think, Kids? Never! Now I love it so much I’m having another.

Junior and I finally made it home, and he finally calmed down. I gave him a bath and obsessively texted Lisa: “Is this normal? Have your kids done this? Are you sure this is normal?”

See, until today, Junior hasn’t really had a terrible meltdown. He’s almost three; I thought I was out of the woods. I thought I was a fabulous mother who could smugly—and privately—say, “My kid doesn’t do that.” Even better, I thought that if Junior ever did have a meltdown in public I’d look around and laugh and say, “Ha! You’ve all been where I’ve been. Now it’s my turn! You actually owe me!”

Ha is right. This mother thing? Humbling. In that bring-you-to-your-knees kind of way.

I'm so grateful for Lisa, probably more than she realizes. I'm grateful that Junior is sleeping peacefully. I'm also grateful because tomorrow is a new day, and I have one more parenting experience under my belt.

I'm going to need it. In a household full of boys.

As usual, things started off well in Mulletville. Then I heard the word vagina used as a verb

On Friday, I went for another ultrasound. Because of my “advanced maternal age” (35 years and 6 months, thank you very much), I had to go to a specialist in Mulletville.

Things started off on the right foot. They had a walker and a chilled Ensure waiting for me. Then the doctor opened the door. She was dressed in platform shoes and a Go-Go dress, like this



“Hi, sweetie!” she said.

I looked around. Surely she could not be talking to me. One cannot be dubbed “advanced” and referred to as “sweetie.” The terms are diametrically opposed. Kind of like “happy” and “Mulletville” are.

She ushered me into the exam room. Then she roller-derbied the shit out of my stomach.

“This kid is stubborn!” she shouted. “It won’t move!” She plugged in the audio. “Oh, good. We have a heartbeat.”

Nothing like shooting a lightening bolt of fear into a women who’s had a miscarriage. I started to hate her.

She called for reinforcements—I thought to help navigate the machine but instead she wanted to bitch about her job. “Where’d Dr. X go this afternoon? Golfing?” she growled to Nurse A. “And when do we get paid? I don’t know if I can make it on this salary—”

“—Excuse me,” I mumbled. “Could you pay attention? You’re rolling over my breast, not my stomach.”

“Sorry, honey!”

Before I tell you what happened next, I need to tell you a quick side story. When I was in high school, there was a boy whose last name was Vaginitis or Vagisnuffleupagus—something awful like that—so his friends gave him the nickname “Vag.”

Nothing beat hearing “Yo, Vag! VAG!” as you made your way to class. Ironically, his social standing actually increased, perhaps because people assumed that someone nicknamed Vag was getting laid a lot. Some days I actually envied his nickname. People thought I was Amish. Being called Vag might have been good for me, too.

Or maybe not. Maybe they would have assumed I had elephantiasis of the labia.

Anyway, after turning my stomach black and blue without achieving the results she was looking for, the doctor wiped her brow and said, “Hike up your skirt, hon. I’m going to have to vag you.” (As in vaginal ultrasound me. For any of Chuck’s male friends who might be reading this, I’m sorry if you just threw up your lunch.)

And of course, after I thought, “Ewwww. Vag me?”, I thought of good ole Vag. I wondered where he was. How he was doing. I thought about how he’s my friend on Facebook, and I wondered if he’d appreciate a message:

“Funniest thing, Vag! I know we haven’t spoken in 16 years, but I was lying in the Mulletville OB-GYN and the Go-Go doctor turned to me and said...”

Heh. Facebook.

After a grueling internal ultrasound (during which the doctor invited someone else in— I’d forgotten how pregnancy shreds you of any decency), she finally got the picture she was looking for. She told me, based on her preliminary findings, that she wasn’t going to red flag my child as being a four-headed, half-gecko, half-orangutan Frankenstein baby. She wouldn’t tell me everything looked good, just that she wasn’t going to red flag it.

At that point I was ready to whack her over the head with the vag wand. Then she said, “Do you want to know the sex?”

My heart skipped a beat. I started to sweat. My dentures clacked with excitement. “Yes!”

“It’s a...”

Oops, gotta run. Vag just emailed me back. He finally wants to sign my yearbook!

Why, yes. I do reek. And I'll gladly tell you more about it

I chickened out on Monday. I canceled my meeting to tell my boss about my bun. Chuck and my friends assured me I didn’t look pregnant yet—just fat—so I figured I’d wait a little longer. Then, Wednesday, Chuck said, “Wow, you’re really showing.”

“Which is it? Am I fat or pregnant?” I barked.

“Pregnant.”

So in I went this morning to tell her.

She took the news well, much better than I’d anticipated. I finally could let my bump hang free and stop walking backwards. I was about to jump on the chair and sing "The hills are alive" when she asked the question I’ve been hearing a lot lately: “Was this planned?”

Ex-fricken-scuse me?

The question stops me every time. Was this what? You want to know whether Chuck and I knowingly boinked with or without using protection? Why?

It’s this pregnancy’s question du jour—and people aren’t subtle about asking. My cousin’s congratulatory email actually went like this: “Yipee! I’m assuming this was planned?”

Assume away, bitch.

I mean, really.

I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out the motives of these nosy people. Maybe they see life as one big Lifetime movie? Maybe if I say, “No, the baby wasn’t planned,” they enjoy imagining that Chuck and I were in the throes of passion and that Chuck suddenly screamed, “Dear God, no! Your Nuva Ring just bounced off the chandelier! What will we do if we have to bring another child into this stable, loving home? How could this have happened to us, a happily married monogamous couple?”

Then they imagine Chuck being really mean to me while I bake pies at a dusty old diner and mac on my married gynecologist.

Oh wait, that was Waitress.

I was about to dedicate more time tonight to my psychological investigation (there’s nothing on TV and what else is there to do in Mulletville on a humid Thursday night) but a foul, rancid smell has been distracting me. A rodent—or one of Chuck’s shoes—has died behind an upstairs wall. No matter what I spray or what ridiculous contraption I plug into the wall to spread its flowery, morning fresh douchy goodness, the smell won’t go away.

It's downright foul.

But. I’d rather have people sniff me and ask why I smell like decomposing mouse than the Dreaded Question. That’s how much I hate it.

What about you? What pregnancy question do you/did you hate with a passion? If you don't have children, what question do you hate, in general?

Personally, I can't get enough of dads: hot dads, short dads, skinny dads, geeky dads. You name it. Mmm, mmm, mmm, how I love me some dads

When I was nine and my brother Ted was two, my parents divorced. I stayed with my father; my brother went with my mother. It was a tremendously sad period in my life (don’t worry, Ted, I won’t tell the commuter parking lot stories), but I learned a lot about my father during the years that I lived with him.

I learned that fathers cry, too. I learned that when I was sick, my father could play nurse just as well as my mother. He’d stay home from work and concoct silly citrus drinks. He understood how to apply a cold compress. He let me watch Three’s Company and Love Boat.

In those years, I learned I could trust my father to take care of me.

Junior’s learning the same lesson about his own father, thankfully under different circumstances. With Chuck home full-time, Junior knows that Chuck can remove slivers and make popsicles and comfort him when he’s having a bad day. Chuck's gotten so adept at parenting, we often have wipe-downs. Junior still prefers barfing on me, but when I look back on this time in my life, I know I will hold dear the trust and bond that have grown between them.

I thought about this a lot on Father’s Day. I thought about what a beautiful gift fathers can be. I’m sorry for those who were taken away from us too soon. And I’m sorry for those who choose not to be part of their children’s lives.

I’m also sorry for the recent article “Are Fathers Necessary?” by Pamela Paul. It’s an insult to fathers everywhere, especially the line “The bad news for Dad is that despite common perception, there’s nothing objectively essential about his contribution.”

I beg to differ. Bitch.

The banana blow-out

So, Chuck and I had a lovely anniversary dinner at Mohegan Sun's Tuscany. Even with my limited cooking ability I could have made a better fettuccine with bacon and green peas (salt shaker, anyone?), and the waitress forgot about us for an hour, but that's neither here nor there. I was dining with my amour.

Aw.

And he sat through the whole dinner and didn't need crayons or juice with a straw and he didn't want to sit on my lap and stick his fingers in my food!

There was a banana foster thingamabob on the dessert menu, but Chuck told me he doesn't actually like bananas.

That kind of soured the edible banana negligee I had waiting at home (next post: how to make lingerie with fruit. You heard it here first!).

I guess there's always next year. The traditional gift is wood. Wooden underwear? A wooden trapeze? The possibilities are endless.

One of the best parts of the night was that I could let me bump hang free. I suck it in all day at work and cover it up with jean jackets and large purses (I've also been walking like a hunchback), so it felt nice to let it flap in the wind. Seriously, I felt like a freak with an extra appendage who was finally able to dangle it in public, without my co-workers pointing and exclaiming, "She's pregnant again?!"

I'm telling my boss on Monday.

Gulp.

Happy weekend.

I have high hopes for tonight's banana extravaganza

Happy Anniversary, Chuck. Four years ago tomorrow you made an honest woman out of me, which was no easy feat.



Last year, we celebrated our love with leather—mmm, leather—this year it's supposed to be fruit or flowers.

I don't know who's making these official lists, but if I want to commemorate my love for you with bananas and Shasta Daisies, by hell I'm going to do it.

I'm looking forward to our evening out tonight (no, not at Squirt's). I hope I don't throw up during dinner and that I can stay up past 8:30 p.m. I know you do, too. After all these years together, it's nice to know that even if I do puke and pass out, you'll be there for me.

Just like on our first date.

Thanks for being the kind, patient man you are. Thanks for being such a great father. Thanks, too, for helping out more around the house. That day you vacuumed without me asking you to was, like, one of the highlights of my life.

Seriously, I made it my Facebook status.

I know you're still kind of bummed that I haven't legally changed my name, but until people stop saying "Are you serious? That's really your last name?" to you, I'm going to have my reservations. Still, I'm wavering.

(Before I was just pretending to.)

Here's hoping for many more years together.

I love you.

Why can't you pick your own seats at weddings?

Remember my dickhead brother-in-law and how he tried to pimp Chuck out? Well, we saw him again last night at a family wedding. This time he told Chuck that Junior probably likes Caillou so much because Chuck looks like Caillou.

I'm not even going to justify that with a side-by-side photo comparison.

Ok, fine, I will justify it with pictures. Here's Caillou:



Here's Chuck last Halloween:



See?

Then Larry asked my brother, Ted, if he and Chuck were gay lovers—because they took a picture together with the disposable table camera.

This all transpired before the best man's speech.

My brother retaliated by doing shots of tequila and dragging me and Chuck outside to talk about the best way to jump Larry.

"He's old," Chuck said, "so you'd have to punch low."

"We're at a wedding," I said.

"He said your husband looked like a pre-pubescent, hairless freak," Ted said. Actually, it came out more like, "He shled your hushband looked like a pre-plescent, hairless fleak."

He'd had a lot of tequila.

In the end, no one beat up Larry. Instead, my brother came to the drunken conclusion that I should tell Larry I was with child. If I were to play an inebriated game of connect-the-dots, I guessed my pregnancy would prove that a) Chuck was so un-Caillouish that he'd knocked me up and that b) since Chuck was boffing me, clearly he and Ted were not gay.

I think? Why couldn't I just eat my steak and potatoes in peace?

I told Ted no, I wasn't ready to tell the entire family about my bun. But I'll bet you can see where this is going. On the way out, Ted did the equivalent of pull down my shorts in front of the high school gymnasium. He went up to Larry and slurred, "My shister's pregnant. Shle's having another baby."

He waited.

Then Larry said, "I know. Your sister's a lush, Ted. She hasn't had a drink all night. I've known all night."

Punch low, is that about right, Chuck?