Sunday, February 8, 2009
Sometimes You Gotta Be Grateful
For...
The walking trail behind our condo complex. It's become my early morning quiet time.
The rain over the past couple days. It washes things.
Ari's cuddly, sweet and loving moments. They ensure his survival. And mine.
My cats. And their 6am alarm clock meowing. I'd never get my morning walk otherwise.
Ikea. For its $4 pillows, $10 comforters and 99 cent Mac & Cheese. And its ability to entertain a two year old for 3 and a half hours.
My husband. Who does the dishes and the vaccuming if it needs to be done.
Craig's List. And the fact that I can buy a year's wardrobe for my daughter for under $75.
Peanut Butter M&Ms. Enough said.
Sunday night Pizza Night.
George at the Saturn Service department. I will never entertain the thought of a different car.
San Diego weather and the ability to get a tan on your arms in February simply by walking to the park.
A couple of good girlfriends, some coffee and Java Mama.
Holding my temper during those rough moments at the dinner table.
Being okay with sitting on the couch and wasting two hours on the computer.
...now where are those M&Ms?
The walking trail behind our condo complex. It's become my early morning quiet time.
The rain over the past couple days. It washes things.
Ari's cuddly, sweet and loving moments. They ensure his survival. And mine.
My cats. And their 6am alarm clock meowing. I'd never get my morning walk otherwise.
Ikea. For its $4 pillows, $10 comforters and 99 cent Mac & Cheese. And its ability to entertain a two year old for 3 and a half hours.
My husband. Who does the dishes and the vaccuming if it needs to be done.
Craig's List. And the fact that I can buy a year's wardrobe for my daughter for under $75.
Peanut Butter M&Ms. Enough said.
Sunday night Pizza Night.
George at the Saturn Service department. I will never entertain the thought of a different car.
San Diego weather and the ability to get a tan on your arms in February simply by walking to the park.
A couple of good girlfriends, some coffee and Java Mama.
Holding my temper during those rough moments at the dinner table.
Being okay with sitting on the couch and wasting two hours on the computer.
...now where are those M&Ms?
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Ban This Book
Our financial advisor's family got Ari this book for Christmas: Don't let the pigeon stay up late.
It's all about this pigeon that tries to finagle a later bedtime. He doesn't succeed but, boy, does he work it. It's hilarious for adults and, we're finding, quite influential on the two-year-old wheedling process. For example, this evening:
I tuck Ari into bed and as I walk out the door...
Ari: Wait, Mom. Wait, wait.
Me: Yes, Ari?
Ari: Um, um, um, um, um, um. Choo choo book.
Me: Yes, we'll read it together in the morning.
Ari: Wait. No. Choo choo book here. (pointing at the mattress next to him)
Me: Okay. (retrieving the choo choo book from the bookcase)
Ari: No. Wait. Not that.
Me: You want the Toby book?
Ari: Yes.
I swap out the choo choo book for the Toby book.
Ari: Wait. Wait. No, not that.
Me: (with growing fatigue) Ari, I'm going to give you one more book and that's the end of it.
Ari: (quite cheerfully) Okay!
I add one more train book to the crib, say good night and begin to walk out the door.
Ari: Wait, wait. Wait, Mom.
Me: Yes, Love?
Ari: Um, um, um, um, um, um, um, um. Sixteen.
Me: Sixteen?
Ari: Yes!
Me: Sixteen, huh? Okay, I'll see you in the morning. I love you.
I close the door to the muffled sounds of more random numbers.
Pancakes and Toe Jam
During breakfast today, Ari determined that his toe fuzzies needed to be examined. This is a normal occurance as he likes to remove the sock fuzz from between his toes. He ripped his socks off and started picking between his toes. "No fuzzies, Mom." Bear in mind, this child has not been bathed in an undisclosed amount of time...He then started to pick at some accumulated toe jam. Even after I warned him that those feet may be a bit stinky, he put his fingers to his nose, made an awful face and proclaimed, "Oh! Grrghak! Yucky!"
I told you.
I told you.
My Wish List
To awaken in the morning, not to the sound of dramatic whining from a baby monitor or loud breakfast-demanding meows from the hallway...but to the cheerful sound of birds chirping...during daylight hours. Please, cats, about the 6am. You have got to be kidding me.
To shower and dress for the day before leaving my room and walk downstairs to prepare breakfast on my own terms. Without the pajama-bottom-losing effects of toddler-induced gravity. Please, with the pulling down of my pants while I'm preparing a meal.
To drink a cup of coffee in the morning. The whole cup. Over a reasonable amount of time and not having to re-heat it in the microwave several times over a four-hour period.
To leave the house for the day quietly, quickly and gracefully, without 15 minutes of shoe-application, explanations and convincing enthusiasm or loaded down with kiddie coolers, water bottles and diaper bags. Pack mule, I am not.
To schlep through errands and daily work efficiently and completing the list of intended things to do. Without back-up plans, Cheerios crushed into the bottom of my purse and stuck to my sweater, throwing toys into the back seat or listening to the Wiggles on the car stereo.
Oh, to stop multi-tasking, even while driving.
To finish a thought.
To remember I used to be an intelligent adult capable of holding deep conversation.
To just do things. Without making it all a game or thinking 10 minutes ahead of every moment or explaining why. To just do it.
And despite my losses and my learnings from those losses...Oh for the pre-people-in-my-house days when I could decorate as I liked, cook what and when I wanted, write when I wanted, come and go as I pleased and when my career plans were my career plans and didn't have to take into consideration the well-being or convenience of three other people.
Oh for the days when I could be selfish, self-absorbed and completely oblivious to the needs of a spouse and children.
...I miss that sometimes.
But then...who would I kiss good morning and good night? Who would I laugh with over silly Thomas the train faces on TV? Who would give me a pat on the shoulder and a "hi Mom" at the oddest of times? Who would chastise me when I drop the f-bomb or let the s-word slip? Who would tell me I'm doing a good job and scrape me up off the floor when I fall? And what on earth would I write about? Yes, life would be all about me...but would it be nearly as full?
To shower and dress for the day before leaving my room and walk downstairs to prepare breakfast on my own terms. Without the pajama-bottom-losing effects of toddler-induced gravity. Please, with the pulling down of my pants while I'm preparing a meal.
To drink a cup of coffee in the morning. The whole cup. Over a reasonable amount of time and not having to re-heat it in the microwave several times over a four-hour period.
To leave the house for the day quietly, quickly and gracefully, without 15 minutes of shoe-application, explanations and convincing enthusiasm or loaded down with kiddie coolers, water bottles and diaper bags. Pack mule, I am not.
To schlep through errands and daily work efficiently and completing the list of intended things to do. Without back-up plans, Cheerios crushed into the bottom of my purse and stuck to my sweater, throwing toys into the back seat or listening to the Wiggles on the car stereo.
Oh, to stop multi-tasking, even while driving.
To finish a thought.
To remember I used to be an intelligent adult capable of holding deep conversation.
To just do things. Without making it all a game or thinking 10 minutes ahead of every moment or explaining why. To just do it.
And despite my losses and my learnings from those losses...Oh for the pre-people-in-my-house days when I could decorate as I liked, cook what and when I wanted, write when I wanted, come and go as I pleased and when my career plans were my career plans and didn't have to take into consideration the well-being or convenience of three other people.
Oh for the days when I could be selfish, self-absorbed and completely oblivious to the needs of a spouse and children.
...I miss that sometimes.
But then...who would I kiss good morning and good night? Who would I laugh with over silly Thomas the train faces on TV? Who would give me a pat on the shoulder and a "hi Mom" at the oddest of times? Who would chastise me when I drop the f-bomb or let the s-word slip? Who would tell me I'm doing a good job and scrape me up off the floor when I fall? And what on earth would I write about? Yes, life would be all about me...but would it be nearly as full?
Friday, January 30, 2009
Choosing Creativity Over Crying
An Ode to Insanity
For there is nothing like 2 year old insanity.
It rages and stomps and calls you by name.
"Hey Mom, Hey Dad. No, no, go away now, Dad."
It is waking at 7:30, yawning for two hours, and then
refusing to go to bed until 10pm.
It is instantaneous mind changes and mood changes
and taking high offense when the term "bipolar"
is employed (how does he know what bipolar means?).
It is...tiring....
For there is nothing like 2 year old insanity.
It will rage irrational and then shrewdly bargain for
"just one more cookie".
It flirts and cuddles and then screams, "No Mommy!"
It is disagreement at its most volatile...and frequent.
It confuses...it frustrates...
For there is nothing like 2 year old insanity.
It throws tantrums at a restaurant as parents glance
longingly at the bar.
It then gazes adoringly at the waitress as she brings
the Mac & Cheese.
It does not gaze adoringly at Mom when she brings
the Mac & Cheese.
It enrages...
For there is nothing like 2 year old insanity.
It creates babbling idiots out of highly educated adults.
It defines the phrase "a rock and a hard place".
It makes a grown woman want a nap at 10 am...
or reach for the rum at 4pm.
It will make you stronger, they say...
...if it does not kill you in the process.
For there is nothing like 2 year old insanity.
(case in point...of the more positive side of insanity)
Saturday, January 24, 2009
6 Month Health Streak!
...ended.
And so I sit, curled into the fetal position breathing wetly into a fistful of Costco Kleenex (i.e. not the kind that come with "Plus") and wondering if an orange, 5 strawberries and a couple spoonfuls of organic mac & cheese will constitute the wonder-food I need to magically reconstruct my former glowing health. Being six months pregnant, it is frowned upon to imbibe in any pharmaceutical aid...and so I sit, rasping out a "hey buddy" and offering a wan smile to the little urchin charging into my room every so often to "see Mommy".
Blessedly, said urchin has avoided the bugs passed back and forth between mom and dad. Sascha started this germ fest off a couple weeks ago with one of those "oh-my-god-i'm-dying" sinus infections that lasted three days (of course, he still claims the residual "draining"). With any hope, I'll be wrapping up this familial episode of viral drama entirely on my own with a stellar presentation of clogged sinuses, raw dripping nose, 80-year-old-large-man sneezes and body aches that I'm starting to confuse with contractions. And I need to finish it all by Monday.
As I write, my two boys are in our bathroom, trimming Ari's nails as he tells me all about life. "Shower there - wash wash." "What got there?" (referring to my laptop)...and launching into a description of watching Handy Manny on daddy's computer while Skyping with Nana. When I ask Sascha if I spelled "Skyping" correctly, Ari answers with absolution, "Yes." He's become quite the chatterbox, even though we can only understand about 70% of his verbal stream. Now preferring to call us "Mom" and "Dad", I can see him babbling his way into a prom date 15 years from now. A terrifying thought. But for now it's "football, soccerball, baseball" in "Daddy's car". And that's all I could ever want.
And so I sit, curled into the fetal position breathing wetly into a fistful of Costco Kleenex (i.e. not the kind that come with "Plus") and wondering if an orange, 5 strawberries and a couple spoonfuls of organic mac & cheese will constitute the wonder-food I need to magically reconstruct my former glowing health. Being six months pregnant, it is frowned upon to imbibe in any pharmaceutical aid...and so I sit, rasping out a "hey buddy" and offering a wan smile to the little urchin charging into my room every so often to "see Mommy".
Blessedly, said urchin has avoided the bugs passed back and forth between mom and dad. Sascha started this germ fest off a couple weeks ago with one of those "oh-my-god-i'm-dying" sinus infections that lasted three days (of course, he still claims the residual "draining"). With any hope, I'll be wrapping up this familial episode of viral drama entirely on my own with a stellar presentation of clogged sinuses, raw dripping nose, 80-year-old-large-man sneezes and body aches that I'm starting to confuse with contractions. And I need to finish it all by Monday.
As I write, my two boys are in our bathroom, trimming Ari's nails as he tells me all about life. "Shower there - wash wash." "What got there?" (referring to my laptop)...and launching into a description of watching Handy Manny on daddy's computer while Skyping with Nana. When I ask Sascha if I spelled "Skyping" correctly, Ari answers with absolution, "Yes." He's become quite the chatterbox, even though we can only understand about 70% of his verbal stream. Now preferring to call us "Mom" and "Dad", I can see him babbling his way into a prom date 15 years from now. A terrifying thought. But for now it's "football, soccerball, baseball" in "Daddy's car". And that's all I could ever want.
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