This is not what I signed up for

Circus Circus

2011-09-06T11:04:00.000-07:00

We took the boys to the circus this weekend. It was an impromptu decision. Brian was beyond excited to share his boyhood memories with Charlie and Gregory. 'This is the same circus that I went to when I was your age. There will be people on motor cylces riding around in a huge globe and then a man gets shot out of a cannon...' The boys were hooked.

I was not as enthused, I have never loved the circus. The clowns are creepy, the ring master looks like some mustached lothario straight out of a 70's porn movie, and the animals, those poor animals. I just have a hard time with wild creatures out of their natural state, performing for us.

Despite my apprehension, I went along. I decided to keep my opinion to myself in the spirit of supporting what should be a childhood pleasure - cotton candy, lights, the big top, families clapping and laughing in awe of the spectacles. The Greatest Show on Earth, right?!?

We were barely out of the car, the first thing we saw were protestors with poster size photos of tortured elephants. Great. All of the fears about the circus thatI had floating in my head were now spilled out into the parking lot of the Cow Palace, being paraded in my kids faces. I told Charlie and Gregory to keep walking, don't look at the pictures.

'Why Mommy?'

Just keep walking till we get inside, I said.

We were just about in the ticket door when a woman stood just outside the entrance, looked at my boys and said, "Ringling Brothers hurts the elephants. They do."

Fortunately my kids weren't familiar with the name Ringling and didn't give it a second thought. However my own feelings toward the circus were immediately choked down by my rage toward this woman. I understood her and what she was doing and I even admired her passion. But to bring my kids into it and hurt them in the process, was it really all for the greater good? How are my kids nightmares about the elephant with the big 'bandaids' on his bloody toes going to stop this? Talk to ME, beyotch, I'm the one with the wallet.

Almost as an act of defiance, we bought our tickets. Charlie of course asked what the signs were about. I told him, some people believe that animals at the circus are not treated properly and that they shouldn't be kept in cages or forced to perform. Other people think that the circus is a fun place and that the animals are happy and treated well.

Oh, was all he said.

I was amazed he stopped it at that. It was probably the snow cones in the white bengal tiger shaped plastic cup calling to him, or those spinning globes on a stick that flash colored lights. Despite Charlie letting me off the hook so easily, this was a really difficult moment. I had to separate my personal beliefs from my desire to protect my kids. No matter how much I agreed with the protestors, I deplored their method of using innocent children to get to me. They should know better.

We took our seats and watched the clowns and the Cirque du Soleil style acrobats perform. The high wire act was amazing, Charlie was certain they had some kind of super glue on the bottom of their feet that kept them from falling. We were having the experience - we smiled, ate cotton candy, and big soft doughy pretzels as flaming bowling pins were juggled in front of us. Gregory clapped like crazy. Charlie stared up with awe and wonder as the human catapult was set ablaze and launched skyward. Cool.

When it was over, Brian and I decided we would not be returning to the circus, and it wasn't because there was no longer a motorcycle act or the absence of a big top. It was indeed the animals that put a damper on our fun. The boys seemed equally unimpressed by them, they preferred some form of fire in their entertainment.

Was it the protestors, you ask? I don't think so, though they were always in the back of my mind. Watching a man taunt a bunch of tigers with a whip so they would snarl and claw and hop in the air seemed cruel. The zebras running in circles were ridiculous. And the elephants looked sad. I know, like I could really tell, right? But if you ever read Water for Elephants, that book showed elephants to be highly sensitive creatures, capable of showing depths of emotion similar to humans.

As my children get older, these situations will continue to arise. War, abortion, organic produce, whatever the subject, the kids will ask me what I am for and what I am against. My guess is they won't let me off as easily next time. But I will tell them what I believe, when they're ready to listen. My hope is that Brian and I give them the tools to form their own opinion and be able to defend and debate that in a civilized, open minded manner.

I am happy that my children attended the circus. And I even see the silver lining to the protestors, provoking our thoughts and asking me to take a stand. However, if they ever touch or talk to my kids again, I'll go all Barnum & Bailey on their ass! Leave the parenting discussions to me, that's my job, not yours.

King of Random

2011-08-10T20:44:00.000-07:00

Charlie consistently blows us away with his intellect and depth of thought, especially for a 6 year old.

"Daddy, do you know why I like sad songs? Because they make me feel my heart."

"Mommy, you know we're all really strangers, don't you?" What do you mean, Charlie? "Well, you don't know everyone in the world, so that means you're a stranger to someone."

Gregory, while equally smart and funny, is a bit more, how should I say, esoteric? Many of the aforementioned conversations take place in the car, where Charlie and I have thoughtful banter about many subjects; the fastness of every car on the highway and whether it could beat a Ferrari, how rain clouds are formed, what would happen if you really did try to dig to China?

Just as we're discussing the core of the earth burning us up, shovels and all, Gregory will chime in, "What would happen if all of these cars were made of green beans?"
I usually respond with a simple 'I don't know' or 'Oh, really', where appropriate. But Charlie is not that kind or tolerant, "GREGORY! We are talking, so be quiet. And, how would the cars even be able to drive if they were made of green beans? There would be no engine to make the car go! Jeez, Louise."

Sometimes it's not even that outlandish of an idea, but it's not right and I want try to help my boy figure it out without telling him he's flat out wrong.
"Mommy, did you know that llamas have horns?"
I don't know bud. I think llamas have really fuzzy ears.
"Yes, they do have horns."
Are you sure?
"Yes."
Maybe when we get home we can look at our 'Llama, Llama Red Pajama' book to see if that llama has horns.
"It does. They all do"
Okay.

And then the statement can be just so bizarre, all we can do is laugh because we have no idea what he's talking about. Charlie will be telling me about the different invasive and non native plants that he found while hiking at summer camp. Gregory will interrupt, "Hey, Charrie, wouldn't it be silly if Jason Sparkle 80 came to my camp and used my orange swim shirt as a scoochoodoochoo?" Not sure who Jason is, but I can imagine what a scoochodoochoo could be. You can see why Charlie started calling Greg, the King of Random.

I get it. The level of sophistication at which Charlie can converse, it's hard for me to keep up, let alone his 3 1/2 year old brother. The poor kid has to try to grab some air time for himself, no matter how ridiculous he may seem.

"Mommy, did you know that Pirate Booty isn't popcorn?" Really? "No, it's not." I checked the package when I got home. It really isn't popcorn, it's puffed rice and corn. Maybe not so ridiculous, but still very random.

Bulldish the Dog

2011-05-24T20:10:00.000-07:00

Charlie has a new pet. His name is Bulldish the Dog. Charlie likes to take him for walks, give him treats, and play games with him. You are probably thinking, big deal, so the kid has a dog. Well, this dog didn't come from a breeder, or the pound, I birthed this puppy myself. Charlie's dog happens to be his brother, Gregory.

That's Gregory aka Bulldish in the picture here, giving me his paw.

Bulldish came into being last summer, interestingly right around the time school ended and summer began. My guess is Charlie was bored. We had a couple of weeks to kill before camp started. Most of his friends were on vacation until then. He missed them and the challenge of school so he created his own playmate to occupy his time.

I thought it would be a passing phase, lasting perhaps until camp started. Or that Gregory would simply hate it, cry about being called a dog, and Charlie would endlessly taunt him with it. I was wrong on all fronts. Turns out Gregory loves being Bulldish the Dog and Charlie loves ordering him around, 'Bulldish, give me your paw. Paw. Paw. PAW, Bulldish, PAW!'

Gregory is so into it that he has created several alter egos for Bulldish and Charlie enjoys the challenge of trying to figure out which dog he is at that moment. Frankly, I cannot keep track, but here's what I have so far.

There's Ski Rider, who's more of an off leash hound. He likes to jump on the couches and beds and slam doors. Sho Sho is a bit fancier. He is always on a leash (usually made out of yarn) and prances about like he's at a dog show. Baseball the Ghost Dog crawls around on his knees chasing people, though you're supposed to pretend that you can't see him, because, well, he's a ghost.

This morning we actually had a birthday party for the latest 4 legged addition to our family, Ski Milk. Charlie made him a birthday cake, which consisted of Goldfish in a bowl. Ski Milk flipped the cake, along with his water dish, while trying to blow out his candles. As I stared at the huge mess on my kitchen floor, Charlie said, "Mommy, you can't get too mad, Ski Milk is just a puppy after all." Then he got down on his knees to rub Gregory, I mean Ski Milk, behind the ears, saying in a consoling voice, "Isn't that right Ski Milk, you're just a puppy. Good puppy."

Gregory is reveling in all of this positive attention - there's no eye poking, teasing, yelling, pinching, or name calling. He's probably created these different canine personas to keep the game fresh so that his brother won't lose interest in being nice to him. The saddest and most ironic thing is that Charlie treats Bulldish, and all the other dogs, far better than he's ever treated his brother. I wonder if he knows that they are the same person/dog?

Yo Mama

2011-03-02T22:39:00.000-08:00

There is always fighting in my house, whether it's a war of words or fists; IT, is always on. Mealtime is no exception. Lately our dinner conversation has been reduced to my kids finding new ways to abuse one another. Shockingly it's not violent, but a complete verbal one-up-man-ship of how much they can kick the other's ass.

"Gregory, I'm going to take a cup of gasoline, dip Mr. Monkey (Greg's favorite snuggly) in it, shake it up, then watch him explode. BOOM!"

To which Gregory responds,"Charrie, I'm going to take lava and throw it in your cup and you will get burned." For some reason Gregory is obsessed with lava these days. He wants to know what will happen if a cat walks through lava, if lava falls on our car, or in your mouth.

Um, it burns, babe.

Mr. I Must Always Have the Last Word says, "Oh yeah? Well Gregory, I can take you in a helicopter and drop you in a volcano and that would burn you way more than just throwing lava on you. Plus lava would totally burn the cup up as soon as it touched it."

"Charrie, the lava is going to burn your butt, too."

"Gregory, I'm going to take gasoline AND diesel mixed together, put it in your glass like it's water then you'll drink it and die! Hahaha."

Any talk of death or killing and I bring a quick end to the banter. Clearly Gregory isn't as adept at the verbal sparring game as his brother, but at least he's playing along. Not too long ago he would have been in tears at the mere mention of Mr. Monkey being harmed.

After listening to the boys go on like this endlessly for a week, I noticed something. The cadence of the exchange smacked of something familiar. I wracked my brain trying to determine what it could be. Literally 2 nights later the movie White Chicks was on TV and the bells sounded off in my head like sirens. I realized my kids were having their own Yo Mama Off, only it was the Marin County preschool boy version.

In the movie, Marcus and Kevin Copeland, played by the Wayans brothers, are cops cleverly undercover as 2 white sisters, hence the title. The White Girls get into a Yo Mama Off with Megan and Heather Vandergeld, your stereotypical rich bitch Hampton society bimbos. After Megan insults the White Chicks' mother for shopping at Saks Fifth Avenue, one of them retorts, "Your mama is so dumb she went to Dr. Dre for a pap smear."

To which Heather Vandergeld scoffs, "Oh yeah, well your mother is so stupid that she exercises when she could just get like, liposuction or something."

As someone whose fanship of the Wayans brothers ended with In Living Color, I must confess that the movie struck me on a couple of levels. First, I found the predictably played out blunders that the brothers experience as they try to pose as women comical. That's right, I laughed when I watched it, a lot. But it also struck a deeper chord. The verbal lashings each side gave to one another in the movie reminded me so much of my kids, each rebuttal getting lamer and more ridiculous, that it made me think - Why couldn't I script a movie using my kids as a foundation? The writing would be significantly better, and the content about equal in quality to White Chicks.

Eureka! I finally found a use for my kids besides as bitter fodder in my undersubscribed blog!

By the way, for those who don't see the humor in the whole 'Yo Mama' genre of jokes, I apologize for the poor representation in this post. They really are hilarious. I hope that the following will restore your faith, peak your interest, or at least make you smile. Or maybe Yo Mama jokes are like the Wayans brothers, you either tolerate them or you hate them. Whatever the case may be, this is one of my favorites.

'Yo mama so fat you have to grease the door frame and hold a twinkie on the other side just to get her through.'

A Beautiful Mind

2011-02-15T20:21:00.000-08:00

Charlie has always been a child who loves structure and routine, yet revels in the disorder he can create. While a steadfast observer of all traffic and safety related rules, the ones regarding basic treatment of your fellow man are virtually ignored; like don't hit and tease if you want your friends to play with you; or don't wrap wires, cords or rope around your brother's neck. As he gets older, the set of rules by which he governs his life continues along divergent paths, making him ever difficult to predict and follow.

For the past 9 months Charlie has been obsessed with the door to his bedroom and making sure it is shut every single time he leaves. Even if he's just going to visit the bathroom, which is literally next to his room, that door gets closed. But be mindful that the door is not closed all the way. The frame and the edge of the door are touching ever so slightly, but the smallest crack of light needs to be left. I learned the hard way the importance of proper crack allotment to my son. "Mommy, Jeez Louise! How many times do I have to tell you? (said with eyes rolling) You have to close my door but not really close it. See, like this. NOT LIKE THIS. Do you see the difference?"

At times it feels as if he's declared Martial law on the little 9 x 10 ft box that is his room. Some of the directives of Charlie's regime are easy to follow, like how much crack is too much or not enough, other rules leave us walking on egg shells, hoping we don't misstep. Most specifically those applying to the highly regulated, and ever growing mass of 'stuff' in his boudoir.

At the end of Charlie's bed, on his dresser, the shelves of his closet, and now under his bed, there is a collection of, well, shit. His closet naturally houses the largest amount of trash - silly putty, old gun holster from his policeman costume, furry bear key chain, remote control car. It's like the closet of forgotten toys that needs to be purged. But try telling that to Charlie, it's all sacred space to him.

On his footboard, he's a little more particular about the arrangement of his treasures. Though most of the items seem to be worthless left over birthday party gift bag trash - 5 used glow sticks (and not an ounce of glow left in them), 1 set of LEGO wheels, 1 pair of childproof scissors, 1 small silver tin pail, 1 pink birthday candle, 1 pumpkin shaped flashlight.

Saving things as memorabilia of fun times past, this I get. But I'm not sure what to think about the rest of the items at the foot of his bed - 1 roll of duct tape, 1 Dixie cup with a single black feather, 1 pair of broken plastic pliers, 1 broken plastic camera, a wad of fake money (mostly $5's and $20's), 1 Edna Valley Chardonnay cork, and 5 clumps of cut hair.

Why are these things on display? It almost appears to be a shrine of evidence honoring some gruesome crime that's been committed (Can you tell I'm a Law & Order junkie?).

But alas, even the most seemingly worthless of trinkets, no matter how bizarre in nature, have rules attached to them.

Rule #1 - Positioning of items - 4 of the 5 glow sticks are to be laid directly next to one another with the fifth placed exactly in the middle of the footboard. Do not try to group all 5 glow sticks together to create some kind of symmetry . Everything has it's place and do not question the divine order of all things Charlie.

Rule #2 - Terms of use - none of the afore mentioned items may be borrowed at any time, whether their owner is using them or even present in the house is immaterial. 'I will know if you use my scissors when I'm at school Gregory, and I will cut you.'

Rule #3 - Appropriate cleaning techniques - do not change position of any items even by 1 cm as their owner will know immediately upon entering his room if something has been moved. No consolidation/neatening allowed; the glow sticks would not look better if they were stored in the silver tin pail.

Rule #4 - Replacement items - do not attempt to switch out items with something of lesser or equal value. The Edna Valley Chardonnay cork is worth WAY more than the Penfolds Shiraz. Do not ask why, it just is. And the children's scissors must be from CVS because they cut better than the ones from the Dollar Store.

Rule #5 - Hair - there are no real rules for the clumps of hair under the foot of his bed. I was actually allowed to clean them up, thank goodness. Charlie decided one day that his hair was too long and bothered him so he cut it. He threw the clippings under his bed to avoid being found out. Incidentally, his favorite place to cut from is on the right side of his head just above his ear. So I guess there are rules even here.

To Charlie there is an order to the chaos of his 'stuff' that reminds me of the Coen brothers' movie, "A Serious Man" (yawn). In the film, the protagonist's unemployed, wacky brother, Arthur, sleeps on his couch and spends his days filling his Mentaculus book with equations and formulas that will, he claim, tie together all natural laws.

Disappointingly, Arthur's character is never really developed past this point, when you do get to see his Mentaculus book, it looks like the writings of a madman, but if you look just a little deeper, you might just catch a glimpse of genius. Like on Law & Order (damn it, I can't stop) when they finally get that search warrant for the apartment of the serial killer who's evaded detectives for decades. They enter and every square inch of wall is covered with numbers, letters, shapes, pictures, drawn in human blood but in these cool nonsensical, circular patterns that just scream out CRA-ZAY-ZEE and guilty (BTW, Arthur is later arrested for solicitation and sodomy).

Do I think my son is a paranoid schizophrenic or a serial killer in the making? No, of course not. Even the famous Carl Jung believed, In all chaos there is a cosmos, in all disorder a secret order.

I'm just hoping some day to see the genius in the madness and not vice versa.

The Last Frontier

2011-01-26T11:15:00.000-08:00

Every aspect of my life has been invaded by my kids - my thoughts, dreams, bank account, potty time. Even my phone conversations are no longer private. Charlie asked me the other day why I wanted Yia Yia (my mom) to get special love from a Chinese person on her trip. It took me a minute to figure what he was talking about when I realized he had been eaves dropping on my conversation with her.

I was concerned as my mother, who has been suffering from sciatica, was embarking upon a 13 hour plane flight to China. My advice to her, should the sciatica flare up while abroad, embrace the practice of eastern medicines. I think my exact words were, 'Don't be afraid to ask a nice Chinese man to give that sciatic nerve some love by sticking needles in your butt.'

My last frontier of privacy seems to be the shower. I've never been a big fan of the bath; sitting in dirty bath water, ick. Even before kids, I got in, soaped and rinsed the necessary bits and pieces, and got out. But lately I have really begun to embrace the long shower. Not only do I appreciate that when the water is running I can't hear anything going on outside, but I can actually hear myself think inside because I'm alone (my kids hate the shower). It's like a little oasis of quiet.

It's just so peaceful and quiet in there - did I already mention that? It really has become the perfect refuge from my motherly duties. When one of the kids comes in to complain that his brother breathed on him 'so hard', that they need some water with no ice in a red cup with no top and no straw, or that they require me to fast forward through the commercials to get to the next episode of Tom & Jerry, there's no yelling or negotiating necessary. A) I can't do anything about it because I'm in the shower and B) I can't hear them! There's also C) That I really don't care, but that doesn't get me out of anything because my kids will just nag me to death until I comply with their demands.

My average shower time has increased from about 4 minutes up to 10 just in the last few months, and I may keep going. The Guinness Book of Records states that the longest shower was recorded at 101 hours, that's more than 4 days. Sounds like heaven to me. But here's the rub, or should I say scrub, that record was set by a group of 10 people, though 3 dropped out from exahustion. They each took turns, many of them sleeping standing up, and with no more than a 10 minute break per hour. Breaks? Sounds like cheating to me. A 17 year old boy was among the participants. What was his motivation? What does he have to hide from, the SAT's and teenage acne? Maybe he has bad parents who complain about him in a public forum.

I bet I could get a group of 10 mothers together - and none would drop out from exhaustion - tell them that there is only one rule, stay in the shower and no kids will bother you. Each mom would stay in for 1 day at a time, no breaks necessary, because obviously you can just pee in the shower, and of course, breaks are for sissies. And would you really want to take the chance that during that 10 minutes outside of the shower/safe haven, one of your kids would find you and whine for you to get them a snacksandwichdrinkcookiecheesestick, retrieve a piece of gum from their brother's hair, or wipe their butt. I guarantee those 10 women could keep that going for a month, easy. 101 hours, pah-lease.

Gregory the Girl

2011-01-12T20:10:00.000-08:00

Well over a year ago I wrote about Charlie's propensity for calling his brother girl names. While Gregory is still a beautiful child, his girlish qualities are limited mostly to his long, lush eyelashes and his squealing. But that has not stopped Charlie from still referring to him as Mrs. Bentney. Stephanie is still around, too, along with a few new ones like Mary Garcia, Gloria, and one of the most inventive, Jessica Hairdryer.

Now that Gregory is 3 he actually understands that Charlie is teasing him. Much to Charlie's chagrin, his brother usually tries to ignore his initial attempts to get a rise out of him. In those cases Charlie goes for the jugular and flat out calls him Gregory the Girl. That elicits one of the following responses, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. WAAAAAAAAHHHHH." or "Mommy, Charrie called me a girr (we're having some trouble with our 'L's)."

Sigh. Greg, are you a girl?

Sniff, sniff, "No."

Then go tell Charlie that!

"Charrie! I am NOT A GIRR."

And it never just stops there, does it?

Even a solid argument based on the indisputable fact that Gregory is not a girl can deter him. Charlie the brilliant manipulator moves onto his next tactical advance. "Gregory, you can be Gregory, but you will not get any dessert tonight. Or you can be Gregory the Girl and you can have cake, ice cream, chocolate chips, anything you want really. Do you want dessert?"

Like leading a lamb to slaughter, Gregory falls for it. "Yes, I want dessert."

"Okay, then if you want dessert you have to be Gregory the Girl, because if you are just Gregory, then no dessert. So which one is it?"

"I am Gregory the girr."

"Ha ha ha, you are a girl. Gregory is a girl."

"Nooooo, Mommy, Charrie called me a girr."

Dana is another new persona that has been added to Charlie's repertoire of names. This morning the boys were playing Legos before school. Gregory was trying to build a dump truck but was frustrated because he couldn't find any wheels. He asked Charlie to help him search for some. Charlie said, "Well, is your name Dana?"

Gregory of course says, "No, it's Gregory Goldstein."

"If your name is Dana then I can help you find some wheels for your dump truck, but if your name is Gregory, I can't help you, sorry. So are you Dana or are you Gregory."

And with no argument, Gregory concedes, "I am Dana. Now will you get me the wheels?"

Like a lot of Charlie's verbal attacks on his brother, they are as random as they are senseless or non sensical to be exact. Just the other day in the car Charlie says, "Gregory is Jessica Hairdryer."

I kind of chuckled at that one, but Gregory didn't even bat an eye.

Again it comes, "Gregory, you are Jessica Hairdryer."

Every once in a while we get a glimpse that Gregory could be a contender in these mind mastery games of his brother's.

Gregory says, "No, I AM Hairdryer. YOU are Jessica, Charrie."

Quite satisfied with himself, he sits back and smiles.

Never to be outdone, Charlie retorts, "No Gregory, Jessica is the one who gets to play with the train table. Hairdryer is me, because Hairdryer is 5 and I'm 5, so you have to be Jessica. You want to play with the train table, right?"

The logic is mind numbing.

Gregory is like, OK, you had me at train table, I am Jessica.

It's not always easy pickings for Charlie. After numerous failed attempts to get under his skin and at least a half dozen female monikers slung his way, sometimes Greg won't take the bait and stomps off to his room to play by himself. But never fear, when preliminary attacks fail to illicit a response from his brother, Charlie brings out the big guns. Not only is my eldest an extremely smart, evil genius, but the kid can carry a tune to boot.

He'll follow Gregory into his room singing his insults to the tune of Air Supply's 'Lost in Love', with a few changes to the lyrics (the Greatest Hits of Air Supply has been Charlie's favorite CD for 3 months running now).

"Gregory is a girl and he don't know much/ He was thinking aloud when he fell out of touch/ Now he's back on his feet and eager to show he's a giiiiirrrrrl/ Gregory is a girrl/ Gregory is a girrl/ Gregory is a girrrrrr-herrrrr-herrr-erl."

I think that CD might be finding a new home very soon.

OxiCrisis

2010-12-14T13:24:00.000-08:00

When I find a product that I love I'll tell anyone within ear shot about it, whether they want to know or not. Good products that serve me well become my obsession, and like all extreme behaviors, mine borders on the obnoxious. Yummi Yogurt, Natori Bras, Kinerase C8-Peptide Treatment, the Athleta All That Pant; I love these products and I want others to love them, too. I'm sure some shrink could have a psychological heyday with my need for external validation, but enough about my mother's short comings, back to the products.

I've been at the bank before and overheard a woman, no less than 5 people in front of me, discuss her absolute desperate search for a decent, cute raincoat that she could wear out with the kids or to work. Those were the only words I needed to hear as I weaseled my way forward, inserting myself into the conversation. I told this woman in excruciating detail about THE perfect rain coat. The North Face Grace Jacket. The one that would cover her butt, had a hood, was belted, and feminine, so as not to make her look like a hobbit from Lord of the Rings. I knew it's exact cost, including tax, it's whereabouts in the greater Bay Area (it's sold out at REI), and color options. I cut an entire bank line, contributed my unsolicited 2 cents, then trotted off on my merry way. I was so pleased with myself, that not only did I forget the banking I needed to do, but I was completely oblivious to the shell shocked stare this woman followed me with as I went to my car.

One could say I'm an evangelist of sorts and almost as delusional as the ones you see on TV; with a strong held belief that bestowing my knowledge upon the less fortunate will make the world a better place. It's my G_d given right. But this next product really will change your life, or at least your laundry; and if you have kids, goodness knows you can feel that laundry is your life.

Enter my 5 year obsession with OxiClean; the one in the blue spray bottle, not the powdered crap that you have to mix yourself. I love it so much. I know, it all sounds a bit dramatic, maybe a touch shallow right? But even more shallow than that is my fondness of material things; clothes, purses, furniture, anything cashmere. And when something happens to ruin those things - like Desitin being smeared on my favorite oriental carpet - I go crazy.

First, I hate wasting money (my husband might argue that point). It's also a huge inconvenience to have to go out and buy things like new white t-shirts every week because my kids have yet to grasp the concept that after finger paints, hand sanitizer does not take the place of soap and water. Second, and most important, it's a major let down when I can no longer wear my favorite jeans that make my butt look like the white girl's version of J-Lo (not really) because they have Sharpee scribbles all over them.

OxiClean, savior of my sanity, and all things material. If I could, I would marry it. Even my kids, when I get them empty spray bottles at the store for water play, they pretend the water is "Ox", short for OxiClean. "Hey Gregory, your face looks like a big poop, let me spray some Ox on it." Yup, he's right, it can get out poop stains, too.

But for every yin, there is a yang; a dark side when a beloved product lets me down, or G_d forbid, disappears. This past month has tested my limits as a human being. There has been an OxiClean shortage in the Bay Area. Target, Safeway, Rite Aid, CVS, and all of my local markets have been cleaned out. The shelves are empty, my laundry basket is full, full of stained clothes waiting to be pre-treated with this magic potion.

The moms and teachers (custodians, deliverymen, secretaries) at the boys' school have heard me bitching and moaning about my plight, my search for OxiClean. Some of the Oxi ignorant question, "What's so great about OxiClean? Just use Shout, it's the same thing." Oh no you di'int go using the s-word on me, girlfriend.

I don't mean to stereo type, but every single one of them was a mom of only girls. They admitted to not having any real stain issues and politely asked, "So what do you use it for?"

You name it, breast milk, grease, permanent marker, blood.

"Blood?"

Yes, blood.

Next came the scrunched up facial expression begging the question, "Is she joking?"

No, Mary Poppins, I'm not.

One of my fellow moms who also recognized the virtues of OxiClean was so horrified to hear of the shortage, she actually went home to see if she could spare a bottle out of her own stash. Sorry to say she could not. I am my own worst enemy here. I talked/obsessed about the crisis so much, I scared her into hoarding mode. Fortunately, my own mother came to the rescue, sending 4 bottles to me straight from CT, and priority mail no less. Sorry for the psychology dig earlier, Mom. Kids these days are so ungrateful.

Hello Stranger

2010-09-20T20:05:00.000-07:00

Yes, I know, the entries have been few and far between. It's not that I don't have anything to complain about - not enough sleep or personal time, the extra 10 lbs I can't get rid of, my family, etc. But things have been good, calmer for some reason. I think being back into the routine of school has mellowed me and the kids out. That daily nagging question of 'Gosh, what are we going to do today?', is gone. As is the depression that follows when we realize we're heading to the park with the same peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and non toxic BPA free water bottles as the prior 57 days.

Just when I think I can breathe a sigh of relief, the boat gets rocked, and hard. So here I am writing, bitching, sharing, healing.

We are at some friend's house for dinner last night. It's warm enough for the kids to eat outside which means a relatively quiet meal for the adults. Dessert is birthday cake. You know the stays moist for 2 weeks, deliciously over processed sheet cake from Safeway, with it's frosting so sugary it coats your teeth. Mmmm. Charlie naturally devours his piece as do I.

After, the boys decide they need to whip up round 2 of dessert in the play kitchen. They begin to set up their ice cream cone stand. Charlie is doing a lot of mixing and freezing. Gregory is making a mockery of Charlie's prep work by stealing the ice cream and serving it to me on fancy little dessert plates. Charlie is pissed and screams, "It's NOT READY YET!'

Gregory simply ignores him and proceeds to ask me what other flavors I want.

Charlie yells, "Gregory, you stupid, I'm not done getting it ready."

Gregory continues on, "You want banilla or chocrate, Mommy?"

Charlie walks up to him with the plastic ice cream scoop, pokes him in the eye then kicks him in the shin. "That's what you get." Of course Gregory is hysterically crying.

Outside onto the porch we go to 'cool off', where Charlie proceeds to tell me why the violence against his brother is justified. "Mommy, Gregory is bad. He's not listening to me and how I want my ice cream store run so I hit him."

Okay, Charlie. I understand you are frustrated with him. But why don't you let him serve some ice cream early or come up with a way he can play, too.

"I hate him, he's stupid and I'm going to do this my way or else he can't play."

Bud, I think you and I need to stay out here for a minute. You are tired and maybe you need to take a break from playing with your brother.

"No, I was in the kitchen first. I get to play there. He's stupid."

Okay, enough with the stupid. Do you think you can play nicely with your brother?

Grumble, grumble, "Yes, but he's still stupid."

We return to the house. Charlie goes back to his work at the freezer while I sit down. Sure enough, Gregory tries to take my ice cream order again. "Mommy, you rike da chocrate?" Charlie goes ballistic. This time he has the sink from the kitchen set and smashes it into the back of his brother's head, screaming the entire time, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO." Back out to the patio we go.

Sit here! You do not hurt your brother. Stay here for 5 minutes and I'll come get you once you've calmed down.

I shut the sliding door and Charlie immediately gets up, sobbing. He presses his face against the glass, screaming, "Let me in. Let me in. LET ME IN, MOMMMMYYYY!"

I cannot believe my kid is this upset over plastic ice cream. The whole thing is ridiculous so I just start laughing. Probably not the smartest choice. Charlie is now kicking the glass and punching it. Screaming that he hates me at the top of his lungs.

And it's time to go.

We start to head out, say our hurried goodbyes. Charlie is still crying, except now that he doesn't want to leave. We are literally walking out the door and the kid hauls off and punches me, tells me he's not going. Oh beautiful boy, why must you go and hurt your mama like that? Now I gotta yell at you in front of our friends, give them a glimpse of the belly of the beast.

Charlie, go to the car NOW!

"No!"

GO. TO. THE. CAR. NOW!!!!!

"You're stupid", and he runs to the car

As he gets in, I tell him to climb up and buckle himself in or else I will drive down the street and leave him on the corner.

Our friends inner horrification is seeping out through their smiles as they wave goodbye, relieved my kid is not their kid. Or maybe they're just happy to see us go. We head home, it's a quiet car ride. At home, Charlie passes out in about 2 seconds and I am reminded of a valuable lesson - highly refined, white sugar is a weapon of evil when consumed by an overtired child and his mama. Damn you, Birthday Cake, damn you.

Capturing the Cuteness

2010-08-11T21:09:00.000-07:00

When it comes to my kids, I am not a sentimental person. I never oohed and aahed over them as babies. There is no baby book for either one. I kept an infant outfit for each which I'm sure I shoved in the bottom of a drawer somewhere. I know when they walked, and generally when they talked, but I just assume their first words were 'mama' or 'dada'.

Whenever one of my friends whips out their elegantly scrap booked baby shrine, shows me their kids first hair cut clipping, or proofs from their latest professional photo session, I do not feel guilty. I'm not a baby person, never have been. While others mourned the end of breastfeeding and infant car seats, I cheered the 10 month milestone of my kids being able to hold their own bottle and sit in a regular chair at the table. My goal has always been how can I get them to be as self sufficient as possible - in hopes that they'll leave me alone long enough to update this damn blog (obviously failing on that front as well since my last post was May).

Parents of grown children always lament to me about how childhood is fleeting. "Before you know it, you wake up and they're off to college." My typical response is a hopeful, Really? Promise? Maybe if I close my eyes tight, and click my ruby slippers together, when I wake up I'll be off this carousel of monotony that is my life - breakfast, park, lunch, ride bikes at park, dinner, bed - round and round I've been going for 5 years. My kids are endlessly demanding of my attention, it's a wonder I can even breathe. Sometimes I can't wait for them to grow up and move onto that next phase of maturity, like riding the bus to school or finding their own apartment.

But this summer I may have had a change of heart. The boys and I spent 3 weeks visiting my Mom on the east coast. She lives in the same house where I grew up since I was 7. Our wonderful neighbors are still across the street keeping as close a tab on my kids as they did on me during my teen years. Except now I'm watching their children, who I babysat, get married, graduate from dental school, and have babies themselves. How did that happen? And where does that leave me with my non existent baby books and lack of professional photos? Maybe those empty nesters speak the truth.

Overnight I feel this sense of urgency to commit everything about my kids to memory. How can I capture these moments so I can be reminded exactly of how they were at this time? Kind of like when you get a whiff of new baby smell, it just sends you back (Okay, so I don't hate babies and I'm a little sentimental). Lord knows I cannot rely upon my current brain cells to handle this task. This morning rather than being bothered to throw the Cheerios out of Gregory's car seat and into the garbage, I ate them. They were stale and I didn't care. Don't judge.

Charlie is now 5. I take comfort that no matter what stage he's at - past, present, or future -he'll be smarter than me. Even I can remember that. He casually offers up observations like, "Mommy, I'm no detective, but that cloud formation sure looks like an upper and lower case 7." I just cannot believe he is mine, let alone a kid. I also know he'll always be funnier than I am. On one of our many side of the road emergency pit stops, Charlie was doing his thing and said, "If the fire chief drives by, I bet he'll think there's a firetruck over here because of how big my stream is." Did I mention humble, too.

But it's when I think about Gregory, at 2.5+ years, that I become truly desperate. He is at this stage of unbelievable innocence and pure love; still very much a baby that needs his mama yet on the cusp of growing facial hair. When I am going out or dropping him at school, I always say, "Give me a kiss." To which he responds, "And ew (you) give me a hug." As I walk out the door, there is an urgent plea, "Wait Mommy, I need anudder hug. Oh yeah, and kiss, too." He hugs and kisses me again and says, "I wuv ew. Be carefuw, Mommy." He is sweetness personified.

He is my last baby and about 15 cases of diapers away from becoming a mouthy 5 year old who rolls his eyes at me and tells me how 'annoying' I am. I can't say I can recall the specifics of Charlie at this age. There are vague memories of a sweet boy with blond curly hair and the vocabulary of an English professor. Though in my defense, I had just popped Gregory out. I was so sleep deprived Charlie could have been speaking fluent Russian and I wouldn't have given it a second thought. Sorry, Chuck, if only I had kept a baby book. I guess you'll have to settle for a blog entry.

Maplevizer, Inc.

2010-05-10T22:35:00.000-07:00

On our Mother's Day hike yesterday, the kids were doing what they do best, playing with sticks. Gregory had a long, curved stick that was, 'Blowing moke on da fire.' Charlie had a huge limb with tons of smaller branches. What do you have Charlie? 'This is my maplevizer. I use it for smoking bad guys and making them dead.'

We walked a little further talking about maplevizers. Brian and I decided we should start a company called Maplevizer Consultants. We're not sure what we would do, but we'd have a cool name and would surely be successful.

'Mommy, now my maplevizer is a shooter, but not like a shooter gun for bad guys. It shoots love. Watch.' He points, aims, and shoots it at me. Cute. Then he proceeds to chuck it down the side of a ravine. 'Yeah, that maplevizer was really heavy, I needed get rid of it.' It was nice while it lasted.

Charlie loves to make up words. Even the childish games he invents have catchy, interesting names like Fita and Taber Mamah. Every week or so a new word gets added to the mix. If there was a business for word creation, my kid would get hired right now. Wait, isn't that advertising? Or is it marketing? Never mind.

We have a small plastic wagon that used to hold some Duplo Blocks. We've been using it to store our massive Hot Wheels/Match Box collection, until Charlie realized Gregory could fit inside of it. He loves to pull his brother all over the house going as fast as he can. When the need for speed hits, Charlie will yell, 'Hey Gregory, come and get into the compoundown.' - aka the wagon. I have no idea where compoundown comes from, but it has a certain ring to it. The kid has a gift.

As I was loading the boys into the car some months ago, Charlie beckoned, 'Gregory, come in here quick. I need your help with the benemehno.' The what? 'The benemehno. Gregory, get in here now before it gets away.' The definition is a moving target depending on the day you ask. Yesterday, benemehno was a lot of dots in one place. Really? 'Well Mommy, what it means to me is that there are a bunch of dots all together and it means the same thing to Ari.' Interesting.

What other words do you have that you can teach me?

'None, they're all worn out so I don't use them. Except when I'm going poop because I like to talk about them in private.'

I guess he's shy about his creative genius. The advertising world will have to wait.

Cruella De Mommy

2010-04-29T22:14:00.000-07:00

Gregory is petrified of spiders, or 'piders' as he calls them. He hates them so much that the sight of one can stop him cold, and is usually followed by a piercing scream, 'Pider!' Every dust ball, piece of hair, or thread, renders a shriek, 'Pider web!' Brian dislikes all bugs, but is particularly phobic of spiders; like father like son.

Perhaps it was his high pitched screams whenever an 8 legged creature appeared. The pleas, "Honey, come get it. Come get it and kill it. NOW!" Or the fact that Mommy is known as the spider catcher/saver/terminator in our house. Whatever the clue, Gregory figured out his old man's achilles heel and clearly used this information for his own personal gain.

The first night I was away at my grandmother's memorial, Brian allowed Gregory to sleep in our bed. This is something we try to avoid at all costs in our household. Once you let a kid into your bed, they're like fleas or a bad house guest, they take up residence and are impossible to get rid of. So in our bed is where Gregory stayed for the next 3 nights until my return.

As the story goes, Brian put Gregory to bed after his usual story and song routine. Of course the boy talked to his monkey, jumped up and down in his crib, sang 'Celebration', pretty much did anything but sleep. Brian popped his head into the bedroom and said, "Hey, it's time to rest your body so lay down and go to sleep."

"Aw wight", was the response.

No sooner was Brian out the door when the, "Daddy. Daddy. Daddy? DADDY!!!!" started.

Trip number 2, Brian told Gregory that Charlie was asleep and he needed to quiet down.

The obligatory, "Okay, Daddy", and I'm sure he laid back down just to keep up appearances.

According to Brian, this went on a few more times until he threatened Gregory with shutting the door and turning out the light.

I can picture my husband snuggled back into bed and focused on his own slumber, until, "Daddy. Da-dee. DA-DEE. DAAAAA-DEEEEE." Pillow covering the ears, blanket pulled over the head, all meager defenses against the whiney voice of a 2 1/2 year old who is being ignored. And Gregory, a graduate of Grand Master Chief Charlie's toddler bootcamp, knew that in the face of adversity any good soldier went for the jugular. And so he did, "PIDER! PIDER! Daddy, there's a pider."

Brian was definitely spoiled up until my departure. I was the parent awoken when one of the kids even breathed funny. Noises loud or soft, my husband often slept right through unaware that I had been up a half dozen times. The poor man was ill prepared. Exhausted and fully manipulated by Gregory's knowledge of his own arachnophobia, Brian uttered those fatal words, "Do you want to sleep in Daddy's bed?"

Sucker.

Fast forward to Mommy's first night back home and it was pretty much an instant replay of the past 3 evenings. First the "Mommy. Mommy. Mommy?"

"Go to sleep, Gregory."

Then the, "Mommy, I need a drink of water. I need water."

Get up, trudge down the hall, "If I get you a drink of water are you going to go to sleep?"

"Yes, but I want water from the bathroom and I drink it out of the blue cup."

I get the water and before giving it to him, make him swear upon his monkey's life, "If I give this to you, you're going to lay down, right?"

"Yes."

"Here you go. Now go to sleep."

"Ok, Mommy."

Not five minutes later I hear, "I want to sleep in Mommy's bed. I want to sleep in Mommy and Daddy's bed."

Perhaps it was the jet lag or the feeling of the cold ass floor on my feet for the sixth time that caused me to snap. I marched into his room. He smiled as I glared. I said, "Gregory, if you do not go to sleep, I will get a spider from the hallway and put it into your bed. Do you understand?"

A barely audible, 'yes', escaped his lips. His poor little eyeballs almost popped out of his head. But wouldn't you know that boy laid down and went to sleep.

As I crawled back into my own bed, Brian asked what happened. When I told him he said, "You are cruel." Then promptly rolled over and fell back asleep.

I was cleaning up his mess, you would have thought he'd have been a little more grateful.

Legacy of a Life

2010-04-13T21:00:00.000-07:00

My grandmother died this past Easter Sunday. After 94 + years on this planet, a nasty bout of pneumonia and bronchitis finally caused her body to say, 'Enough'.

I flew back east for her memorial which was a true celebration of her life. Her pastor performed an amazing service talking about my grandmother's Legacy of Life; family, education, love of nature, perseverance, charity, and a strict no BS policy. We laughed and cried as we told wonderful stories about how she instilled all of these values not only in her 4 children, but her 9 grandchildren and 12 great grandchildren.

My grandmother stood maybe a hair taller than 5 foot, but had the presence, and sometimes the mouth, of a man 6 feet tall; that woman loved a good dirty joke. She was humbled and frequently embarrassed by her 8th grade education even though she received her GED at the age of 43. She loved museums, the theater, her grandchildren's concerts, anything that fell under the heading of culture. She could identify any bird by sight as well as sound. Knew exactly how and when to plant each vegetable, fruit, and flower in the garden. She could shoot, pluck and dress a game bird. The woman actually knew what squirrel tasted like.

When we went to Grammy's house for holidays, birthdays, Sunday dinners, no matter what was put on your plate, you had to try everything. "At least one bite", was her famous line. Upon entering her kitchen, the words everyone dreaded were, "Well, I decided to try out a new recipe; something a little different." 'A little different' usually meant a new type of jello mold - raspberry jello with peanuts, celery and apples - or a new way to serve squash - pureed with nuts and raisins. We were expected to eat these unappetizing concoctions or suffer the wrath of Grammy. A wrath so great, I actually waited until she was dead before committing any of this to paper.

We chose not tell Charlie right away about my grandmother's death. There was great uncertainty on how to broach the subject. We didn't want to say she died because she was old; to Charlie I am considered old and knowing how the literal brain of a 4 year old works, you can imagine where that explanation could lead us. I also didn't want to tell him she was sick; both of his grandparents were sick on their last visit here for Passover. Although at times they both acted like it could possibly be the end, as only dramatic Jewish grandparents can, the common cold does not qualify as terminal illness.

Brian and I decided to wait until I returned home for fear that Charlie might think I went away and would not come back like great Grammy. Call it paranoid or preparedness, the last thing you want is for your child to be scared or suffer from doubts or insecurities about a subject like death, that can be so dark and final.

We consulted Charlie's teacher, borrowed a few of her books from which I took pieces that were appropriate to our situation. I liked a book called 'Nana Upstairs, Nana Downstairs' quite a bit, but mostly because the great grandmother, Nana Upstairs, was 94 like my Grammy, and Tommy, the great grandson, was 4 like Charlie. At the end Tommy saw a shooting star and interpreted that as a kiss sent down from Nana Upstairs, very sweet. 'Wilfrid Gordon McDonald Partridge', by Julie Viva, brought tears to my eyes. It's about a little boy who lives next to a nursing home and helps one of it's residents, Miss Nancy, try to get her memory back even though Wilfrid doesn't know what the word memory means. But the majority of the language we used came from a book called 'I Miss You', by Pat Thomas.

This morning I asked Charlie if he knew why I had gone to Yia Yia's (my mom) this weekend?
He said, "No, why?"
I told him that great Grammy had died.
"For real?", he asked.
Yes, for real. Do you know what that means, that she died?
"No, what?"
It means that her body stopped working. Her heart, her eyes, her brain, her arms, her legs, all stopped working and so she died.
"Like her eyes closed when she went to sleep?"
Yes, except that she will not wake up. When we go to Yia Yia's this summer, great Grammy will not be there like she usually is.
"That's okay Mommy because I have lots of cousins who will be there."
That is true, you're lucky. Great Grammy lived a very long life, you and your cousins have lots of memories to remember her by.
"Kind of like when someone dies and they raise a flag half way to remember them."
That's right.
"That's so sad. Can I have some yogurt now?"

And that was it. The conversation Brian and I had hashed out dozens of times, talked about endlessly, consulted books about, and pretty much dreaded, just ended like we were talking about the weather. There have been other questions peppered throughout the week, like asking if she died alone and then telling Brian, 'When I died, I am going to give my whole family kisses but that will be before I died.'

Charlie's amazing ability to comprehend and discuss this heavy subject as well as my Grammy's memorial service gave me some much needed perspective. A). My kid is sensitive and not completely void of sympathy. B). Not once did any of my grandmother's children mention how many times they were spanked, punished, or yelled at; and she was old school, circa 1915, with belts hanging around every corner.

I'm trying to be kind to myself and not worry that every little thing I do to my kids is going to cause them irreparable harm for which I will be blamed. Lord knows they'll punish me enough during my lifetime. My hope is that I can instill enough of the values that I live by to create my own legacy; preferably one that won't involve time outs or hysterical fits of rage.

Every night at dinner my kids have something new on their plate to try. And like in great Grammy's house, they know that they have to eat at least one bite. However, when they do take that taste, I get up from my seat and jump in the air 3 times yelling, "Jack pot! Jack pot! Jack pot!" (Don't ask). I've gotten up in restaurants, homes of friends, as well as public picnic areas because my kids will eat just about anything in order to see their Mom leap like a lunatic yelling jack pot. Charlie said just the other night, "Gregory, you should be glad it's only a bite of peas (Gregory hates peas) and not great Grammy's jello with nuts, celery and apples." The Legacy of Grammy's Life lives strong in our household.

2010-03-04T20:51:00.000-08:00

This past Tuesday night Brian was working late which meant I was tasked with performing the bed time routine on my own. It's always an adventure in patience. "Okay, time to get jammies on. Time to brush teeth" are repeated so often the words are rendered meaningless.

We got home from dinner at my girlfriend's house and the boys were still coming down from their ice cream sandwich high. I let them bounce on Charlie's bed for a good 5 minutes with the hopes that it would tire them out. Oh naive Mommy, that just got them even more riled up.

I gave the 'Let's settle down' warning which was promptly ignored. The bouncing and giggling both continued elevating. Finally Charlie took a giant leap about 4 feet in the air, coming down square on top of Gregory's head with his jaw, then proceeded to sweep his legs out from under him as he rolled off the bed. Gregory flew like a Russian gymnast. Spiraling through the air, he landed on his head in such an awkward position, I was certain he had broken his neck.

To date I've been a pretty cool customer when faced with an injured child. I act calmly and rationally, applying pressure, Neosporin, or the Heimlich Maneuver when appropriate. But this was the first time one of the injuries could have been life altering. It looked so bad and I did not handle it well. Let me preface this next part by saying that I am not proud of my behavior.

Charlie is holding his mouth, screaming in pain. Gregory is making howling noises like an injured dog. As I go to straighten him out (he looks not unlike an accordion), I trip over Charlie's guitar; the one that was supposed to be put away prior to jumping on the bed. I stub my toe so hard it's probably broken and almost fall on top of Gregory. It's official, I have been pushed over the edge. I grab the guitar and smash it on the ground like I'm Jimi Hendrix reincarnated and let out the most primal scream, "Ahhhh! Charlie, move this stupid, flipping guitar."

Gregory is in my arms hysterical as I feel every bone in his body, frantically yelling, "What hurts? Tell Mommy what hurts?" Charlie is crying, "I'm hurt, too. I'm hurt, too." I grab him and hug him, checking his teeth and jaw. Everything is in tact and there is no sign of blood.
"You're fine", I say and get back to Gregory, who is at least moving but looking a little dazed as an enormous black and blue egg forms on his head.
Charlie starts crying even harder, "You broke my guitar. You broke my guitar. Waaaaahhhh."

For the record, I did feel bad about losing control, but not about smashing that guitar. Charlie had broken it the week after Christmas when he decided to jump on top of it like a trampoline. It also spent the better part of the month at the top of the linen closet in a permanent state of time out. Gregory wanted to see if he could make music by cracking the guitar against the back of his brother's head. Then Charlie and his buddy cut all of the strings off, rendering it unplayable. The guitar was living on borrowed time. I simply helped it along to it's grave, and probably in a more dignified manner.

Things inevitably quieted down. No trip to the ER, thankfully. I apologized for yelling and breaking the guitar, but explained that I was really scared that Gregory had gotten hurt. None of us made the best choices that evening, and we discussed how we could do things differently.

The next morning I overheard Charlie say to Brian, "Daddy, Mommy broke my guitar. Can I bring it to school for share?" I did a full sprint from the kitchen into the living room, "Honey, that guitar has lots of sharp pieces, I don't think it's safe to take it to school. And for the record, it was already broken."

F*CK

2010-02-21T20:43:00.000-08:00

As I've mentioned in the past, Brian and I are not big swearers. We'll slip with an occasional 'G_d Dammit' here or there, but that's the extent of our expletives around the kids. This has not been an easy transition for me as I love to swear, especially when I'm driving.

The boys know that Mommy is the best driver and everyone else is simply wrong and a hazard on the road. Nothing gets my point across like a good 'Fuck you buddy! Try to come into my lane without a signal and I'll ram you up the ass.' So satisfying, or at least it was.

If I really stretch it out beyond the point of recognition, maybe I can get away with, 'Jeeeeeeeeeeeesus, old woman! Give up your license for the love of Pete.' Charlie's catching onto me. He'll say, 'Mommy, I heard that bad word and who's Pete?' The atmosphere is a bit more forgiving when it's just me and Gregory in the car. I can sneak in a 'Dick wad' or 'Asshole', and he's none the wiser. But even now that little vacation to potty mouth land is coming to an end.

The other day when a woman cut in front of us on the highway, I scoffed, 'Jeez, lady, watch where you're going.' From the backseat I hear Gregory, 'You douche bag, lady.' Fortunately I was able to turn the radio up to muffle my laughter.

The other night we went out to dinner when my Mom was in town. We were finishing our pizza when the boys started asking about ice cream. Brian said let me check my wallet to make sure I have enough money. 'Yup, $26 ought to do it.' When she visits us, my Mom likes to pretend she's a high roller and not the first person to graduate college in a family of a sheet metal welder and factory worker from Schenectady. She tries hard not to let her jaw drop to the floor when we show her a million dollar, 3 bedroom, 1500 square foot house on a piece of land about the size of a postage stamp.

So of course, the contents of Brian's wallet begs her to ask, 'What kind of ice cream is this that's going to cost us $26?'
He jokes, 'Well you know, the boys like to get gummy bears and gold coins on their ice cream.' At least that's what I thought he said.

Charlie all of a sudden yells, "Fucking gold coins. Fucking gold coins." He is hysterical as we all stare shell shocked, trying not laugh ourselves. Gregory immediately picks up on the fact that his brother is getting some attention.
He starts in, "Fucking gold coins. Ha ha ha. Fucking gold coins."
The people at the next table are GLARING at the bad parents with the misbehaving kids. Not the first time this has happened folks so keep moving, nothing to see here.

Brian is pissed and embarrassed, 'Charlie! Gregory! We don't talk like that.'
They're both crazed as they sing in chorus, "Fucking gold coins, fucking gold coins."
'I guess you guys don't want ice cream?'
Silence.

Meanwhile, on the side Brian whispers to us, 'Did I say the 'f' word'? I don't think I said it. Did I say it?'
My Mom is insistent that he did not. But her specialty is agreeing with you no matter what you say or how wrong you are. She doesn't want to disagree because that could lead to confrontation; the 8th and lesser known of all the deadly sins.
I am personally not so convinced Brian hasn't said it. But my attention span these days, especially when my husband is talking, is about 2 seconds before it's in one ear and out the other.

Brian is now adamant that he has not dropped the f-bomb, shaking his head, questioning how our kids could even know this word. My Mother is equally as flabbergasted and fawning all over Brian's protests, 'I know, it's not like you to ever talk like that. I don't know what's going on.'
I'm kind of quiet and still unsure about the whole thing.

The debate rages on until Charlie interrupts, "Excuse me, Brian. You did say 'Fucking Gold Coins'."
Well, I guess that settles it. It's Brian's fault.

Will You Just Give Me a Minute

2010-01-26T13:08:00.000-08:00

I have always been a morning person. I got up without hitting snooze, could have a lucid conversation prior to ingesting caffeine, and had the ability to roll out of bed and be ready for work in 15 minutes, that's with a shower. Perhaps it's the luck of the genetic draw, or maybe it's because in the past, morning was my time. I could go for a run or take my time getting ready, wake up with a cup of coffee, read the paper. My choice, my life.

Now with my children in control of wake up (and my life) and robbing me of precious sleep every night, I am no longer a morning person. I calculated that I have not slept through the night in almost 5 years if you include the last few months of pregnancy. On the rare occasion when both of my kids sleep through the night, my bladder cannot, and when I'm up, I have to go check on them. There just seem to be a lot more cob webs to clear out these days and not enough time or peace in the morning to get to them all.

From the moment I set foot in the kitchen, I am met with a deluge of orders. I can muster enough brain power to form a single thought - coffee. Yes, that's what I should do first, make coffee. But my plans are waylaid by a demand for water. With ice. And in a cup with a straw. Not the red cup, but the blue one. What was I doing? Coffee, right.

As I make my way over to the cupboard to fulfill the order, another request, a command really, is immediately issued by my youngest. 'NO, I want the blue cup.'

Charlie of course counters by yelling, 'NO, I get it! I asked first.'

'No, Charlie not get it. I get it.'

Now there's screaming. For the love of Pete, it is 6:30 am and I have lost count of the number of scoops of coffee I just measured. What do I do? Do I just estimate the rest and risk the brew being the equivalent of rocket fuel? Should I empty the whole coffee filter and start from scratch? If I could just hear myself think for 5 seconds, I'm sure I could figure this out.

'No, I want it.'

'Stupid, Charlie.'

'Mommy! Gregory used a bad word and I should get the blue cup now.'

I'm paralyzed. Problem solving is not my strong suit when chaos is erupting around me. The voices in my head are one thing, but this is ridiculous.

We finally work through the water issue. By the way, no one got the blue cup, it's in the garbage. That's how Mommy rolls when people mess with her coffee. Now there are requests for breakfast.

'I want something from the refrigerator.'

What would you like, Charlie, yogurt?

'No.'

Cereal with milk?

'That doesn't come from the fridge.'

The milk does.

'No, the cereal doesn't so I don't want it.'

How about eggs?

'I don't eat eggs anymore.'

Since when?

'Since I told the wires in my brain not to like them.'

Oh. Grapes?

'Yeah, grapes would be good.'

Okay, grapes coming up. And I'll grab myself a cup of jo en route.

'I don't want grapes.'

Well Gregory, what do you want?

'I want pretzel rod.'

No, pretzels.

'I want popsicle.'

No.

How about some yogurt?

'Okay. I want vanilla.'

We only have blueberry.

'I no want blueberry.'

That's all I've got is blueberry. It's blue yogurt, way better than white.

'Okay.'

Okay!

I still haven't gotten my coffee and I don't even think Mark Geragos in the height of the Scott Peterson trial debated this much within an hour of his waking.

Finally, everyone has their food. I have my coffee and think I might sit down.

'Mommy, I'm done.' Or not.

Honey, I don't think just grapes is enough of a breakfast. You're going to get hungry at school.

'But I'm done.'

How about some yogurt, like Gregory?

'Okay, I'll have vanilla.'

Your screaming must have caused you to miss that part of the conversation earlier. There is only blueberry.

'But I want vanilla.'

Really? Really, Charlie? Are we going to play this game?

'What, Mommy?'

Blueberry or nothing.

'Okay, blueberry I guess. But you should really get vanilla when you're at the store next time. I like vanilla the best.'

Great.

I am now starving and need to eat my cereal before I go postal. My ass has not even formed an indentation on the seat cushion of the chair when I hear, 'I all done.'

Okay Greg, you're going to have to wait until Mommy finishes before I can help you.

'No, I all done now.'

Sorry, bud, let me eat then we'll get you something.

'No, now.'

No.

'Have some of Mommy's cereal?'

What's mine is yours kid and if it will keep you quiet, why not.

'Mommy, I don't want my yogurt anymore. I want some crackers with cheese, but it has to be orange mild cheddar, not the white mild cheddar.'

Charlie, finish your yogurt, that's what you asked for.

With tears brimming in his eyes, 'But Mommy, I didn't want the blueberry yogurt. I wanted vanilla and because you didn't get any at the store, I shouldn't have to eat blueberry. I want crackers with orange mild cheddar.'

I guess I should just get used to this. Everything will be my fault for the rest of my kids lives, or until they get a good therapist. I'm going to call mine right now.

Mommy Stupid

2010-01-12T20:28:00.000-08:00

Gregory loves the word stupid, more than Goldfish, juice boxes, and his Home Depot tool box combined. The more he says it, the more I cringe, twinge and yell, the more he loves it - ah, the circle of parenthood. We've tried just about every tactic short of caning to get him to stop using the 's' word.

1). Ignore it

After listening to himself repeat the word stupid 20 times with nary an eyebrow raise from Mom, Gregory turns it into a question in an attempt to illicit a response from anyone who is listening, 'Mommy stupid? Daddy stupid? Charlie stupid?'

Like a trout with a fat worm dangling on a hook, Charlie takes the bait, 'NO, I am not stupid! And you're not supposed to be using the word stupid, Gregory.'

Gregory is very pleased with himself, happy to have found a sparring partner. On the fly he changes tactics and boldly states, 'Charlie is stupid. Charlie is stupid.' (I like the addition of a verb for emphasis)

5...4...3...2...1...and, 'MOMMY!!!! Gregory is calling me STUPID. He's not supposed to use that word.'

'Charlie is stupid.'

'MOOOOMMMMMMY! Stop it Gregory. Wahhhh!'

Well, bud, you kind of walked into that one, making you not necessarily stupid, but a bit gullible. If you had just ignored him like me...

2). The Redirect

Sometimes when there is a lull in conversation at the dinner table, the boys take this to mean a breach in the parental defense system. As of late, 90% of the time we can count on Gregory to escalate things back up to defcon 1.

'Charlie stupid. Ha ha ha.'

Oh Gregory, let's think of another word to use like 'silly'. Charlie is silly, isn't he?

'No, Charlie stupid.'

What about a word that rhymes, like 'mupid' or 'wupid'. Could Charlie be mupid?

'Stupid, stupid, stupid.'

'Mommy - sniff sniff - tell Gregory to stop calling me stupid.'

'Stupid, Charlie, stupid.'

'Waaaahhhh! Stop it Gregory. You're stupid.'

3). Reasoning

We are riding in the car when out of the blue Gregory says, 'Mommy stupid. Mommy stupid.'

No Gregory, we don't say that.

'Mommy stupid. Hee hee hee.'

That's not nice, that hurts Mommy's feelings.

'Stupid Mommy. Stupid Mommy.'

It takes every ounce of self control not to turn around and smack him, as well as his father, who is trying to drive while muffling his snarky laughter.

Gregory, do you want us to go home and you can go right to bed?

'Pretty Mommy. Pretty Mommy.'

I shit you not, Brian and I burst into laughter.

4). Defeat

We are braving it at a local brew pub, having lunch with the boys and my Mom, our designated driver. I know I've previously written about our apprehension of restaurant dining with our children, but our logic here is sound and almost fool proof (almost). We've found that the amount of beer we drink is directly proportional to how well our kids behave. No beer, they're really bad, wreaking havoc upon our fellow diners. 1 beer, they're kind of annoying, but amusing us with their antics. 2+ beers and they are little angels with french fry halos, who we'll brag about to anyone within earshot.

Mercifully, the boys get their meals first. Then the waitress comes back specifically to ask them if their food is okay. It was quite sweet. My need to ensure the smallest of lessons not go untaught forces me to chime in, 'Wow, what a good server. She wanted to come check on you guys and make sure you liked your food. That was really nice. Wasn't that nice?'

Gregory's looks at me, 'Yeah, not stupid.'

Not stupid? I guess that could be another way of saying nice. Well done, Greg. That would be game, point, and match.

You Are So Annoying

2009-12-26T13:57:00.000-08:00

We decided to venture out to dinner last Monday, kids and all, to help Gregory's best buddy celebrate her birthday. It was a real honest to goodness adult restaurant; the majority of patrons could properly use their utensils and there was a noticeable absence of pb&j and hot dogs on the menu. How daring!

Most times we enter a restaurant with a certain amount of dread. But Brian and I were actually looking forward to a glass of wine, some good food and a few laughs with our friends. The boys were behaving, there was a nice open space next to the restaurant where they could run around. All of the forces of nature were aligning for us to have a great experience.

My girlfriend and I got to actually sit down to order appetizers and have a cocktail, while the Dads remained outside with all the kids. My mouth was anticipating the tuna tartare followed by Kansas City style ribs. Mmm.

We were inside no more than 5 minutes when the manager comes over to whisper in my friend's ear. Next thing she's telling me that I am needed outside, everything is fine, but Gregory has fallen. Damn it, my drink is on it's way. I should have known this would end badly. Brian and I were feeling way too good, maybe even a tad over confident.

Against every fiber of my being, my first question to the manager was not if I could get the tuna to go. I inquired if my child was conscious; which he was. He had fallen and hit his head on a large rock in the courtyard. As I approached, it occurred to me that Gregory could easily be a victim in a slasher movie. There was an endless supply of hysterical screaming as blood poured from his head down into his face. Goodbye ribs, hello ER.

25 minutes, 5 linen napkins, and 2 macaroni 'n cheeses with truffle oil (to go) later, Gregory and I are signed in at the nurses station of the ER. Charlie and Brian went off in search of food. Thankfully Gregory's wound did not require stitches, but his laceration needed to be glued shut. We were "fast tracked" to the non-severe section of the ER, far away from the contagious looking man wrapped in a dirty blanket, drenched in a feverish sweat, who of course decided to lay across all available seating next to the dirty waiting room toys that Gregory insisted on playing with.

This new waiting room was small, clean and empty. Charlie was able to eat and stay out of trouble, while we tended to Gregory; which entailed us physically restraining him. I held his legs, Brian pinned his arms, and the nurse had his head, while the doctor cleaned the wound to prep it for tape then glue. That boy cried like they were gutting him from head to toe. It was absolutely the worst sound I've heard as his poor face turned about as red as the blood that was smeared all over it.

The crying escalated to flat out shrieking, Charlie came running in with his dinner. He yelled, "Gregory! You're being so annoying, I can't even eat my pasta." He turns and looks at the doctor, "Don't you think he's being annoying?" So much for brotherly concern.

Now that the whole experience is behind us, I wonder, had our little bloody mishap not occurred, would we have had to leave the restaurant early (and bitter), with our dinners half eaten because Charlie decided to fling his pasta on the wall or Gregory spit his water at the next table? Perhaps the ER visit was the lesser of 2 evils - no food wasted, no embarrassing scenes that forced us to slip undetected out the emergency exit, leaving a wad of cash for our thankful waitress.

Was this the work of a higher power punishing us, trying to send the message that children - more specifically my children - do not belong in adult restaurants? Or could this have been a message of mercy, saving us from a fate far worse than a bloody forehead and an ER visit? I guess we'll never know, but from now on we're going to stay home and order pizza.

Big Big Duck

2009-12-10T14:24:00.000-08:00

Most kids no matter what the age want to be understood. They are never so blatant about this desire as when they first start talking. They repeat words and phrases over and over until someone acknowledges what they're saying. Gregory is no exception, though the more he has to repeat, the louder and madder he gets.

We'll be in the car and he'll say, "Duck ess bokin. Duck ess bokin." I take a stab at what I think it could be. 'Yeah buddy, the duck is honking.'

It sounds close, but God help me, I left my Gregory-speak to English dictionary at home.

"Duck ess bokin. Duck ESS bokin."

"The truck is honking?" He's really getting worked up and spitting as he yells.

"DUCK ESS BOKIN! DUCK ESS BOKIN!"

I'm driving. I have no visual clues on what he could be talking about. He is getting louder and repeating duck ess bokin incessantly. Finally, I switch lanes and notice in my blind spot a tow truck pulling a pick up behind it. Ah ha!

I yell out, 'TRUCK IS BROKEN!!!! TRUCK IS BROKEN', like I just solved the bonus prize puzzle on Wheel of Fortune.

This scenario happens every day on our drive to Charlie's school. Although as his language development progresses, some mornings we're lucky and figure out what Gregory's saying on the first try. Other times, we have to listen to him endlessly yell the same thing for 15 minutes, all of us frustrated at our ineptness to translate.

This morning Gregory started in immediately saying, "Big, big dog" over and over. It wasn't that I couldn't understand him, I had in fact seen the big, big dog as we drove out of our neighborhood. I was just incredibly tired and didn't feel like talking, so I ignored him.

Charlie is in the back, equally annoyed because his brother's yelling is making it impossible for him to listen to 'his' Dave Matthews cd. After 2 non stop minutes of, 'BIG, BIG DOG!', I'm tempted to pull the car over and toss Gregory into the drive thru window at the coffee place. Turns out Charlie comes to my aid to end all of our suffering quickly and painlessly. He says, "Geez Louise, Gregory, we heard you. We all saw the big, big dog, just BE QUIET."

"Awight, Charlie. Mommy, have snack?" I get that one.

Animal Planet

2009-11-16T22:43:00.000-08:00

I absolutely understand how child abuse happens. Better people than me, brought to their wits end by misbehaving children.

Today started out with my eldest running out of the grocery store, high tailing it toward the parking lot with his little brother close behind. I am paralyzed as I stood at the counter, my club card flapping in the wind. My thoughts as I sprinted into action were, scared out of my mind, cars cars cars, death and dismemberment, and I'm gonna kill them.

I re-entered the store to complete the transaction, one child under my arm, the other dragged behind by his collar. The checker girl stared at me like I was the worst mother she's encountered in her life. She nodded to the groceries and asked, "You gonna need help with those, too?" I'm embarrassed and kind of pissed that I was being judged by someone whose biggest work challenge is remembering whether to ask 'paper or plastic?'.

When I was finally able to stare the insolent little beast in the eye to give him a piece of my mind, he laughed in my face. Exit embarrassment, enter primal rage. I wanted to hurt him. It was simply a question of whether to shake, pinch, grab, smack, or all of the above.

Fortunately, because A) I have a great husband who helps to ease the load, B) he and I are currently getting along, C) the mortgage is paid, D) my family is healthy (at least for the moment), I was able to calm myself. My sense of reason kicked in. Physical harm, especially in a public setting, was not the answer. I settled on making the little bugger cry.

I took away Charlie's TV for the night. Nothing, no remorse. Dessert gone, then his bike. He continued to laugh like it was all a big joke. State of calm abandoned, all I saw was red.

Finally I realized material possessions were meaningless to this boy. I told him that if he couldn't listen and follow the rules of the store, he must be a baby and so I would have to treat him like one. He would have to sit in the carriage instead of Gregory. I would have to carry him or hold his hand at all times. And worst of all, he'd have to start drinking from a bottle again.

Jackpot! Tears and a resounding, "No, Mommy. I'll listen, I promise. I'm not a baby."

Was I proud of my behavior? No. Was it effective? Kind of. Charlie listened for about 15 minutes, long enough for me to get the groceries and boys in the car. He then focused on teaching his brother to roll down the window and scream 'Move it, lady' to the pedestrians in the crosswalk.

As a parent, it feels like you have to be on top of your game 100% of the time if you want to maximize those 'teaching moments' when they occur. This of course is completely unachievable. Life is never perfect and rarely are we ever at the top of our game, maybe on occasion prior to having children. If only one other aspect of my world had been out of whack today, I could have easily snapped and gone to the dark side. The outcome for Charlie could have been physical harm, and for me a nice ride in a police cruiser.

My hat goes off to all parents struggling to do their best out there. Celebrate the small victories where you took the high road and made your kid cry. There was always something worse you could have done.

Utopia

2009-11-12T13:40:00.000-08:00

"Do you ever wish we lived on another street?" This is the question my husband guiltily asks as we stand in the kitchen, hiding from our kids. Charlie has just tackled Gregory in an effort to remove the Tinker Toy hammer from his grip. Gregory is about to use the toy train in his other hand to inflict blunt force trauma to his brother's head. Screaming is everywhere. We can barely hear ourselves think let alone talk.

I laugh, "Are you serious?" He is.

"You mean another street like Heather Avenue?" He does.

I tell him that at least once a day I wish I lived on Heather Avenue again or anywhere other than here.

When we got engaged, we bought a beautiful condo in a very desirable area of San Francisco, on Heather Avenue. Restaurants abound. Our gym was 2 blocks away. I walked to the grocery store everyday to buy the freshest produce and meat for our dinners. Each morning, Brian and I headed to the local Cuban cafe for delicious coffee before he hopped on the bus to go to work and I headed back to my home office.

Heather Avenue represents a childless utopia for us. A place where our time, money, and sleep patterns were our own. Where my biggest worry was our Direct TV reception being knocked out by high winds.

But was it a real or imagined utopia? Honestly, a little of both. Life as DINKS (dual income no kids) in San Francisco was amazing, for the exact reasons mentioned above. We loved our home and everything it represented - pride, security, success. But our upstairs neighbor was ex Semper Phi who thought he was still in boot camp the way he stomped around on those floors. And a few times a year, just for good measure, he liked to knock his fiance around. Every decision made in our 4 unit building, like changing the color of our mailbox, had to be voted on by our homeowners association. And quite possibly worst of all, no karaoke machine past 10 pm. WTF!

It's funny how the mind sugar coats our life experiences, and child rearing is no exception. Right now I bitch and moan about my kids as they drive me to the brink of sanity each and every day. I'm sure in 10 years I'll look back at this time longing for my boys to beckon, 'Mommy, come play with me.' But the reality is they were probably pulling at my pant leg half whining, half screaming, 'Mommy, stop typing your blog and come play."

Charlie Goldstein, Esq.

2009-10-28T15:28:00.000-07:00

The boys and I were driving on our way to the park yesterday. We are finally at the point where I can play just about any music in the car and no one complains. I'm subjecting them to the entire Abba Gold album, when Charlie says, "Excuse me, Mommy. Mommy, excuse me."
I'm trying to ignore him. Maybe he'll work things out himself.
"Mommy? Mommy? MOMMY!"

I'm annoyed because the music has really transported me back to the day. I'm in the middle of a day dream that involves me in rainbow leg warmers and a matching rainbow shirt. My hair has achieved a perfect bi-level with flippy bangs. I'm looking fresh and am dancing with Brandon O'Brien (my junior high school crush). Dancing Queen is playing in the background and I'm kind of curious how this day dream is going to play out. The real life version was rather disappointing, and about as achievable as a peaceful car ride.

"Mommy, I'm talking to you."
WHAT?, I ask snappishly.
I can almost predict the litany of questions about to commence. "Who is the Dancing Queen? Can I see her tambourine? Why isn't she playing a guitar? Wait, where's my guitar? Gregory, did you take my guitar?..."

I'm surprised when I hear, "Mommy, we're not on the Earth."
What?
"We're not on the Earth right now."
Of course we're on the Earth.
"No, we're not."
Sure we are.
"No, we are not."
Then where are we? Mars, Jupiter, Saturn?
Using his best 'must I draw a picture for you' tone, he says, "NO! WE are not touching the Earth. Our CAR is touching the Earth, and WE are in the car."

I have no rebuttal, just diversionary tactics. I'm really bad at losing arguments.
Look at that cement mixer!
"That's not a cement mixer."
Sure it is, right over there (will I never learn?).
"No, it's not."
Then what is it, Charlie? Please tell me. I'm dying to know.
"It's a concrete mixer. Water and gravel are mixed with CEMENT dust which all get spinned in the mixer. Then that makes it concrete."
Oh.
"So it's a concrete mixer, not a cement mixer."
Got it. Sorry.

Lessons learned:
1. Do not debate 4 year olds.
2. All future inquiries should be met with June Cleaver-esque responses - That's nice dear. Really, dear. Why don't you ask your father, dear.
3. Immediately start saving for law school.

Get to Know Your Neighbors

2009-10-12T22:24:00.000-07:00

Brian is at a software conference all week which means I'm on 24x7 duty with the boys. And no, I don't count the 4 measly hours Charlie is at school as a break.

Tagging it as a 'work event' is just a formality. Each night my husband is out dining at San Francisco's finest restaurants, drinking cocktails with his work buddies while they chat up clients, and then there's all of the marketing hoopla. Aerosmith is headlining the main concert. Coming from this industry, I will concede that after 2 nights of schmoozing, I would be ready to curl up in bed and not utter a word to anyone unless it's Rachel Zoe (love to hate her). But I'd take his week of work over mine.

Night 1 is officially over. The kids are both asleep and none too soon.

Charlie almost drowned his brother in the bath tub tonight. He thought the best way to wash Gregory's hair was to pull his leg out from under him then dump a bucket of water over his head. After the flying macaroni festival at dinner, I lost my cool and yelled. I managed to pull out some real gems. "What is wrong with you that you're trying to kill your brother?...Gregory doesn't want to play in the bath anymore, he's scared of you... Since you don't listen, you should just go right to bed because you're not even going to know that I'm reading you stories..." I'm sure I got my point across and he was listening the whole time - blah blah blah blah.

As I waxed on endlessly, I heard voices at the front door - a man's voice. Someone called the police? Not likely, there was a young boy's voice too. Phew. The mail slot popped open and in dropped a card. It was a thank you note for a birthday present from Charlie's buddy down the street.

I'm not proud to admit this, but I actually shushed my kids and hid. How much of my tirade had Dad and son heard? Common sense told me if it was even a smidgen, they definitely would not have delivered the card or been within a grenade's throw of our house. Plus Mom would have canceled our possible play date for this week. But I couldn't be certain.

The thought of witnesses presented some challenges. A) I really like my neighbors, B) our backyard is mostly cement making it VERY difficult to bury bodies, and C) I'm not ready to be known as 'Charlie's crazy mom who yells a lot and is to be avoided at all social functions.' My kids haven't even entered the public school system yet; so much damage in so little time.

Double Trouble

2009-10-04T19:34:00.000-07:00

Gregory is beginning to assert his independence. He uses the word 'no' a lot, throws tantrums if his demands are not met, gets into everything he's not supposed to - cereal boxes, toilets, dishwasher, makeup drawers - the usual toddler type stuff. Brian and I have taken to calling him The Menace. The idea of him still being my 'easy baby' left with notion that yellow toilet water is enough of a deterrent to keep anyone from drinking it.

Gregory has also taken a few pages out of Charlie's rule book on treatment of siblings. Though Charlie is much more cautious and predictable; knowing when he pushes Gregory down, steals his matchbox car, then pokes him in the eye with it, he should run. Gregory is outright brazen. I've seen him kick his brother in the ankle, bite him in the back of the neck, and give a quick hair pull for good measure, then stick around. Kind of like those police dramas where they are at the murder scene, the camera slowly pans to the crowd, and the killer is standing there, surveying the scene, emotionless yet quietly pleased with himself and the attention.

Now that I have 2 trouble makers on my hands, upon hearing cries in the distance, I can no longer come running under the assumption that my eldest is the evil doer. This is a very difficult habit to break after almost 2 years of Charlie being the sole committer of transgressions in our household.

The worst part is that Gregory knows he can get away with anything simply by using his arsenal of cuteness. I am a complete sucker no matter what his weapon of choice - batting of eye lashes, coy smile, spontaneous hugs, etc. It's really quite an embarrassment to authority figures everywhere. But he is the perfect combination of looks, charm, humor and cunning; destined for a future of criminal activity.

The other morning, I heard the highest pitched shriek my 2 ears have ever experienced. I refrained from yelling, Charlie, what the hell did you do now? As I entered the living room to survey the damage, there stood Gregory, wielding a Tinker Toy/weapon, banging his brother in the head with all of his might. Charlie was curled in the fetal position, shrieking like a trapped animal. Gregory simply smiled then hit, smiled then hit, over and over.

I said, Gregory, no! No hit. We do not hit our brother! He actually laughed, then smiled at me like I was handing him a bouquet of flowers and said, "Uh hammer."
I'm very happy you made a hammer out of Tinker Toys, but we do not hit people with it.
Still smiling he responds, "Dawry hit."
No, we don't hit Charlie (aka Dawry).
Looking up at me with huge blue eyes, he bats his lashes and says in a whisper, "I sowy, Mommy."

His sweetness increases exponentially with the amount of trouble. But all it takes is an "I sowy" and all is forgiven. He could be stabbing the neighbors cat to death with his Elmo toothbrush that he fashioned into a knife and I'm like, Okay, but just don't do it again.
"Aw wight, Mommy."

Games People Play

2009-09-23T13:36:00.000-07:00

I recognize that summer has come and gone and my updates have been sparse, if non existent.
I'm happy to report that the boys are still crazy as ever. Though we've begun to reap the benefits of Charlie being 4; he occasionally plays with Gregory in a nonviolent or sadistic manner.

Of course, constant supervision is a must - there's always a hitch, right? You cannot be asleep at the wheel for 1 second without pure chaos erupting. So discovered my father in law this past weekend. He decided to innocently use the bathroom while the boys were in the midst of arts and crafts. Mere moments later upon his return, he discovered the windows, door frames, and grandsons completely covered with stickers and green marker - washable thank goodness.

You don't have time to take a piss in this household, let alone luxuriate in the glow of your computer screen. Many apologies for my slack-assed-ness this summer. I promise never to stay away so long.

Next to torturing his brother, one of Charlie's favorite activities is making up games. It's really cool to witness his creativity (or insanity) and his desire to include Gregory in these games. Everyday there seems to be a new one invented.

One of Charlie's oldest games on record is 'Fita'. It involves him and Gregory running around our living room, yelling 'Fita!', while listening to Justin Timberlake. Not sure why JT, or why it's called Fita for that matter? I just know the 2 of them can play it for 30 minutes without tiring or fighting.

Then there is 'Model Train', same idea as Fita, just a different location and no music is played. You run around the dining room table, yelling, you guessed it, 'Model Train!'. This game gets tricky when Charlie announces that the train is backing up to turn around. Many collisions happen during the playing of Model Train as Gregory is not too adept at on the fly directional change. I personally prefer Fita, could be the low injury stats, or Justin.

The newest game added to the repertoire is 'Tabor'. Like most of the games, it is not at all complicated. Charlie sits or fully stands on the arm of the couch and then either falls forward onto his Pottery Barn Kids chair or backwards onto the couch. And of course there is the obligatory yelling of 'Tabor' by the players. I did have to shut down a game of Tabor this morning when Charlie decided to change the rules while it was Gregory's turn and pushed him off the back of the couch.

Finally there is 'Tod-o-nai'. Not sure on the spelling, but it definitely has a Hebrew derivation; which makes sense since Charlie attends preschool at the JCC. You can hear Gregory in the background of this video trying to get involved by yelling 'Tod-o-nai', but he can't make it up onto the bed to actually get a turn. Too bad for him as this game was a one hit wonder. Since capturing it on video, it has never been seen again.

Charlie is the sole master mind behind each game, Gregory is simply along for the ride. You could say Gregory is Tatoo to Charlie's Mr. Rourke; his participation definitely adds humor, but he will never be the leading man in the show. Capturing the videos of Tabor and Tod-o-nai gives you a ringside seat to the crazy and how contagious it is, or genetic.

I Feel Pretty

2009-07-28T14:54:00.000-07:00

Charlie has always been a cute kid. From the moment he was born, he looked perfect and well formed, never awkward or squishy and red. Are we biased? Definitely. But pictures don't lie, in his entire 4 years of life, there has not been one bad photo.

Gregory entered the world as blessed as his brother; color me biased again. Though his cuteness seems to be evolving into downright prettiness. At least once a week, people mistake him for a girl. Even dressed in camouflage pants, skull and crossbones t-shirt, baseball hat and black high top Chucks - an outfit that screams testosterone - someone will remark, "What a beautiful little girl. How old is she?" Maybe it's the eyelashes that touch his forehead, or those huge blue eyes, but I honestly don't get it.

Clearly there must be something there. The past week or so, Charlie has begun calling Gregory, 'Mrs. Bentney'. As with all things Charlie, we have no idea where this came from. But I'll be damned if Gregory doesn't come running like a servant when Charlie beckons, "Mrs. Bentney. Mrs. Bentney? MRS. BENTNEY! Come here this instant."

When asked why he calls Gregory Mrs. Bentney, his response, "I only call him that when I need help opening the door." I thought this would blow over, that Mrs. Bentney's novelty, and ineptness (the boy can't even turn a door knob), would wear off and he/she could go back to being just Gregory. But it seems Mrs. Bentney's responsibilities have only been added to. Last night when I was making dinner, Charlie came running in, breathless, holding a bunch of buckets, "Hey Mommy, do you need a bucket?"
No thanks, Charlie. I'm all set.
"Well, if you do, Mrs. Bentney's selling them out back and can get you one."

This morning I was even more confused when Charlie referred to Gregory as Stephanie. I thought the early hour had effected my hearing, until, "Stephanie, I need you to come and help me fill up this dump truck."
Though I hadn't an ounce of caffeine in me, I ventured down that road, So who's Stephanie?
"Gregory is Stephanie."
Where is Mrs. Bentney?
"No, Stephanie is Mrs. Bentney."
Then Gregory is Mrs. Stephanie Bentney?
"No, he's Mrs. Bentney Stephanie."
When do you call him Stephanie versus Mrs. Bentney?
"When I want to." His response was so matter of fact, like I had just asked Little Lord Fauntleroy when he would like his tea. He turns on his heel, heading into the the kitchen, casually calling over his shoulder, "Stephanie, it's time for breakfast. NOW!"

I do take comfort in that the relationship seems to have taken on a less formal tone. And at least he's feeding the help.

I Hate You, I Hate You, I Just Don't Like You

2009-07-20T11:00:00.000-07:00

You know those mornings where you wake up and you hate your job? No matter how many trips to Starbuck's you take, personal calls you make, or want ads you search, you just can't move past it. In my former life in sales, I would have called it a day at lunch and gone to the gym or shopping; start fresh tomorrow. But I'm at a loss on how to handle this situation in my current role.

When my kids keep me up till the wee hours of the night, then rise before the sun, I wake up hating them and my job, which are one and the same. I spend most of my day locked and loaded, ready to aim my passive aggressive rage at anyone who gets in my way - like my kids or the condescending librarian who glares at me as both of the boys run screaming down the aisles of the adult non-fiction section yelling, 'poopie, poopie, poop.' What's a Mom to do when she's trapped at 'the office', having bad day, and her old bag of tricks just isn't cutting it in this new position?

In the past, commiserating with co-workers made me feel better. But in our office of 3, complaining to Charlie and Gregory about how they've ruined my day by only allowing me 4 non-consecutive hours of sleep doesn't quite have the same therapeutic effect. Charlie's response, 'Mommy, if you want, you can take a nap and I will watch Gregory because I'm the adult.' As he tries to assure me he can handle the situation, his hands begin to form a noose like grip around his brother's neck while slowly dragging him toward the bathroom.

Other times I could rely on my sense of humor to get me through the day and just laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. But there is nothing amusing about being stuck in the house with my kids when all I want to do is sleep and all they want to do is find new ways to remind me that escape on this rat wheel is futile.
"Mommy, can I have something to eat?"
Charlie, I don't care what you do.
"But can you get me something?"
What do you want?
"I want you to get me something, but make it a surprise."
No, I'm not playing that game. Just tell me what you want.
"I want a surprise."
Charlie, I am tired, you know what we have to eat. When you figure it out, tell me.
"But I want a surprise. How about from the fridge?"
Ugh. Yogurt, cheese, apple, or grapes?
"Surprise."
Just choose.
"No, you."
I yell as I throw yogurt down in front of him. Charlie, I've lost my patience. Take the stupid yogurt and do not say another word to me.
"Mmm, stupid yogurt. I love stupid yogurt. It's just what I wanted, stupid yogurt."
Then Gregory chimes in, "Tupit, tupit, tupit."

I do not even have the energy to go there as I storm out of the kitchen. I know if I attempt to make a run to Starbuck's they will follow me. If I try to use my computer to search for employment opportunities outside of the home, my efforts will be high jacked in order to watch singing cats, flying penguins, and rocket launches on You Tube.

By 10 am, I have screamed to the point of being hoarse, bribed the boys with everything from cookies to playing in the toilet. Finally, I admit defeat. For Charlie, I put on a video. Gregory gets 20 Matchbox cars thrown into a huge soup pot with the lid on. My hope is that he'll make enough racket to drown out Charlie's movie and any potential crying that ensues from the 2 of them being left unattended.

I lock myself in the laundry room to eat chocolate chips sprinkled in a jar of peanut butter. Ahh, silence - at least with door closed and the din of crunching chocolate chips in my mouth. This works. I'll have to add this to my new bag of tricks.

Family Trip

2009-06-11T21:24:00.001-07:00

On the eve of our summer family trip, I am feeling exhausted, apprehensive, and uninspired.
Trying to pack for a 2 1/2 week trip is next to impossible while refereeing a constant wrestling match between 2 young boys. It requires a tremendous amount of patience, energy, and an anal retentive husband. As we take every single item we use on a daily basis and attempt to pack it into one suitcase, I am bitter knowing it will cost me an additional $25 on top of my ticket price. And if all of our stuff doesn't weigh under 70 lbs, add another $50 on top of that. My toiletry bag weighs 70 lbs.

To get to the family trip destination, it requires a lengthy car ride, an even longer plane ride, or sometimes both. Oddly enough, it's not my almost 4 year old who is causing me to lose sleep about this journey. These days my 18 month old sits in one place about as long as a puppy on crystal meth. Have you ever sat next to someone in a shoe box size seat for 6 hours, who is tweaking the entire time, and doesn't have any discernable words beyond 'mama', 'stop it', and 'play-doh'?

So here I am, unispired, wondering what I have left to give as we are t-minus 12 hours from the start of the family trip. Please note my use of the term 'family trip' and the very deliberate ommission of the word 'vacation'. Merriam-Webster's On-line Dictionary defines 'vacation' as, a scheduled period during which activity is suspended; a period of exemption from work granted to an employee. Hmm, vacation, doesn't really feel right as I ready myself and my kids for 10 humidity filled days in Florida visting my in laws, followed by 6 days in Minneapolis with my brother and his family.

I think I'm going to write to the lexicographers at Merriam-Webster. If words as serious as 'dirty bomb' and 'subprime', and as silly as 'wingnut' and 'fanboy', can be added to their dictionary in 2008, then I do believe 2009 is the year for 'family trip'. Simply placed next to the word vacation, it will say, 'see family trip'.

family trip noun (2009): a vacation taken with children, not really a vacation at all; a trip where you do everything exactly as you do at home, but in a different place.

Luxury Redefined

2009-05-28T23:25:00.000-07:00

A fellow mom from Charlie's preschool takes the same 6 am workout class that I do. Post sweat, as we headed towards the locker room, she asked if I was going straight home or showering there. I said I was hurrying home because Brian had to take off early for work.

She was staying to shower and commented, "It's just so luxurious to shower here." To avoid any confusion, my gym is nice, but it's not nice enough where someone would ever mistake it for being luxurious. I thought it was an interesting adjective to use, but understood. My friend was simply stating that the ability to shower alone, without having someone banging on the shower door, or crying through the wall, is a true treat that she bestowed upon herself.

We both agreed, if the roles were reversed, neither of our husbands would think twice about the extra 15 minutes it takes to shower at the gym. They would just do it. But as Mom's, we feel guilty being away from our kids for more than 5 minutes. And G_d forbid if those 5 minutes are for something as frivolous as a shower. Our IGC's would probably switch to tase mode and shock us into submission from within our own bodies. (IGC is an intrauterine guilt chip and one of my many conspiracy theories - see IGC post from 1/7/09 for full definition) .

During our life time, the idea of luxury changes drastically. Growing up in a family of 5, living on one teacher's salary, I don't really think the word ever entered my mind. In hindsight, ordering dessert with my Happy Meal instead of eating Oreos at home or shopping something other than the clearance rack at Marshall's would count. In my 20's, it was free beer at my favorite bar and a burger after last call. And my 30's, a spa day followed by a nice dinner (and dessert) and good wine. I guess one could argue my sense of luxury has been evolving.

But since having kids, what I consider to be luxurious today is downright offensive to all of my former selves. I came up with a list of things I would like to experience in the near future; my expectations are so low I didn't even put a time line to them.
Quite possibly the saddest 'luxury' list ever compiled.

1). Going to the bathroom alone.
a). Going to the bathroom without having the toilet flushed several times prior to me getting off of it.

2). Finishing an entire meal without popping up every time someone utters 'Mommy, I want/need...'
a). Eating alone.

3). Drinking out of a water bottle that has not been back-washed with Cheerio or Goldfish remnants.

4). Wearing an outfit that is free of dried snots, diaper cream or mystery milk stains.

5). Leaving the house knowing that yesterday's mascara has been properly removed from under my eyes.

6). Needing to set an alarm (nope, don't need one for that 6 am work out class).

This could have easily gone all the way up to 100. The damn IGC must have been tripped, weakening all muscles, forcing me to stop typing my selfish list and get back to caring for my husband and kids. I know, I know, poor me and my sad list. I recognize that this is the rant of the privileged and that there are people living in a 3rd world countries where clean water and indoor plumbing would be in a fight for number 1. To those of you who judge, first, I bet in those 3rd world countries, the kids don't follow the mom into the poop shack nor do they pre-flush on them. Second, my blog, my bitch - I'm not out to save the world, just my sanity.

Stepping Up

2009-05-22T13:34:00.000-07:00

Where things with Charlie are starting to calm down a bit, Gregory is picking up the slack, attempting to find his place in the family hierarchy. We're not sure if his role will be one of more comic relief, or following in his brother's footsteps of devil's spawn.

Charlie was sitting on the couch watching TV and all Gregory wanted was his big brother's attention. Most days a goofy face and his sumo wrestler dance works, Charlie looks at him, smiles, and says, "Silly Gregory, are you riding on the crazy train again?"

But his usual tactics weren't working. Gregory tried piling all of his trucks onto the couch leaving Charlie barely an inch of room to move. Then he took the trucks, one at a time, and hit Charlie with each to gauge it's effectiveness as a weapon. Charlie was really good and just kept saying, "Ow, Gregory, stop it." Then would go back into his Caillou induced trance.

Being further ignored by his brother only forced Gregory to step up his game. We have only one doll in our entire house. We bought it for Charlie when we found out I was pregnant. It's a nameless, genderless baby that is basically ignored unless we have a little girl visiting, then my boys fight over it like it poops M&M's and is the last damn toy on earth.

Gregory took the baby in his mouth similar to a mother cat with her kitten, then shook it back and forth like it was his prey. Brian and I were in hysterics, but no reaction from Charlie. Gregory grabbed the doll by it's foot and started whacking it onto the keys of his toy piano, the noise was so loud you could no longer hear the TV. Still, not even a side glance from Charlie. Next unisex baby had it's head slammed into the window, after each hit, Gregory would throw the doll over his shoulder, caveman style, and walk over to the couch to see if Charlie was looking yet. No reaction equaled more banging. If it had not been a toy, there would have been baby brains splattered everywhere.

Things were getting out of control as Gregory looked like he was enjoying himself a little too much. I finally had to rescue the poor doll from the hands of it's torturer. Gregory sat there, panting from the all of the energy he exerted, smiling, like Jack Nicholson in the Shining - 'Heeeeere's Johnny.'

We're not sure if his actions were simply to get his brother's attention or if he was trying to send us a message - Have a 3rd kid and I'll make Jekyll and Hyde on the couch over there look like the Dalai Lama. He certainly got our attention.

What Happens in Vegas...

2009-05-14T12:59:00.000-07:00

Charlie's sphere of influence is limited to home, school, the park or play dates. With the exception of school, he's always with me or Brian. At 3 1/2, his world is already starting to expand, he's having new experiences and meeting new friends. I need to come to grips with the fact that the older he gets, the less control I'll have over him and these experiences and friends.

Last weekend Charlie had his first unsupervised play date at the next door neighbor's house. The son is 5 and Charlie looks up to him like a big brother. He actually listens when he says, "Charlie, please don't hit me in the face with your dump truck." Charlie must have hung on every syllable this boy uttered, because we've had some new phrases pop up in our household. 'I'm going to kill you, Gregory', 'You're dead, Mommy', or my personal favorite, 'Your eyes are going to pop out, then your brain will fall to the floor and you'll be dead, Daddy.'

My neighbor does the eye roll-shoulder shrug apology. You know the one that communicates wordlessly, 'I feel bad. But what can I do? I only have so much energy in a day to fight this monster.' It's the very same apology I used last week during arts and crafts hour at the library. Charlie started chanting 'PENIS BUTT!' at the top of his lungs and about half of the children at the table joined in, much to the chagrin of the librarian and other parents.

So I tried not make a big deal about the 'kill' and 'die' language, every age has their thing. Besides, if I had a 5 year old, with my track record he'd be aiming his toy Glock 19 with laser scope at the neighbor's head while playing David Koresh and the Branch Davidians.

Things could always be worse. But I was left wondering, what kind of 'chanting' did Charlie do while next door and out of my care? How much worse than 'penis butt' could it get? And did I really want to know?

When they venture out from under our wing, we can only hope that our children take the good lessons we have tried to instill. Unfortunately, I learned they take a lot more than good values on this journey, they bring your dirty laundry with them as well. I never discovered any specifics about what my son shared with our neighbors, but I have a pretty good idea.

The other week as I was leaving school, I heard Charlie announce to his teacher, 'Claire, did you know my Daddy has the stinkiest poops ever? They're really super stinky.' Claire is a consummate professional, she smiled and said, "Oh, really Charlie?" I chuckled and did the eye roll-shoulder shrug thing, remembering a similar comment I had made that morning. Brian was mortified as there was an event at school the following day which would mark his first introduction to Claire. "No, really Mr. Goldstein, we don't need to shake hands. 'Nice to meet you' is sufficient."

The same week, on one of our not so good days, Charlie pushed Gregory backwards off the couch, hitting his head squarely on the coffee table. It was so bad that I thought he had a concussion. I 100% panicked. Recognizing the appearance of out of control Mommy, Charlie ran into his room. When I got there, he acted like he was reading and not a brother beater on the lam. I grabbed the book and threw it against the wall. He smiled at me. My flip flop came off next. I threw that against the wall, too. He just kept smiling and told me that Gregory fell all by himself. I screamed some threats, a few mild profanities, then slammed the door as I left the room.

The next day at Barnes & Noble, while buying some baby gifts, Charlie said to the saleswoman, 'You know what? Yesterday my Mom got so mad that she threw a book at the wall, but it wasn't a book like this, it was WAY bigger. Then you know what? She threw her flip flop, too. She was really mad because I hurt my brother.' The eye roll-shoulder shrug didn't seem as appropriate as the heads down-don't look anyone in the eye dash to the door. I have yet to return to the children's section.

Parents are the same, deep down we feel that our children's actions (especially the bad stuff) are a direct reflection of our parenting. Thus we try to control everything - eliminate the bad or at least try to hide it, over emphasize the good, and show everyone we are raising the smartest, most talented, and well mannered child the world has ever seen.

We fear the judgment of others - most specifically other mothers - especially when our kids are young and act really bad and we don't have any outside influences to blame. 'What kind of child are they raising? How else would he learn those kinds of words except at home? They must let him watch PG movies and eat red dye #40.' The fact that the child has a mind of his own does not enter anyone's thoughts during these moments of insecurity. We've all been there. We place the blame as quickly as we take it, and think 'there has got to be some way to change or fix that child's behavior'. But sometimes there is not a damn thing you can do but just grin and bear it (or roll and shrug) and wait for the next phase.

Brian and I have made a conscious effort to watch what we say in front of Charlie and to calm ourselves. The boy is like a video recorder that plays back an endless reel of our 'worst of' footage. If he's going out into the world- unaccompanied- representing our family, we need to control our part of the equation. We'll do the best we can, try not to judge ourselves or others too harshly, and the rest is up to Charlie. What a frightening thought.

My Mother's Day Gift

2009-05-10T22:07:00.000-07:00

Mother's Day started out like the special celebration it should be - Mommy sleeps in, is served a wonderful breakfast, everyone is on their best behavior, nice cards and some gifts are given. Brian dressed the boys to go to the farmer's market, and made sure that everything matched. Even when Charlie decided to ruin my nap by playing monster truck jam (which entails taking every metal truck he owns and bouncing it off the coffee table), Brian took heed and exited quickly to run some 'father-son errands', leaving me with Gregory, who was napping. Heavenly alone time.

It was by all accounts a perfect day. But by 4 pm, the specialness seemed to have worn off and it was back to the same old, same old - kids fighting, husband working, and me, doing a lot of yelling.

Gregory was standing in the living room, screaming, pinned up against the fireplace. Charlie was laying on the floor and had him in some kind of scissor kick wrestling move. Gregory's shoulders were being held between Charlie's knees, leaving his feet free to kick his brother in the face. After me shouting threats (and being ignored) for the 500th time, I stormed into the kitchen and put a bottle of white wine in the freezer. Happy hour was starting a little early tonight.

Brian looked up from his computer long enough to give me the, 'What the heck is going on in there? Do you have any control over your kids? Can't you see I'm trying to work?' look. I responded with the 'Verbalize any of those thoughts and your children will be mourning the loss of their father on Mother's Day' glare.

I returned to the living room to find that nothing had changed. I pulled up a chair, might as well be comfortable while I referee and wait for the wine to chill. I was about to throw a red card and take away Charlie's dessert when Gregory stopped crying and broke free of the scissor hold. He threw himself on top of his brother and started smacking him in the face. Charlie screamed, 'Gregory, stop it. No hitting. Stoooooopppp it you stupid.'

I sat there and took it all in, smiling. A Mother's Day gift for the ages, Gregory finally started rebelling against his brother's tyranny of violence. I don't need jewelry or fancy spa gifts on this day (though in the future they would be appreciated). My wants are simple, just a little peace or at least a fair fight.

Now that the playing field is evened out a bit, we can set up that cage in the backyard for the Ultimate Fighting Championship and offer fans a decent match for their money. Hey, stop judging, we have to pay for college somehow.

And People Wonder Why I'm Losing My Mind

2009-04-28T15:05:00.000-07:00

This is a conversation I had with Charlie on the way to school yesterday morning. A car had been pulled over on the highway by a patrolman with flashing lights and everything. Naturally, our curiosity was peaked.

'Mommy, why did the po po pull over that car?'
I'm not sure Charlie, maybe they were going too fast.
'Why were they going too fast?'
I don't know why they were going too fast.
'Why don't you know?'
Charlie, I'm not sure if that's why they even got pulled over.
'How come?'
Because I'm not in the car with them.
'How come?'
Because I'm in the car with you.
'Why?'
Who would drive if I wasn't driving? (I thought answering a question with a question would throw him off. No such luck.)
'So why did that driver get pulled over?'
I don't know why.
'Mommy, tell me every reason why they would be pulled over by the po po.'
(Sigh.) Charlie, I don't know.
'How come you don't know?'
Charlie, most people get pulled over by the po po because they are speeding.
'Do they get a ticket?'
Yes, then they get a ticket for speeding.
'How come?'
Because speeding is against the law.
'What's against the law?'
There are rules that we have to follow and if you don't listen, the po po will pull you over and give you a ticket.
'Why would they give you a ticket?'
Charlie, can we please just be quiet and listen to the music.
'Why?'
Because Mommy is about to go crazy.
'How come?'
Seriously, you have to stop asking questions.
'But why?'
CHARLIE, STOP TALKING. PLEASE.
'Okay, Mama.'
(Guilty feelings ensue followed by emotional eating.)

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

2009-04-18T13:56:00.000-07:00

One of the things that amazes me about kids is their honesty. While it can be a difficult pill to swallow, the commentary is usually spot on and pretty amusing. Like when Charlie admonishes me for driving too fast and warns that the 'po po' are going to pull me over and give me a ticket. Or when he tells Brian he smells like 'super stinky penis butt' after a run.

This past week we've noticed a departure from the blunt force honesty. It started with a few minor incidents. I heard the baby crying from the kitchen so in I ran, foolishly asking Charlie what happened. Last week he would have openly confessed, 'I pushed Gregory off the stool. Sorry, Mommy.' The fact that he was not sorry at all is immaterial, the point is, he was honest about what happened. This week, with his shit eating grin and hand still on the back of Gregory's neck, my little boy looked at me with innocent brown eyes and said, 'I don't know what happened, Mama? I think he fell.' Right, and I have a bridge to sell you in Brooklyn.

As the week progressed, Charlie upped the ante. My mother in law is in town for spring break. She was buckling Charlie into the car seat, I was on the other side helping Gregory into his. Charlie said, 'Mommy, I have to tell you something.'

What honey?

'It's something that Nani (my mother in law) did that I didn't like.'

My mother in law and I are both baffled and have no idea what he's going to say.

'Nani spit at me and Gregory. She spit at us and I didn't like it at all.'

My mother in law is aghast. I say, Charlie Goldstein, are you sure you're telling the truth?

'Yes, I am. Nani spit.'

My mother in law's face is literally next to his with a look that could maim or possibly even kill her first born grandchild. But she calmly states, 'Charlie, I do not spit. It is not nice. Perhaps you're thinking of yesterday when you spit at me.'

Oh, snap. He did spit at her the day before because she tried to help him to his room to get dressed for school.

With no response from her accuser, Nani asked, 'Charlie, is that what you're telling Mommy about, when you spit at me?'

Charlie can't even look her in the eye, he stares straight ahead and says, 'Nani, I'm done. This discussion is over.'

We duck behind the car to hide our laughter. But as we pull out of the driveway, the reality of the situation hits and I become somber. The age of innocence is over. My son has graduated from fibber to bold faced liar in exactly 3 days. At this rate, by the time Charlie is 5, he's going to be telling me he doesn't know how that dent got on the bumper of my car or why the inside reeks of beer. My husband often likes to say, go big or go home. Or in Charlie's case, lie big and admit to nothing.

Pretty Pink Packages

2009-04-09T14:25:00.000-07:00

Many of us, for better or for worse, have alter egos. They come out when we're drunk, stressed, overtired, in Vegas, etc. I've talked about Charlie's Jekyll and Hyde routine, mostly of Hyde and his constant torturing of Charlie's younger brother. But this past weekend we actually got to meet his version of Jekyll - you know, the good one.

We went to visit friends for an early dinner on Sunday. They have a daughter who is about 2 months older than Gregory. As big and boyish as Gregory is, she is just as dainty and demure. She is their only child and definitely the princess of her castle.

I'm always a little tentative when we take the boys to someone's home. Their aggressive behavior usually has a shock and awe effect on both parent and child alike. 'Wouldn't they feel more comfortable coloring at the table instead of on the walls?' Hey, there's a reason the word 'washable' has been placed on those markers. Or, 'Perhaps they could roll the ball instead of throwing it directly at his face?' You want your kid to play like a girl, then have him play with girls.

I wasn't sure if the newly acquired play structure in our friend's backyard would alleviate or add to my feelings of apprehension. Granted it was for toddlers so it could keep the boys occupied while I downed a glass or 3 of chardonnay. But it was just high enough for an adorable little 18 month old girl to obtain her first round of stitches or broken bones, especially if helped along by a certain 3 1/2 year old boy.

Charlie ran Gregory over on his way out to the backyard like he was at Filene's Basement Running of the Brides bridal gown sale. He then tried to push him backwards off the ladder. When that didn't thwart Gregory's efforts, Charlie kicked him in the face as he went down the slide head first.

Fortunately the chardonnay and yummy appetizers were doing wonders for my blood pressure. But my dwindling tentativeness quickly spiked to pure panic as 'the princess' decided it was her turn to go down the slide. How was this going to go? Would our friends ask us to leave before or after they iced and bandaged their daughter's precious head? Would dinner wind up being a trip through the McDonald's drive thru on our way home?

Before I could say, "Charlie, let's remember our gentle hands." Pixie princess, dressed in her floral green and pink sweatsuit complete with matching shoes and hair tie, teetered up the ladder and was sitting at the top of the slide, waiting. Prior to this moment, she had never been allowed to go down the slide unassisted. Charlie was at the bottom saying, 'Come on, come on. I'll catch you.' The parents are hovering, trying to determine if they should entrust their daughter's wellbeing to a preschooler, let alone a preschooler with a well documented history of ill behavior towards toddlers. I'm hovering myself, wondering if Charlie is channeling Jekyll or Hyde and does one of them know CPR?

Everyone was on high alert as our friends only child comes down the slide and is caught in the arms of the most adorable, competent, chivalrous 3 1/2 year old on this good green Earth. The icing on the cake was the, 'Great job you little cutie.' I'm not sure if shock or relief registered first, but who cares, she was alive, in one piece, and with no visible injuries or blood stains on her outfit, the same could not be said of Charlie's brother.

We learned a lot from the experience. 1. Charlie is a kind, sweet boy with the ability to be amazingly gentle (we knew this, but were in desperate need of a reminder) 2. From this point forward, Gregory will be dressed from head to toe in pink. Our own little social experiment of sorts.

What Is Wrong With You?

2009-03-29T10:02:00.000-07:00

We always worry about our kids no matter what. From the moment they are born, are they breathing, hungry, scared, healthy, happy, smart, liked? The list of everyday worries gets longer and longer the older they get - loss of eye from juice box straw, choking on non-organic, processed snack foods, fear of abduction by all men with mustaches wearing hoodie sweatshirts and dark sunglasses. While each of these is a horrible vision, they are not the worst of my fears. To me, the worst worries are the ones that cannot be controlled, no matter the amount of preparedness.

When you think your child has something physically, mentally, developmentally, or emotionally wrong with them, there is a whole new feeling that gets added to that worrying mix - guilt. Especially for mothers, you scrutinize every move you've made from conception through birth. Did I really need to ingest a jar of peanut butter a week for the entire 36 weeks of my pregnancy? Did drinking my merry way through the Christmas season, prior to knowing I was pregnant, leave my child deficient in healthy brain cells? Should I blame diet Coke for his hyperactivity? Would I sue NutraSweet or Coke? Yes, rationality tends to go out the door when questioning the well being of your child.

Brian and I have been worried about Charlie for some time now. While we joke about it, calling him Jekyll and Hyde or El Diablo, and I write about it, over the past months his aggressiveness, most specifically towards his brother, has strayed beyond the boundaries of our home. Spilling over into the outside world - school, parks, play dates - it seemed no stranger, friend, or foe under the age of 10 was safe. If someone were to take Charlie's sand toy, that child would be met with a swift poke in the eye with the end of a shovel or a bitch slap that would make Alexis Carrington proud.

And our smart, thoughtful, wonderful little boy, did not seem to care about any of the consequences for his actions. Leave the park, scream at the top of my lungs, ignore him, strap him to the roof of the car while driving 75 mph down the highway; no matter what my reaction, he continued along this same path. Aggressive, almost crazed behavior one minute, then sweetly sharing his snack with his brother the next. I chalked it up to his being 3 1/2, or the next coming of Sybil.

Brian of course, being the worried Jewish father type, has always said, "His behavior cannot be normal." This has been a source of much contention in our marriage. Me countering with, "He's fine. He's 3. I see a lot of kids we know doing the same things to their siblings." Though the more I observed, lost my temper, and lost hope that any of my attempts to alter his behavior would work, the more I came to believe that Charlie was on track to do his brother in by spring, giving March Madness a whole new meaning.

So I sought the advice of his teachers. After they witnessed him running Gregory over with the class art cart, they gave us the name of a counselor to help determine if Charlie (or his parents) had a problem. It's a big step, to admit to someone other than your spouse that something may be wrong with your child and that you're not doing a great job as a parent dealing with it. It's like if you say it out loud, it makes it real and very scary and of course, your fault. Can I fix this? What if it effects him for the rest of his life? Or worse, what if my son blames me, then goes and writes a book about it? Probably time to get rid of those wire hangers.

We went to see a counselor at Jewish Family Services. I can't say enough about what a fantastic resource this place is, for anyone in need. Her very first words to us, "From everything you've described, your child is developmentally appropriate and on course." Really? Attempting to 'help' one's brother down the slide by pushing him over the railing is normal? Drop kicking him from the top of the couch and landing on his back is developmentally appropriate?

She did give us some constructive ways to help deal with Charlie when he gets out of control, as well as good reminders about our own behavior. It's amazing when you calm yourself, how your child follows suit. Sounds simple but when I get worn down and frustrated, cool, calm and collected is not usually my first or favorite response - love those wire hangers.

She did suggest that we read some books on dysfunctional sensory integration. Without actually meeting Charlie and observing him, it was impossible for her to make a judgment. I think Brian and I felt a combination of relief and vomitousness. There really could be something wrong with our child and thank G_d we might have an explanation.

She suggested we read 'The Out of Sync Child' and 'The Sensory Sensitive Child' to decide if we wanted Charlie to be observed by someone. After researching tons of stuff on the web and reading the books, I was still not 100% that we were dealing with something other than normal 3 1/2 year old behavior. But there was enough doubt in my mind that I've asked someone from Easter Seals to come out for a home visit to see if further evaluation is necessary.

I'm writing this in hopes that people will talk about what's going on with their children with friends, family, teachers, etc. Or do like I did, start a blog to complain about them to a larger audience. While a lot of bad behavior is just kids being kids, if you feel something is not quite right or even the tiniest bit off, ask someone, read, research, get help. Mommy intuition does not come naturally to some of us; it took me the better part of 6 months to do something about my son's behavior. Even if he is fine, I still learned how I can be a better parent. I'll never stop worrying, but this is my attempt to gain some control over those feelings, especially the guilt. If Charlie does ever write that book, I'm hoping there will be a chapter entitled, "At Least The Bitch Tried."

Body Parts

2009-03-11T13:49:00.000-07:00

One of my dearest friends is a successful financial analyst. She carries herself with all of the grace and sophistication of someone raised in southern Connecticut, with an Ivy league education, and a high falutin career. But when she ties one on, she has been known to expose herself to large crowds screaming, "What? What's the problem? They're just body parts. See!" Then proceeds to yank on one of her breasts.

You might think this will lead into a don't judge a book by it's cover story, but it's not. Since the time he could crawl, Charlie has always been interested in his own body parts - belly button, nose, ears, etc. Like most kids, he liked to repeatedly stick his finger, a blade of grass, a stick, or a rock, into the area of interest, rummage around for a bit, then move on. Fortunately, no ER visits to date have been necessary.

I think it was at about 18 months when he found his penis, affectionately called Mr. Snappy. I was expecting this stage to get rolling around the 'tween years'. I guess my kid is advanced. On the changing table, in the bathtub, while watching Elmo on the couch, everywhere you could imagine, Charlie was doing some in depth analysis of Mr. Snappy. Everything we read said this was totally normal and not to draw attention to it. So we let him explore away. Sure enough after about a month, he moved onto something else, like emptying the contents of my jewelry box into the toilet so he could give my necklaces a 'bath'.

Today at 3 1/2, he's more into talking about penis's or any other controversial word he can think of. He told me in the car the other day, "Mommy, aren't you so glad I don't say the word FUCK. Fuck is a really bad word." When leaving a voice mail message for his uncle recently, all he said into the answering machine was, "Penis, penis, penis, penis." Then laughed like he was George Carlin reincarnated - they're just words after all, we're the ones who assign them meaning. Most of the literature I've read would agree. The experts counsel that during this phase you should ignore the language. Children like to test boundaries to try to get a reaction, and/or to feel powerful by using bad words. If you pay attention or respond, you're just fueling the fire.

We've always tried to be open with Charlie about our own bodies. We use all of the correct terms for everything (not sure how Mr. Snappy came to be) and never shy away from any question. It's a slippery slope, you want your child to be at ease with his body and not feel embarrassed by or uncomfortable talking about it. But how open do you want them to be? What are you supposed to do when your son asks the checker at Safeway if he's ever had a ladybug on his penis? Seriously, do you shush him and tell him that it's not nice to talk like that? Do you walk away and pretend like the whole thing never happened? Or do you bolt for the nearest exit before he can ask about grasshoppers in the man's ass?

When faced with these situations, it's typical to reflect back on one's own childhood and wonder what your parents would do. I know exactly what mine would have done. I remember like it was yesterday, my older brother at age 6, telling my uncle he was going 'punch him in the penis'. My mother smacked him with a wooden spoon, threatened to put hot pepper flakes on his tongue so he could never utter the word again, then sent up to his room for about an hour. I'm guessing you wouldn't see that approach on Super Nanny.

And since we weren't at home and I wasn't near the spice aisle, I chose to smile politely while removing myself from the check out line, then asked the man if he could point me in the direction of the gluten free crackers. He just stared at me, I think his weird-o meter must have been tripped. As a mother, I've become a master in redirection and deflection, though sometimes to my own detriment. Like when I told Charlie to help me make dinner instead of terrorizing his brother. 2 minutes later there was milk, egg and Cheerio soup being cooked on my floor. Neither of these was my smoothest move, though I always have the most honorable of intentions. I'm sure my picture is tacked to the bulletin board inside the break room at Safeway with a sign, 'Warning, do not approach. Mother and child may exhibit inappropriate behavior with insects.'

Hug It Out

2009-02-21T21:26:00.000-08:00

It seems that every time I think Charlie has pushed me to the brink of sanity, usually within 24 hours of that moment, the kid does something to make me reconsider my 'Free to Good Home' posting on Craig's List. It's no surprise that our family, including his grandmothers, have taken to calling him Jekyll and Hyde, his attitude swings are that drastic.

Monday night, it's 4 pm, t-minus 4 hours till bedtime. Charlie has lost all privileges for the evening and I'm not sure what else I can take away from this kid short of his life, since his treatment of his brother is bordering on criminal. Brian arrives on the scene to see Charlie dragging his brother around the house by the blanket he has stuffed into his mouth. Gregory is not old enough to realize that he can simply open his mouth and let go. I'm making dinner and yelling from the kitchen, "Leave him alone. Why don't you drag your doll around the house instead of Gregory. I'm telling you for the last time, do not hurt your brother. Do you want to lose TV for tomorrow night, too?"

Charlie decides to take Gregory on another lap. On the way, he swings by the kitchen to rub my face in his defiance. He stops, looks at me, then at Brian and says, "Daddy, you know what I haven't seen in a while?" What, Charlie? "You and Mommy giving each other a hug." Do you like it when we hug? "Yes, it makes me feel happy." We proceed to hug each other, then grab him and make a Charlie sandwich with him in the middle.

As quickly as it appeared, the cheesy family moment is gone. Charlie says, 'Thanks, stope it'. Pushing his brother into the wall, he runs from the room, hysterically laughing. Who was that masked man? I think he needs his Prozac prescription refilled.

Owie, Owie, Owie

2009-02-11T10:40:00.000-08:00

It's hard not to compare your kids to one another. Charlie and Gregory walked at exactly the same age, 13 1/2 months. They both started sleeping through the night at roughly 5 1/2 months, which felt like 5 1/2 years. They both gave up the bottle at 12 months, though with Gregory, you would have thought I was stripping him of a vital organ. That boy loved his 'baba' and still stares longingly at little babies sucking away on theirs.

Talking has been a whole other story. By 14 months Charlie had full words, he could mimic everything I said perfectly and with such clear enunciation that he would stop adults in their tracks. How could this tiny being have more words than most 2 or even 3 year olds? When I took him in for some developmental testing that they perform for babies born premature and who spent time in the NICU, the neurologist wrote in his chart that Charlie was 'VERY VERBAL'. And he continues to be to this day. This morning he said, 'Mommy, sit down, we need to have a discussion because I'm feeling very upset with you. You hurt my feelings when you told me I couldn't have chocolate ice cream for breakfast. I'm not so very happy with you. You should go to your room and think about what you've done.'

Gregory turned 14 months this past week and has a few words. Mostly 'Dada' when Brian comes home and 'Mama' when he feels he's been wrongly incarcerated in his crib. It doesn't bother me and I don't compare them in the sense that Charlie is better or smarter because he talked at an earlier age. Sure it would be easier if Gregory could say 'milk' instead of screaming at his sippy cup, but I find great satisfaction in trying to figure out exactly what he wants and then watching him kick his feet and smile with excitement when I give it to him. It's like a little victory for us both.

This week we've noticed a couple of new words entering his lexicon. The other night when Charlie jumped off the coffee table and body slammed him onto the ground, Gregory said very distinctly in between tears and snots, 'Owie, owie, owie.' He uses it now every time Charlie is around. Even if they're at opposite ends of the room, he'll point at him and say 'Owie, owie'. It would be funny, as well as hugely appropriate, if Gregory grew up calling him Owie instead of Charlie, considering Charlie treats him like a human punching bag.

The second word just came out this morning, I'm not sure but it sounded a lot like 'Stopit'. I take full credit for this one. In our home there is a din of 'stopitstopitstopistopitstopit.' To most people it's alarmingly loud when they first enter, but to us it's like background noise from the street. No wonder Gregory thinks it's one word and has taken to repeating it constantly. It's my most frequently spoken statement to both of the boys. 'Stop it, stop it, stop it! Get your hand out of his mouth. His tongue does not come out, it is attached.' Or 'Stop it, stop it, stop it. Gregory, get your hand out of there. Dirty! Dirty! Poop is dirty!'

I'm waiting with baited breath to hear his next word. If he's anything like his brother, it will be, "Hello, DCS? We have a problem."

Forget You, Mariah

2009-02-02T20:56:00.000-08:00

For once I am not going to write/complain about my kids. The subject today is me; me and my ongoing journey of self discovery.

At a cocktail party last week, my friend Cynthia introduced me to her acupuncturist and friend, Laurence. Naturally since our introduction included what she did for a living, she asked the same of me. Some nonsensical talk of software sales and a 1/2 of a glass of Sauvignon Blanc later, I spit out like a swear word that I was currently a stay at home mom. Definitely an awkward moment, so much so that it distracted me from the rest of our conversation. Laurence could tell I wasn't paying attention. Mid sentence I attempted to make a confession of sorts. The reason I was not as forthcoming with my profession was that I was embarrassed. She looked at me like I was nuts and asked why on earth I was ashamed of being a full time mother?

Embarrassed or ashamed is not accurate, I told her. Since quitting my job last March, I simply do not like to tell people right off the bat that I'm a stay at home mom. My reasoning is that when you first meet a stranger, the get to know you dance inevitably starts with 'What do you do?' - meaning your job. Your answers begin to form the impression of 'you' in their mind. And the person you're talking to could be the Pope, but even he judges (good or bad) based on this information. So my fear was that I would immediately be judged as being 'less than' something because of my job; less smart, less ambitious, less motivated, less worldly, less business savvy, less everything, except crazy, maybe. Okay, yes, I have some issues of self perception/worth that are intrinsically tied to my job, but there is an element of truth here that I wanted to explore.

Laurence was very kind to indulge me. She said, 'You have the most important job in the world.' It didn't rub me the wrong way like when Oprah says it, must have been the French accent, acupuncturist zen thing she had going on. Our discussion (or my therapy session) deepened as we chatted about how American society views the profession of motherhood, not really as a profession at all, but as a mini break from the real world. You shuttle children around in an SUV (or G_d forbid a minivan) all day, drink lattes, listen to Raffi or the Jonas Brothers, take your kids to the park, and talk to other Mom's about teachers, organic produce and the gym.

In France, while motherhood is revered, it does not serve to pigeon hole a person into a particular role or identity. Full time mother's are viewed as entire human beings, with other interests, wants and desires apart from her child's.

Laurence's perspective did make me feel better, but my mind started racing. Was I always this evasive, bizarre and long winded upon first meeting someone, my thinly veiled attempt to hide my stay at home mom-ness? My mind was blank, void of one single memory or example that I could point to. Of course, I'm the person who can't remember if she showered that day unless she smells under her own arm pits, so this was not shocking.

It didn't take but a few days before I had my answer. I get my hair cut at pretty popular, hip salon. When I say hip, I mean the people who work there are hip. Most of the clients are suburban Mom's like myself. The stylists and assistants dress crazy cool, in outfits that are wacky but fabulous; silver stilettos, red and green plaid pants, royal blue tank top, leopard vest, silver tie. That same outfit on me would scream blind, Scottish, Thompson Twins wannabe.

Like any high end salon, there are assistants for everything - they bring you water, take your coat, shampoo your hair and often blow dry it. Meet Jesse, my assistant du jour and the epitomy of cool; tattoos, pierced nose, super tight black pants, funky shoes, perfectly coiffed hair. This was our first introduction. We chatted and naturally he asked what I did. Enter sarcastic, evasive Christine. "Oh, I'm the keeper at the zoo." As only a 20-something year old could ask, Are you serious? Um, no, I stay at home with my kids. He laughed.

At this point I was having an out of body experience. The next 20 minutes I witnessed myself purposefully not talking about my children, swearing like a truck driver, and trying to hide my sensible Dansko clogs under the hair cutting cape. All in an attempt to make myself seem more interesting and cooler than I really am. It was like high school 20 years later.

It was awful. I was awful. Yet I couldn't stop. I heard myself calling Mariah Carey a gap toothed, Botoxed bitch. For those of you not obsessed with celebrity gossip, there's a reason Mariah will only have her photo taken from her right side. Yup, funky teeth on the left side. Good G_d. THIS was my ticket to cool and interesting?

Fortunately at that exact moment, my real self entered back into my body and took control of my mouth. I promptly removed all curse words from my vocabulary and told Jesse a funny story about my kids. Incidentally it was about cocktail parties. The evening prior to meeting Laurence, Charlie asked what a cocktail party was. I told him it was when adults get together to drink, sometimes eat, and laugh a lot. Now he says, 'Mommy, at school today, we laughed like we were at a cocktail party.' Way funnier than Mariah and her unfortunate teeth.

As I come to terms with my stay at home mom-ness (clearly I have some issues to work out), I won't let my kids be the only thing I talk about, if you promise that's not the only thing you'll ask me about. Deal?

'Hey, Big Boy' Bed

2009-01-27T20:18:00.000-08:00

Charlie has been sleeping on the floor for the past month, really since we got home from Christmas at my Mom's. Yes, he has a bed. It's a toddler bed that still uses his old crib mattress, and it is not comfortable at all. It does not surprise me that the carpeting on the floor gives him more cushion.

We finally decided to splurge and bought him a big boy mattress. The toddler bed converts into a full bed, which is cool, but kind of weird. I was a twin mattress girl until after college and this whole thing feels odd, almost dirty, like I'm pushing my own son toward, well, sex. I know, I know, he's only 3 1/2, and it's just a mattress. But why else does one need a bed larger than a twin unless A) you're a large person, or B) you share, or hope to share, that bed with someone.

We were awaiting the delivery of the bed and Brian decided to take Charlie on a sheet purchasing expedition; mistake #1. He took him to Ross Dress for Less, which is kind of like a ghetto Marshall's or TJ Maxx; mistake #2. It's the place you go for candles, picture frames, maybe underwear (if they still have the tags), or socks, but sheets? And not just any sheets, Charlie wanted pink or purple sheets, his favorite colors.

Upon their return, Charlie proudly showed me his purple satin sheets, as well as his pink satin ones with Playboy bunnies on them. Brian smirked, 'Charlie wanted them, he picked them out all by himself.' Wow, cool. I tried to mask my distaste for Charlie's benefit but I just couldn't do it.

Honey, you couldn't have redirected him to the cozy flannel sheets, or told him that these were the wrong size? 'But they were on sale', was his response. My husband has never bought something because it was on sale in his life. I'm not sure why he chose Ross Dress for Less as the place to alter his shopping habits.

The purple sheets I could live with, but the pink bunnies were down right offensive. Brian thinks I'm crazy and this whole thing amuses him. Not only do I think it's a sexist double standard; these sheets never would have been purchased if Charlie were a girl. But it's impractical as well; I doubt it's going to be Brian running into the kid's room at 3 am when he slides out of his bed and cracks his head on the floor.

My hesitation about buying Charlie a larger bed may be a bit unfounded, but now we've gone and introduced sexy boudoir accessories into his repertoire. What kind of parents are we? We might as well move to Nevada and open up a brothel.

Okay, so I'm a touch dramatic. I really worried for no reason, the sheets are already off after 1 night. Turns out satin sheets do not properly cover little boys who wiggle (in a non sexual way) in their sleep. As I said to Brian, at least he and the kids guarantee me material to write about. That would be the silver, or satin, lining.

Et tu, Brute?

2009-01-24T11:30:00.001-08:00

Gregory started to walk about 2 weeks ago. Since then, he hasn't really progressed past taking a few tentative steps toward me or the coffee table. Usually it's when he wants something, a toy or his sippy cup. He'll either take a few steps then fall to the ground to crawl the rest of the way, or he just stands there with his arms out stretched, whining, crying, and pointing at the object he desires.

I don't mind that he's not walking yet. If I knew what was good for me, I'd strap him to the floor on all fours and never let him stand on 2 legs...ever. Once I have 2 kids walking, things will get way more hectic than they already are. Though Charlie will be happy to have someone who will actually play a real game of chase with him. And think of all the money I'll save not having to use an entire bottle of OxyClean each week to get the grass and mud stains out of the knees of his pants.

Last night, Brian happened upon Gregory hanging out in the living room playing quietly alone. He stood in the shadows observing this sweet moment. You can imagine his surprise when Gregory stood up and walked clear across the room over to the blocks. We're talking at least 5 feet, unassisted, no wobbling. We've started calling him Billy Ray Valentine. Those of you who are fans of Trading Places will appreciate the reference. The rest of you, shame, shame for not seeing one of Eddie Murphy's finest films.

My youngest child is manipulating me, playing upon my sympathies. Yes, I do want him to stay a baby for a little while longer, but not if he's going to lie about it. Charlie didn't start consciously manipulating me until he was well into his terrible two's. With an extra year under his belt and learning straight from the master, I can't even imagine the new heights Gregory will soar to. I'm scared for the future; 2 children walking, 2 children manipulating. Does anyone know of a local Enablers Anonymous chapter?

The Enforcer

2009-01-22T17:00:00.000-08:00

As much as Charlie likes to ignore the rules of our household, when he's out in public, he adheres to a surprisingly strict moral code. Like most people, he has a couple of things that really get his goat; 1) littering and 2) not wearing a bike helmet.

At the park he'll walk up and hand me a sticky wrapper, "Here, Mommy, someone littered. They are so bad. They are not respectful at all!" Brian's big on respect and respecting one's elders. He tries to drive that message home every time Charlie calls him a yucky poo poo head or laughs when he's trying to dole out a punishment. Seems it's working but in ways he never expected. Respect for the park, yes; respect for Daddy, no. I think we could be bearing witness to the rise of the next leader of the Earth Liberation Front.

He notices trash everywhere, which is a sad statement; the highway, the parking lot of the grocery store, on walks through our neighborhood. The problem is he wants to clean it all up. I don't want to discourage this kind of behavior, but I'm usually the go between for Charlie and the garbage can. I'm quite accommodating, though I draw the line at chewed gum and old socks.

I understand where he gets the cleanliness from. His dad is part OCD, I pick up trash on hikes, and tend to complain about litter. But the bike helmet thing is a mystery. He's like a Jewish mother traffic cop. When we drive in the car and he sees someone sans helmet, he literally roles down his window and screams at them. Usually something like, "Hey, lady, where's your helmet? Go home and get your helmet." or "Hey, man, you're going to fall and crack your head open and bleed." Of course this generally startles the person so much so that they almost do fall and crack their head open. Those window locks do come in handy.

It makes me laugh because I hear myself and Brian in each utterance. You become keenly aware of how your every action and word can effect your kid. Kind of scary really. I don't dwell too much on it. I just rest easy knowing that our parks are cleaner and the streets are a little safer when the Enforcer is around.

The Face of Evil

2009-01-19T07:28:00.001-08:00

I believe the devil has left Georgia and is currently residing in my eldest son. His behavior on all levels, especially toward his brother, has escalated to astronomic proportions; hitting, biting, back talking, complete defiance, and general shit-headed-ness. He fails to show an ounce of remorse for his actions, or any sign of caring about the consequences. Wrap all this up into a 3 day weekend and you can imagine the mix of rage, terror and frustration Brian and I are experiencing. Not unlike an animal snared in a trap from which they can't escape. Though at this point, being locked up in cage sounds pretty good to us.

Brian woke up with the boys Saturday and things were off to a rough start. Charlie decided everything that Gregory picked up was 'his' and would rip it out of his hands. Gregory of course wailed. Taking things away from Gregory was like Charlie's gateway drug, similar to pot. He quickly moved on to hitting his brother whenever he came near one of his toys; we'll call that his cocaine phase. And finally he advanced to the big leagues, crystal meth, or biting his brother. No matter what Brian took away or how loud he yelled, Charlie continued along his path of aggression, smiling the whole way.

I was trying to ignore the piercing screams (from both father and child) by pulling the covers over my head. When that didn't work, I jumped in the shower in an attempt to completely block out the noise. Unfortunately, Charlie's room shares a wall with our bathroom. It was like having a cell next to the torture room at Abu Ghraib.

I padded into the living room where Gregory was playing alone, Brian was sitting in a chair silent, either crying or sweating, and Charlie was half laughing, whimpering in his room. What happened?

Apparently, after breakfast, Brian felt nature's call. He decided things were calm enough that he could take 2 minutes (or 15) to visit the bathroom. As Brian was leaving the room, he quickly glanced back to see Charlie punch/shove his brother in the back, then quickly move around to the front as Gregory was falling, then push him in the chest, sending him backwards. Remember those blow up punching bags from when you were a kid, the ones with the sand in the bottom so they could never fall over, they just kind of smacked the ground then bounced back up. Brian said Gregory looked like that. Which is what lead to their little tete-a-tete in Charlie's bedroom and my early wake up call.

No one was happy and this was the beginning of a long weekend. It went down hill from there. We yelled over and over again, we ignored, we punished, we took away everything Charlie held near and dear to his heart - Caillou, blocks, books, dessert, etc. and yet he continued on his rampage of terror against his brother and us. I sat on my knees, staring into his big brown eyes searching for some softness, some semblance of the adoring little boy he was just last week. But this monster actually seemed to be enjoying the attention as he came back time and time again, doling out more pain.

I spoke to one of Charlie's teachers later on Saturday. She offered up the theory that he's still adjusting to life with a younger brother. Now that Gregory is mobile, wanting to do everything his big brother does, getting into all of his stuff, and demanding just as much attention, Charlie's life as our main focus has truly come to an end. Maybe he'll move out?

I guess he's mad and this pattern of aggression (and deafness) is his way of rebelling. So what can you do? You keep on moving. We're attempting to switch up our approach to things by removing ourselves and Gregory from the room when Charlie acts up (the boy hates to be ignored). No TV until night time, and only then if he's been a good listener and kind to his brother. We hope that tomorrow will be better, that Charlie will be better, and that we'll be better.

Of course as I post this entry, Charlie has been the embodiment of all things good and sweet today, like a little angel who listens, behaves, says please and thank you. Or like a sociopath plotting his next move, lulling his victims into a false sense of calm and ease. I think he has us exactly where he wants us.

Giving Up the Bottle

2009-01-14T11:50:00.000-08:00

Week 2 of the New Year's resolution and giving up the bottle is not going so well. No, not me, talk about setting yourself up for failure. It is Gregory's Mommy-imposed resolution to be bottle-free in 2009. He is not happy, in fact, he's down right cranky as he gets used to life without a nipple. It's almost as bad as New Year's 2004 with my South Beach Diet resolution. I gave up my bottle (of red wine) for 2 weeks. Two words come to mind, ornery and bitch, and that is being kind. Just ask my husband. We all learned a valuable lesson about the necessity of having vices in one's life.

So what is my resolution for 2009, you ask? I pilfered it from another blogger. She decided rather than trying to add or subtract a vice, behavior, or food from her life to make her a better, healthier, thinner person, she would start the year off with a new perspective. Whenever she was set to complain about something or someone - kids, mother, health, job, etc - she would pretend like she was living 20 years in the future and try to view the issue from that lens.

For example, say her mother calls her up to tell her that in the recent pictures she posted of the kids, she did not think it appropriate that her eldest son was wielding a large stick. 'Do you always let him play with sticks? That's very dangerous. Someone could lose an eye.'
The 2008, 30 something self would reply with a sarcastic, 'Gee, thanks Mom. Glad you liked the pictures. Would you like me send you copies of the ones where I'm dangling both kids off the bridge by their ankles?
The 2009 reaction from her 50 plus lens, 'Gosh, Mom, I'm so glad you're still alive to talk to. I thought all of that nagging and judging would have surely killed you by now.'

Seriously, I'm finding the new perspective to be valuable. Both of my boys are in 'Mommy, Mommy, Mommy mode' right now. Every sentence starts with a whiny 'Mommy' or 'Mama' and ends with both of them grabbing some part of my person and yanking, pulling, twisting, licking.

Charlie was hanging on me yesterday at the grocery store and actually pulled my sweat pants down below my ass. 'Attention Safeway shoppers, we currently have a special on extra marbled Mommy butt roast in the meat department.'

All the attention does warm my heart, though many days, especially after 5 straight hours of listening to 'Mommy, Mommy, Mommy', I find it intrusive and annoying. But if I imagine myself in 20 years, A) I'll be lucky if my boys are even in the same state, let alone house, as me, and B) they probably won't be calling me Mommy anymore. I'm thinking it will either be 'Mother', said with a huff and rolled eyes, or if they've read this blog 'Thankless woman who complains about her children incessantly'.

While I can promise that Gregory will be sticking to his resolution - I threw all of his bottles in the trash January 1st. Mine will be a work in progress. Some days a fresh perspective is welcome and can help us to see things clearly. Other days, it's as inviting as a cold bottle of non-alcoholic beer at the end of a long day.

Round II

2009-01-11T22:20:00.000-08:00

Growing up with 2 brothers, I feel they have equipped me well to raise 2 sons. To say my brothers were merciless to me is being kind. Worse than the fat jokes (I topped the scales at 152 lbs in the 6th grade), was their constant engagement in bodily function warfare. Their weapon of choice, farts.

With one of them pinning down my arms and legs, the other would sit upon my head. They usually aimed for the mouth, but the eyes, ears, or nose would suffice. Really anywhere they could fit their ass to unleash the fury that laid within. If there was only one of them, he physically couldn't bring me down (152 lbs had some benefits). So he would come running into the room, fart as loud as possible, then run away, laughing. They called that a 'sneak attack.' Or, if I was on the phone, they would pick up the other line and fart into it. Better known as 'sending an SOS'.

My brothers were like generals, treating fart warfare like it was a science. They studied and charted when they were the most gaseous and how they could use that to their advantage. Years of research proved that when they farted into my older brother's Planet of the Apes garbage can, the smell had more staying power. They even figured out which specific foods my mother cooked would result in the most noxious smell. Incidentally it was sausages and scalloped potatoes in the early years and today, wings and dark beer yield the same effect - no, I'm not kidding.

Every college break, I would return home in hopes that the phase would have passed. Nope. They spent the time honing their skills. There was no longer a need to pin me down as they had perfected their guerrilla warfare tactics. The 'drop and roll', fart standing up next to the victim, then drop down to the floor to avoid the smell; 'snoozer sneak attack', fart loud enough to wake the person up, then run quickly from their room to avoid the smell; or my favorite, the 'all out ambush', where both of them would come and sit on either side of me on the couch to watch TV then just let loose (usually after some scallop potatoes or sausage). I still laugh, and cringe, every time I think about it.

Charlie has entered into the potty talk phase where he's become very aware of his bodily functions. Like his uncles, he loves not only to fart (or tootie, as he calls them), but to talk about farts every chance he gets. He wants me to listen to his farts, 'Hey Mommy, that tootie was so loud, Nani and Papa heard it all the way in Florida.' To smell them, 'Whoa, Mommy, what is that smell?' I don't know, Charlie, what is it? 'Oh, it was just my tootie and boy does it stink.' He even sings about them,
'Old McDonald had a toot.
Tootie, tootie, toot.
And on that toot there was poop.
Poopy, poopy, poop.
With a toot tooot here and poop poop there,
Here a toot, there a poop, everywhere a toot poop.
Old McDonald was a yucky,
Toot, toot, toot, toot, toot, TOOOOOOT!'

This is usually followed by roaring laughter (both mine and his), for a good 2 minutes. I know this only encourages the behavior. You would think after 30 plus years of being oppressed by farts, I would have had my fill and would want to teach Charlie that they're gross and to be avoided. But it's so ingrained in me and was such a huge part of my upbringing. I feel farts/tooties contain a valuable life lesson, if you just look for it, or smell it (hee hee).

Farts are funny. They represent humor at it's most basic, human level. They are the great equalizer. No matter how rich, powerful, or important you become, regardless of race, ethnicity or religion, everyone farts. Barack Obama, Queen Elizabeth (though she only passes gas), Osama Bin Laden, even Gwyneth Paltrow, are no better than you or me, they all fart. Everyone does. Except for Joaquin Phoenix and Matt Damon, they smell of nothing but ivory soap and Old Spice.

IGC

2009-01-07T07:21:00.000-08:00

I've scheduled myself for some exploratory surgery. I called my OB, demanding she go searching for my IGC (intrauterine guilt chip). Somewhere during the whole labor and delivery process it was implanted in me, by who I'm not sure. Maybe the anesthesiologist? Regardless, the IGC is there. I can feel it trying to thwart my every impulse to do something that will improve my health, mental well being, or happiness. Like an electric fence, ready to administer a high voltage shock, it's there. How else can I explain my actions yesterday?

It was a tough day at the office for Mommy. Gregory's stomach bug from last week must have lodged itself so far up his rectum, that in my arms was the only place he could be comfortable. He did not stop whining or crying all day. And Charlie, my beloved eldest. You would think after saying 412 times, "Please be gentle with your brother. It's not okay to hit him, pull his hair, push him down, or make him eat carpet", he would get the idea to stop. No, instead he ran from room to room, banging on walls, yelling, "Stope it, stope it! I'm not saying the adult word, it's my word. Gregory is stope it." We're into creative cursing, he's not allowed to say 'stupid' so he says things like 'stope it', 'fonk' or 'shick'.

Thankfully, my husband left work early, slow day for him. He went to the gym and came home refreshed, showered, and ready for some family time. The boys were acting up or really just acting the same as they had all day. I wanted nothing more than to go for a run, alone. If I could have that, maybe my response to their every question wouldn't be a raised, strained voice on the verge of hysteria.

I said, I'm going to go for a run if you don't mind. Charlie threw himself at me and yelled, 'Mommy, don't go, don't go. Take me with you. Don't leave. I don't want to stay home with Daddy.' Gregory sat at my feet, crying hysterically. Brian said, "Um, do you mind waiting an hour or so, until one of them is in bed, or atleast they're both having dinner?"

I think the IGC rendered me speechless as I was only able to muster a 'you can't be serious' glare at my husband. 'What?', he said, 'You really can't wait to go?'
It is going to be pitch black in an hour, I'll be gone for 20, maybe 30 minutes tops.
'So, it's not like you haven't run in the dark before. Why can't you go to the gym later?'
If my husband had any sense, he would realize that in an hour, my motivation would be gone faster than my first glass of wine or my sanity.

I stood up and started walking away, fuming. Charlie scampered after me, whining for me not to go, to take him with me. The IGC informed him that I wasn't going anywhere, I was going to stay home where I belonged. He was gleeful. He grabbed me around the waist and tried to lift up my shirt in an attempt to find my belly button. Sticking his finger into my navel is one of his favorite signs of affection. I detest it. As I pulled away, he put his hands on my belly and said, "Why is it so big?" AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. I went straight into my room and slammed the door.

When I emerged 2 minutes later (the IGC doesn't permit a longer break than that), Brian had a smirk on his face that I wanted to smack, like a mosquito on my arm. I ignored him. 'What, you're going to be mad at me?'
Yes, I am. You got to go to the gym at your convenience, all I'm asking for is 30 minutes.
'How often do I say 'no', Christine? Never. And I didn't say no, I just asked that you wait.'
Fair point, he never says no and really bends over backwards to help me when I need it. The IGC must have been set off, because I actually felt bad. I started to concede until he opened his mouth again, 'Why didn't you go this morning? I was around and asked if you needed anything.'

So says the man who got to spend a leisurely hour plus at the gym, probably got to do weights as well as cardio and take a steam.
All I'm asking for is a little equality. Why can't I take a run at the end of my day and when I want to? Why can't I leave and let you handle the kids for a bit? He spouted on and on about building his gym time into his schedule. 'I think we're going to have to agree to disagree on this one. You don't understand what I'm saying. You could have gone for a run this morning. And it's not fair to leave me with the kids when it's clear that Mommy is the only one they want.'

My rage must have stifled the IGC, I could feel it's hold on me weakening as I yelled, That is it! First, the kids are 3 and 1 and easily distracted. Play trucks, throw knives, tie them up with rope, pay any attention to them at all, or simply wait 5 minutes, and I promise you'll quickly become their favorite person. Second, I have been with them, in this state of ridiculousness, ALL DAY LONG and you're giving me grief about 30 minutes? I need a break before I go out of my mind.

And with that I set off into the near complete darkness. 25 minutes later I returned, feeling dare I say, happy. I could greet my children with a smile, I even gave my husband a kiss. Now was that so bad, you stope it, fonking, shick head?

I Can't Argue With That

2009-01-05T13:07:00.000-08:00

I think Charlie is getting smarter, or more insane. His recent spree of outbursts has left me scratching my head, wondering what to do next. They could be described as irrational, or passionate depending on the day and my mood. What differentiates these from his usual maniacal rants? In the past, no matter how ridiculous the content, I could put things to rest using a little redirection and humor. For example:

'Mommy, I'm going to smoke Gregory.'
What?
'I'm going to smoke him. I'm serious with you, I'm going to smoke him."
What does smoke mean?
'Push him down and run him over with a vacuum.'
Would you want him to do that to you?
'No.'
Okay, well let's get some blocks and build a tower and watch Gregory knock it down.
'That's a great idea, Mommy. I would like to do that.'
Building is much better than smoking, don't you think?
'Yes, I do.'

Situation diffused, no casualties. But this new and improved Charlie is like nothing I've seen before. There is no arguing with him, or getting him off track, he's like a dog with a bone.

The first time he appeared was after a run to Target. All purchases and children were tucked safely in the car as we headed toward the exit. As soon as we hit the street, I hear,
'I'm in the wrong seat.' - Ignore the whiny voice, ignore the whiny voice.
'I'm in the wrong seat.' - Turn up the music, continue ignoring.
'Mommy, Gregory's in my seat! Get him out of my seat.'
Charlie, that is your seat.
'No, it's not.'
Yes, it is, you can't fit into Gregory's seat so that one is yours.
'NO, IT IS NOT.'
Charlie, isn't that the seat you always climb into, the one behind the passenger seat?'
'No, it's not. I sit behind you, Mommy.'
This went on for a good 3 minutes, me trying to reason with a 3 year old who is clearly experimenting with delusional reality, and him screeching, like I had set his hair on fire.

On occasion I will catch a glimpse of my mother in myself. But at this moment, I was channeling her directly from the east coast, circa 1977. I pulled the car over into the breakdown lane. I turned around, stared Charlie right in the eye and said,
Do you want to go out to lunch or not?
Sniffle, sniffle, 'Yes.'
Then stop it, Charlie, just stop it.
More sniffles, but he calms down enough to say, 'But this isn't my car seat.'
Are you kidding me? It's like arguing with OJ Simpson about whether he did it or not. He truly believed he was in the wrong seat, or at least pretended that's what he believed with such conviction, that I had to back down.
Okay, Charlie, it's not your seat. Do you want a hot dog or grilled cheese for lunch?
'I want to change seats with Gregory.'
I ignored him for the rest of the car ride home.

The next evening, smarter/crazier Charlie made another appearance at bedtime. He was tucked in for the night, teeth brushed, stories read, songs sung. Peering through the bars of his toddler bed, he often tries to engage us with questions, songs, stories, etc, in the hopes of postponing bedtime. He looks much like a prisoner, straining to see someone walking down the corridor, minus the mirror. If only I could keep him under lock and key.
'Mommy, I don't like my skin.'
What, Charlie?
'I don't like my skin, I don't want my skin on."
Good night, Charlie.
'But my skin, I don't like it. I don't want it. Take it off.'
Ignore, ignore, ignore.
'Mommy. Mommy. MOMMY. Please take my skin off.'
I walk to his room and shut the door. I hear him whining about his skin until he falls asleep. Thank goodness he was tired, I'm not sure how I would have handled that one in the daylight with full energy Charlie.

There is no resolution to these situations. My usual bag of tricks, the ones all the early childhood experts recommend - redirect, ignore, sense of humor - are failing me. As I dig deep into the vault from my youth, tactics that I swore I would never use on my kids are starting to sound quite appealing. I'm currently reconsidering my stance on wooden spoons, hot pepper flakes, and pressure points. I'm not sure when new Charlie will make his next appearance, I just hope I'll be ready for him.

What Child is This?

2008-12-27T19:58:00.001-08:00

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

2008-12-16T13:20:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-09T14:50:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-06T21:09:00.000-08:00

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, this 3 year old, all consuming, mind numbing phase has taken it's place and 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

2008-12-01T10:08:00.000-08:00

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 spills over into 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

2008-11-25T13:30:00.000-08:00

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?

2008-11-19T10:30:00.000-08:00

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!

2008-11-16T19:38:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-11T19:25:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-06T10:10:00.000-08:00

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?

2008-11-04T19:48:00.000-08:00

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

2008-10-30T07:14:00.001-07:00

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'

2008-10-23T20:10:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-10T11:04:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-07T15:14:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-21T13:46:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-18T10:20:00.001-07:00

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?

2008-09-16T14:12:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-09-05T13:42:00.001-07:00

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

2008-09-04T14:51:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-04T13:48:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-08-22T08:46:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-20T15:28:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-20T15:02:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-08-14T07:23:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-13T20:04:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-08-12T20:52:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-12T20:35:00.000-07:00

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.