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My absurd mornings

You wake up at six to the sound of your daughter giggling in her sleep. Aw, you think, how sweet. You know you have another 45 minutes in bed if you want it, but you start thinking about your dad and photo editing and how the hell you're going to entertain your kids during Thanksgiving break (a full week). So you flop around until it really is time to get up.

You wonder if you can squeeze in a quick birthday call to your mom, but when your son trots down the hall while you're still wet-haired and be-robed, you realize the call will have to wait. He likes to sit on your bedroom floor and talk about the universe and planets and state capitals so you let him, vaguely enjoying his sense of wonder and insistence on factual accuracy.

After you've dressed, hurriedly slapped on some makeup, and blasted the hairdryer in the general vicinity of your head, you go downstairs and heat up food. Specifically, your son's usual breakfast of chicken nuggets and frozen waffles. When you realize you can no longer avoid the inevitable, you go into your daughter's room and wake her. She is no longer giggling. She's Very Annoyed at having been disturbed. You rouse her anyway and, though her legs dangle down to your knees when you lift her, you carry her to the living room and set her on the couch.

She sees her brother using her plastic fuse beads while he munches away on "breakfast" and begins to cry. She rails that the beads are hers and brand new and that she wanted to be the first to open the package. Nevermind that they've been sitting around the house for seven months since her March birthday.

You murmur condolences, but do not make your son put the beads away. Your daughter sobs and kicks when you try to comfort her. You move into the kitchen because you still have one breakfast and two lunches to assemble (not including your own, because once the children are up, your own is never included), whereupon she screams that you've left her alone in her misery.

Both kids begin to bicker. You let it go on for some time until you feel your blood pressure begin to spike. Then you snap at them.

Your son has serious energy from all the processed chicken and enriched wheat flour, and he begins his beat boxing, which sounds not so much like beat boxing as a series of tourettes-like ticks and shrieks. Your daughter has moved to the beads and begun setting up her own pattern, refusing to eat. You glance at the clock and realize you have twenty minutes until everyone has to load into the car.

Frantically, you throw pre-wrapped food into lunch boxes. You do show your son how to make his own corned beef and sprout sandwich (the only kind he will eat), and you're proud of yourself for sliding a teaching moment into the chaos.

Meanwhile, your daughter is still in pajamas and stubbornly working with fuse beads. You actually begin to feed her, thinking that if you can get protein into her body, some sort of logic will surface and she'll realize that 8:25 is not the time for arts and crafts.

Eventually, you're able to coax her into the living room where you've set a pair of pants and sweater. You know you're doing too much for her, but are not sure how to stop or how to get out of the house remotely on time without helping her along. You start to dress her as if she is two.

She hates the sweater you've picked out and demands you fetch an alternate. You refuse, because that is just. too. much. You tell her you're fine with her going to school topless if she so chooses, though she knows you're lying.

Your son who is still beatboxing, interrupts himself long enough to pretend to squeeze a spatula from between his butt cheeks. He does this three or four times in a row, laughing uproariously.

You brush your daughter's hair, finish filling lunch boxes and water bottles, and manage to make yourself a quick cup of coffee before shooing everyone out to the car. (But not before your son has pooped out a couple books and a pencil.)

At school, your son jumps out of the car and runs ahead. He's so OVER walking across the playground with you. Perhaps this is why you're basically okay with your daughter holding tight to your hand as you escort her to her class line where you wait with her until the bell rings. Somehow you've gotten into the habit of helping her empty her backpack and stuff her locker, things she did by herself the year before.

She would really prefer you accompany her to her desk and let her sit on your lap throughout the entire day, but you insist that it's time to go. She runs through her ritual of kissing both your cheeks, your forehead, your chin and the palms of your hands before she'll let you leave.

Finally, you watch her back and head of big hair retreat into the first grade room.

You breathe.

Fiends for love

Two days ago, the kids were bothering me so much that I quietly walked upstairs to my room, climbed into bed, and pulled the covers over my head. And now today. Today! I'm in love with them again. Just like that. Parenting is the weirdest.

Slate recently published an article contending that parents are, essentially, junkies. That we endure the horrific parts of parenting (whining, begging for candy, and refusal to engage in perfectly reasonable behavior like listening and sleeping) because of the small, euphoric hits of a child throwing his arms around us in a heartfelt hug. According to Slate, these random squeezes and words of love are like crystal meth to us suckers, otherwise known as moms and dads.

Eh. I'm not sure about that.

The rewards I get from Max and Claire are wonderful, sure. But one little, smooth hand in mine, as sweet as that is, doesn't necessarily make up for the fighting and screeching and demanding.

There's a much bigger picture. There's the satisfaction of raising two people who are decent more often than awful. Who are loving beings, who generally pick up their own trash, clear their own dishes, and pack their own backpacks in the morning. It's the knowing that you're getting there. That you've kept alive, potty trained, and fed kids who you are guiding toward being self-sufficient, hopefully productive and somewhat content adults.

Believe me, I have plenty of terrible parenting moments.

But I've gotta believe that, overall, this endeavor is going to be worth it long term. It's not just about the next high.

Field Tripping

Yesterday I chaperoned Max's class on a field trip. We went to Seattle Tilth. It was mildly interesting. The kids, like all kids, alternated between being annoying and adorable.

A few days before the field trip I was bitching in my mind about giving up an afternoon to go. And then I thought, Isn't this one of the reasons you're a stay-at-home mom? So you can be involved and attend field trips?

Yes. Yes, it is.

So, with a revamped attitude I drove four second graders halfway across town. They mostly screamed at each other. I just turned up Earth, Wind and Fire and tried to ignore the Boys Rule, Girls Drool shrieking from the back seat.

Today they sent me thank you notes, telling me how nice I was and how fun the field trip had been.

Conclusion: It was worth the sacrifice.

It starts in the night

It starts in the night, of course. It always does. The skewers in his eardrums, the roiling stomach. It goes into the next day, so much pain that he writhes and whimpers and sometimes even yells, not wanting you to inch away, even for a second.

He throws up in the car on the way to Walgreens and again at home. The acrid smell is everywhere.

You had the earaches too, as a kid. Every couple of months it seemed. You'd wake up and find blood on your pillowcase or just the grinding thud of pain in your head and down your throat. You'd stumble into your parents' room, where they'd let you crawl under their blankets. And you never felt more safe than when you were there, between them.

You never thought about how it was for them (and why would you?). The worry, the sympathy and, after several hours, the exasperation.

On this day, with your son hurting, you conjure images of the few visits you've made to Children's Hospital, for minor things like blood draws, and the seriously sick kids you saw. Families who have to deal with illness for weeks, months, sometimes years. With endings that are not always happy.

When you remember this, you feel lucky. But you're still a little heartbroken for your boy, a little stir crazy.

***

Your girl has been silenced most of the day, forced to submerge her healthy exuberance in order to accommodate her brother, who has not been able to take loud noises or shrill voices.

By evening, she is mostly naked (having stripped down out of sheer boredom) and is unable to stay quiet any longer. She lashes out, at first, frustrated, wanting some attention for herself. Then, after she's eaten, her rancor turns campy.

Her brother is sleeping, so she can perform. She prances, she talks nonstop, she tells knock knock jokes that, of course, make no sense. Look at me! Look at me! So you look. You try to give her all she didn't get earlier.

It's just been one of those days. One of those days when it's 70 degrees and brilliantly sunny in Seattle, but none of you can enjoy it. One of those days when you're locked in your bedroom with two small kids (save outings to the doctor and the drug store). One of those days when the TV is on constantly, the drone of PBS Kids. One of those days when you try to nurture the little people you brought into the world, because that is what you signed on for.

But one of those days where you'd settle for just a moment of normalcy, just a moment to think.

Do they make water wings for twenty-two-year-olds?

I don't know what it is about my kids and swimming lessons, but they refuse to partake.

Last year I signed Fruit Bat up for a Very Beginner's class at a private, clubby-type place, where we don't belong but were allowed to take lessons provided we paid a semi-reasonable fee.

All the lessons were taught by high school girls with bionic mammary glands and pimply boys wearing big ass sunglasses. Yeah, all the better to hide their leers, I suppose.

Anyway, Fruit Bat didn't know for breasts, all he knew was the pool was full of other kids and teachers he hadn't met and that, on first glance, it looked like a gaping blue hole teeming with squirmy, splashy arms and legs. He wasn't going to dip even one toe into the water.

Still, we dutifully trudged to the pool every day for two weeks. I was convinced that by the sheer force of my consistency and motivation that he would give in and immerse himself. But...nothin'.

If anything, it got worse as the end of the second week approached. He wouldn't even deign to come near the pool, much less get in. I tried every tack I could think of: gentle encouragement, bribery, lecturing that his father and I had paid hard-earned cash for those lessons and he was going to at least try, darn it. Still...nothin'.

Enter Summer '08, wherein J. and I decided we wouldn't even give him the option of lessons. We'd wait and let him realize that all his friends were learning to swim and leaving him in the proverbial shallow end and see if he didn't beg. 

We would, we decided, sign up his sister! It was time for Kitty Cat to start getting used to the water anyway and, with her gregarious personality and relatively adventurous outlook, she'd take to it like a (sea)star.

On Monday I took Kitty Cat to her first lesson. I was a little dismayed to find that her teachers were both boys. Delightful, patient boys, I was sure, but Kitty Cat likes her some girls. She likes girl's high voices and their clothes and makeup and, who knows, she may already be envious of their mammary action (Though I hope not, because 1. She's too young for that crap and 2. If she takes after me she'll be sorely disappointed if she puts too much hope in the lure of her rack--or lack thereof)

I kept my consternation to myself, however, and approached the first lesson with a sunny, optimistic attitude.

Kitty Cat and I plunked ourselves down at the edge of the pool. She inched her way in and, when the time came, humored the boy-teachers by letting them usher her away on little excursions toward the deeper end. She kicked and made a rocket ship of her hands when she was asked and did almost all of it with a big, ol' grin on her face.

And then something happened.

Toward the end of that first lesson, she returned from one of her small, escorted swims, her face as crumpled as a wadded Kleenex. I rushed to the edge of the pool like the MEDEVAC parent that I am and asked if she was okay. 

The weeping then began in earnest. There is something about a shivering, crying child (especially mine) that brings out the maternal in me. I let her get out of the pool, wrapped her in a towel and held her for a while, trying to convince her to share what had gone wrong.

She could only say that she "didn't really like the teachers".

Now, I didn't see every second of the lesson, but I can tell you with 99.99 percent certainty that nothing untoward happened. The boy-teachers seemed really sweet and good with kids and were totally surrounded by ogling parents.

But something spooked Kitty Cat and I can't figure out what. All week we've been going to the pool as planned but she will only sit on a chair under the low dark, Seattle clouds.

And to placate her, and find out if she'll participate at all before throwing our money away signing her up for another session, I've switched her to a class with a girl teacher for these last two days.

Update: Girl teacher did not sufficiently impress Kitty Cat this morning with her, er, girliness... Another day of Nothin'.

Girly girl

I meant to post this photo with yesterday's entry. Leopard-print pants and pink pumps. I'm positively giddy when Kitty Cat chooses to wear these.

The peculiarities of dressing children

I think my two kids believe themselves to be child stars deserving of mile long riders stipulating the precise presentation of their dinners across their little plastic plates, the music playing in the car and even the layout of the cushions across the back of the couch.

They are nothing if not particular. Especially Fruit Bat, who is at the selective age of 4. He wants a say in everything, including, of course, what duds he will and will not put on his body.

Here are the ensembles he refuses to acknowledge:

1. Shirts with buttons. No button-downs. No rugbys. No henlies. No buttons. Period.
2. New finery. Whatever I buy him, even if I purchased it already used, must sit in the dresser drawer for two months before it is deemed worthy of wear.
3. Black t-shirts with Spider Man emblazoned across the chest. Okay, this is my preference.
4. Layering! No sweaters. No sweatshirts. No long sleeved shirts under a t-shirt.
5. Shorts and short-sleeved shirts. Until he has warmed up to the idea. This usually occurs in late August, when he can reasonably sport shorts for about three weeks before we have to readjust to the concept of full-length.

Fruit Bat can at least often, though illogically, explain his preferences. Whereas Kitty Cat’s fashion predilections are, as far as I can tell, completely arbitrary:

1. No dresses. This pains me greatly seeing as how I’m a girly girl and want to parade her around in adorable little frocks. Alas, she won’t let me.
2. Similarly, no tights and no legwarmers (which she calls legwarms. No fair! Have you seen the Babylegs?)
3. No cuffing of her shirt sleeves.
4. No t-shirts with "Princess" or "High Maintenance" emblazoned across the chest. Okay, this is my preference.
5. No hair accoutrements. If I attempt to brush her curly locks back into a quick ponytail, she will whip the rubberband to the floor in disgust.

Oddly, neither of them is at all concerned with wearing clothes that match.

A morning of great suckage

This morning was a rough one. Getting Fruit Bat out the door and to preschool when he's not cooperating and not listening and is shrieking so loudly that my eardrums reverberate until they rupture, sucks. It sucks.

Soon he'll be five and it'll all be better. Right? Right?????

Stop snorting. I know.

Pacifier be gone!

Here I am again, sitting in Kitty Cat's darkened room. The only illumination is the glow from my laptop's screen.

She's decided, since we've been cutting the tip down, that her pacifier is no longer useful. But she has no idea how to comfort herself.

She sings a lot in her crib. Jingle Bells is a favorite. Unfortunately that doesn't go far in calming her.

Wait...is that even breathing I hear? A nose whistle, even? Hooray!

I took Fruit Bat and Kitty Cat to Snoqualmie Falls today. They did really well. It was fun. Here are two pictures.

Fruit bat on my back

My mood: grateful for my family, a little blue about my "career"

Best food I've eaten today: Trader Joes Cinnamon and Sugar Pita chips

Most annoying moment of the day (so far): Fruit Bat's quasi-meltdown after preschool (his second day this year) in which he screeched and generally addressed me with all the respect he would give a wood louse.

Not quite sure what to do about Fruit Bat's Fear of Being Alone. I literally cannot walk from one end of our house to the other without his frantically calling out, "Mom!! Where are you??" Soon on the heels of that is, "Come! Mom! Come!" So, I guess I'm not a wood louse, I'm a whippet.

God forbid I should, while accompanying him to the kitchen, duck into the laundry room to throw clothes in the washer. This results in another shriek so shrill I want to go bury myself in the backyard so I don't have to hear it. He's four-and-a-half and the only kid I know this age who won't spend a millsecond in a different room than me.