What Child is This?

We just returned from our annual pilgrimage to the east coast for Christmas with my family. I was going to complain about the flight from San Francisco to Newark and back with 2 children, 2 car seats and 150 diapers shoved into their own suitcase (in case we got stranded), but there's no story there. The kids behaved as well as a talkative 3 year old and constantly mobile 1 year could have, given they were relegated to a 4 x 2 ft space for 6 hours.

Though the journey sucked, once there, all nightmarish travel memories vanished. There are 2 things I look forward to the most each Christmas season. First is the continuous playing of 'What Child is This'. It evokes such emotion in me, not for the message, but purely for the gorgeous, dramatic music. Second is the children's service at my Uncle's church on Christmas Eve. I'm not a church goer, nor am I particularly religious, but for some reason the singing of Christmas carols off tune with the rest of the masses, the cool bell choir, and the dimming of the lights to sing Silent Night really get me. I was excited to go and I took Charlie with me. I wasn't sure how he was going to behave, but I figured it was the children's service so how bad could it be?

After my mother spent the entire 30 minute car ride talking up the bell choir, we arrived 5 minutes late, just in time to miss it. Charlie spent our first few moments in church asking in a very un-churchlike voice, 'Where are the bells? Why isn't anyone playing the bells?' I think he felt he had been duped. This was not what his Yia Yia (my mom) had promised him. During the choirs rendition of 'What Child is This', he became suspicious that no one else was singing, 'Why aren't we singing? Why are only those people up there singing? Why are they holding books?'

I didn't want to ignore his questions, so I whispered answers to him and calmly asked him to follow suit. Clearly he thought he was somewhere other than church and we were trying to hide it from him. The situation escalated, as did his decibel level, 'Is this church? Are we in church now? I'm being serious with you, Mommy, is this church?'

His concern of a cover up was further fueled as they turned off most of the lights in the church to sing Silent Night. 'Who turned off the lights? Where's the light switch? Did they lose power? Where will the utility repair truck have to go to fix the lights? How will they be able to see if there's no lights?' I'm not sure if when the entire congregation turned around it was to see the face that belonged to the voice or the parent responsible for it? Fortunately, most people looked amused. That quickly changed while in the midst of the minister's sermon, Charlie asked in his loudest voice yet, 'Is it over yet? Can we go? When will she be done?' The minister looked like she could easily switch teams and do the devil's bidding with her piercing glare. I thought only I could look at my son like that.

Fortunately, the service was about over as the bell choir wrapped things up with 'Hark the Herald Angels Sing'. It was fantastic and Charlie was completely mesmerized. I think he actually believed for the first time that he was at church. The bell people (not sure what you call them) were concentrating quite hard as they read their music and rang their bells. Charlie felt the need to ask a couple of more pertinent questions before his departure, 'How come they're not smiling? Are they not happy at church?'

As we headed out, at the end of the aisle the minister and choral director were waiting, greeting people and thanking them. They both knew exactly who we were as I tried to avoid direct eye contact. The choral director was quite pleasant and remarked how many bright and well thought out questions Charlie asked for his age. The minister stared at me and with a tight smile, muttered, 'Merry Christmas'. Charlie smiled right back and said, 'See you later, poo poo.' At the risk of being put on Santa's Naughty List, I whispered in his ear, 'Good job, buddy.'

Her Name Was Lola

Our friend Ray gave the boys a very large, and eerily lifelike, stuffed dog named Lola. Charlie and Gregory ride on Lola, drag her around the house on 'walks', they even put her under the table at dinner so she can eat the crumbs that fall on the floor. It's their real dog and no one can tell them otherwise.

Lola's first few nights with us, Charlie insisted she sleep in his room. He loved it and she served as a great monster protector. But by week's end, Charlie was waking up in the middle of the night, sneaking into my room to tell me Lola was making noises and could he come sleep in my bed. Then she was scaring him, and rightfully so, the dog has some beady eyes that are incredibly creepy and glow in the dark, like raccoon eyes.

When you have children, their imagination and playfulness are contagious. Lola's midnight scare sessions made me wonder why someone hadn't made a horror movie out of a kid's stuffed animal coming to life? Kind of like Chuckie meets the Blair Witch Project. Do it documentary style and have it star real kids getting the crap scared out of them. I'm sure it would be considered cruel and unusual punishment and would result in some jail time. Okay, not my greatest idea, but I'm a bit compulsive and could not let it go.

I started creating scenes in our very own home, with Brian as my star victim. One night he had a late work dinner, so I set Lola at the top of the stairs that lead from the garage into the house. I turned off all the lights except for one and when Brian opened the door, voila, Lola. All I heard was, "Jesus! Dammit, Lola." I laughed for a good 10 minutes. He was not amused.

The next evening, prior to going to bed, I put Lola in Brian's closet knowing he had an early morning meeting and would be out of the house before sunrise. 5:30 a.m. I awoke to a girlish scream. Brian, while bending down to grab his shiny black Bruno Magli's, was met with something else shiny and black. Lola's beady eyes. He got really mad and I was on a high for the rest of the day.

After 'making' this movie, I have a better understanding of Charlie and why he seems to be so jubilent when I'm being my worst, most emotional self. It's fun to evoke emotion and drama in others, especially when you have a front row seat. It's like a mini power trip or adrenaline rush. I can picture Charlie saying to Gregory, "Okay, let's wind her up and watch her go." Well, two can play that game. I'm thinking Charlie will be my next victim. I'll set up a bathtub scene for him and Lola, a kind of homage to Hitchcock. That should keep me going for a month.

Oakment Pogmitts

Charlie has a new game of sorts. It's called Oakment Pogmitts. It's taken me about a week of nagging him incessantly before figuring out how to say it; I took some creative license with the spelling. On my 5th or 6th attempt at trying to get the name right, What is it again, Oakman Pogman? Or is it Oakmitts Pogment? Charlie screamed at me, slowly and with his best enunciation for idiots voice, (as if I were mispronouncing dog or pen), "NO! It is Oak menTTT PoGGG mitSSSSSSSSS!"
The phrase was first mentioned a couple of weeks ago when I was trying to get Charlie down for his nap. He was making a lot of noise and doing his usual procrastination tactics, so I went into his room to tell him to quiet down. He was sitting in his bed, stacking these plastic inserts from the canopy of Gregory's infant car seat. He didn't even look up, he simply said, "I can't, Mommy. I'm preparing for a game of Oakment Pogmitts."
Even more reason to lay down and rest your body for the big game, Charlie. Now go to sleep! This same scenario played out for about another 30 minutes. He never took a nap and OP was not mentioned again, until the next day.
Charlie and I were on our regular Thursday afternoon Mommy-Charlie adventure, which can include anything from a trip to the car wash, the hardware or grocery store. This particular Thursday we were 'adventuring in the hay'. The hay is what Charlie calls the wetlands behind our local mall that have been set aside for hiking and bird watching. Lots of tall grass in which to play hide and go seek, chase birds, etc.
We started running down this trail and Charlie asks if I want to play Oakment Pogmitts? Eagerly I accept his offer and inquire about the rules. He explains that we have to keep running 'superman fast' down the dirt path and when we come to a rock, we have to 'crash over it'. That was it. I must admit, I got into it. Running like a mad woman, screaming Oakment Pogmitts at the top of my lungs was fun, more because I could say it properly, than out of excitement for the game itself.
A few days later I mentioned wanting to play OP again. Charlie said sure. I asked him to remind me of the rules. "Well first, you have to get a pillow. Then you kick it." Okay, what next? "No anything." What do you mean? "No anything. You kick the ball in the kah-kah and then you poopoo peepee it." (crazy maniacal laughter ensues).
Brian and I are obsessed with Oakment Pogmitts now. We wonder what could be happening in our child's brain that he came up with this name? We laugh about it non stop and try to work it into our everyday conversations. "Hey, wanna go into the bedroom and Oakment my Pogmitts?" That's the G-rated version, but you get the idea.
Tonight, Brian decided to broach the subject to see if he could get in on the game. Hey Charlie, can I play Oakment Pogmitts? Charlie sat there in silence, pretty much ignoring him. What is Oakment Pogmitts, he asked again, it sounds like a lot of fun? Charlie just glared at him and said, "I'm not talking." He was like a CIA operative about to be tortured, expressionless and unemotional as he let his captors know they'll never break him.

One Year and Still Here

Gregory turned 1 year old today. I feel I've learned a lot these past 12 months; some new things, and some old that I needed to be reminded of

1. Time flies, kind of. It could have been just yesterday that I was sleeping on the pull out sofa in Gregory's room, waking up with him 5-6 times a night. But that fog you're in for the first 3 months of your newborn's life does seem to last for years. And today, Charlie is in that 3 year old, all consuming, mind numbing phase that also feels like it's lasting for years. As our friend Ray reminded me, 'It is all just a phase and this too shall pass.' I bet when I wake up tomorrow they'll be stealing my zit cream and putting skull and cross bones 'Keep Out' signs on their bedroom doors.

2. No one is ever going to need me this much for the rest of my life. This scares me, it's a lot of pressure. As well as annoys me, leaving very little breathing room, which is why I complain/blog about it. But ultimately, it feeds my maternal ego. The satisfaction of being the only person who can soothe my baby's cry is empowering and definitely makes me feel like this is the most important thing I could be doing right now.

3. The greeting I get from my kids when I come home (even after only 1 hour) can wipe away any curve ball life has thrown at me that day. 'Mommy, we missed you!' is music to my ears.

4. What you give is commensurate with what you get back. Sometimes I get so caught up in how my kids are trying to steal my remaining youth or ruin my nap time, that I forget that they are re-teaching me some of life's most valuable lessons - patience, listening, love, humor and boundaries. My response to their every action is the lesson for both parent and child.

5. You never realize how easy 1 kid is until you have 2. Unfortunately, you can't ever know this until you've already crossed that bridge, then there's no going back. That being said, there is no greater joy than witnessing your children sharing a moment of laughter or tenderness.

6. That delicious baby smell is gone before you know it. So enjoy and get your snuffs in while you can.

7. One year old's do not care about presents, cake or lots of guests fawning over them at their birthday. Save yourself the hassle of having all of your friends, family, co workers, neighbors over for a party where you're running around like a crazed person the 2 weeks prior. Where your kid has a complete meltdown due to a missed nap and over stimulation, leaving all attendees, especially Mom and Dad, miserable, and stuck with hours of clean up on what should be a festive occasion.
My suggestion, take a few pictures of the kid with a party hat, a cake and some gifts; for posterity sake as well as for the grandparents. Then use the money you saved to hire a babysitter and go out with your significant other to rejoice in your survival.

I'm sure these sound like immature ruminations to parents with older children. Please let me go on thinking for this brief moment in time, how wise I've become in the tutelage of my 1 and 3 year old. I'll be sure to call you for advice when I have to install LoJack in my car and a condom dispenser in my bathroom.

Parison, Oh, Parison

A bunch of Charlie's buddies have developed imaginary friends. Kolby has DoTo, a little girl who comes to his house to play and sometimes live. She emerged not too long after he switched preschools earlier this fall. Sophia has Rae and Karla, 2 little girls who have become an integral part of her life since her best friend moved to South Carolina in April. Most of the newer research says that 'imaginary companions' can indicate social and cognitive awareness in children. It's totally normal and often a sign of creativity and high intelligence. That's all great news except once again, Charlie, in sticking with his 'I'm not going to follow the crowd' mentality, has decided to put his own spin on things. He has an imaginary grandmother and her name is Parison - no, we don't know where the name came from.

Unlike your typical imaginary friend, she never comes to the house, in the car or to the park, he always speaks about her in the past tense. For example, while discussing our Thanksgiving menu, Charlie chimed in, "My grandmother, Parison who lives in Corte Madera, used to give me mashed potatoes on crackers. I like them alot." Great, are you going to have some mashed potatoes on Thursday? "No. I'm going to eat my food, not yours."

From what we can gather, Parison is younger than me (let's call it 25). She's a girl, but on occasion becomes a boy. She lives in Corte Madera at '1-2'; that's it, that's her address. And whenever he discusses her, he always starts out, "My grandmother Parison, who lives in Corte Madera..."
We ask him tons of questions like how he met her, "I met her at tumbling class." Can we meet her, "Yes, of course you can, but not now." When he saw her last, "When she picked me up in her car." We've even asked if Parison is Teri, our babysitter, "No, she's not."

It seems like a lot of kids create their imaginary friends so they have someone to talk to, to blame for wrong doings, or as a coping mechanism (anxiety, fear, loneliness, etc.). I'm not sure what role Parison fulfills for Charlie because she's never actually there; meaning he doesn't interact with her or have conversations. He always refers to her in the past by way of some action or experience. "My grandmother Parison, who lives in Corte Madera, always gives me M&M's after I poop in her potty." It's nice to know he's pooping in someone's potty, cuz it sure ain't happening in ours.

On a drive to Sausalito this past weekend, Charlie mentioned that we were near where Parison lived. Brian went along with it, I think there was a small part of him that actually thought he was going to meet the ever elusive grandmother.
Where should I turn if I want to go to Parison's house? "Turn here, up this hill." We drove up a long hill that dead ended into a cul-de-sac. "Oh, you must have taken a wrong turn, Daddy." Is it this hill here, Charlie? "Yes, up here, go way up, this is where Parison lives." We drive around and around and he's giving Brian very specific directions, "Turn here, go down by that car, now go up that hill." We finally start heading toward our old house where we lived till Charlie was 15 months old. He still loves to drive by and say, "That's where we used to live, in the pink house." As we turn the corner Charlie screams at the top of his lungs, "That's it, that's where Parison lives." Well, whatta you know, she lives in our old pink house.

When we ask Charlie how many grandmother's he has, the answer is always the same, "I have 3. There's Nani (Brian's mom), Papa (Brian's dad), Yia Yia (my Mom), and Parison." Yes, I know that's 4, but as the research indicates, my child is highly creative and clearly that's affecting his counting abilities. We'll continue to report on Parison and how she emerges as a force in Charlie's life. As long as I don't hear, "My grandmother Parison, who lives in Corte Madera, decided to off my mommy so she could be my mother instead of my grandmother." I'm fine coexisting with her.

Clingy Whiny Little Beast

Remember when I said the 2nd time around mother's always baby their youngest, hoping to prolong that easy stage prior to toddler-hood. Well I'm officially done babying Gregory. He's annoying the shit out of me this week as he enters into that clingy toddler phase, what the books call separation anxiety. What does an 11 1/2 month old have to be anxious about? He doesn't have to cook, clean, pay bills, or worry about his belly, muffin topping over his jeans. Whatever it is, it's serious enough that if I even glance at the door he immediately starts crying. It was endearing and cute and made me feel wanted for the first couple of days. But now simply leaving the room to pee, get my shoes, make him a bottle, or to cook dinner, he crawls after me, wailing. Then he sits at my feet, still crying, pulling at my pant leg like a sad, lost, hungry puppy. Is it wrong to want to kick a puppy?

Fortunately, my mother in law arrived last week to spend some time with the kids, help out with all of the pre-Thanksgiving madness, and of course to give me a break. For those of you who don't know, I love my mother in law. Most people have MIL issues or horror stories of some kind. Amazingly, my journal and blog are void of this topic.

When Charlie was born I was in seriously bad shape, both physically and mentally - mourning the loss of my former independent life where I could come and go as I pleased; mourning the death of my father who passed away 10 days prior to Charlie's birth; mourning the loss of my body and perky boobs. My mother in law arrived at our house and asked, "What can I do?" How about you take the baby for a month while I jet off to Mexico to sit on a beach and drink margaritas till I bleed tequila. She said she would do anything but. Well, if you're going to be that unreasonable, then clean my bathroom! She promptly went out, bought herself some rubber gloves and scrubbed the hell out of my toilet, floor and shower. From that point on, I've never held back on telling her what I need her to do to make my life easier.

Her task this visit was to wake up with the kids so I could get a little rest and restore some of my sanity. She said, "Okay." I mean, it takes a special kind of relationship where you can tell someone (who is not your own mother) who has taken time off of work to come to CA for vacation that she's going to be waking up at the crack of ass every morning to care for 2 energetic, willful boys.

My hopes and dreams of sleeping in past 5:30 or going to the gym were dashed day 1. Gregory refused to go to her, or to anyone else for that matter. My mother in law got out of bed yesterday morning to change and feed him, it was 5:30. This boy who loves his bottle more than his own mother, refused to take it from his grandmother. He cried and cried till I dragged my bitter butt out of bed at 5:50.

Selfish, selfish, selfish children. Don't they know this is my chance; my chance to revive, to put that spring back in my step? They clearly do not have my best interest at heart. My husband gave me some unsolicited (read; unwanted) advice. "Before you know it, your kids aren't even going to want to talk to you, let alone be in the same room with you. You should enjoy this time." Gee honey, that's just what I need, a fresh dose of perspective. While I get the point, 7 years is a long fucking time to wait, especially with a whiny dog pulling at your pant leg, monitoring your every move.

Just a Bad Dream?

12:30, 1:47, 3:22, 4:01, 5:35, those are the exact times that Charlie woke me up last night. That's right, A - fucking - M. I know this because I wrote them down so I would remember it wasn't all a bad dream, that it was in fact my bad reality.
The first wake up he just said my name oh so softly next to my ear, "Mommy? Mommy? Mama. Mama." What, honey? "I want to sleep in your bed." It was kind of sweet but we have a rule, everyone stays in their own bed till the sun rises. Back to bed he went, with minimal protest.
The second wake up was a little more disconcerting. I'm not sure how long he stood beside my bed, staring at me, willing me awake. But I sensed something and rolled over to see these 2 beady eyes in the dark. It scared the crap out of me. I thought I was having an encounter with a raccoon - if you've ever been camping, you know what I mean, their eyes glow in the dark, like 2 shiny floating marbles. "I want to sleep in your bed", said with the whiniest, saddest voice ever. "I don't like my bed." Sorry, chief, not good enough. Back to bed, this time there were tears and drama. He was full blown crying, "Noooo, I want your bed." I was quite firm, there is no choice here, you sleep in your bed and when it's light, you can come see me. More crying and ridiculousness, but this is how negotiations with a 3 year old at 2 am transpire, no surprises, just annoyance.
The third wake up was down right creepy. I felt someone gently touching my hair; like that guy who sat behind me in 11th grade homeroom, who would instantly stare at the ceiling when I turned around, pretending he hadn't been groping my locks. And who I later agreed to go to the prom with because he asked (not a lot of dating for me in high school) and because he scared me too much to say no. He wound up spending the whole night off by himself, exploring the darkest corners of the Sheraton Bradley International Airport Hotel for hours on end, only to return to the table, the pockets of his rented tux overflowing with matchbooks. Sadly he doesn't even make it into my top 5 creepiest dates. But I digress.
This was my own kid, I'm not sure which is more creepy? He must have known the old adage, 3rd times a charm, and that he was about to really piss me off. Which he did. I carried him back to his room, dumped him in his bed and said, It's dark, I'm tired, stay in your bed, Charlie. "But I'm wet." Well why didn't you say so? "And I don't like my sheet. I want the comfy, cozy white sheet." (he's talking about those wonderfully plush, chenille sheets from PBK) Charlie, you have a sheet, we'll put the comfy, cozy one on in the morning. Crying, screaming, loudness. "I want the comfy, cozy sheet. I want it. I want it." Be quiet, you'll wake up your brother. "Waaaahhhhh, comfy, cozy sheet." Stop it, just stop it. Get into your bed and we will change your sheet in the morning. Good night, Charlie.
My adrenalin was pumping now and I tossed and turned until the 4 am wake up. Same grievances for both parties, but when I put him back to bed, I told him next time to go wake up his father. I vaguely heard him at 5:30. Props to my boy for being a good listener. He went to bug daddy, not sure what tactic he used to wake him up, but whatever it was, Brian wasn't playing. He promptly brought him into our bed. I guess it was light enough out, because when I awoke at 8 am, Charlie was asleep next to me, looking so serene and angelic.
Maybe it all had been a bad dream? But then I noticed the time markings on the post-it next to my nightstand. Why? Why couldn't I just let myself have this moment of delusion? I was so tired, those 5 wakings could have easily blended into 1 in my mind of mush. I can tell you why - I wanted to chastise my husband with my martyrdom and also I have this annoying habit of always wanting to be right, even with myself. Deservedly, it bites me in the ass more times than I care to count. The universe speaks to me often and I think next time I'm going to wear ear plugs.

You Will Have Fun, DAMMIT!

We recently signed Charlie up for a mini soccer camp with a couple of his buddies from preschool. Yeah, I know, soccer for 3 year olds, the idea sounds about as plausible as starting a cat farm. But it was cool. The coaches sang silly songs while everyone sat on their soccer balls. The kids got to kick balls to knock down the orange cones in the 'carrot patch' and dribble around the flags in the 'rain forest'. They did a great job making it age appropriate and really fun for everyone; everyone that is except Charlie.
My kid wanted nothing to do with soccer or being part of a group. Literally, as soon as we would pull into the parking lot, his body would go limp. I would have to physically remove him from his car seat. He would listen to the warm up songs and that was the extent of his participation. Once the physical act of playing began, he would retreat to the top of the hill and watch all his friends below run around, scream, laugh, and have fun. Even the town's industrial lawn mower held more interest as he followed it around the park.
Brian took him to his first practice and vowed never to go back. He was so pissed that Charlie wouldn't participate.
The coaches kept telling us to run around and play, that Charlie would want to model our behavior. This went on for 3 weeks. 3 weeks of me running around with a bunch of 3 year olds, yelling, "Come on Charlie, it's fun!" 3 weeks of Charlie still choosing to sit on the hill in isolation. The coaches stopped asking me to model and began to placate me with, "Every child will find their own path" or "He's making his own way." I felt like saying, "Hey Coach Dave, fuck you!" (probably not the best modeling behavior).
I told Brian I was bailing on the last couple of practices because it was exhausting both mentally and physically - 'modeling' with a 25 lb baby on my back is a work out and then some. So my husband chose to lecture me about values and not wanting to encourage quitting. Umm, I'm sorry Mr. One Time Practice, what did you just say? I understood his point, but seriously, he's 3, he doesn't know if there are 2 more practices or 200.
I did go to the last few practices and Charlie actually participated. He laughed at Coach Dave's silly songs. He ran around in the rain forest and the carrot patch. Of course after 15 minutes he started whining for a snack, but I was happy he did what he did and that we finished out the season.
Watching your own child be excluded (whether voluntarily or otherwise) is really painful. And not being able to encourage him is frustrating. Though there is a part of me that is proud of him for not following the crowd, for doing his own thing. Maybe this will save me from uttering those words made infamous by every mother across the world, "If he was going to jump off a bridge, would you jump, too?"

The Rage Within

No one can push my buttons like my eldest son. In the 3 plus years of being Charlie's Mom, I've learned to let a lot just roll off my back - emptying all of my expensive haircare products onto the bathroom floor; pulling my hair out in clumps in an attempt to give me a 'hair cut'; hiding my expensive watch in the toilet bowl. My reaction depends on how much sleep I've had, most of these infractions would result in some time alone in his room or perhaps loss of TV or whatever object he's deemed most valuable at that moment.

But there are 2 things I cannot ignore and are guaranteed to light my fuse; 1. Child on child violence (meaning my kids, other people's kids beating the crap out of one another actually makes me feel better). 2. Naps being boycotted.

Charlie officially proclaimed yesterday, "Let's Get Mommy to Lose Her Shit and Watch Her Head Spin Around on Her Shoulders Day" and he enlisted his brother's help. First, naps were boycotted by both children. And this was after a long morning spent at a local farm milking goats (no, I'm not kidding), chasing chickens, baking bread and decorating paper bag puppets with wool and chicken feathers. My shit was dragging and all I wanted was a few minutes with a bag of chocolate chips, a jar of peanut butter and my computer.


After 40 minutes of non stop negotiations/threats with Charlie from his bed, it was obvious my tiny window of sacred personal time was gone. I was left feeling robbed and bitter. This impeded my ability to deal with Charlie's all out assault on his brother for the remainder of the afternoon. Meaning things that usually rolled off my back were sticking, like dog shit on your shoe.

When I say shit, I mean smacking Gregory in the head with a wooden spoon, sitting on his head in the kitchen, mashing his poor face into the linoleum, grabbing Gregory by the throat and throwing him off of the couch, pushing Gregory into the toy box as he was reaching for a fire truck.

Oh yeah, this fuse was lit and heading for the powder keg. After each attack I yelled, put him in his room, yelled some more, took away his videos, but still his behavior got worse (shocking). Finally, he pulled his brother down to the ground by his hair then twisted his arm into a half nelson. After uncrossing my eyes and realizing that yelling isn't recommended in any of the parenting books I've read, I decided a change of scenery would do us all good, as well as save a certain 3 year olds' life. So off we went to the park.

I was able to speak in non harsh tones, we played in the sandbox, went on the swings, I even laughed without my face cracking. It was almost a Zen like experience until we got back into the car to go home. Charlie started whining incessantly about wanting water. I could feel that horrible, dark anger slowly creeping it's way out. Despite my better judgment, I decided to be nice and gave him his water bottle. He proceeded to dump the whole thing out on his seat, then flung the empty bottle (which was aluminum) at his brother's head.

Fair to say I reached my tipping point. When Charlie sends me over the edge, yelling is my first reaction - thanks, Dad - then once I get a splitting headache from yelling, I turn passive aggressive - thanks, Mom. The problem is that the cycle of passive aggressiveness is so ingrained in my genes, it's really hard to break. All throughout dinner Charlie kept asking, 'Why aren't you talking?' 'Mommy, are you less angry now?' 'Mommy, are you still mad at me?'

As awful as I felt, I couldn't let it go. Why should he get off easy by me telling him it's okay and that I wasn't mad at him. Isn't there some rule that his suffering should be equivalent to mine? Last count, I had racked up 3 hours in the torture chamber, plus a few extra gray hairs on my head, and minus a few years off my life. But being the adult here, I went the mature route and gave him the silent treatment for a few minutes. Only then did I answer with things like, 'I don't know Charlie, I don't feel like being nice to you.' or 'Well, that depends Charlie, are you going to start being nicer to your brother? or 'Maybe if you act like a nice boy, I'll stop being mad.'

After dinner, I put Gregory to bed. Charlie asked if I would play with him. I told him first I needed a few minutes to clean up from dinner. If only I could have scrubbed every dish in the kitchen and then cleaned the floor with a toothbrush. Exactly 20 seconds passed and Charlie started whining from the other room, "Mommy, come play with me. Mommy? Mommy? Mommy? MOMMY!!!" With my mood, I wanted to play with him like I wanted to have sex with Dick Cheney. But I finally succumbed and asked him what he wanted to play. He sighed and said, "Nothing. I wish Teri (our babysitter) was here." Well played grasshopper.

A Dingo Ate My Baby

Mom's of multiple children always baby their baby. With your first child, you hover, you cannot wait to check off that next developmental milestone, and note with pride how exceptional every drool, poop (really any kind of movement), or sound is. But with the second, you blink and they are washing their strained carrots down with a cold one while yelling, "Maaa, we're outta beer."

You want that baby stage to last as long as possible, partially because of nostalgia, but mainly because you now possess the golden key of knowledge. The baby stage is EASY compared to the whiny, demanding, mobile, tantrum prone toddler stage.

I'm having a tough time with the transition from baby to toddler with Gregory. He is the last kid I will ever pop out and he's also been the easiest baby on the planet - always happy, sleeps a decent amount, never cries unless he's hungry, not even when his brother uses him as target practice with his blocks. He's also a heck of an errand boy; stays strapped into a cart for hours while Mommy gets her Target fix on, gets us free produce at the farmers market by flashing his baby blues at all the ladies, flirts with the bank teller while I frantically fill the deposit slip out at the counter. And never once does he complain.
Well, yesterday my baby officially lost his baby status. It kind of snuck up on me all at once and took me by surprise. Maybe I've been too busy with my own agenda (aka errands) to notice. But those last few jars of baby food in the closet now have a coating of dust on them, and the cute nonsensical babbling, that sounds like Hindu chanting at times, has turned into words like 'Mama' and 'Baba' (that's bottle for you non-moms and it is a real word).
But the real kicker happened in the afternoon. I took both of the boys to our local farmers market to pick up some stuff for dinner (and some free produce). As I was popping the rear gate of the car to get the stroller out, I looked to Gregory for our usual game of 'Peekaboo, I see you', only mine wasn't the face he was staring at. He was looking at Charlie with an expression I've never seen before. He was almost rolling his eyes, like, "Jesus, more errands. Can you believe this selfish bitch?" Then, Charlie said right to him, "I know Gregory, I know."
Oh God, the jig is up. I am officially out numbered by kids with wills and opinions of their own. Maybe I should have another baby?

Why Must I Repeat Myself?

Today was one of those days where if someone offered to take my kids in exchange for a bag of Halloween candy, I would have said, 'You have yourself deal'. Don't get me wrong, it would have to be good candy; no Necco Wafers or Charlston Chews, I'm talking Peanut Butter Cups and Snickers. I have standards you know.

I spent my entire day yelling the same things over and over again. "Stop choking your brother. Leave your brother alone. We do not hurt our brother. That's it, no TV tonight. Do you want to go to bed right now?"

I felt like President Bush with his constant threats to Kim Jong Il of North Korea. "Stop testing those nuclear weapons. Don't you dare produce anymore plutonium. We do not share nuclear secrets with other communist countries. Do you want your luxury goods sanctioned again?" Gosh that man must be tired, because I sure am.

I'm not proud of my behavior, I officially lost control. By 3:30 pm, Charlie put his brother in his 25th choke hold of the day and I didn't know what else to do. So I kept with the theme of the day and yelled. "WHY CAN YOU NOT LISTEN TO ME? WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM? ARE YOU TRYING TO DRIVE ME CRAZY?" He just stared at me, with his arm still around his brother's neck. I grabbed his arm and dragged him into his room, "STAY IN THERE AND DO NOT COME OUT UNTIL I TELL YOU TO."

Less than 30 seconds later I see this little smiling boy come flying by me, giggling, prancing, defiant. I'm so angry that I am blinded. I want to hurt him, I want to make him cry. While I would never do the former, I did the latter. "That's it, Gregory and I are going for a walk. You have made me so angry that I need a time out from you. You are going to stay here by yourself." Tears and screaming, 'NOOOOOOO, Mommy. Don't leave. DON'T GO!' Obviously I wouldn't leave him alone, but I knew the reaction I would get.

I wish I could say I felt bad, but I didn't. I was happy. Happy he was crying. Happy I was making him suffer like he had his brother. I'm sure I just gave Charlie another chapter in his future memoirs (think 21st century version of Mommy Dearest), but I don't care. Judge me as you like, but you have never felt such rage as when you watch one of your kids inflict harm upon the other.

Tonight as I sit here and type, as pissed as I am, I know I have to do better. I cannot subject my child to this level of anger. My blood pressure, sanity and conscience cannot handle it either. Ironically, today in a local mom's newsletter that I get, a marriage and family therapist gives advice to parents with a child with behavioral issues. She references a book, "How to Behave So Your Preschooler Will, Too" by Sal Severe. I laughed, loudly and heartily. I'm not sure where I stand on the coincidence versus fate argument, but I bought that damn book. But in this case, at this moment, the universe has spoken, maybe even yelled.

Colors

3 years olds are all about figuring out how the world works, where they fit into it and then letting you know every little thing they learn while on this journey. Whether it's numbers, letters, changing your alarm clock settings, or learning to pick their nose, they're like little sponges with mouthes that spit back a continuous stream of discovery notes.

-Did you know I used to be a baby and I came from your belly?
-Rocks are big, but we don't throw them at people, just dogs and water.
-Safety is very important, that's why we wear goggles when we drill.
-I have a penis and you have a ginuv (vagina), my ginuv is in my butt.
-Candy is good for my body, it has protein.

For the most part I just nod, or say 'Oh, really?', and go along with whatever Charlie says. There are occasions where the information is just plain wrong and I try to correct him . I try to avoid this at all costs as it usually leads to a battle of "Yes it is vs No it's not". Most parents of preschoolers know for a fact that they will never win this battle. But sometimes, the shit gets personal and I can't help but declare all out war on Charlie's ass.

Charlie is really into his colors right now. He's always listing off the colors of objects around him. Not to brag, but he's way more advanced than the typical ROYGBIV spectrum. He's onto mint green, light blue, gray, silver and gold. He's quite accurate, but for some reason his Achilles heel is yellow and white. He always interchanges the 2, but once you point it out, he knows the difference.

On the way to school last week he and I were talking colors. We like to count the number of certain color cars on the highway. Or we'll pick a color and list all of the things we can think of that are that color. We were doing green; trees, grass, street lights, stems on pumpkins, etc. To which I did the obligatory nod or 'that's right'. Then Charlie said, "Let's do yellow." Okay. "School bus, dandelion, bumble bee, your teeth..." What did you say? "Your teeth. They're yellow." No honey, you mean white. "No, yellow." You mean white, like a snowman. "No, yellow like corn." I think you're confusing yellow and white. "NO, I'M NOT." Well, I think you are. "I AM NOT!" My silence signals my defeat.

I immediately made an appointment with my dentist for a cleaning and lengthy discussion on teeth whitening options. I told him the story. His first response, "Well, your teeth aren't white, most people's are not. But kids at that age aren't familiar with colors like creme or off white." For gosh sakes man, why don't you just kick me when I'm down?

I have always hated going to the dentist, now I have another reason to validate my anger; that and the $400 he wants to charge me to 'lighten' my teeth. He couldn't promise whiter, just lighter. Is the next shade lighter than corn, butter? And would that fall into the white or yellow family? I'll have to ask Charlie.

You Know Nothin'

Do you remember having to give oral book reports in school? You think you have your act reasonably together. Read the book - check; if available, memorize the Cliff's Notes - check; rehearse in front of the mirror and make it sound like you didn't memorize the Cliff's Notes - check. All systems are a go as you stand in front of your teacher and classmates.
Then, 1 of 2 things happens. Your entire summation of the book takes exactly one minute, when the assignment is a 10 minute presentation. Or you yammer on for all 10 of those minutes about nothing. No sentences are formed, each word leaving your mouth has nothing to do with the one before. Everyone is left with the impression that you are an idiot and clearly did not read the book.
The latter, well that happens everyday in life with a preschooler. Their curiosity, wonder and literal interpretation of the world are truly something to behold. They ask questions that you think in your head are pretty basic. But try to verbalize an explanation and you are left in awe of your own incompetence as well as your memory loss (didn't I learn this in school).

Here is an example of my morning. Keep in mind this is at 5:30 am, before sunrise and a cup of coffee. Also note I have only included Charlie's half of the conversation because mine is just too embarrassing.

- How do lady bugs eat and drink? Is that lady bug a boy or a girl?
- Why is the sun rising? (I did mention something about the earth rotating on it's access - definite points for that) Where is the sun coming from? Why are there people living on the opposite end of the earth?
- Why do my feet smell? Where does smell come from?
- Why did you say this situation is sticky? Did it get sticky by eating candy? Can I have some candy?
- If the dark clouds are for making rain, what are the white clouds for?

And in the world of preschoolers, "I don't know" or "It's just an expression" are not acceptable answers. If you're lucky, you're near a computer. If not, the questions just continue, on and on and on. How many times can one child ask 'Why' in the course of a day? The answer, 968. My husband wonders why I always forget shit, like his dry cleaning, or showering. My friends with older kids say it will only get worse as they learn more, ask more complicated questions, and develop a pretty accurate bullshit radar.
I thought this feeling of incompetence just stemmed from not knowing what to do when my kid tries to stick Cheerios up his brother's nose, yells at a woman on a bike for not wearing a helmet, or refuses to poop on the potty. But it goes much deeper than that. Charlie's preschool gave me a handout stating that by age 4, children will learn up to 40% of what they will learn in their whole lifespan.
Here's a question; if I'm the person responsible for the majority of Charlie's education until he reaches kindergarten, what kind of a chance does this kid have? My guess is by age 4 he's going to know that his Mom clearly did not read the parenting 101 book. I just hope he doesn't think I'm an idiot. I guess we all have different definitions of success and they evolve as we do.

Like looking in the mirror

My in laws are visiting us from Florida for a couple of weeks. Before you roll your eyes and cringe imagining yourself in this situation, or dub me certifiable, know that I do find it tough having guests (whomever they may be) for this long a period. But the pluses far outweigh the minuses in this case. My mother in law does my laundry and she cleaned up diarrhea off of Charlie's floor yesterday, so get your eyeballs back into the forward facing position.

On extended stays like this, Nani and Papa become completely entrenched in the boys' daily routine as well as the rules by which they live - the rules of a dictator as we like to say. My father in law experienced the harsh reign of El Diablo (Charlie) the other night just after dinner.

Charlie wanted to play with his Magna Tiles and of course the first amendment in any good dictator's constitution states he is not allowed to play Magna Tiles alone. That's right before the one that bans adults from sitting at the dinner table for more than 5 minutes. And of course because we were also finishing up dinner, Charlie clearly felt his 1st and 2nd amendment rights were being violated. He decided to make his case to my father in law in his best whiny preschooler voice, 'Come play Magna Tiles, Papa. Coooommmmme playyyyyy.'

Papa being a man of a certain age, needs to digest his dinner or things tend to repeat on him which is bad for all involved. You get to know a lot about house guests after 2 + weeks. So he told Charlie he'd be there in a few minutes. A few minutes for a 3 year old is like a morning with no coffee to you and me, slow and thankless. The whining and begging for Papa to come play continued endlessly.

He finally wore him down and my father in law went to play Magna Tiles. Well, apparently he wasn't playing the right way, or with enough enthusiasm, probably violating yet another amendment. Next we hear a raised voice that said, "Papa, you have 2 choices, you can either play with me or you can go to your bed." We then hear some adult chuckling which prompted another threat, "Did you hear me Papa, your options are play with me or go to your bed."

Brian and I were doubled over. It was like listening to a recording of ourselves. We're big into giving choices and find it diffuses potential situations where arguments could ensue, like bedtime. "Charlie, do you want to go to bed with stories or without stories?" Easy. Sometimes though, I do get a little extreme when I'm super frustrated, "You have 2 options, do you want to go to the grocery store or do you want to stay home locked in your closet? It's your choice." Hey, I got the desired end result, regardless of the path I had to take to get there. Remember Dr. Sears, this is a judgment free zone.

Clearly Charlie was taking his cue from my more extreme examples. Bedtime to him is like being locked in a closet. I can't wait to see El Diablo's interpretation of "This is not a restaurant so you'll eat the (insert any food item) I just made for you."

Karma's Ass Biting

Back from 4 1/2 glorious days of a girl's weekend in VT and the ole IGC (intrauterine guilt chip - see Men vs. Women post) was in high gear.
I've never taken so much pleasure in doing nothing. What is that cliche you never really miss something until it's gone? Well, no truer words have been spoken/written as I haven't seen free time like this since Rebecca Romijn still had hyphen Stamos attached to her name. Sitting around till 11 am in my jammies, drinking gallons of coffee, reading my book or the closest trashy magazine, chatting with my girlfriends. And the best part, no one interrupting any of these very important activities with endless whining questions about Play-doh, juice boxes or Eric Carle books.
It was heaven, until I got home. You know when you eat too much candy how bad you feel? Well, I think the universe (as well as my IGC) was trying to tell me I had had my fill of sweets. It shouted, telling me I had taken too many days for myself, away from my kids. Most girl's weekends are just that, a weekend, not 5 days (technically 4 if you count travel).
I returned home to 1 teething baby with diarrhea along with a diaper rash that looks like 3rd degree burns; a 3 year old with an ear infection and ruptured ear drum with puss-goo-stuff oozing out his ear. In addition he has started saying 'Hey, Mommy' before every word he utters. This may sound trivial, but seriously, try saying that each time you start a sentence, 12 hours a day, every day, it's sure to annoy you as well as any conversation companion you have, including your mother.
'Hey Mommy, can I have some juice. Hey Mommy, can we play blocks. Hey Mommy, I'm going to flush my socks down the toilet. Hey Mommy, I'm going to bonk Gregory in the head then feed him to the birds. Hey Mommy, if I light that dog on fire, what will happen?'

I know I shouldn't complain, most of my friends are down right green with envy. But next time, I'll make sure not to tempt fate and keep my weekend to a weekend. XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Sorry, that was my IGC talking. Scratch that. Next time I will make it a full week and not give a shit about the repercussions when I return home. My girl's "weekend" and the memory of it are something I will cherish and will get me through many a tough day with my kids. To all mommies everywhere, take some time for yourself to rest and regenerate, you'll love yourself and your kids more for it.

Men vs. Women

Men and women are different, we know this. But with all of the books, talk shows, movies, websites and time dedicated to this very subject, it's amazing that I still have so many questions.

1. Why is it that when I offer my husband a brief sabbatical from the kids at nap time, he looks at me and says, "What should I do? Where should I go?"
If you offered any woman an hour to herself, away from her children, her spouse, the dog, etc, the only question she would ask is, "I wonder if the door is going to leave a mark when it hits me in the ass on my way out?"

2. Why, when I told my husband I was going to sacrifice my morning to sleep-in to go for a run, did he say, "Are you taking either of the kids?"
My friend Eliza called me a sucker when I relayed the conversation.
'I hadn't planned on it. Did you want me to take one of the kids?'
"Well, I thought maybe it would be something the baby would enjoy."
Right.
Too many why's to count. But mainly WHY did I say, 'Sure.'?

2a. Why do we feel so guilty when we take any time for ourselves, away from our family? Most men don't think twice about heading off to a concert with their friends, or meeting the guys out for a drink after work. They feel they've worked hard all week and are entitled to a little alone time. Hello, what about us?
The sad thing is, a lot of husbands I know, including my own, want their wives to do more things for themselves. But most of us are our own worst enemy. We wrack ourselves with guilt; play out the worst images in our minds of what will happen if we step foot out that door sans children.

I have a theory, call it conspiracy or what have you, but it's the only logical explanation. When each of us delivers our baby, they install an intrauterine guilt chip (IGC). We're so completely spent after labor that we don't even notice. The IGC goes off whenever we have the slightest thought of doing something for ourself, wracking us with gut wrenching guilt, thereby altering our decision, forcing us back into selflessness. It's some man-medical profession conspiracy that I promise to crack once my kids are in school full time. Don't worry, in the meantime I've alerted Gloria Steinem.

Stream of consciousness

Charlie speaks 3 languages, English, Spanish and Charlie-speak. It's often hard to decipher which language he's using at any given moment. It's obvious where he picked up English, Spanish is from the wonderful women at his daycare, and Charlie-speak is his made up language. To call it nonsensical would be an insult, there are words he repeats over and over in sentences, with real meaning.

It's really interesting to listen to him when he gets into 'crazy mode' - usually happens at night around dinner time or when he gets excited or the moon is full or it's Wednesday. He starts doing laps around the house, running as fast as he can from room to room, screaming at the top of his lungs words in every language, in rapid fire succession. I imagine he sounds much like a person with Turret's on crystal meth. I really want to crawl into his brain to figure out what he is talking about.

Last night, Charlie shifted into high gear 'crazy mode'. I happened to have a notebook close by and put pen to paper. At a frenzied pace I captured everything he was saying in an attempt to decode the crazy and establish some kind of rationality to the things he was screaming.

Here it goes:
No puedes
No pinneas
Hot pancakes
(demonic laughter ensues)
I made you a house
(I yell 'thank you' from the kitchen)
It's only for me and Bonnie
(throws all pillows off the couch onto the floor)
I have an idea, let's start cleaning up toys!
(instead of cleaning, he starts throwing his toys around the house)
I made a good plan
Look at the living room, it's very, very, very, very, very, very dry
(runs into the kitchen and hits me, then runs out)
Sticky
Ven a sah dee, ven a sah dee, ven a sah dee
Pizza pie
I'm going to poke you in the rivvon
Wahsh, wahsh, wahsh, wahsh, wahsh
Water bottle, please
Kick (he actually kicks me while screaming the word)

Game over, TIME OUT!
I hear more demonic laughter from his room where he has been sent to read a book and calm down.
10 minutes later he and I are sitting at the dinner table. He looks at me and says, 'We're having a nice quiet time. It's so nice you could come over for dinner.'
Diagnosis: adorable but nuts.

Are you listening?

Most people with toddlers know, getting them to listen is next to impossible. As they mature and become preschoolers, the hearing skills improve slightly. Though they are not unlike the 1980 Ford Econoline van my Dad used to drive; not so reliable.
Last night Brian and I were hanging with Charlie in his room playing with his vast assortment of cars and trucks. Gregory was asleep and Charlie was enjoying time with both Mommy and Daddy. I think maybe he was even feeling a little heady from all the attention.
Brian was reading 'The Jelly Bean Book' on the floor when Charlie looked at him and said, "That book is going to go into a TIME OUT if you cannot be behaving." He of course raises his voice when he says TIME OUT with the exact intonations I use.
Brian was a little surprised but amused at this outburst.
"But what did I do?", he asked.
"That's it, The Jelly Bean Book is going into a time out. You need to think about being behaving and when you can be behaving, you can have the book back."
I'm in hysterics as Brian is left wondering what just happened.
This is a page straight out of Mommy's How to be a Disciplinarian 101 manual. Either the toy he's playing with gets a time out, or Charlie gets sent to his room to read a book and he can decide to come out when he's ready to behave or be nice to his brother or not act like a psychopath. Though in Charlie's manual they must have left out the part where you need just cause to issue the TIME OUT.
Maybe Charlie is sending us a message that he thinks our penal system and accompanying manual suck. He decided to turn the tables, issuing a time out KGB style - no warning or insight into the infraction, just straight up punishment.
I guess that's how he sees things, without cause or reason, just us being unfair. I can't wait for him to publish this century's version of Mommy Dearest. I haven't even unleashed my wire hanger shit on his ass. Just wait.
I do take some comfort in knowing that he is listening to me. Unless of course if he thinks reading a book in his room is not 'be behaving' I'm in trouble and the whole penal systems does need to be overhauled.

A New Beginning?

When I first started this blog it's safe to say I was in a dark place. Which was one of the major reasons for my foray into the bloggersphere; I needed an outlet for all of my feelings.
After reading my third posting, my husband suggested that if I was ever going to publish this to the world, that I should maybe 'lighten it up a bit'. He didn't even want me posting pictures of the kids for fear that someone would narc on us to DCS.
I took his advice and started editing my first posting a bit. I kept chipping away at it over the course of a few days, all the while feeling not so good; like I broke into a teacher's home and started 'editing' a test after finding the answer key.
Why should I change my posting when that's how I really felt at that moment? I criticized many for not having 'the balls' to fess up to their true feelings on parenting and here I was back pedaling with mine. The whole point of the blog was to let people know that their feelings are normal.
The relationship we have with our children is like no other. If my husband treated me the way my kid does, with the language, attitude, physical aggression, etc., it would be considered abuse. My friends would perform an intervention to get me to leave his ass or there would at least be a halfway house where I could seek refuge. Now there's a business idea! You heard it here first.
So if you're at the point where you really want to toss your child off of the closest building, bridge, or mountain, I'm here to tell you these feelings are normal. If you're currently on the Golden Gate Bridge, slowing down and opening your child's door, then you might want to get some professional help - or as Tom Cruise would advise vitamins and exercise or a couple of nannies - whatever works.

A little privacy please

Forget the Patriot Act, being a Mom is the ultimate violation of privacy.
Perfect example, I was in the bathroom this morning, trying to...you know...go. The baby comes crawling in; chewing on those little knobs at the base of the toilet, trying to pull himself up on the tub. Smart little bugger decided to strike when I was most vulnerable. What could I do but sit there as he had his way with every nasty surface in the bathroom? It was when he knocked over the garbage can that Charlie's 'party in the potty' radar must have been tripped.
Next there are 3 of us in my tiny, tiny, tiny bathroom. A bathroom so small that if you are sitting on the toilet (alone), there is not enough clearance for the door to close. And of course Charlie decides he wants to shut the door. I quickly swing my legs to the side as I'm telling him, 'You can't shut it. There's not enough room.' He knocks my knees, scrapes my toes, narrowly misses my head and finally slams the door. Satisfied, he looks at me and says, "I shut the door to give you some privacy, Mommy."
I can't even wipe my own butt in private. Being a Mom is the most humbling experience for which I'm grateful and sometimes, not so much. If I had some alone time, I'd ponder this further along with my true feelings on the Patriot Act.

Chuck off

With 2 boys and no plans for a 3rd child, my husband and I often stare longingly (not in a weird way) at little girls. Little girls, and everything about them, are adorable to me. They are just so different from boys (Charlie would say 'Duh, Mommy' right here).

The longevity with which they can sit at a table and color for over 20 minutes without making a sound (or breaking anything).

Their need to mother small babies and not hit, bite, kick, head butt or scratch them.

Their innate sense of accessorization. It never fails to amaze me when I see a 3 year old at the park with sandals, matching purse, sunglasses and a necklace, climbing on the jungle gym.

With all of this little girl worship going through my head, I was thinking, what do boys bring to the table? The answer, cool footwear, most specifically sneakers (see photos above). I love buying Charlie awesome sneakers, especially if they are black. He has quite a collection - Pumas, Vans, Chuck Taylors, Nike - the list is almost embarrassing. I thought about adding a cool matching hat or sunglasses. But everyone knows, little boys hate things on their head and face. But I can't help it, the need to accessorize never really leaves us.

Do you remember?

Where does our memory go after we give birth? Does it fly into the universe and go to some other more deserving soul? Does it get swept up on the delivery room floor and thrown away in those plastic bins marked 'bio hazard'? It's like as soon as you become pregnant, a small hole is created in your head where your memory slowly leaks out for the rest of your life, or in my case, gushes like a broken fire hydrant.

Usually Brian is the victim of my memory loss. We'll have a major life discussion where decisions are made about the raising of our kids or jobs or school. The next day, it's like it never happened. He'll just look at me in awe, "We JUST talked about this? I cannot believe you don't remember. What is wrong with you?"
-My girlfriend Kirsten, who is 9 months pregnant and gushing like a fire hydrant herself, said that she and her husband now write all decisions onto slips of paper then sign them. So simple yet effective. Props to her husband for signing the slips of paper, too, we know who this system was designed for.

Poor Charlie had his first 'What is wrong with you?' moment yesterday. Thursday afternoon I have a sitter come to take care of the baby so Charlie and I can have 'special adventure time' together. Yesterday's adventure consisted of the park and the car wash. 3 year olds may be high maintenance in a lot of areas, but they are pretty easy to entertain.

As we were driving around Charlie says from the backseat, "Do you remember when we went to the ladder and you carried me? Then at the top the bowl was empty." Uh, sure I remember.
Kids will throw a lot of nonsensical stuff your way in the course of the day. You have to pick and choose what you give credence to. I guess I chose wrong in this case.
"Can we do that again?"
Okay
"When? Now! Let's go now"
Honey, where was the ladder?
"The LADDER, the LADDER"
Where was it? Was it at the park on the slide?
"NOOOOO, the ladder with the bowl at the top."
He's really pretty worked up at this point and I really have no clue what he's talking about.
Where was it? At the house?
"NOOOO, the ladder WITH the bowl at the top. It was empty."
I cannot figure out what he's talking about and would love to continue this game of 20 questions, but he is full blown crying and yelling his responses at me, so I change tactics.
Hey, I have a great idea.
Building momentum and excitement in my voice to distract him.
"What?"
Sniffle sniffle sniffle
Do you want a treat?
Said with the fakest falsetto voice.
"Yes, I would like that."
Tears are subsiding and he's able to answer in a calm voice after a few deep breaths.
Let's get some yogurt.
"Okay, that sounds delicious, Mommy. Thanks."

Another good/bad thing about 3 year olds, they are very easily distracted.
This will definitely not be the last time poor Charlie has to endure his mother's lack of memory, but hopefully frozen yogurt will suffice as a solution. I only wish it worked with my husband.

Butting heads

I held off writing this post simply because I thought I needed to cool off a bit before committing this to the blog. Though I realized this story will always hurt me in so many ways, I just hope some day I'll be able to laugh about it.
I recently learned from a friend who is a MFT that anger begets anger. We're all under the misconception that if you allow yourself the big blow up or scream fest, that the release will make you feel better. Not true. In the case of anger, it just makes you more angry. So I experienced on Tuesday.
Tuesday I have both of the boys all day and I usually have plenty of playdates or park outings planned. Was it God who said 'Idle hands are the devils workshop'? No truer words have ever been spoken than in the home of a preschooler (aka Satan). Well, we were house bound Tuesday waiting for the FUCKING washing machine repairman to show up...late...did I mention 2 hours late?!? That is like an eternity when you are stuck at home with your kids.
We were having a great morning. I even told someone that I felt we were turning the corner in terms of Charlie's recent rash of bad behavior. We had just finished playing garage and fixed all of his trucks, they were good to go. I bent over to pick the baby up and Charlie came up in front of me and head butted me with all his might. Head hit head and it hurt. I had to put the baby down, saw stars and just cradled my head.
Charlie smiled at me, waiting to see what I was going to do. As I walked into the kitchen, I screamed, 'Mommy needs 2 minutes of time out to be alone.' I burst into tears, the physical pain was almost gone, but emotionally I was reeling - How could my child hurt me like that and not even care? How could he not have hurt himself? Did I not just play garage with this kid for almost 40 minutes? Did he not notice that I completely ignored his brother to focus on him 100%?
Charlie followed me into the kitchen, thinking it was a funny game. He laughed and I lost it - like one of those cops on Law & Order (pick one) when they finally catch the serial killer/rapist and conveniently arrest him in a dark, deserted alley. I grabbed his arm and took him into his room. Told him to stay there for 3 minutes, that I didn't want to play with him, he wasn't being nice to me, I was very upset, etc. I lost track of what I was saying, I was a blubbering mess. He started screaming from his room. Finally, a reaction. I wanted to lock him in there forever.
I opened the door after 2 minutes and let him come out. Little fucker was still smiling behind his tears. "You hurt Mommy. We do not head butt. I don't want to play with you right now so go read a book."
I guess I must be more interesting to him when I'm on the emotional edge. He followed me around smiling, asking, "Why you not talking? Why you not talking to me?" Umm, because you are evil.
I threw some toys across the room and screamed, "LEAVE ME ALONE. GET AWAY." I could feel the anger just building and Charlie was clearly enjoying the show. I realized he was absorbing every single action and word. Shit, this is not good. I managed to pull myself together, called the babysitter and begged her to come over. I went to the gym for a swim then to the yogurt shop got an extra large ice cream (this was not a situation that called for yogurt) with peanut butter cups. I felt better. Funny, it doesn't matter how self aware I become, I cannot get away from the emotional eating. It's a fact, ice cream makes you feel better.

I returned home and Charlie came running to me, smiling, "Mommy, I missed you."

This glass I live in

Most of my friends say that with their kids there are good weeks and bad weeks. Well, we've been in about a 3 week 'bad' cycle. I just read something online that attempted to put things into perspective.
If you measure how bad your kid is in hours, even if they are bad for 8 hours a day, there are still 16 hours where they are good, thus your child is more good than bad. A simplistic approach at which I scoff. 11-12 of those hours are devoted to sleep and that doesn't really count in the glass is half empty world from which I cannot seem to escape.
I'm working on it. Am off to read 'Screamfree Parenting' by Hal Edward Runkel.
Charlie is at daycare today, thus the reason why I have nothing to report. Gregory is sleeping soundly in his crib. Cherish these moments.

Whoa, where am I?

It is 7:30 am and no one in my house is awake - not my husband, Charlie or Gregory - no one. For a moment I think I have woken up in some perfect alternate universe. But after a few moments, I realize Joaquin Phoenix isn't in my kitchen wearing a loin cloth, cooking me bacon and eggs, and Gregory's baby shit stained pants are still on the laundry room floor. By the way, normally after a blow out, I just throw the pants or underwear out, it's too gross to deal with. But these are adorable madras pants that along with his big floppy hat and dark socks, make him look like a little old man from a retirement community.

Charlie is awake now and I'm trying to get him his breakfast before I give the baby his bottle. I ask him what he wants. After about 2 minutes of him making a 'hmmmmm' sound, he says, "I don't know?" Charlie, do you want cereal, yogurt or a waffle? I found giving limited choices helps in most situations. Do you want to go to bed or get locked in the closet? "Umm, I'll go to bed." Excellent choice.

After some hemming and hawing, I ask again, do you want cereal, yogurt or a waffle? "I want something out of the refrigerator." The calm serene feeling of 30 minutes prior is gone. What Charlie? Yogurt, cheese, apple sauce? What? Baby is full blown crying now. Another 2 minute 'hmmm' begins, "I think yogurt." Great. I get him yogurt and start giving Gregory his bottle. As soon as I sit my butt in the chair, Charlie says, "I don't want this yogurt. I want banana yogurt." Sorry, we don't have banana yogurt, only vanilla. "But I want banana." Charlie, we only have vanilla. You asked for yogurt, so that's what you're going to eat. "No! I don't want yogurt." This is not a restaurant, you will eat what you asked for. "No yogurt. NOOOOO."

I am beyond frustrated and cannot believe it is only 8:05 am. Poor Gregory has indigestion from my yelling and yanking the bottle away from him so many times. Well, if you want something else, you are going to have to wait until I'm done feeding your brother. That'll teach him. "I don't want yogurt. I don't want the yogurt." What is it that you want, Charlie? "I want a bar." I get him a fruit leather bar. "NOOO, not a fruit bar, I want a bar bar." A what? "I WANT A BAR BAR. A BAR BAR." What's a bar bar? "The one in the blue box." Turns out a bar bar is a blueberry cereal bar from Trader Joe's. I get him his fucking 'bar bar' and finish feeding the baby. It is only 8:44 am, God help me.

Charlie has gone into his room to most likely poop. This is the only time where he wants to be alone. I go in to check on him and make sure everything is okay (meaning he's not smearing it on the walls). I knock on his door, you okay in here? "Go away." You done pooping? "NO, go away."
Clearly my kid is not potty trained at 3. I'm okay with this. He can continue pooping in his diaper till he's 10 if it gives me that 10-15 minute post breakfast drama break.
See, I found something positive to write.

Waking up is hard to do

Another 5 am wake up from my dear eldest son and another battle over what bed he was going to sleep in - this after a 2 am cry out from Gregory. Charlie didn't go back to his own bed, we compromised on the couch. Of course he came creeping into our room at the first hint of sun. I was just falling back to sleep and was in no mood. Though I did think it was incredibly cute, in an annoying way, when he played with my hair and asked me if liked firetrucks, sirens, police cars, silver cars, daddy's car, my car. Though it turned annoying quickly when he demanded an answer with each one. We were finally up for the day at 6:15 am. Ugh!
It's amazing when your sleep is interrupted multiple days in a row by your child, how intolerant you become to everything about them. Sleep deprivation is the biggest deterrent to maintaining one's sanity.
At breakfast I decided to give Charlie the silent treatment as punishment for waking me. I know this is not the most effective way to deal with a 3 year old, but damn is it satisfying. Though he's gotten smart to my ways. He looked at me and said, "Why you not talking?" I continued to ignore him. "Mommy, are you not happy with me?" Come on, how is anyone supposed to ignore that? He hit me with that annoying-cute combo again. "No honey, Mommy's just tired because you woke me up when it was dark."
My husband sauntered into the kitchen and could sense the tension. He said, "Everything okay in here?" Peachy. Of course he can be all calm and objective since he will be trotting his ass to work in about 5 minutes. He gets to leave hell.
Fortunately, after breakfast I plopped boy wonder in front of his Maisy video until it was time to leave for daycare. Daycare opens at 8 am, I was there at 8:01.
I truly do not know how single parents manage this. I live for when Brian comes home at the end of the day to relieve some of the burden. Parenting is overwhelming and I'm not having fun. I'm in a bit of a dark place right now, so I think I should sign off before I really post something that I'll regret.

You'll never take me alive...

Today was one of those days where I did battle with Charlie on every front. It started early this morning when he woke me at 5 am wanting to climb into bed with me. I sent him back to his own room where he started crying about not wanting to sleep in his bed. We finally compromised and he slept on the couch until it was light out (when he's allowed to get up).

Post breakfast we went round and round about his treatment of his brother. "Stop hitting him!", "Get off of him!", "Don't kick him!", "Share your toys with him!" - sometimes I annoy myself with all the nagging. But then he bit me!
I yelled, "You DO NOT BITE ME!" He smiled. I wanted to strangle him. Instead, I put him in his room and shut the door. He cried, which made me feel better. I told him (through the door), "Mommy needs 2 minutes of time out because you have made her so mad by biting. WE DON'T BITE."
After he finished crying and promised not to bite again, he came out of his room. 'You really hurt me. Do you like being bitten?' With a sheepish, 'No', he responded. He seemed pretty sincere with his remorse but who knows. 3 year olds often embody many of the same qualities as a sociopath.

After that we took off for the park. Lord knows if we stay inside the house for too long, everyone goes a bit stir crazy. Charlie was pretty mellow, throwing rocks down the sewer, playing on the swings with his brother. We headed over to the sandbox where another little boy was playing with a plastic wheel loader. Charlie asked, "Can I play with that?" The boy ignored him.
"Can I have that?"
"No."
"I want that."
"No."
A scuffle ensues with Charlie and this kid hitting each other. The mother of the boy dragged him off where he had an official meltdown. Charlie was on reasonable behavior until the boy came back into the sandbox. They went at it again, this time arguing over a bike that neither one of them really wanted.
Fortunately, this other mom was used to dealing with a 'high strung child', so there was no awkwardness or unnecessary apologies. We just tried to put an end to the behavior and avoid any blood shed.
I told Charlie for the 2nd time, "We do not hit. If you hit him again, we will go home."
Sure as the day is long, my son hit again.
I said in a matter of fact tone, "That's it. We're going home."
Oh boy. Charlie threw a tantrum to end all tantrums. He started screaming at the top of his lungs. "Nooooooo. Noooooo. I don't want to go home."
Props to me for remaining calm. "Sorry honey, I said if you hit, we would go home. So we're going home."
"I DON'T WANT TO GO HOME! I want to go on the slide. I want to go on the slide. I want to go on the SLIIIIIIIIIDDDDDEEEE!"
He dug his heels in and would not move. Still with no emotion, but getting close to losing my cool, I started heading toward the car with Gregory, the stroller, sand toys, diaper bag, water bottles, and blanket. Charlie freaked, started screaming even louder, "NOOOOOOOO. NOOOOO, don't go."
I finally got him into the car and as soon as Enzo Garcia started playing on the iPod, we were onto discussions about dinner.

While this was a most difficult day, (keeping in mind I made no mention of the other 572 battles that took place from 5 am - 7:30 pm) I kept my cool throughout this entire incident. Despite the glares from the other mothers in the park and my son's best attempts to rattle me, I stuck to the rules and did not back down. It would have been so easy to just let him have that last ride on the slide before we left the park. It sounds silly, but I felt slightly victorious.

Confessions of a stay at home Mom

For the first 20 something years of my life, I didn't think much about parenting, and when I did I wondered if I wanted children at all. I'll spare you the details, but obviously I changed my mind. Not only am I a parent twice over, but now being a mom is my full time job, one for which I feel severely under qualified.
My kids, Charlie 3 and Gregory 8 months, are my greatest achievement to date, but there are days where I want to take them and throw them off of the Golden Gate Bridge. May seem a little harsh to some people, but I'm here to tell you that these feelings are completely normal.
From the moment my first son was born, to this very instant typing on my couch, I am in awe of how unwilling people are to share their true feelings on parenting.

Some days are so good, you are amazed at how cool, smart, funny, precocious your kid is. But then there are days and often entire weeks/months where you think you may have accidentally taken home the love child of Scott Peterson and Amber Frye - bad example, but you catch my drift.

My hope for this blog is to give some comfort to those who are ashamed by frequent feelings of inadequacy, contempt, and at times even hatred, about being a parent or toward their child(ren). You are not alone, most people have had these same feelings but don't have the balls to admit it.