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A tale of two Superbowls

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Superbowl XXXI (1997):  My 7 college roommates and 8 other friends threw an all girl Superbowl party – football fans need not attend.

We spent the night rotating through ‘Would you rather?’ variations involving the quarterbacks Tom Brady and Brett Favre (pre-junk texting scandal this was a win-win proposition, no matter how gross the details got).  The only time we stopped dancing to the Spice Girls’ ‘Wannabe’ was to check out the commercials.

Superbowl XLVI (last night):  Was the Superbowl last night?  Oh.

Ok, I knew it was happening but frankly I was too exhausted to watch.  We spent this weekend trapped inside our tiny cozy apartment as both kids attempted to raise their internal temperature to something closer to the surface of the sun (spoiler alert: Chloe won with a high of 104.1).

Like the Clint Eastwood movie, we experienced the good, bad and the ugly.

The Good

I know it’s wrong, but I enjoy don’t hate it when my kids are sick (so long as there is no vomit involved).  Here’s 3 reasons why:

  1. They are super cuddly.  Even when I can’t make it all better, they still want constant hugs and cuddles from mommy.  And I am only thrilled to oblige all the while knowing there will be a time when they won’t fit in my lap and they will wipe my kisses off their face in disgust.
  1. Sleep.  I am sure it’s part of my karma, but my kids don’t sleep.  Chloe is far more reasonable than her brother ever was but in Dr. Weissbluth’s spectrum of acceptable amounts of sleep she is still on the low side (Gavin just makes a mockery of it).

Except when they are sick.  There were naps, bedtimes without a peep of protest, and 12 hour stretches.  I know it’s wrong to rejoice but I did.

HALLELUJAH!

  1. Low energy.  I know its wrong to be happy about this too, but when they are sick these typically high maintenance, wired active kids take a break.  We watch a lot of TV (the HBO Classical Baby series to soothe the nerves) and read lots of books while cuddling on the couch.

The Bad

  1. The TV.  Once Classical Baby is over I am subjected to the same episodes of Team Umizoomi over and over until I quite literally begin to crazy shake.
  1. Whining.  Oh the whining.  I’m too hot.  My juice is too cold.  Pick me up.  Hug me closer.   It never ends.
  1. The pain.  Seeing my babies in pain, even if that pain is really only discomfort, is heart wrenching to me.  They look to me to make them feel better with every hug.  It is in your sick child’s eyes that you see the power and responsibility of being a mommy.

The Ugly

  1. Green snot.  Everywhere.  On shirt sleeves, pillowcases, my hands…oh yes and occasionally on a tissue.  Why do children hate having their noses wiped so much?  If I had cement quality green stuff hanging from my nose I would never dodge the person attempting to help.  Chloe is quick.  She ducks and leans all Neo-like.  And she’s never even seen the Matrix.  Gavin stands there and succumbs, but man does he cry and whine.
  1. Diarrhea.  Or as my son calls it “poopy juice”.  Yeah, I just wrote that.

The kids have a draw as to who is worse to deal with.  Gavin refuses to let me leave the room while he is on the potty.   The whole time.  A typical male, he could read Vanity Fair from cover to cover during a normal session.  It’s amazing I didn’t pass out from sustained exposure to the fumes.

Chloe usually goes off somewhere to be alone while she does her business, but then I am subjected to a UFC match to change her diaper.

And where does that smell come from???

  1. Did I mention the smells?  It’s worth another mention.

Superbowl XXXI Carinn and Superbowl XLVI Carinn might not agree on how to spend the night, but they do agree on one thing.  NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR VOGUE ANYMORE.  Ever.  Again.  Thanks Madonna.

Do you know the difference?

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My son has a real beef with the word ‘want’.  He doesn’t use it.  Instead, he uses the word ‘need’ exclusively.  Dramatic as he is, every request sounds like this ‘Mommy, I neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed.’

‘I neeeeeed something from the frigerator’ is how he asks for meals.

Potty time?  ‘I neeeeeed to go poopy’ (and apparently I need to stand watch).

‘I neeeeed to go to school’  (that one is borderline but since I am not homeschooling, I let it slide).

Then yesterday morning he crossed a line.

We were running errands when he told me ‘I neeeeeeeed to go to the playground’.  (I promised him we could go, since, you know – it’s 60 degrees in February!!)

“Ok, we’ll go after we are done at the store.”

“No, I neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed to go now!”  and proceeded to thrash around in his stroller like some lunatic being put in a straight jacket.

This little episode made me realize it was time to focus on the finer points of language, such as the proper uses of need and want.  Sort of a nuanced topic (even though he is exceptionally bright) so I thought hard about how to explain to him.  Then I remembered the best way to teach is to show by example.  Here are some of mine:

I want that hooded Montcler coat.  I need to stay warm in the cold winter.

I want a Mason Pearson hairbrush.  I need to not look such a mess all the GD time.

I want privacy in the bathroom.  I need privacy in the kitchen (cause if you see me eating those Dutch Cocoa cookies, you are going to want one.  And mommy does NOT share her cookies).

They are subtle points, I know, but I am sure you can relate.

You win some, you lose some.

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The game of motherhood is no different.  Yesterday morning was a stellar one.  Let me recount how it went down, with a rating of how remarkable each event was (scale of 1-10, one being as common as meltdowns and ten being as rare as Hailey’s Comet):

I woke up feeling refreshed (8)
Chloe woke up happy (3)
Gavin woke up happy (12)
Gavin was hungry (5)
Chloe was hungry (1)
I was inspired to make french toast (7)


Gavin thought it was a great idea! and did NOT throw himself on the floor at the tragedy that I could even suggest something so horrible, and instead couldn’t he just have some yogurt? (10)
Gavin helped me cook while Ian played with Chloe (3)
Both kids ate ALL their french toast (6)
And asked for MORE (8)

We ate, we danced, we laughed.  It was a regular day in the Brady Bunch household.  I’m not going to lie, that kind of morning sets you on cloud 9 for the rest of the day (or at least until dinnertime).

Lest you worry that my family has been taken over by pods, I assure you, breakfast was back to normal today.

 

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Read em and sweep

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After a week traveling around the tri-state area for the holidays, we arrived home yesterday.  By “home” I mean our tiny ‘sure-its-1000-square-feet-Mr.-Broker’, 2 bedroom apartment.  And by “we” I mean me, my husband, two kids, three suitcases and 47,000 bags of groceries, Christmas gifts and WHAT-THE-EFF-IS-IN-ALL-THESE-STUPID-BAGS-ANYWAY????

I am not known for being the most organized of people, but motherhood really helps with that.  I guess when you know you can’t get rid of your kids, you start skimming some of the stuff you actually care about.  Pre-kids, those bags might have sat there for weeks.  Definitely the suitcases.  But with Chloe on the move we need all the space we can clear.  As it is she can only crawl for 5 seconds without revealing yet another child endangering situation.

So I got to work while Ian distracted the kids.  I reorganized the cabinets to make space for all the new food.  I opened all the mail and sorted through bills, christmas cards and Val-Paks with frightening precision.  FOR THE LOVE OF GOD I rearranged furniture to accommodate my kids new kitchen set.  I have no idea what came over me.  Everywhere I looked I saw opportunity for space.  I dominated de-cluttering.

And after that I cooked ordered dinner, bathed my kids and read to both of them - individually! - before bed (in light of this amazing tale, you will surely forgive me for putting Chloe back into the same clothes from before her bath — she was only wearing them for a few hours).

Tomorrow my paralysis in the face large tasks will likely return.  By morning light I will once again fail to even notice the 3-4 amazon boxes that have permanent residence in the corner of our entryway.  And yes, I will continue to be suspicious of any one who dusts the corners of their apartment.  But today, today, I was a good mom.

2012 scoreboard — Me – 1, Apartment – ZERO

This could be a name changer

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I have been known to come up with some pretty insane ideas.  I seem to yank them out of thin air and use them to clobber Ian over the head.

They range from the mundane “I need to get out of this house right now.  Pack up the kids and your old person armor, we are going out to dinner at a nice restaurant (so what if it’s 430pm),” to the fantastic “Do you want to go to Hawaii…yes?  Great, we leave in 6 days.”  Some of them require a lot of faith, “I am going to open a yoga studio with all of the money I have ever saved,” and some of them he knows will never ever happen, “I want to throw away my entire wardrobe.”

After seven years of marriage, I have learned two things.

1) despite how well these ideas always turn out (not a single regret in the lot), my husband doesn’t like them.  They are drastic, spontaneous and generally cause a lot of chaos.  Ian, the even keeled, consistent and drama free only child, requires a lot of thought, planning and research to even consider a new idea, and even then, if it is going to require that much work, shouldn’t we just sit on the couch and watch football? “It’s Sunday for chrissake,” is what his face always says to me.

and 2) I am nuts.

#2 became evident to me only when I presented Ian with my latest idea.  “We need to change Gavin’s middle name.”

The fact that he didn’t laugh or explode with rage at the idea that we need to legally change the name of our 2 and 1/2 year old tells me that he has also learned a lot over seven years of marriage.  Instead, he begins peppering me with questions.

“Doesn’t that requiring going in front of a judge?”

Ok, doctors, the idea is alive.  Work fast!

“It will give me the opportunity to pretend I am a real lawyer.”

Gug-gong
 

“What about his fancy Pottery Barn chair?”

“I’ll get a new slipcover.”

Heart rate increasing.  Gug-gong, gug-gong.

 

“Won’t our family think we are crazy?”

“We won’t tell them, it’s just his middle name.”  Eye roll.

Oh no, I’m losing him.  Hurry, think of something good.

“Your grandparents changed your mom’s middle name after she was born.”

Genius.  And true.  Gug-gong, gug-gong.


Now I know what question is coming next and I tense just a little.  My own heartrate picks up.”What are we going to change it to?”

“Jagger”

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.  Flatline.

Time of death 4:39pm.

Whisper to a scream

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My perfect angel of a daughter.  The one who smiles at everything and everyone.  The one who sleeps an appropriate amount of time without protest or procrastination.  The one who loves nothing more than to just be held – especially by her mama.  Oh my sweet baby girl.

Someone stole her.

In her place they have left someone that looks a lot like my Chloe.  Except she screams when you pick her up (she demands complete freedom to work on her cruising).  If somehow she has allowed you to hold her, she screams if you put her down.  Especially in a play pen, high chair, walker or anything that limits her range of motion (and consequently might keep her safe).  And she LAUGHS when you say things like “NO! Do not stick your finger in that electrical socket.”  Laughs.  I’m not kidding.

Today we were coming home from Chloe’s 10 month check-up on the subway.  Somewhere around Union Square she decided that the 15 minute subway ride WAS FAR TOO LONG TO BE STRAPPED TO MOMMY and she just started screaming.  Not temper tantrum screaming (clearly fake), not whining, not crying.

We are talking blood. curdling. screams.

Everyone in the subway car turned to see what was going on.  As far as they could judge she was not dangling over the tracks and I didn’t appear to be sticking a sharp object in her eye.  They looked away.  AND SHE SCREAMED AGAIN.  This time she added a convulsion like dance where she stood on my thighs, launched herself out of the baby carrier seat and threw her head back, arching, you know, to really let the scream fly.

Everyone was looking at me, expecting me to remedy the situation.  I laughed and called her BossyPants, evoking my best loveable-doofus-Tina-Fey-esq face.  This did nothing to end the screaming.

I took my cue from her arched back and tickled her exposed neck.  She laughed hysterically and uncontrollably.  My fellow subway riders went back to their business, probably feeling bad for me and Sybil-baby.

I hear what you are saying Chloe, terrible twos start now…

If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em

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Last night was sleep training night in our house (boo hiss).  Here is how it went:

Everyone goes to bed without a peep or protest exactly at their designated bedtime.  We all wake for the first time at 7am refreshed and ready to start the day!!!!

OR, that’s pretty much the opposite of how it went.  First let me back up.  This night was designated for sleep re-re-re-training because Ian was out of town.  This meant Chloe would have our room to herself, Gavin would have his room and I would have the TV to drown out both of their cries.

10:30pm -   the plan is in action.  Both kids are asleep and I have made myself a cozy little bed on the couch.  I flip around for something mindless to leave on as I slowly drift off.  Kardashians on E! – don’t get more mindless than that!  Remote down, fluff my pillow, close my eyes…

What’s that?  Kim is going to go off birth control?  Kim and Kris still don’t live together?  Mason knows all his colors?  This is riveting.

Now it’s 11:30.  One false start, but no big deal.  I will be asleep in moments and will sleep through to 7am.  I fantasize about sleeping so late that Gavin misses school.  Seven hours is going to feel good.

It’s 1:30am.  Chloe coughs (or hacks up a lung, I can’t be sure because I’m in the living room) but it didn’t wake her.  Gavin is coughing too but no sounds of his footsteps follow.  Back to sleep.  Five hours is going to feel good.

It’s 3am.  No one is even making a noise.  What is wrong with me?????

It’s 430am.  Now I am kind of annoyed.  Why isn’t anyone waking up?  Where is Gavin creeping towards my room with huggie monkey in hand?  Why haven’t I had to brace myself against Chloe’s crying protests?  I mean, if everyone was just going to sleep I wish I was in my bed.  This couch is cold and uncomfortable.

It’s 445am.  Cuddled up in my own bed, it’s warm and the sheets are just the right amount of cool.  Chloe didn’t stir as the floorboards creaked and still no sign of Gavin.  I could get two solid hours now…

It’s 447.  Two hours, two minutes, same thing.  Chloe is standing in her crib screaming in my face two feet away.  I don’t even feign sleep training and swoop in to pick her up.  I can’t help but kiss her a thousand times.  She leans her head back with delight and I dive in to kiss her soft, baby-smelling neck.  Her head rests on my shoulder as I lean back on the pillows.  She finds her thumb to suck and in moments she is asleep.

I am wide awake and insanely in love.

Her other hand rubs my arm, tugging at my shirt, holding on and hugging.  I don’t dare move as I drink up this moment.

It’s 520.  I should really put her down and try to get some sleep.  Of course as soon as I lay her down in the crib, she starts crying.  She is clearly enjoying this as much as I am.  So I take her back in the bed.  She looks at me, climbs all over me, mocking my attempt to sleep.  I tease her and she sticks her fingers in my mouth.

It’s 545.  I nurse her and she is ready to go back to bed.

I slept for the next 90 minutes and today I am tired.  I know these hazy days of exhaustion will pass and I will recall them as one thick cloud, one day’s tired being indistinct from the next day’s.  But I also know that I will never forget the moments of cuddling and hugging I share with my daughter with no one else around, no husband to worry about waking, no big brother to demand equal expressions of love – just her and I, Chloe and me.

For an extinct species, dinosaurs make my life miserable

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All month I have been asking Gavin what he wants to be for Halloween.  All month, my question has been returned with a blank stare.  I know he knows what Halloween is from TV school so I just assume he doesn’t have a preference.

That was my first mistake.  Assumed he doesn’t have a preference?  You mean the child that needs juice –  ”apple-juice, not-orange-juice-but-in-an-orange-cup, no-not-that-orange-cup, the-big-orange-cup, with-a-blue-straw, no-not-THAT-blue-straw-I-want-to-pick-my-own-blue-straw!”

This kid doesn’t lack opinions.

A week before his school Halloween party he tells me he wants to be a dinosaur.  I fought the urge to remind him “I-don’t-HAVE-an-effing-dinosaur-costume-I-have-a-hamburger-costume-that-I-bought-with-your-sister’s-strawberry-costume-four-weeks-ago-when-you-said-you-didn’t-care” and instead hoped it would blow over.  Cause he forgets things (never).

Two days before the party his nana asked him what he was going to be for Halloween.  “A dinosaur.”

F.

After dinner I run out to the pop-up Ricky’s shop down the street.  I feel like super mom when the employee tells me they have dinosaur costumes.  Even better when they have one in his size-ish (18-24 months isn’t a stretch, he is pretty small for 2.5 anyway)!  And it’s 50% off!  High on the spoils of being a delinquent mom, I hurry home to show Gavin his dinosaur costume.

He is unimpressed that night.

The next morning he won’t even put it on.  He carries the costume in a bag because I force him to.  He insists he will not wear it.

He comes home from school nonplussed with the T-Rex still in the bag.

ARE  YOU KIDDING ME?!?!?!?

Next year he is going as an easy child (no changes needed for that “costume”).

Hello world!

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I did a lot of mom blog research and despite what I found I decided to start my own.

Reading hundreds of other blogs made me cry, made me laugh, made me angry and gave me lots of thoughts about toilet-training.  Most importantly it inspired me to chronicle my own adventures, foibles, my ‘oh no’ and ‘aha’ moments, victories and outright missteps as a mom.

My biggest concern lies in the fact that all the blogs I read seem to have certain things in common, that, well, maybe I don’t.

Here are some examples:

1.  Other bloggers: love their kids but find the 24/7 care and feeding of them to be tedious (which is true).

Me:  I love being a mom and wife.  I secretly wish to spend several lifetimes doing nothing but watching my kids play on the playground, preparing cream cheese sandwiches (I said I love being a mom, not that I was good at it), and singing the Sesame Street theme song (without ever even wondering how you actually get to Sesame Street.  Though it is clearly in Brooklyn).

2.  Other bloggers:  hate Gwyneth Paltrow (especially the NYC ones).  Jennifer Garner too (her LA counterpart).  Like highly trained police dogs I think these mom bloggers can smell their 1950s housewife mentality from miles away and are on constant high alert from the mere mention of their names.

Me:   I worship Gwyneth Paltrow.  She can do no wrong in my book.  She loves to cook, she speaks spanish and she practices yoga.  She married a smart and sensitive rock star, she is best friends with Mario Batali and Jay-Z.  She beautifully reads my favorite poem on Classical Baby (All Grown Up…The Poetry Show).  All of this even gets her a pass for dumping Brad Pitt, Shallow Hal and yes, even trying to be a singer.  She’s my mommy inspiration.  Jennifer Garner too.

3.  Other bloggers:  are wildly successful

Me: only my mom will be embarrassed when this blog bombs

Which leads to me to wonder…for the first time on the interweb (though certainly not the last)…am I doing this right?