Bi-Monthly Meltdown

It's like clockwork. One minute I'm going about my business, working around the house or playing with the kids and the next I'm frantically running from room-to-room, digging through drawers, pulling out couch cushions, and talking to myself like a crackhead. I've just remembered the library books are due and I don't have the slightest idea where they are.

How does this happen, EVERY TIME? Am I really that unorganized around here? I have literally torn the house apart, the kids' rooms are in shambles, and still, no books. My heart is pounding through my chest. I'm a bundle of nerves. It's that junior high I can't-find-my-homework feeling all over again except this time I'm an adult and I should know better and the librarians look like they want to hurt me and have mustaches and are wheeling in a dollie to hold the mountain of late fees piling up in front of me.

I can't help but wonder, did I miss something here? Was there a library orientation I forgot to sign up for? Or a handout titled, "The Idiot's Guide to Keeping Track of Your Books" that I didn't pick up?

Jennifer calls me while I'm flinging everything out of Lil' Miss's closet. "You do know what the librarians are going to say, don't you? The same thing they always tell me. 'Keep 'em in a bag!'" Well now, that's pure GENIUS! I wish I'd thought of that! And yeah, it'd make perfect sense if I didn't have a two-year-old who strictly adheres to the Toddler Ten Commandments, one of which states, "Thou shalt dump out all bags and scatter their contents like the wind." This comes right after, "Thou shalt stand up and pee on your sister's head when taking a bath."

While all this psycho searching and ranting is going on, the kids continue to do whatever it is they're doing, completely unfazed by the crazy lady who's running around the house screaming, "Where could they be? WHERE COULD THEY BE!!!" They don't even so much as lift an eye in my direction. They may have seen this once or twice before. Later, as they pick through the upheavel, the mounds of messes left in my wake, they'll thank me for finding the beloved Barbie lost under their bed or that truck wedged behind the chair. I have found everything that has gone MIA in the last couple of weeks, everything except for those blasted books.

Eventually though, Lil' Miss who is busy putting together a puzzle, will catch on that I'm having one of those meltdowns again (the rocking and thumb sucking in the corner usually give it away). She graciously steps in. "Mom, they're in Baby Dude's room!"

I head towards his room, a room I have already checked like eight thousand times, but, whatever. I'll humor the kid. A few minutes later, I yell out in an almost sing-songy voice, "Nope! Not in here!"

"Yeah! They are!" she sings back.

"I don't know how! I've looked everywhere!"

"Check the closet shelves!"

I do and they're right in front of me. Right there, the whole bloody time. I trudge into the kitchen where Lil' Miss is still busy with that puzzle at the kitchen table. I humbly thank her and she gives me one of her silent, closed-mouth head nods like she's the Holy Roman Pope. I'm left standing there, thinking about what a shame it is that in a couple of weeks I'll forget how she's the one who always finds them, how she always knows where they are. I'll be too busy with my crazy house ransacking to remember.

Girls Rule, Boys Drool (for now, at least...)

If Lil' Miss ever decides to hang up her zippered sweatshirts for the simpler life of the orthodox, I have no doubt in my mind she'd make a great Amish. Not only does the girl love to wear jaw-dropping, grand entrance-making costumes in public, but she's also a firm believer in gender separation. These days it's all about the "sisters before misters".

Just this morning while we were all cuddling in bed together, she scooted over by me and announced to Honk, "This is the girl's side. No boys allowed!" Last weekend, on our way to a friend's house for a Thanksgiving Potluck dinner she asked, "Mom, will all the girls be together in one room and the boys in another?" To say the kid is obsessed with female solidarity is an understatement.

This probably explains why I don't have much alone time anymore. Every outing, every errand, and every room I enter is accompanied by my pint-sized girlfriend. We are not only joined at the hip, but at the leg, the arm, and the head. (Did I mention the earlobes? Yeah, the earlobes too.) As XX chromosomes, I'm guessing she feels a special bond with me, like we're on the same team or that we come from the same litter of puppies. When we're together, walking and holding hands, she likes to say, "Mom, you and me, we're girls together!" When were getting ready in the morning she'll suggest, "Mom, let's both wear pink today because we're girls together!" Or my favorite one, "Mom, don't worry. I'll stay and watch you go potty because we're GIRLS TOGETHER!"

For the most part, I think it's sweet and cute and funny. Honk thinks it's annoying. Lil' Miss is constantly reprimanding him for invading our girl space. The other morning when Lil' Miss crawled into bed with us, we struck up an impassioned discussion about poenawlish. And right as our pink vs. red debate started to get a little heated, Honk tried to cut in with a question of his own. Lil' Miss rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. She flipped over to face him and held up a stop-sign hand, "Dad, hold on a second. HOLD ON!" Then she turned back toward me and said, "I'm sorry, what were you saying, Mom?" Feeling more than a little slighted, Honk reminded her, "Hey I'M the adult and YOU'RE the kid here!" Honk has been announcing this obvious but largely ignored fact a lot lately.

As you can imagine, this Girl Power is REALLY infringing on Honk's attempts to "mess with me". It's kind of like having a junior high best friend all over again. She's fun, sweet, and a bit on the possessive side, giving your other friends the dagger eyes of death when they come within five yards of you. Last Saturday morning, I completely overslept and was still conked out when Honk returned home from running errands with Lil' Miss. He came lumbering into our room like Paul Bunyan, all loud and obnoxious, banging things around and making a huge ruckus. Then he dove onto the bed and flopped around like a carp fish, trying to crush me in my deep sleep. When that only brought about slight moanings, he set in with the expected poking and prodding until I was sounding less like a cow and more like a ticked-off wife. But I didn't need to take action. The Girlinator had already come to my rescue. "Dad! Leave her alone! LEAVE HER ALONE!!!" She was literally shooing him out of the room. And just before she closed the door behind her so I could work out my grogginess in peace, she peeked her head in the door and said, "Sorry 'bout that, Mom. Sorry 'bout that."

I always knew I'd feel protective towards my kids. I just never figured they'd feel the same about me. I'm sure this female unity phase is just that, and soon she'll go back to being a Daddy's girl. So, I think I'll milk this one for as long as I can.

Lighting Up Trees and Faces This Christmas

For years now, we've made it a tradition to kick off the holiday season with the Fashion Island Tree Lighting Ceremony. It's always the weekend before Thanksgiving and it's always a magical affair. There's the wildly-entertaining Christmas musical performed by students of the California Conservatory of the Arts followed by the much anticipated illumination of Fashion Island's majestic, skyscraping Christmas tree. And, of course, a mob of spectators smashed up against eachother, standing shoulder-to-shoulder out in the cold to watch the show. But, 'tis the season, right?

This year we impressed ourselves by getting there a whole fifteen minutes before showtime. This meant that after much elbowing and apologetic smiling, we found a tiny spot to stand where we could actually see the stage, from the front, no less. Never mind that we were clear across the courtyard over by the Christmas tree, about a football field away from it all. We had a place of our own!

After we'd folded up the stroller and tucked it under the Christmas tree (an unexpected advantage to our location), we tried to settle into our two cubic feet of space. Lil' Miss stood right next to me and looked like a kid lost in the forest. She was encircled by a wall of adults, GIANTS towering over her. The poor girl was trapped with nowhere to go and nothing to look at other than what was at eye level, a row of saggy butts. She looked up at me and I could see the panic setting in. I scooped her up in my arms and that's when it became immediately clear the kids would have to be held THE ENTIRE TIME if we were going to enjoy any of this. I had forgotten about this.

Apparently, the show was running a little late (either that or those fifteen minutes with a forty pound preschooler in my arms just seemed like an eternity). This was not good. Honk and I exchanged "Are we having fun yet?" looks. We still had an entire show to stand through and my arm muscles were already burning. I could practically see the flames under my skin. How was I going to manage this? I needed a new game plan. I hoisted Lil' Miss onto my shoulders to give my arms a rest and Lil' Miss a better view of the stage. I must have looked like some kind of female bodybuilder to the people around us, just grabbing my kid like that and flinging her over my head. This was a nice change from the "weaker vessel" routine I'm usually trying to pull off and use to my advantage.

Finally, the music started and the show began. I sent up a little prayer of thanksgiving. Right away, I knew this was right up Lil' Miss's princess-loving, ballet-dancing, broadway-singing alley. The girl was in her element. She was mesmerized by the whimsical set, elaborate costumes, and impressive performances. Every once in a while she'd yell down to me, "Mom, this is SO beautiful!" Not fun. Not great. Not even cute. BEAUTIFUL. I was going to have to take her word for it. I was not watching the show. I was too busy dying a slow, painful death under the weight of the increasingly heavy child perched on my shoulders. She had been up there for quite a while now and my body wasn't taking this free ride lightly. The agony was almost unbearable. Sharp, piercing pain shot through my shoulders and neck. Muscles I didn't even know I had started to spasm. A continuous burning and throbbing permeated my upper back. I was losing oxygen from the strangled hold my hooded sweatshirt had on my airways. I could feel the hordes of people that surrounded us closing in on me. This was the beginning of the end. Between whimpered cries and futile attempts at pain management, I mapped out the people in the crowd best suited to break my fall when I passed out: definitely big mullet man with goosedown jacket.

But then, out of nowhere, a welcomed diversion. A drama even more dramatic than mine (if you can believe it). A mother had somehow weasled her way through the crowd and parked it right next to us. She was holding a baby in her arms and was accompanied by a little girl about the same age as Lil' Miss who had the same lost-in-the-forest expression on her face. The girl was distraught. She could hear the beautiful music and singing, but couldn't see a smidge of the show. It was too sad for words. "Mama, please! Hold me! Hold me! I can't see! I can't see!" The mother who was already balancing said baby in her arms made little effort. "I can't. I don't know where your dad is. Sorry." The little girl kept begging, pleading with her mom to pick her up but the mother wasn't budging. My heart was breaking.

And that's when the pain in my shoulders and neck completely disappeared. How could I be bothered by a little crink in the neck when a child was being deprived the magic of Christmas? An inner battle raged in my head. The socially-appropriate part of my brain was warning, "Leilen, she is NOT your child. There is nothing you can do about this. Just mind your own business and watch the show!" Unfortunately, that part was being drowned out by a much louder, more obnoxious part of my brain, the part that is convinced the whole universe depends on me, like I'm some kind of superhero to short people.

I tapped the twenty-something man standing in front of us on the shoulder and said, "Hey, there's a little girl behind you who can't see the show and I was wondering if maybe you might ask her mom if you could hold her so she could watch." He looked at me like I'd just asked him to take off his pants and fling them into the crowd. But, good guy that he was, he went ahead and asked her anyways. The mother was happy to accept the generous offer and passed the kid off to him. He lifted the girl up onto his shoulders and I watched as her whole face lit up, instantly beaming at the musical extravaganza before her. It was the most genuinely happy smile I'd ever seen.

I couldn't stop smiling either. It felt great to help make that happen. Sure, it was just a little girl getting to watch the tail end of a Christmas show, but still. It reminded me that making people happy can be pretty simple. It doesn't always require a lot of money, commitment or organ transplants. And it can even make your own pain less noticeable. Come to find out, it just takes a little willingness and a lot of khutspe.

Thanks, Tori.

Crisis in Candyland

Oh my GOSH! Would somebody PLEASE get over here right now and stage an intervention for me the way my adorably stern college roomates tried to do when I kept losing my car keys at the library and I couldn't drive myself back to the apartment and the library was too far to walk so I had to call them and they had to come get me... at midnight? The thing is, I think I may have jinxed myself a month ago when I wrote that I didn't like Halloween candy because now I seriously can't stop eating it! And I no longer have the will power to throw it out and my plan to fit in my old prom dress for my twentieth reunion is slipping through my fingers the same way those mini M&M's do when I'm frantically trying to pour them out before anyone sees me. So, please, HURRY! And bring a few mini Twix while you're at it because my supply is running low...

Port-a-Party Part II

This afternoon I suggested that we take a long walk at the beach to which Lil' Miss responded, "Mom, I want to go to the beach and go potty... in the blue thing." I think I herniated a disk I was laughing so hard. When I'd finally caught my breath she asked, "Mom, what's so funny? Can't we just go to Dog Beach so I can go potty?"

I wish I'd known the entertainment value of the "blue thing" BEFORE I'd purchased tickets to see the Nutcracker.

Out with the OLD, In with the NEW

Every once in a while, a teachable moment presents itself. I really try not to botch these up. They help off-set all the stupid "Did I really just say that outloud?" moments that plague me the majority of the time. But sometimes, no matter how wise my words or how pure my intentions, the wires get crossed and the message is lost.

A few days ago, we were cruising around a shopping center and an elderly woman walked by us. I stopped the stroller and smiled at her as she slowly shuffled along. Her back was severely hunched over and her feet barely covered any distance with each step. But eventually she passed us and Lil' Miss asked, "Mom, what's wrong with her?"

"Well, sometimes when people get older, their bodies start to hurt and they have to walk slowly."

"Oh."

"Remember when you stubbed your toe this morning and you had to walk really slow because it hurt so bad? That's how old people feel. Only their whole body is like a stubbed toe."

"Oh."

"So that's why it's important to be kind and patient with them. We need to smile, wait, and help them if we can."

"Oh."

We walked on in silence and I could tell she was really thinking about it. My mind raced to the future where I saw my little Mother Teresa to-be dedicated to the cause of kindness, living a selfless life of service to the old and frail. And it was all because of ME! My patient example, my profound words.

Then Lil' Miss turned to me and said, "Mom, some people move slow because they're OLD."

"Yeah, that's right, honey."

Then she takes off running ahead of me, pumping her arms and legs as fast as she can and yells back over her shoulder, "But look at me! I move fast because I'm NEW!!!"

In Opposition to TV Naaaaaay-Sayers!

And to think people really believe television inhibits the imagination... Pshaw!!!

It doesn't hurt that she has really smart toys.

Port-a-Party

As a mom, there are some things you just have to get over. Like how your kids suffer temporary hearing loss when you call them to bed but can respond with bat echolocation when you slowly unwrap a Twix bar from the closet. Or when people tell you how adorable your kids are and then follow it up by saying that they look EXACTLY like your husband. Or the way they top off the bath you've just given them by dashing into the backyard to sprinkle plant dirt over their heads.

Actually, this last one has given me some trouble. I'm not "getting over" the germ and dirt dilemna as well as I'd hoped. In fact, the older I get, the less tolerable I am towards it. I wouldn't exactly call myself a germaphobe, but I'm well on my way. Ask any of our nature-loving friends who've invited us to go camping with them countless times over the years and they'll tell you they've never heard so many lame excuses come out of one person's mouth. I can only assume they still invite us because they like to annoy me.

Life as a marginal clean-freak is a strange reality for me because I was the complete opposite growing up. According to family folklore, I was part gopher or wombat as a kid. In my world, every day was Earth Day. If I wasn't digging a jacuzzi-sized hole in the backyard, then I was busy building my lucrative mud pie business, or more likely, racing handmade boats down street gutters. I remember eating my dinner in the bathtub on more than one occassion because my own family couldn't stand the sight of me at the table. Every few days my poor mom had to wrestle me into the shower because the PigPen Cloud had reappeared. My childhood nickname said it all. Rather than going for one of the obvious choices like Princess or SweetPea, my family settled on something a little less conventional. Sootsie. As in SOOT, meaning DIRT. Yeah, it was that bad.

I recently thought about this transformation from grimy girl to antibacterial adult when the kids and I joined our neighbor Linda and her yellow lab, Nettie, at Dog Beach. We were so excited to spend an afternoon playing in the sand and surf with our neighborhood pals. So excited, in fact, that I didn't really consider the details of being on a beach overrun by animals- slobbering, peeing, and pooping animals. Not exactly the ideal environment for someone who can barely stomach changing her own kids' diapers.

As we followed the path down into the sand, my heart started racing. I felt like I was going to be sick. Then we were there, within steps of the sand, sand that I suddenly realized had been ca-caed on by millions upon millions of dogs for millions upon millions of years, sand that was about to come oozing between my toes. I wanted to turn around, go racing back up the trail to the car, but Lil' Miss was way ahead of me, skipping and giggling as her feet kicked up clouds of excrement. I made my way toward her and watched as she set down her bucket of beach toys. The sight of those toys by the water reminded me that we were not only going to walk across this sand, we were going to play in it. Dig in it, roll around in it, and, in the case of Baby Dude, FEAST on it. I could barely keep down whatever was trying to make it's way back up my throat. I tried to follow the same advice I give Lil' Miss when panic sets in, "Breathe, girl. BREATHE!"

And just as I started to calm down, Lil' Miss announced, "I have to go potty!" Upon further inquiry, I discovered it was not the kind of potty that can be resolved in the ocean. I looked around, half hoping a beachfront restaurant with well-maintained bathrooms in the rear (no pun intended) had suddenly appeared, but no such luck. Only a row of port-a-potties back by the trail we started at. This was pure torture. I'd have gladly taken the rack over this.

While Linda stayed with Baby Dude, I grabbed Lil' Miss's hand and half-ran across that sand over to those bright blue potty rooms, our own private cesspool. I coached and lectured Lil' Miss the entire way and in between her huffs and puffs (because I was walking REALLY FAST) she said, "I know, Mom. I won't touch ANYTHING." In moments, we stood in front of one of the doors and I just stared at it. Not moving, not doing anything. Other than cringing. I REALLY didn't want to do this, but I also knew that my daughter really needed to "go". Ironically, this filthy stall was the only civility separating us from those beach-squatting dogs. It had to be done.

Not wanting to touch the handle, I pried open the door with my foot figuring it had already been contaminated by the sand. I will spare you a description of what I saw inside. I won't tell you about the murky substance on the floor, or the soggy clumps of toilet paper, or the trail of ants or anything else. I will only say that while I was laying down enough toilet paper to mummify an Egyptian and ranting like a crazy woman, "No! Don't touch the walls! Don't touch the seat! Don't touch ANYTHING!", I failed to notice my own girl's reaction to this glorified outhouse. She'd never seen one of these, let alone used one. And while she sat there, surveying the squalor, she looked up at me with the hugest smile on her face and exclaimed, "Mom, this is so much FUN!"

On the Tutoring Altar

It's important to recognize the value of personal sacrifice. Not so much for the opportunities to build character but more for the benefits of guilt-ridden sympathy from loved ones who feel indebted to you.

Recently, I started tutoring on Tuesday nights. The deal is I drive to my students' homes for one-hour sessions while Honk stays home to watch the kids. By the time I pull in the driveway, it's usually a quarter to ten. It's a LONG day. Feel bad for me? You're not alone. Honk is not crazy about this arrangement either. As I'm leaving, he shoves a consolatory cookie in my mouth and looks at me with "I'm-so-sorry" eyes, like I'm being deployed overseas or like he's been forced to sell me to a sheik who's coincidentally in the market for a smart-alecky wife with an aversion to cooking.

Later, when I return home and walk in the front door, Honk is there, the picture of husbandly love and support. But it's no wonder why. He is only responding to me, the picture of wifely drama and pity. I am the quintessential martyr. My shoulders are sagging, my head is hanging low and there might be some deep sighing going on as well. I collapse on the couch and repeatedly use the words "tired" and "exhausting" in every imaginable context. "Man, I'm tired of the elections, aren't you?" or "Campaigning must be exhausting for the candidates..." And most of the time, I'm not making any effort at subtlety.

But the truth is Tuesday night tutoring isn't all that bad. Yeah, I'm tired, but it does have its perks. On the way to and from my students' homes, I enjoy the rare opportunity of driving in an empty car that so far (fingers crossed!) hasn't tried to kick the back of my seat or ask me "Are we almost there yet?". I also get to listen to songs with lyrics that don't involve animals playing musical instruments or animals chasing eachother around mulberry bushes or animals who are blind with severed body parts. I go to nice homes in nice neighborhoods owned by nice families with nice kids. It's actually pretty... nice.

But I see no reason why I should publicize this information. Honk's giving me the royal treatment when I get home. And the fact that it's given out of guilt really doesn't make it any less enjoyable for me. I see no point in biting hands or looking in horses' mouths. Just take it where you can get it! Last week, I came home and discovered Honk had fluffed my pillows, folded back my blankets, and in lieu of a chocolate, left a note on my side of the bed that read,

Wifie,
Thanks for working so hard for us. We appreciate you.
Love, Honk

My husband arranged hotel turn-down service for me! How awesome is THAT!!! With this kind of sympathy, I'd be a fool to open my pie hole unless it's to reassure him that he and the kids are worth all the pain of my sacrifice. Besides, a little guilt never hurt anyone. At least, that's what Bubby, my mentor in martyrdom, used to say.

Dishwasher Disallusionment

Turns out, somebody still has to load the dishes, BY HAND! And maybe that somebody's hands are a little busy these days with other things like say, TAKING CARE OF THE CHILDREN. I can't believe I fell for his super capacity tub of LIES!!!

Morning Hugs and Slugs

The morning crib retrieval of Baby Dude is one of the highlights of my day. There is some definite crying involved, but not sad, tearful crying. It's more of an annoyed "Get-me-out-of-this-cage!" cry. Sometimes I'm glad he's not talking yet.

It takes me awhile to convince the awake part of my brain that he really isn't going to stop making all that racket, but eventually I get it, and drag my body out of bed. Lil' Miss who's been up for HOURS now, reading the paper and getting her personal things in order, is either right on my tail reminding me, "Mom. Mom. MOM! He's cry-ing!" or she's already IN the crib with him, bouncing away like a circus performer.

At first sight of me, he is smiling and doing his fancy footwork in the crib. I can't help but wonder if he's really excited to see me or if I'm just his ticket out of this place. I try to make small talk with him ("Hi, my boy! Did you have a good night's sleep? How'ya doin', little man!"), but he is clearly uninterested. He wants OUT! He's whimpering and clawing at my arms, those mechanical cranes able to hoist him up, over, and into freedom. I reach in, scoop him up under his arms, and begin the ascent. But just as his hands are within reach of my neck, he grabs on and hugs me tightly, his chubby little arms squeezed around my neck and his cheek smooshed up into mine. He is even moaning a little, like a dog being scratched behind the ear.

I soak it in and let my heart melt in my chest. This hug is pure joy and I relish in it. I squeeze him back, trying to hold on to whatever I can of this moment. It's important to take it in, enjoy it while I can, because in just a few seconds he's going to lean back, give me one of his toothy grins that could launch a thousand ships, and slug me right in the mouth.