Utopia

"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.

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

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

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 - open 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 the notion that yellow toilet water should be enough of a deterrent to keep anyone from drinking it (yes I'm saying my kids play with pee water - gross).

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 that when he pushes Gregory down, steals his matchbox car, then pokes him in the eye with it, he should run. Gregory is just 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 giving him a compliment 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 he's in. All it takes is an "I sowy" and he is forgiven. He could be stabbing the neighbors cat to death with his Elmo toothbrush that he fashioned into a shiv and I'm like, 'Okay, but just don't do it again.'
"Aw wight, Mommy."

Games People Play

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

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

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.