A Well-Deserved Snooze

I'm all for Good Samaritan sacrificial love, but mornings are hardly the time to practice that kind of righteousness. Sleep is too rare a commodity these days to go playing Johnny Do-gooder in the manana. In my experience, that miserable time between asleep and awake when a thick layer of grogginess sits on my head like a soggy diaper is better spent squabbling with my husband about who should take the A.M. shift of Peewee Patrol.

"You do it."
"No, you."
"You."
"You."
"You."
"You."

This impressive meeting of the minds can go on for days.

Morning arbitration wouldn't even exist if not for the rising and shining of a certain perky little girl who insists on buzzing back and forth between both sides of our bed announcing her morning requests: cup of milk, commencement of cartoons, morning paper... "Is it me, or is she talking REALLY LOUD? Go away, Little Girl. We're asleep." But like a pesky fly, she grows more agitated the more I swat her away.

It won't be long now before her cries to "get up" are drowned out by a certain baby seagull squawking in his crib. And herein lies the dilemna. Baby Dude must be "gotten" which means someone has to slide out of three layers of 600 count Egyptian cotton, lift a fifty pound head from a hotel goosedown pillow, and slink down a long hallway on spaghetti noodle legs that definitely haven't gotten this memo yet.

Around here you have to earn the right to sleep in a few extra minutes. Like a couple of rebel cowboys in a showdown duel, we bring out all the big guns:

"I did it yesterday."
"I did it the three days before."
"I was up in the middle of the night with them."
"I have an important meeting today."
"I have to take them to Costco. Do you have any idea how much energy that requires?"

We are pathetic, I know. But occassionally, the comebacks reach a calibur of such genius proportions that the other must kowtow in an act of submissive, bootlicking reverence. Such was the case this morning after we had exhausted all the usual suspects.

Annoyed and clearly running out of ideas he fires back with a simple, "Rise!"

Shaking my head at his sad attempt I respond, "That's it? Oh, dear me. You're going to have to do A LOT better than that if you really want me to get up. If you'd been smart about it, you'd have said something more like, 'Rise, my beautiful butterfly, like the dawn on a clear blue day!'"

Without a moment's hesitation he quips, "Rise, my vampire of the coffin, like a bat out of a dark cave!"

No question, I would be getting Baby Dude this morning.

Livin' the Dream

A trail of clumpy wet sand meanders across our bathroom floor and blankets the bottom of our bathtub. To most, a disgusting word picture, but to me it's beauty personified.

It's the drop-of-a-hat decision to put on our swimsuits, lather on sunblock, and hop on our bikes to the beach. It's the smile taking up half of Baby Dude's face, the half that is not being eaten by the enormous helmet on his head. It's the giggly voice of Lil' Miss strapped in the kid's seat behind me yelling, "Move it, Sister! Daddy's way up there!" It's locking our bikes together, dropping our towels and flipflops in the sand, and making a bee line for the shore. It's Lil' Miss holding Daddy's hand as they leap and karate chop crashing waves. It's her arms squeezed tightly around his neck as he carries her past the shore break to the glassy swells where they slide up and over, up and over. It's stomping, splashing, and making footprints in the wet sand with Baby Dude. It's the look of sheer joy on his face as he scoops up a wad of mud and chucks it right at my head. It's the horrified looks of castle builders as Mr. Fee-Fie-Foe-Fum demolishes their fortresses with his tiny hands of doom. It is not, I repeat, NOT the slimy sandcrabs Daddy throws at Mommy, but it is the laughter, the smiles, and the "Isn't-this-the-best?" looks we share a hundred times. It's the perfect feeling of family completeness.

This, I confess, is either a tired mom's worst excuse for not cleaning a bathroom, or the best reason ever.

Can You Feel the Love Tonight?

husband: Doesn't ice cream sound good right now?

me: (Silence. I know what's coming.)

husband: Should I go get some?

me: Sure. (Here it comes...)

husband: Ohhh, I'm SO tired. Do you want to go get some?

me: No thanks. I'm tired. It's late.

husband: Oh. Yeah. Right, right. I'll go. (Silence. No movement on his end of the couch.) Man, it was such a stressful day. I'm totally feeling it in my back. It's KILLING me...

me: Fine. I'll go.

husband: Really? Ok, but only if you want to.

me: Remember when we we're first married and you never let me go anywhere at night because you were terrified something horrible might happen to me?

husband: Yeah... Vanilla Heathbar sounds good to me.

Dude Looks Like a Lady

Yesterday was Christmas in July on our kitchen floor. Mr. and Mrs. Claus, masquerading as Grandma Lainey and Grandpa Nudge, dropped by with a jumbo-sized black trash bag stuffed to the gills with old princess gowns from our friend Jennie's granddaughter. Lil' Miss was awestruck. Dumbstruck. Movestruck. She just sat there. The phrase "She didn't know what to do with herself" comes to mind. Nearly drowning in the foofy mounds of pastel taffeta and chiffon, I could see she needed a moment in the coach's corner, "Breathe, honey. Breeeeeathe."

Needless to say, I spent the rest of the day playing wardrobe assistant. Putting on the blue Cinderella gown with matching clutch bag. Now taking it off. Now the chartreuse Tinkerbell ballet suit with biddy wings. Now taking it off. Now the Snow White dress with white cape that is not quite making it over her head. Now taking it off (but not without first bracing my hand against her skull for leverage against said cape). Replacing with pink Aurora dress and crown, and so on, and so forth... All of it exhausting, but too precious and short-lived in the whole scheme of life to really complain about.

Little did we know that the Mary Poppins bag-of-neverending-princess-costumes had one final gift to bestow. One costume, nearly overlooked and discarded down at the bottom of the bag, was discovered by Lil' Miss early this morning. Not even remotely princessish, this prize find ended up providing more entertainment than any of those frilly frocks ever could. Lil' Miss decided that this little doosey was definitely going to be worn, but not by just anyone. It could only be worn by one, THE one, worthy of all its splendor. I couldn't have agreed more. I grabbed the garb and scooped him into my lap. I was prepared to do whatever it took to wrestle him into this thing, but wiggle and squirm, he did not. He wanted to wear it, knew he was MEANT to wear it. From the candycane-stripped knee high socks all the way up to the red-haired night cap, he sat perfectly still, a willing participant. A good man knows when destiny is staring him straight in the knickers.

Funny how the word "destiny" never came up in my husband's emailed response when I sent him this picture. I do vaguely remember him saying something like, "if he... crossdresser... blame you..." Oh well. It was hours ago, so it's all a bit fuzzy to me now.

Sight for Sore Eyes

I'd be willing to bet that the word "disheveled" was definitely invented by a young mom. Only a young mom could come up with a word that so perfectly describes the way I look and feel most mornings. Actually, the word "haggard" works too.

This morning is no exception. I am hardly the diva at dawn. To write this, I'm typing with one hand and with the other pushing back a mop of nearly dreadlocked hair swirling around my head like a cotton candy machine. I have an inch thick line of black mascara smeared in football fashion under my eyes, and my eyeglasses are teetering on my nose at a forty-five degree angle. It's amazing my husband can stomach a goodbye kiss this morning. I know I couldn't.

Actually, the eyeglass mishap could have been prevented. As I fell asleep reading last night, I took them off by dropping them over the side of the bed. And truth be known, anything on the floor is fair game in our house. So as Baby Dude came bounding into my room first thing this morning, his destruction detector honed right in on those perfectly intact frames. I wince at the thought of BD's chubby, sticky fingers crushing its bridge and twisting each temple. Knowing my glasses the way I do, I'm sure they were cowering in his sight, screaming at decibals too high for human ears, begging for mercy. But sadly, no rescue ever came. Hours later, I found my glasses rammed between the tv and the entertainment unit, a bruised, beaten, and humiliated shell of a frame. I tried everything to revive its original shape, but there is no question now that a trip to Costco's optometry office is in order. As for the restored dignity of my glasses, well, let's just say we're still not on speaking terms.

As for my morning slovenliness (another, possibly even better word to describe my condition in the wee hours), it stands in stark contrast to the regality of Lil' Miss. While I stumble around in the kitchen playing the part of mummy from the crypt, she is all aglow, gliding through each room in a glittery pink princess gown and white flowy wedding veil that is trailing down her back. How she finds the will and where-with-all to put herself together like that each morning is beyond me. Maybe it's because these princess ensembles are not just costumes to her but the expression of her true nature. She is not just a simile of a princess, she is the whole stinkin' metaphor. Well, maybe its high time that I claim my own royal metaphor! You know, I could use a little glitter and silk myself every once in a while. And as the queen of this castle, I deserve it! So, um...does this mean I get to go shopping?

First Lie

Some sounds are undeniable and this one was no exception. The unmistakeable, meat-tenderizing "thunk" of a child's punch. I quickly moved from the kitchen to the living room where, sure enough, Baby Dude was leaning over the coffee table, his back arched out and his mouth gaped open in a "Did-she-really-just-do-that-to-me?" expression. Lil' Miss was close at hand, a little too close actually. Her hands were fiddling nervously behind her back and her guilty eyes were looking everywhere but at me.

"Lil' Miss, did something happen to Baby Dude?"
"Nuffing happened, Mom. I didn't do nuffing to him."

No response came from me. I was too stunned to speak. I needed to sit down. Now I was the one asking the question, "Did she really just do that to me?" I knew this day would eventually come, as it does for most parents, so why was I so surprised, so unprepared? First smile, first laugh, first tumble, even first tantrum I was ready for, but first lie?

Ordinarily when she'd hang up her angel wings and wander from the straight and narrow, she'd always come right out with it, even if she hadn't been caught. No coaxing required. She'd climb into my lap (a makeshift confessional of sorts) where I'd wrap arms of absolution around her and offer atonement in the form of a "time out". After apologies were made and forgiveness granted, she'd return to her playing- a lighter, freer version of herself. And this, like clockwork, is the way it always went. Purge, Pardon, Penance, Play. Purge, Pardon, Penance, Play. So why the sudden need to conceal the truth? Had I been taking her pure honesty for granted? Didn't she know how important trust was in a relationship? I had to help her understand.

"Honey, let's say one morning Mommy told you that if you were a good girl all day, I'd give you a piece of cake before bedtime. So all day you did what you were told and listened to Mommy. You were SO excited for the cake Mommy had promised you. (Lil' Miss's eyes are lit up so I know I've got her.) But at the end of the day when you asked Mommy for your piece of cake I said, 'I never told you that I'd give you cake. You can't have cake!' And let's say the next day, I promised you the same thing, but at the end of the day I again refused to give you some cake. Well, you would be so hurt and sad. And maybe after a while you would stop believing Mommy about the cake. Mommy kept lying and you just couldn't trust me anymore. Lil' Miss, do you understand why it's so important to be honest and tell the truth? It's so people will trust and believe you. Now, is there something you'd like to tell me about what happened with your brother?"

"No, nuffing happened. But Mom, can I have a piece of cake?"

The Grass is Always Greener (and Naked) on the Other Side

Soon after we moved into this house, my husband became obsessed with replacing our fences. The fence we share with our neighbor Barbara could hardly be considered a wall. It's more like a picket fence, a reasonable height if you're a family of dorps. As it happens, Baby Dude's window is just a stone's throw from Barbara's room and a constant source of anxiety for my husband. "We need block walls. We can see right into her room!" he rants, his voice almost reaching hysteria. He is terrified that one of these days he'll be minding his own business and happen to glance out the window only to have a "close-encounter-of-the-naked-kind" with Barbara. For some reason when I imagine this scenario she is not only naked but also dancing around the room to psychedelic music, her sagging seventy-year-old body swinging in slo-mo to the beat.

But truth be known, Barbara was actually the one who should've been afraid, been very afraid. She was the one "exposed to the exposed", if you will. Last Saturday afternoon, Barbara had taken out the trash and was heading back inside when she made the fateful decision to look up in the direction of our house. The garage door was open as it usually is on the weekends and standing amid the bikes, strollers, and surfboards that clutter our garage was my husband's stark naked body. He was apparently trying to put on his wetsuit when she caught sight of him. He must have heard her jaw hit the ground. He quickly looked up, and their eyes locked. There was no covering up and definitely no way to pull off a "maybe-she-didn't-see-me" exit strategy. What to do? He did the only thing you can do in situations like this. He said hello. I know, very "An-Affair-to-Remember/Sleepless-in-Seattle"ish but without the sentimental saccharinity or fully-clothed actors. No doubt, Barbara returned to her house, to her "happy place", a little more worldly and a lot more wobbly.

This story was not much of a surprise to me. At our old house with its monumentally tall block walls, I often found him watering the backyard plants in nothing but his ankle socks, a vision in white minus the beautiful bride and gown. He argues that he did it just to shock me, but I know better. He's a naturist at heart. Sometimes after he surfs, I find him showering au naturel in the backyard which I suspect is the real reason why he wants better fence coverage. So until we can afford to replace these fences, think twice before peeking into our backyard, or it won't just be the green grass and palm trees that you'll be admiring. Sorry, Babs. This warning is coming one week and ten seconds too late for you.