Archives for September 2005

I finally moved Big-O out of his infant carrier which he outgrew 2-months ago. This was scary because it meant I would have to hold him while doing my grocery shopping since he’s only 4-months old and there are no built-in infant carriers on the carts with the car attached to the front. Little-C must have one of these. Surprise surprise though, when you’re as big as a nine month old and have the strength of a 6-month old, you can totally sit up, strapped into the front of the cart. Yay!

He did start tilting to the side by the time we finished and as we left the grocery store, our hip black grandma checker gave Big-O mad props for his sweet “gangsta lean.” It’s funny what things will make you proud when you’re a mom.

It brought me back to those crazy days as a high school senior, driving around in my homey Dana’s maroon Taurus with the windows rolled down, slumping to the side to crank up the volume on the Warren-G. Sweet memories.

So, last night my marriage was just what I though it would be in my naive younger days, a never-ending sleepover party with my best friend. We were trying to get ready for bed but could not stop laughing. EVERYTHING was funny. I love when I can make him giggle like a wee school girl.

At one point, I was laying in bed next to Dan, we had finally calmed down and were “ready to sleep.” His eyes were closed so, of course, I thought it would be a good idea to get my face as close to his as possible with my eyes open, freakishly, horror movie-ishly wide. He opened his eyes, jumped a few inches and we started laughing again.

It was then I remembered being an annoying young tween who would do the same thing to my older sister to scare her in the night. There are some ages when you will do just about anything to drive your siblings mental. I’m not proud of it and I’m certainly not looking forward to it with my own children but it’s a part of my history so just accept me for me, okay? Gosh! Actually, I’m sure my kids will be above such things.

Anyway, when the night-time staring stopped having an effect on her, I decided it would be even scarier and more annoying if I hovered over her with my tongue pointed at her eye like a dagger. Then when she opened her eyes, “AHHHHHHH!” It worked. Really well. So of course I decided to try it out on Dan.

Me: Close your eyes again.
D: Why?
Me: I want to do something even scarier. Just close ’em
D: What are you gonna do?
Me: Just close ’em till I’m ready
D closes his eyes.
Me: Uncontrollable giggling, practically the pregnant laugh**
D: are you doing it yet?
Me: No, I’m laughing too hard.
I finally get into position as he waits with his eyes closed in dread. My little tongue dagger is just millimeters away from his waiting eye.
D: Are you ready yet?
Me (laughing again): I’m sticking my tongue towards your eye like a dagger. I can’t do it if you keep asking me questions! I will get into position. Then you ask me if I’m ready and I will squeeze your arm once for yes or twice for no. (and you thought two-year-olds were immature)
D: Okay

The rest is sort of anticlimax. It’s not quite as scary or annoying if you’re:
a) expecting it
b) a willing participant
c) not an older sibling who knows she’s too mature for these games or
d) already giggling like a school girl.

*Little-C’s term for yesterday night.
**There is a very special laugh I get when I’m pregnant. It has never been duplicated when I’m not with child. It has no known rational trigger but when it happens, it doesn’t stop for several minutes, sometimes on and off for hours whenever I think about the trigger. It is always accompanied by tears.

The consequence for willfully throwing peas on the floor at dinner time and refusing to eat is — you get no treats at family home evening….. even if you helped make the brownies. How did I know that her pea throwing was willfull? Well announcing, “I’m throwing peas,” with a gleeful smile and a look of defiance in her eyes was a big hint. So I calmly let her know that she would be getting no FHE treats.

The lesson was on “understanding and being kind to those who are different” and we started with a scripture from Luke:

As ye would that men should do to you do ye also to them likewise. [Luke 6:31]

I explained to Little-C that this meant we needed to treat others the way we would like to be treated. She glanced towards the yummy-smelling kitchen, looked up at me mournfully and said, “I want to be treated!”

Conclusion — she still got nothing, but she did make me feel just a wee bit sorry for her.

Our new nap routine consists of a kitchen timer, 9 inches of strategically placed duct tape, and an easily removable doorstop. Before you call DCFS, hear me out. I set the timer for one hour, duct tape Little-C into her diaper to avoid a repeat of “the incident,” and tell her that if she can stay in her bed until the timer beeps, she can get up, even if she hasn’t actually “slept.” Now if she gets up prematurely, then I add 10 minutes to the time. Of course this is all in hopes that she will get in her bed, be bored out of her mind and drift off before the timer goes. Sometimes it works…sometimes not so much.

But I’m a smart one and I’ve come to notice a pattern – the only way Little-C will sleep during the day is if she can bawl her brains out for 30-120 seconds (that’s how long it takes her to fall asleep once she starts crying). I can’t bring myself to “make” her cry but I’m somewhat relieved when she does. This may seem harsh but if I don’t find a way to get her down for a nap, she finds a way of sucking the joy from herself and everyone else in the family for the rest of the day. And she’s just so great to be around when she’s well rested.

She has to do it for herself and on those magical days, everyone rejoices. Today for example, she was rolling around in her bed in a state of bliss and chatter when she bonked her head lightly on the headboard. She started wailing. I rushed in to comfort her and within 2 minutes she was out like a light. Other days when she’s gotten out of bed so many times that she’ll be in bed as long as sleeping beauty if I don’t do something drastic, I tell her that if she gets up one more time, I’m closing her door. Of course she gets up again, I shut the door on her fully unscary and sunlit room, she screams like her arm is being cut off, “NO, please. MOMMY DON’T DOOOO THIS,” and then falls almost immediately to sleep. She wakes up happy. We are all happy. Am I just the meanest mom ever? Maybe my new hair color is tainting my personality.

Well, I am so in love with all these long layered t-shirts and tank tops everywhere. For the first time ever since being a mom, I can bend over and pick up my kids without mooning everyone or resorting to high-waisted, peg-legged jeans. It is fabulous. I have them in every color and have become completely obsessed with layers. So, although it may appear that I’m taking fashion advice from Avril Lavigne or my kids’ high-school-aged-babysitters, I’m actually just trying to avoid exposing myself as I pick up drool-soaked cheerios off the floor of the airport.

But yesterday I started to get worried. What will happen 10 years from now when layers are no longer in style? I feel very strongly that I will still wear them regardless. So, that pretty much puts me on par with all of those women who still wear their oh-so-popular-in-the-80’s-dorky-mom-jeans. I finally understand these women. They were so excited to finally have clothes that allowed to them to move around in their motherly duties without giving a free show to passersby that they couldn’t let go when low-rise wide-legged jeans came back in style.

I picture my children years from now throwing their hands up in exasperation, “Mom, what’s with the LAYERS? How many shirts can you wear at one time? It’s so embarrassing.” I will likely just laugh at them – my secret little laugh that says, “OOOOhhhh, one day you’ll understand but right now I couldn’t care less if you think I’m a dork.”

Besides, I was always a little suspicious of my friends’ middle-aged moms who dressed exactly the same way we did in Junior High. You know, the “cool” moms? Why were they trying to look like us? Were they attempting to go undercover and infiltrate our society? Because it wasn’t working. You could always tell them apart from the other Junior High kids because they wore way too much makeup and had driver’s licenses.

And think about it. If the kids are teaching the moms how to look, dress and act, who’s teaching the kids?

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I haven’t written about the kids in a few days because they’ve been so darn angelic that I didn’t want to make you sick or have you hate me because you’ve discovered my kids are better than yours. Yorching haters are no fun. So I have another story I can share today brought to you by Little-C being woken up prematurely from her nap by — she says — a “scary monster.”

So obviously I won’t share cookies, graham crackers or other multiple-bite foods with toddlers. It just gets too slimy and you never really know what the slime is. I also learned not to share drinks after watching her eating a cookie while drinking milk from a straw. The milk came up to her mouth white but receded a nice brownish color back down the straw.

But who knew that a bowl of grapes would be off limits too? After the nap today, she begged for grapes but wanted the whole bowl of them out of the fridge. I told her we could share and she agreed. All went well for the first few bites. She would take a grape and then I would take a grape, etc. Suddenly as I popped an average-looking grape into my mouth she let out a terrible wail. “NOOOOOOOO, that’s MY grape. You can’t eat my grape. I WAAAANNNNTTT it!”

What made this grape beloved above all others I’ll never know but there were a few other grapes in the bowl that had the same effect on her. It was like Russian roulette. I’d pop one in my mouth with C looking on and ……nothing. Phew! Another and another…..still safe. But then, “AAAAHHHHHHH! NOOOOOOOOOOOO! That was MYYYYY grape.” We’re talkin’ real bona fide tears my friends. And, I suppose, real bona fide emotions — for a two-year-old.

Dear Madam,
I regret to inform you that since you received no formal invitation to reside in this body, you are officially being asked to evacuate the premises immediately. Big-O’s evacuation was not an open invitation for any old squatter to take up residence. We were all having a great time with our darling baby boy when you burst through the door, wreaking havoc.

You certainly made yourself right at home, annoying everyone and bossing us all around. We’ve all missed sleep because of your incessant chatter filled with tales of horror and woe. I don’t believe a word you say and yet I cannot tune you out or convince my body that you spout nothing but lies.

At first, I thought I was strong enough to fight you on my own, to wrestle you to the ground and force you to leave. But you would not back down. After weeks of struggling with no sleep, no food, and no hope or peace, I knew you had beaten me and I gave up. Against the sincerest desires of my nature, I purchased and used the ammunition necessary to banish you to the smallest, darkest corner of my mind, a place where you are scarcely noticeable. However, sometimes, when I least expect it, you emerge unscathed and ready to do battle again. These are the times when I hate you the most.

You are a liar and a thief, a sadist and a leech. You’re a bully who cares about no one and seeks to destroy everyone you come in contact with. Little-C is afraid of you. You make her nervous, uneasy and insecure. Dan has even missed work to stay home and protect me from you.

I do appreciate the work you’ve done to help me lose weight, although I wish you’d gone about it some other way. And I am grateful for the increased compassion I now have for anyone who has been visited in the past by you or any of your hateful relatives.

However, I have decided that I am done with you. I most forcefully request that you leave at once so I can dispose of my ammunition and continue my life in relative peace (okay, who am I kidding? I have 2 children under the age of 3).

Sincerely,
-Kathryn Daring

Owner and Proprietor of aforementioned body

P.S. I know you stole the first 5 weeks of my son’s life from me. Please return it on your way out.

***On a lighter note, please click on my open letter link to read some that are a lot more fun than the one I just posted****

My parents are in Houston and living in the bull’s eye (choose forecast path button) of the projected path of Hurricane Rita. They are in an area that has not been forced to evacuate so they think they’ll ride out the storm. I’m pretty sure everything will turn out okay but in light of the devastation with Katrina I think the more prayers offered in behalf of the Gulf Coast residents, the better.

It’s happened before and it freaked me out then but I swore that in the aftermath of future pregnancies I would not be worried by the fact that I seem to be going bald. During pregnancy my hair grows thick and lush and beautiful and I feel great pride, as though I have anything to do with it. It’s like when your child sleeps through the night for the first time or your husband cleans up after your latest cooking fiasco without being asked. You feel proud of them but in a strange way proud of yourself for your connection to them. I feel proud of myself for my ability to grow such long strong and beautiful hair while I’m pregnant. I brush it a lot and let it sway behind me as I walk — that is when it’s not pulled back in a greasy ponytail because I feel like total hud. Anyway, at about 3 months post partum, it all starts falling out.

At first, it’s just a piece here and there and after a couple of weeks, handfuls of hair come out every time I wash it, brush it or run my fingers through it. I imagine it getting amazingly thin and I totally freak out. Really it’s just going back to normal but I become paranoid that it won’t stop falling out. This time for sure I must be going bald.

In a fit of drama two nights ago, I told my husband I was going to cut it all short. Men who are going bald should shave their heads rather than trying to comb it over or leave it clinging to their heads in long thin scraggly patches. I decided to do the same, not shave it exactly but not let it keep growing long and thin so that there were only three hairs together for the last couple of inches of my formerly glorious mane. He told me he’d support me if I wanted to cut it but also reminded me that we both like it better when I leave it long. I started to get all mad, “What is it with guys and long hair? It seems that most would rather have a girl with scraggly, nappy, split-ended long hair, than a healthy well-maintained short cut.”

This has always been a pet-peeve of mine. But I know he’s right about me in particular. My face is so round that I always regret it when I cut my hair short and immediately start growing it out again. The summer of “melon-head” comes to mind. It’s too painful so I won’t post a picture here. Anyway, I decide not to cut off what few piece remain on my head. Instead, following the advice of the latest beauty section of Parenting Magazine, I decide that because its fall I should dye my hair 2 shades darker than my natural color. I do not understand the reasoning behind this advice but do not question it, partly because these people are “experts” of some kind and say I should do it and partly because how fun is it to dye your hair in your bathtub every once in a while? Um…very…especially if you’re a freshman in college. And besides, it should be pretty cheap because I won’t need to buy much dye since I hardly have any hair left.

So I go to the grocery store and stand in front of rows of temporary same-ish looking brown dye (okay I’m a wimp who can’t commit to any beauty item long term. Don’t expect to see me with tattooed lipstick anytime soon.) The colors all look pretty much the same to me and since I’m much prettier than any of the models on the boxes, I figure I can make any of them work. As I’m about to pick up one of the “nut” series of browns, a store employee with the aforementioned 3 strands of remaining hair comes up to me and says, “Oh no. That shade’s too dark for you. I use —–nut. It’s much nicer.” Her hairs are sort of a non-descript brownish color and she looks nothing like the girls on the boxes so I’m skeptical about whether or not I can trust her opinion but she does work at the QFC so I pick the —nut color in between her —nut and my original —nut choice. I take it home. I dye my hair, my bathtub, my sink, my hands and part of a bar of face soap a too dark color of brown. I don’t actually know if it’s too dark (What do they mean, two shades? What constitutes a shade? They should include a chart or something) but it’s all totally one color, no highlights or variations which I conclude makes me look like a witch.

It’s a month until Halloween and the dye is supposed to wash out after 28 washings so I’ve calculated that if I only shower every 3 or 4 days for the next month it will still be a witchy enough color to work well for my costume if there’s any of it left. If it continues to thin out at this rate, I can always go for the relief-society-one-inch-perm a half a century earlier than I had originally planned and dress up for Halloween as a grandma. Or maybe I should just get pregnant again and let my chia-pet hormones take over. So many options, so little hair.

So, we finally seem to be getting out of the “Lenny” stage of Little-C’s infatuation with Big-O.
She has loved him since before he was born, oh with such a great love it cannot be expressed in words. Picture if Steinbeck had written Of Mice and Men but instead of being a mentally handicapped adult armed with brute strength, Lenny was a two-year-old girl armed with fleece blankets and hundreds of stuffed animals. I would hear a muffled cry from the living room where I would find a quivering mound of fleece and cuddly animals. Beneath that mound would emanate the piteous wails of the infant boy, growing fainter by the minute. As I would release him from his fluffy torture chamber, Little-C would cling to my arm and beg me to leave him alone. “He LIKES IT! HE LIKES IT! He’s laughing. He’s SO happy.” How could a person be so tender and yet so hazardous? In these moments I would think of Lenny and the poor pretty bunnies and vow not to leave the two of them unattended….. ever. However recent evidence shows that she may be growing out of this stage and we rejoice. She still loves him, but not quite so hard.