A Serious "Chip" Chat

Today I took the kids to lunch at Chipotle to enjoy one of their delectable burrito bowls. I scooped out a section of burrito for both kids and added a sprinkle of chips on top. About half way through the meal, Lil' Miss looked up at me with an intense, almost troubled expression on her face. "Mom, I need to talk to you about something."
"Uh, you do?" I asked a little nervously.
"Yes. I want to talk to you... about the chips."
"The chips?"
"Yes. The chips."
"Okay, what do you want to talk about?"
"I don't have anymore. I need more chips."

Aye Caramba! All that build up for a few extra chips? What kind of intensity will I be dealing with during the "Mom-I-Need-to-Talk-to-You" conversations of the teenage years? Something tells me we won't be talking about chip refills either...

The "Nicking" of a Name

He's not being rude and he's definitely not hard-of-hearing. If my son doesn't answer when you call his name, it's probably because he still doesn't know what it is. How could he? The last time he heard it was from a nurse as we were leaving the hospital with him for the first time. For all the hours my husband and I spent discussing and even arguing about what to call our son, his birth name never made it past the maternity ward.

I found an old email that I wrote to a friend just days after our baby was "renamed":
It was obvious (my husband) was trying to help (our daughter) feel more comfortable around her new baby brother. While holding the baby in his arms, he said, "Hey girl, come over here and check out the little dude. Can you say 'Dude'?" Without a moment's hesitation, she blurted out,"Duuude!" We were stunned. This from a girl who's hardly spoken a single word at all, who refuses to say "mama", "dada", or even "spa pedicure" for all my pleadings. To our utter amazement, she said "Dude", clear as day, with perfect pronunciation. The bigger surprise was the next morning when the baby started crying, and we heard a little voice from her room yell, "Baby Duuuuude?!!" I'm sure you can imagine the great effort (my husband) made to hide the grin on his face. She might as well have just pulled off her first barrel at River Jetties in his proud mind. I corrected her, but she just stared blankly back at me and again yelled for "Baby Duuuuude!" It's been a couple of days now, and although I have been working to reprogram the baby's birth name in her mind, she still refers to him as "Baby Dude". I've almost completely given up and have actually heard the words "Baby Dude" come out of my own mouth a few times. You know, I always wondered if my kids would end up with nicknames, but I just never imagined I'd have a"Baby Dude" less than two weeks after in utero.

Nighty-Night? Yeah, Right!

Late last night my husband and I suddenly heard the all too familiar footsteps of our daughter as she shuffled into the room. She had her Hello Kitty blanket draped over her head and she was stumbling into everything like an intoxicated E.T. Finally, she found her way over to our bed, lowered herself down onto the floor and laid there, perfectly still in the fetal position. We shot eachother a quick, knowing smile. My husband then scooped her up in his arms and carried her back into bed. To any outsider, I know this scene would have seemed bizarre, but in this house a little sleepwalking is the least of my nighttime worries.

The thing is I never thought much about sleep before marriage and kids. I mean, really, what was there to think about? It was just something I had to do. I didn't even really like sleeping. Too much wasted time. In college, I hung a sign on my dorm wall that read, "You can sleep when you're dead!" Now whenever I think about that sign I wish I could go back in time and slap my younger self. If I'd only known then what I know now, maybe I would've used my time a little more effectively, going into a sort of sleep hibernation to store up some much needed REM's for the present tense.

Here's the other thing. Maybe I never thought about sleep because I was so good at it. I don't mean to brag, but I've always been a great sleeper. Just give me a place to lay my head and Mr. Sandman will take care of the rest. It doesn't even have to be a good place. I've been known to saw logs on any number of couches, carpets, futons, hammocks, cots, rafts, hiking trails, houseboat roofs, airport terminals (thanks for the free night, Heathrow), and according to my baby book, even dresser drawers. I will say that I wasn't fond of sleeping on Colorado Boulevard the night before the Rose Parade but that was more because I didn't like getting my head run over by a motorcyclist than because I was uncomfortable.

I had no idea that an entirely different world of sleep existed and that I was about to enter it. Rewind ten years ago to July 4th, 1998. My wedding day. The day I gave up my hand, my heart, and my sleep to the bonds of matrimony. My husband is a great many things, but a good sleeper he is not. Throughout any given night, he will toss, turn, talk, yell, fluff pillows, flatten pillows, add pillows, and chuck pillows, all within an arm's length of my face. He gives a whole new meaning to the term "pillow talk". In the beginning, it was kind of funny. I'd have full conversations with him while he was asleep. One time he kept repeating, "Kevin... Calculate, Kevin, calculate!" We never did figure out who this unknown accountant was, but to this day, Kevin continues to be the fall guy for everything in our house.
"Honey, did you leave the back door open?"
"No. It was Kevin."

In time, I even initiated my own sleep chats. They always took place when he came into the room a little too noisily after I'd fallen asleep . We had the exact same conversation every time. I'm not kidding. It was uncanny the way we repeated the same lines, word-for-word, like we were rehearsing for a play. Frantically, I'd bolt up out of bed and yell out into the dark,
"Who's there?!"
"It's me."
"Who's me?!"
"Your husband!"
"Who's my husband?"
At this point in the interrogation, he usually just gave up and went to bed, leaving me completely muddled as to who he was and what he was doing in my bedroom. He'd always recount this incident to me in the morning but I never had any recollection of it.

Things only got crazier when Lil' Miss was born. This blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked bundle of love was the antithesis of good sleep. She slept during the day and wanted to play all night. I think pediatricians refer to it as "day-night confusion", but to every young mom in its throes, it goes by a different name: sleep deprivation. We tried EVERYTHING. I fed her, bathed her, and put her to bed at the same time to establish a consistent evening schedule. I found the bath soap with the most suggestive sleep-aid label: "Johnson's Bedtime Bath, Proven to help baby SLEEP BETTER", half expecting her to nod off in the bathtub as I massaged it into her skin. I kept the lights dimmed and cursed my husband if he ever spoke above a whisper. Through clenched teeth I'd scream, "Don't you know I'm trying to create a quiet, peaceful environment for our daughter to SLEEEEEEEP!!!" Even now, all this time later, I still cringe whenever I see those onesies that read, "Party, My Crib, 2 a.m.".

But nothing worked. Weeks turned into months, and months eventually turned into a year. I started to lose my nerve. As my other young mom friends came to life, refreshed and bright-eyed from their full nights of heavenly peace, I became more and more haggard, even jittery. I could fill groceries with the bags under my eyes. I mumbled to myself throughout the day and burst into tears when I made clumsy mistakes. Truly, I'm amazed I never got into any car accidents. There should be laws prohibiting new moms to drive at all. Now I'm convinced that those "Baby on Board" signs are not to protect the precious cargo inside, but to protect YOU, the defensive driver, because you know that new mom driver is holding her eyelids open with toothpicks.

On one early morning that I had never really woken up from (because you have to actually go to sleep to then wake up...) my husband was getting ready for work and asked, "Honey, what's all over the light switch... Hey, what's all over your neck?". I glanced down to find baby poop smeared all over my chest. Yes, I was that tired. I don't think I even cleaned myself up right away, rationalizing that baby poop doesn't really smell much anyways.

We eventually resorted to the cursed "Cry-it-Out". Wag your fingers all you want, La Leche Leaguers, it WORKED! Even still, it was one of the most miserable experiences of my life. I felt like a soldier stationed outside her bedroom, armed with a can of diet coke and listening for any crib ambushes she might attempt. It took ten full nights to get her to sleep. During most of those nights she cried for two hours straight. Sometimes, I could no longer hear her crying because my own sobbing drowned it out. Our neighbors gave weak smiles and claimed they "could barely hear a thing", but I know deep down they hated us for putting them through it too. Oh well, served them right for all the parties their teenage son threw when they'd go out of town.

I'd like to say that was the end of that, but it wasn't. A few months later, her younger brother was born and he also liked to party a la noche. I won't lie. I live in a constant state of mental haziness and daydream way too much about napping. And while no one in my family sleeps well, I wouldn't trade them for anything in the world. I could, however, be tempted by a free stay at one of those sleep study centers...

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride

One of my parenting magazines arrived yesterday so I sat down for a few minutes to have a quick skim. I came across an interview with a pediatrician that really surprised me. He was asked, "Please speak for all doctors. What is the most annoying thing we parents do?" His response was, "Overreact to the little ills of childhood. American kids are the healthiest humans who have ever lived. But their parents often fear they're one sniffle away from certain doom."

Hmmmm... He really has no idea why my generation of parents are crazy paranoid about everything? I wonder if he's ever even read this magazine? I doubt it. If he had, he'd know why. Just take a look at some of the topics included in this month's issue:
Baby Obesity Risk
Is it Really ADHD?
Worms Warning
Hot Topic: Vaccines and Autism
Why Babies Need Shots
Do Babies Need to Take Vitamin Supplements?
Product Recalls
Top 7 Hazards (Of summer)
Too Much Television
Warning: Don't Drink the Water!

This one killed me. It was titled It Happened to Me: "My Daughter's ear grew over her earring!" Yep, it's true. Apparantly, a doctor had to surgically reopen the ear hole of this poor eight-year-old to remove her earring. And she can't be the only one. No, no. This story took up half of the page so there must be others, probably MILLIONS of little girls out there whose ears are slowly devouring their heart-shaped gold studs, right at this very moment. Now tell me, who has time to worry about inflated gas prices or the housing market recession when, at any moment, my children's body parts may suddenly start expanding, taking over their clothes, shoes, and toys? "Baby Dude, where's your bouncy ball? It was in your hand just a second ago..." And I'll tell you one thing, Lil' Miss can beg and cry all the way to Oprah, but there's no way she's ever getting her ears pierced. E-VER.

Sometimes reading these magazines is like being on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride where one moment it's "La-la-la, Baking Cupcakes, Summertime Games, having a good time..." and the next few pages you're bombarded by signs reading "Go back! Do Not Enter! Danger Ahead!" To be honest, I'm surprised that young parents today aren't even more neurotic than they are. With so much to worry about, I'm pretty sure the only reason I can even sleep at night is sheer exhaustion.

I could have gone on, but I'm already breaking out in a sweat just writing this, so I have to stop. I will say this: Sometimes I long for those peace-loving, easy-does-it days our parents knew, the days of pregnant smokers, babyoil tans, and carseat-less station wagons ("Just lay them down in the back. The rolling around helps put them to sleep."). Today's young parents have been brought up in a culture of fear in that we're afraid of what we know and terrified of what we don't know. It's not that we want to be ignorant, but we could definitely go for more of the bliss. I'm pretty sure that's where faith comes in and I let someone else, someone just a wee bit more in control of the situation than I am, take the reigns. Which sounds nice because I could sure use a nap right now.

Our Little Prince

It takes a special guy to be the little brother of a princess. Baby Dude has already been subjected to countless humiliations he's hopefully too young to ever remember. Since his sister has two years on him, princess gowns outnumber pirate swords three-to-one. So, things can get a little confusing around here. In fact, it's not uncommon to witness Baby Dude kicking a soccer ball or throwing legos across the room while sporting a tiara. Just yesterday afternoon, as I walked one of my students to her mother's car, I looked back to find Baby Dude close in tow, swinging a metallic pink purse in his hand and wearing a silly grin.

Games have taken on a bizarre twist as well. Last night during bathtime, Lil' Miss insisted on playing "Little Baby Mermaid", a game that involves holding Baby Dude with one hand and dumping water over his head with the other. This baptism is narrated by the sweetest, most serene voice ever heard this side of heaven. Ever so softly, Lil' Miss reassures, "Here you go, Little Baby Mermaid. Here you go..."

Interestingly enough, this bathing ritual eventually helped clear up an unrelated mystery for me. It struck me as odd the way Lil' Miss suddenly gave up playing with her baby dolls while her other gal pals still couldn't seem to get enough of them. Her girlfriends, the perfect models of attachment parenting, took their babies everywhere with them while the long forgotten babies of Lil' Miss went unfed, unrocked, and unloved for weeks at a time. What had happened? Would she one day grow up to abandon her own children? Then it occurred to me- they didn't have younger siblings. Why bother with a store-bought Baby Angel Annabel when Lil' Miss was already upgraded to a homemade model of Baby Smother Brother?

It definitely explained why she could never keep her hands off Baby Dude , the squirming piglet restrained in her lap, her arms squeezed tightly around his neck. I wish I had a housecleaner for every time I heard her yell from the other room, "Mom! He's ok. He's ok, Mom!" which definitely meant that he was NOT ok. Now that I think about it, it may even explain why he was such a late walker. The poor guy was probably ready to go months before he actually took that first step but could never seem to break free from his older sister's "loving embrace". And does he scream or fight back? No, not really. Our little champ just takes it like a man, letting her mother him, and biding his time until this nurturing phase runs its full course.

When the family is all gathered together and Lil' Miss has pinned Baby Dude down in her lap again for the umpteenth time, their dad is fond of saying, "You better enjoy this now, little girl, cuz some day he's gonna thump on you." It's a little frightening how excited we both are for that day to come.

Lily Redeems Herself

The name "Lily" holds celebrity status in our house. She is the beloved thirteen-year-old who lives across the street and babysits for me when I'm tutoring. I kid you not when I say my eyes well up with tears at the very thought of this young lady. She has a beautiful smile, a sweet voice, and most importantly, she has captured the heart of my little girl. The thing about Lily is that when she babysits, there is no SITTING involved. She is the Navy Seal of babysitters, running, hiding, army crawling if necessary. And no game is out of the question. I've witnessed her easily transition from a game of Hide and Seek, to sidewalk chalk, to Leap Frog, to a tea party within an hour's time. Lily has even been known to hang around and continue the game of Tree Frog or Duck, Duck, Goose long after I've finished tutoring. And if that wasn't enough to make us devoted fans, Lily gave us her old Disney Princess videos as well as a tiara for Lil' Miss to wear while watching them. She could do no wrong as far as our family was concerned.

But then a couple of months ago, Lily decided to go and have a life of her own. Her mom called informing us that Lily had made the school play and would no longer be able to babysit due to afterschool rehearsals. I immediately went into panic mode. My heart started racing and my breathing grew heavy. Lily's mom went on to say something about the musical Aladdin, but all I heard was, "No more Lily. No more Lily. Your daughter's heart will be broken. You will do the breaking." Without even hanging up the phone, I marched across the street to tell Lily how sorry I was that she would have to quit the school play. Unaware of the havoc her new acting career was wreaking in my life, she just giggled at my demand and said she'd let us know when she'd be performing. How could she even THINK of her drama when I was up to my armpits in my own?

Needless to say, we've been "Lily-less" for quite some time now. If anything, the absence of our special sitter just confirms how much Lil' Miss loves her. After all this time, my little girl still asks where "Yih-wee" is and why she can't play with her. And to be honest, I'd pretty much forgotten about the musical. Lily was so excited about the theatrical turn her life had taken but I was too busy missing her to pay any attention.

However, all that was about to change. Last Friday afternoon, Lily's mom stood in her driveway holding up two pieces of paper, tickets for that night's performance of Aladdin. "A princess story AND Lily? Are you kidding me? Of COURSE we can go!" I raced into the house and told Lil' Miss the good news. She could hardly keep her eyes in her head and danced around the room like a banshee. We quickly showered, put on fancy dresses and added some shiny pink "liploss". (One must always, respectfully, dress to impress when going to the theatre, even if by "theatre" I mean the local middle school cafeteria.)

Giddy with the excitement that only an evening of princess pageantry can bring, we anxiously drove to the school and made our way past the crowded entrance to the front row where Lily's mom was saving our seats. As we settled in, I noticed that Lil' Miss, usually quite the chatterbox, sat perfectly still and silent in the seat next to mine with her hands neatly folded in her lap. The girl was speechless! Hypnotized by the colorful scenes and props, she could barely take her eyes off the stage long enough to blink. Then the lights suddenly dimmed, the curtains parted, and the music cued. I pulled her up into my lap, wrapped my arms around her, and rested my chin on her head, taking advantage of this opportunity for a lengthy cuddle.

And although she watched most of the play peeking through the cracks between her fingers (we hadn't figured on the frightening face make-up of the genie and the monkey that only a hand covering her face could allay), my little girl was transfixed, touched by Lilymania. Almost one week later, she is still a screaming, swooning groupie of the "moozicul" and chatters on and on about how beautiful everything was, especially Lily.

Sometimes my own thoughts embarrass me.

"I wonder if some women remarry just to re-register. Admit it. It was pretty fun..."

"I always feel so much better after a good cry. I wonder how many calories a woman burns after a really good cry, the kind of cry where your eyes are swollen shut and the pounding in your head reaches a 9.5 on the migraine scale. I would much rather have a good cry than go for a twenty minute jog..."

"I really like those stickers on the backs of cars that use cartoon people or flip flops or even turtles to represent each family member. Sometimes when I pass one of these cars, I hold my breath and slowly glance over, wondering, hoping that maybe this time I just might actually see a real family of turtles in those seats..."

"I wonder why I get so excited when I hear that a pregnant friend will deliver at Hoag. Is it the new state-of-the-art women's wing with private ocean rooms? Or the nationally-acclaimed physicians and nursing staff? It must be that I'm reminded of my own experiences there giving birth to those tiny miracles, my heavenly bundles of joy. Naaaah! It's the cranberry spritzers. Definitely the spritzers..."

"I wonder if an electronic stud finder would make a good birthday present for a girl friend going through a break up..."

"I wonder if 'Boobs Magilicutty', our eighty-year-old neighbor across the street (who never wears a shirt even if it's Decemeber and flaunts his manbreasts every time he takes out the trash) is as jealous of me as I am of him..."

I know, it's amazing I have any friends at all.

Every Last One of Them

I warned him. I told him if he wanted any he'd just have to take it to work with him or he'd never even see a trace of them when he got home. I definitely gave fair warning but that guy is still going to come home thinking he's getting some. Does he just believe the best in me, think I'm a changed woman? Poor, unfortunate soul...

I do this EVERY time. It's like a tape recording that I could rewind over and over again throughout my life. I can't help myself. Each time I'm convinced it's going to be different, that I'll do better, but it's always the same. One leads to another, and another, and another...

I have a full jar of Halloween candy above the refrigerator and an uneaten carton of ice cream in the freezer, but the container of chocolate chip cookies I baked yesterday is completely vacant. I didn't even give any to the kids! I'm nervously pacing around the house and dragging a guilty tail between my legs, but the honest truth is that if given the opportunity to do it all over again, I know I would. If I think hard enough, I can still taste those chocolaty sweet bits of heaven in my mouth...

The Carrot Dance

Deciding what to eat around here during the day is never much of a problem. It's either going to be orange yogurt or pink yogurt. Occasionally, things change up a bit and a request is put in for yellow or even green yogurt, but that's about it. Lil' Miss is your classic picky eater. If she was stranded on a deserted island and could choose the foods she'd be left with, I have no doubt she would take, well... yogurt, of course, but also some cheese sticks (yeah, I think we've got dairy covered on her food pyramid) and Pirate Booty which would definitely come in handy if she runs into any scallywags.

Now before you look down your nose and condemn me as a rug-of-a-mother, you must know that I have tried everything short of hog-tying to get her to eat more foods. I don't keep unhealthy snacks in the house, she's rarely given desserts, and she's gone to bed hungry rather than eat the food I've made for dinner more times than I can count. I've tried the "just-three-bites" approach which later turned into the "Ok, fine. Just-two-bites" and eventually dwindled into the "How 'bout just a little nibble, Sweetie Pie?" (Thanks Tori, but apparently that method only works at YOUR house.) So, I'd finally resolved myself to the idea that she's probably not going to die of yogurt poisoning and that she'll eventually try new foods in her own time. And that's the way its been, until last night...

It was nothing short of a nutritional miracle. At the risk of sacrilege, we're talking Weeping Mary Statue miracle. While Lil' Miss was eating the aforementioned yogurt (I believe pink this time), Baby Dude and I munched on carrots dipped in ranch dressing. And then suddenly, as I snapped apart a particularly large carrot stick with my teeth, it came to me. I can't explain it. I mean, how do you explain divine revelation? I had composed countless impromptu songs before, but this one was on par with no other. It was exceptional, bordering on perfection. The melody carried an upbeat, almost ethereal sound and the lyrics expressed a soulful honesty. Huge smiles beamed on their faces as they sat transfixed by their mother who was clearly in a prophetic state. Snapping apart another carrot, I launched into the chorus again, this time adding choreographed dance moves to accompany the song. The room erupted with applause and cheers. Baby Dude immediately joined in and at the snap of his own carrot stick, the song began a third time. His tippy-toed feet marched to the beat and his arms swung back-and-forth in perfect rhythm. Thatta boy. He was definitely tracking me. This girl didn't have a chance. Sure enough, by the fifth chorus she was snapping her own carrots to begin the song and in just a short time had devoured an entire bag of those divine veggies. Oh yeah...uh-huh!

And now, without further ado, I give you, "The Carrot Dance"...

The carrot dance,
The carrot dance,
The carrot, carrot, carrot, carrot, carrot dance!
The carrot dance,
The carrot dance,
The carrot, carrot, carrot, carrot, carrot dance!

Leave the Toes to the Pros

Today marks the weekly "Painting of the Nails". A far cry from the Running of the Bulls, but tradition is tradition, right? Actually, I'm not a huge fan of this activity but I doubt even you could deny Lil' Miss when she asks for "pink farkly poe-nawlish".

First of all, I really don't like being so up close and personal with my toes like that. (Does anyone?) I know they help out with balance and what not, but I just don't care to spend a lot of time with them. Not to mention, I broke a toe a couple years ago and since then things have never quite been the same. The toe decided to use it as an opportunity to redefine itself, take the road less travelled, if you will. Rather than curving downward in a gentle slope like all the other good little piggies, this one turned east, pushing up against its neighbor toe to the right. Doesn't sound too awful except that it created an unnaturally large gap between itself and neighbor to the left. In short, because of "I've Just Gotta be Me" toe number three, I have a perpetual peace sign staring back at me all day like a third eye. Creepy doesn't even cut it.

But if I were to be totally honest, the real reason I hate painting nails is that I suck at it. No seriously, I'm terrible at it and it baffles me. How is it possible that with years of practice coloring in the lines, perfecting margin doodles, and even getting the attention of a high school art teacher, I can't for the life of me keep the paint off my skin?

Meanwhile, Lil' Miss had finished painting her own hands, I mean nails, in about 2.5 nanoseconds and then began to move in on mine. "No, no," I said. "Back off, sister. Mommy's going to do her own nails this time." I wish I could tell you that today was my day, the day I exceeded even my own expectations of nail polish perfection. But it was not to be. I should've just let Lil' Miss have her way with them. At least I'd have a decent excuse to explain why my toes looked like Freddie Krueger's. The truth is she'd probably do a better job anyways.

The Trouble with Lulls

Every mother fears it. That unnatural silence which unexpectedly settles on a house in the late morning after all the favorite toys and books have been handled and tossed aside. It is eerie and it always, I mean ALWAYS, forbodes wickedness. So, at the first sounds of silence this morning, I sprang into action. Starting in the main rooms, I searched the living room, kitchen, den, and then worked my way through the bedrooms, darting in and out of each room like a panther. And then, finally, I found them. Actually, I smelled them before I found them. They were hiding in the bathroom like a couple of teenagers smoking out behind campus, this time trading butts for a bottle. Lil' Miss was sitting on the shower ledge massaging a glob of plumeria-scented lotion into her thighs. She was moving her hands around in circular motions, no doubt the influence of her many trips with Dad to the chiropractor. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted him. Baby Dude was crouched down in the corner, shoveling lotion straight into his mouth. His face was all contorted but he was undetoured. Maybe he thought it was an acquired taste. As I initiated damage control, I couldn't help but smile at how the silence always gives them away. "In the bathroom, with the lotion, Miss Scarlett!!"

The Charge is in Charge

Baby Dude locked me out again today. He so knows what he’s doing. I could feel him snickering at me from the other side of the garage door. Yep, there I was again, in my pajamas, opening up the garage, then running around to the front of the house and pounding on the front door for Lil’ Miss to let me in. It’s become such standard protocol around here that she doesn’t even ask about it anymore, just opens the door for me and goes back to whatever toy she’s playing with. The only difference this time was that I happened to be on the phone with Katy while this whole charade was being played out. When it was all over, she had the nerve to suggest I hide an extra house key in the garage. Geez! Look who’s so preachy! Never you mind the fire department incident two years ago with Lil' Miss wailing from her carseat inside the locked car and the location of the extra set of keys just beyond my mind's reach. Bottom line: I'd rather keep believing that I'm proving who's really boss around here than give in to his little antics. I showed him!!!