Today is sunny and clear. My son is happy. My husband is hot. I'm going to spend my lunchtime decorating cookies with a bunch of three-year-old artists. What's not to love about Valentine's Day?
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Why Valentine's Day is not just about romantic love
Today is sunny and clear. My son is happy. My husband is hot. I'm going to spend my lunchtime decorating cookies with a bunch of three-year-old artists. What's not to love about Valentine's Day?
Monday, February 12, 2007
Don't look in my bottom
Shawn Joaquin has become, as we who hate to love Ron Burgundy like to say, locked in a glass case of emotion. He's like a really short, very drunk little man whose wife just left him. He vacillates between utter joy and destructive despondency, testing out his new freedom and then being utterly crushed to find it's not as great as he thought it would be.
"I WANNA WALK UP BY MYSELF! NO HELPING!
[pause]
"HELP ME NOW! HELP ME NOOOOOWWWWW!"
This morning I got into bed with him and as he told me about last night's Hole in the Wall dream, he suddenly stopped and demanded I rub his back. This is code for I WANT ALL OF YOUR ATTENTION AND DON'T EVEN LOOK UP AT THE MONKEY ON THE BOOKSHELF OR I WILL BITE YOU. I OWN YOUR ASS. I began to rub his back while he told me about how the cow talked just like Grandad. About the skunk that was hiding in the tree and I found him. How the childrens [sic] that were playing in the carts again. And suddenly, mid-story, my touch was no more wanted than a syphilitic hooker's touch is desired by a sober man.
"NOT THAT WAY! THAT'S NOT THE WAY TO TOUCH ME! DON'T LOOK IN MY BOTTOM!"
These are the moments you're sure that CPS will come crashing in through the window, dropped in on rope ladders by a hovering helicopter — the neighbors have alerted them to not only the screams but the very clear LANGUAGE CHOICES that show CLEAR ABUSE. It's all I can do not to clamp my hand over his mouth and duck behind the furniture. This "look in my bottom" thing first appeared in a very quiet waiting room, where a long forgotten rectal temperature check was suddenly construed and clearly, loudly proclaimed as "remember when you looked in my bottom and gave me an ouchie and stuck that thing in me? I didn't like that very much." Why can't I have one of those kids who just comment on other people's fat guts or moles or bad breath? You can just look chagrined and move on, knowing you'll never have to see them or their fat gut again. But NO, I am "outted" in a medical waiting room where IT'S THEIR JOB TO REPORT THESE THINGS.
Later he told the doctor that he didn't like it when SHE looked in his bottom (as she listened to his heart), and the fact that she laughed and said "I hear ya, kid" led me to believe that perhaps my child was not the first to say something like this, and CPS would not be heading over to meet us at the exit door. I relaxed and did my best to enjoy the next five minutes of yelling, "Don't touch that! THAT'S NOT WHAT YOU SHOULD DO!!!" since it was directed at someone other than me for once.
By the time we hit the elevator, I was so chillaxed I had forgotten about the whole incident. Until he asked to be picked up, grabbed my face, and said in a loud voice that carried the full three feet to the man standing next to us: "Mom, you're not supposed to touch my bottom. That's MY area."
Here we go again.
"I WANNA WALK UP BY MYSELF! NO HELPING!
[pause]
"HELP ME NOW! HELP ME NOOOOOWWWWW!"
This morning I got into bed with him and as he told me about last night's Hole in the Wall dream, he suddenly stopped and demanded I rub his back. This is code for I WANT ALL OF YOUR ATTENTION AND DON'T EVEN LOOK UP AT THE MONKEY ON THE BOOKSHELF OR I WILL BITE YOU. I OWN YOUR ASS. I began to rub his back while he told me about how the cow talked just like Grandad. About the skunk that was hiding in the tree and I found him. How the childrens [sic] that were playing in the carts again. And suddenly, mid-story, my touch was no more wanted than a syphilitic hooker's touch is desired by a sober man.
"NOT THAT WAY! THAT'S NOT THE WAY TO TOUCH ME! DON'T LOOK IN MY BOTTOM!"
These are the moments you're sure that CPS will come crashing in through the window, dropped in on rope ladders by a hovering helicopter — the neighbors have alerted them to not only the screams but the very clear LANGUAGE CHOICES that show CLEAR ABUSE. It's all I can do not to clamp my hand over his mouth and duck behind the furniture. This "look in my bottom" thing first appeared in a very quiet waiting room, where a long forgotten rectal temperature check was suddenly construed and clearly, loudly proclaimed as "remember when you looked in my bottom and gave me an ouchie and stuck that thing in me? I didn't like that very much." Why can't I have one of those kids who just comment on other people's fat guts or moles or bad breath? You can just look chagrined and move on, knowing you'll never have to see them or their fat gut again. But NO, I am "outted" in a medical waiting room where IT'S THEIR JOB TO REPORT THESE THINGS.
Later he told the doctor that he didn't like it when SHE looked in his bottom (as she listened to his heart), and the fact that she laughed and said "I hear ya, kid" led me to believe that perhaps my child was not the first to say something like this, and CPS would not be heading over to meet us at the exit door. I relaxed and did my best to enjoy the next five minutes of yelling, "Don't touch that! THAT'S NOT WHAT YOU SHOULD DO!!!" since it was directed at someone other than me for once.
By the time we hit the elevator, I was so chillaxed I had forgotten about the whole incident. Until he asked to be picked up, grabbed my face, and said in a loud voice that carried the full three feet to the man standing next to us: "Mom, you're not supposed to touch my bottom. That's MY area."
Here we go again.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Keep the crazy to yourself
Yesterday I met a friend for coffee, someone I've known for years. He knew me when - when I was not a mom, when I showed up for the White Trash Bowling Bash in my cut offs and white t-shirt and black bra (with a pack of never-to-be-smoked Kools in the strap), when I had a staff of 14 in an agency of 70 and was being paged every 10 minutes throughout the day, when my biggest responsibility outside of work was feeding and walking my pets, when I had no bedtime on weekend night's because I had no early morning baby monitor wake-up call, and he was even there the night I danced on the bar at my Studio 54-themed party in platform shoes and a satin tube top. I worked very hard at my job, spent 60 hours a week obsessing about it and the rest of my waking hours escaping from it by snowboarding, doing yoga, hiking, shopping, exploring, painting, writing, gardening and seeing movies in Really Big Theaters, all alone in the dark and loving every minute of it.
He too was fairly free, in a long-term relationship but professionally untethered, trying to determine his future and not sure what it would hold or what he'd like it to hold.
We've both moved past those days of amorphous futures and into the arms of our respective spouses, and children are now part of the picture for both of us. I have my son, and he and his wife are expecting their first child in April. And we're supposedly Grown Up.
I was thrilled to get out of the house and talk face-to-face with another Grown Up. I spend so much of my day, and often days on end, in my darkened office at home. My only in-person conversations are with a 3-year old and an English-as-a-second-language babysitter (who the hell am I kidding - we have a nanny; liberal guilt precludes me from using that term) and my crazy dog, who has grown weary of my monologues. My husband is not an early-morning talker, and by the time he gets home at night he's often fresh out of words. So here was my chance - someone who I knew I could make laugh, who made me laugh, and with whom I now shared these Very Grown Up Assets - spouse, real job and children.
I was a blathering idiot.
My enthusiasm over live conversation led me down many wayward paths, including complaining about a mom at our school, racism, the best parenting magazine, my son's dreams, which bouncy seat is the best and the bashing of cities in which my friend might work or live in the near future. This is not what I came here to talk about. This is not what he came here to talk about it. I realized I was out of control, and had visions of my bipolar sister in her manic moments and thought AH, THAT'S WHAT IT FEELS LIKE.
Maybe it was the coffee. Maybe it was the sugary lemon bar. But I'm pretty sure it's too much time spent alone. As I drove home, I vowed to get more often and ensure that my craziness only comes out in little bits, preferably with strangers, rather than in a cannon blast with people I hope to see again.
I'm off to share the crazy now with the people at Peet's. Wish me luck.
He too was fairly free, in a long-term relationship but professionally untethered, trying to determine his future and not sure what it would hold or what he'd like it to hold.
We've both moved past those days of amorphous futures and into the arms of our respective spouses, and children are now part of the picture for both of us. I have my son, and he and his wife are expecting their first child in April. And we're supposedly Grown Up.
I was thrilled to get out of the house and talk face-to-face with another Grown Up. I spend so much of my day, and often days on end, in my darkened office at home. My only in-person conversations are with a 3-year old and an English-as-a-second-language babysitter (who the hell am I kidding - we have a nanny; liberal guilt precludes me from using that term) and my crazy dog, who has grown weary of my monologues. My husband is not an early-morning talker, and by the time he gets home at night he's often fresh out of words. So here was my chance - someone who I knew I could make laugh, who made me laugh, and with whom I now shared these Very Grown Up Assets - spouse, real job and children.
I was a blathering idiot.
My enthusiasm over live conversation led me down many wayward paths, including complaining about a mom at our school, racism, the best parenting magazine, my son's dreams, which bouncy seat is the best and the bashing of cities in which my friend might work or live in the near future. This is not what I came here to talk about. This is not what he came here to talk about it. I realized I was out of control, and had visions of my bipolar sister in her manic moments and thought AH, THAT'S WHAT IT FEELS LIKE.
Maybe it was the coffee. Maybe it was the sugary lemon bar. But I'm pretty sure it's too much time spent alone. As I drove home, I vowed to get more often and ensure that my craziness only comes out in little bits, preferably with strangers, rather than in a cannon blast with people I hope to see again.
I'm off to share the crazy now with the people at Peet's. Wish me luck.
Friday, February 9, 2007
Thursday, February 1, 2007
The baby is in the trash can
Shawn Joaquin has started telling me his dreams in the morning, and today told me that in his dream (which happened in The Hole in the Wall Above His Bed, where all his dreams take place) a clown was putting babies in trash cans for their mommies and daddies...or their two mommies...as he clarified...who would find them and be really happy to have their new baby. I wasn't sure whether to be proud of his Families Come In All Sizes perspective or to be horrified about the image of babies in trash cans, and wonder if he'd been reading some tabloid or surfing the net again.
In the end I decided to just roll with it, since this all came from a kid who also told me he likes Rachel Ray because she's very clean and shiny and always wants to know what a store sells and who buys it and where are the people and who turned the lights off. He's just a creative thinker. And an excellent partner for Who's On First.
I'm glad my son is a thinker and doesn't often have to be scraped off the ceiling. We spend more time talking about what the cat may be thinking about, where ghosts go when we can't see them, why people play tennis, if moose can really talk, whether Dumbo is a heffalump or an elephant, what owls eat, what an okapi says, if Kimberly will ever get to come to his house, what we're going to do next and where we've been. And every long monologue ends with a brief pause, and then "that was a great story, Mom. I'm going to tell it again."
And every time, I'm more than willing to listen.
In the end I decided to just roll with it, since this all came from a kid who also told me he likes Rachel Ray because she's very clean and shiny and always wants to know what a store sells and who buys it and where are the people and who turned the lights off. He's just a creative thinker. And an excellent partner for Who's On First.
I'm glad my son is a thinker and doesn't often have to be scraped off the ceiling. We spend more time talking about what the cat may be thinking about, where ghosts go when we can't see them, why people play tennis, if moose can really talk, whether Dumbo is a heffalump or an elephant, what owls eat, what an okapi says, if Kimberly will ever get to come to his house, what we're going to do next and where we've been. And every long monologue ends with a brief pause, and then "that was a great story, Mom. I'm going to tell it again."
And every time, I'm more than willing to listen.
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