My Child Will

Some of you know my children very well. But in case you don't and you'd like to...

Bonus guessing game, guess which kid does which.  Trick: several of them apply to both.

My child will NOT...

eat a sandwich for lunch.

eat anything besides a sandwich for lunch.

forget the color of your cat.

color inside the lines.

wear jeans.

stand in line.

TOLERATE HUNGER.

put shoes on the correct feet.

be embarrassed by their behavior, no matter how inappropriate or loud.

choose a weather appropriate outfit on the first try. But it will be colorful...and patternful.

My child will...

say hello to EVERY stranger. Then tell them her full name. Her address...her social...our bank pin...

scratch you in the face if you cut in line.

recite entire Dr. Seuss books! And sometimes Shakespeare.

hear a loud noise, find it disturbing, and decide to combat it with MAKING MORE NOISE.

swing on swings FOREVER.

sing in the car.

take off shoes as soon as we reach the destination...even if it's the park.

give you the tightest and most passionate hug of your LIFE. Even if you are a plumber they just met.

lick you.

dance at a wedding.

exaggerate an injury in order to get a band aid.

play elaborate pretend games that involve every toy and costume in the house.

show the full range of human emotions...in one conversation.

tell you they love you. Even if they just met you.

Real

We've been reading The Velveteen Rabbit again.

"What is Real?"

“Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you."

Can I try to articulate why this book gets me so misty? I don't know if I can. But I'll try. 

It's a lie. You're real because you exist. You're real because you're REAL. Duh. This is not the matrix. Is it? No, Right? No. It's not.

You are real.

The Velveteen Rabbit is not real. But it feels real.

It feels like you're only real, you only exist, if someone else cares about you enough to validate you. 

"When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.'

'Does it hurt?' asked the Rabbit.

'Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.'

Being a parent does not make you real. Being childless does not make you real. But the horse (made of SKIN?!) is right in that having children, and parenting them, and getting punched in the face because it's bedtime and "I no wan to!" HURTS. But you let them. Well, you tell them not to, but you let them in that you don't break up with them. You don't leave them because they tell you they don't love you (I'm having two-year-old troubles).

'Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,' he asked, 'or bit by bit?'

'It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.”

My children love me when I'm in a dress, when I'm in yoga pants, when I'm trying to take a shower. And, to be honest, lately, I have been feeling a bit shabby. And my eye sight is quite bad now. And my joints were VERY LOOSE because of hormones.

But these things don't matter at all?

I'm not trying to be annoyingly literal. It's just that REAL sometimes feels like...it's only happening now, when I'm alone. When they are otherwise occupied. When I dressed myself in "real clothes" and went to a "real job."

This post isn't very funny, is it? It doesn't have many answers.

I guess, I'm trying to say, it's still hard, nearly five years in, to feel like this is all real. A weekday sometimes still feels wrong, in September, when I don't work ten-hour days for pennies thrown at a student loan. The wonder of a human I cooked up myself (with a helper!) let alone TWO humans, still feels uncanny.

When will it feel real?

The book is about love. Love makes you real. It's a flawed message. It should be that loving, not being loved, makes you real. Loving SOMETHING, a bunny, a person, being alone with a cup of coffee, makes you real, I guess.

Unless I'm just a glitch in the matrix.

Excerpts from― Margery Williams Bianco, The Velveteen Rabbit

Sisyphean Spinning

Because my work situation is...in flux...at the moment (weeping, brain exploding, shrugging emoticon), I had an unexpected day off and decided, yet again, to attempt to better myself through fitness.

Don't worry, the laundry is going now. I will not neglect the laundry on this, the day I have off.

My super cool new surgeon who told me I no longer need to run if I want to keep my shins suggested cycling as a good cardio option. So I strapped on the rented shoes and snapped myself in.

A brief history of me and bicycles. I never learned to ride one as a child ("I lived on a hill!") and then, as an adult, my then BF now DH (LEARN YOUR ACRONYMS) taught me. There was drama. BUT I LEARNED.

Then I went biking with our family friend in California and attempted to adjust my sunglasses and fell off into some gravel and got a scar EXACTLY like a stigmata and gave up from there.

SO here we are.

In case you are unfamiliar, the new kind of cycling cultImeanCLASS is that you go in a room with a very fit and adorably approachable lady at the front of the room on a bike and that bike is on a pedestal. We underlings strap ourselves into our machines on the ground and then they turn on loud music and turn off the lights an then the smiling lady yells at you to pedal while she cackles but actually she's really very pretty and nice and smiling and helpful so it's like a hearty laugh. It's not HER fault I'm unfit.

Now, the darkness and the loudness struck me as very weird but I actually really, really loved it.

Because in the dark, no one can see my tears.

And the music drowns out my whimpers.

Seriously though. I cried a lot. Because I felt frustrated. My feet fell asleep during the warm up. Then they just spasmed until the ride was over. Maybe it's because of my stupid hip problem or it could be perhaps, my rented shoes were too tight. It could be perhaps, my head's not screwed on just right. Well, whatever the reason, my hip or my shoes, I sat there on my bike starting to bruise.

Bruise? You ask? Well yes. Of course. On my...what I'm going to call....undercarriage because it is simultaneously a euphemism and also a non-romantic one. BIKING HURTS!

So I chose undercarriage or foot pain for the duration.

And I feel totally awesome right now. Seriously. ENDORPHINS UP THE WAZOO.

But the pain hasn't set in. And I haven't tried to stand up in a few minutes.

I fitnessed!

Now back to our regularly scheduled laundry.

Stupid Hip Problem Update #23233487347347936742847624624

Today I finally got validation. 

No I don't know why my hip hurts a little bit all the time. More on that later. 

But I did find out that I'M NOT CRAZY! Ok, actually I didn't find that out at all.

For the longest time (cue Billy Joel), I have had the sneaking suspicion that I am being gas lighted by the MOM INDUSTRY! 

You know, the one that tells you to RUN with your jogging stroller in your expensive plastic yoga pants. And to pay them money to RUN outside with them yelling at you to run faster because you ate too much on Mother's Day (true story). 

I've always thought that perhaps they were telling me to do something that felt...wrong. But they were fit, and happy...so I must be wrong...

For example, every mom I know (hyperbole) is doing this thing called Hood to Coast this weekend. In case you're not local, my understanding of this event is that you get up at 3am, drive in a smelly van (THAT YOU DECORATED) with your coworkers or, worst case scenario, your spouse's coworkers, to the top of a mountain (Hood). Then you run down it until you fall, lifeless into the ocean. That's right, my mom friends are so desperate to get away from their beloved and adorable children that they would rather run all day and night for a weekend than sleep at home with their families. No, they like doing this event. They CHOOSE to do this event. They train for it, work hard, and ENJOY it, I'm told. 

NOPE NOPE NOPITY FUCK NO NO.

I did Couch to 5K in 2015. I did not make it to 5K but I did make it off the couch, until I broke my foot (stress fracture). 

I accepted defeat and tried to do other forms of exercise. JKJKJKJK I just got pregnant and gave up (you know this story, though). 

I've been invited a few times to run, since, and I've politely declined, citing my broken hip (not broken) and broken foot (also fine). 

BUT TODAY!

TODAY!

(gleeful cackle)

Today I met with an orthopedic surgeon because my sports medicine doctor said, "I've done all I can for you" and referred me out (to which I responded behind his back, with deep sarcasm, "you've done so much for me so far, though). 

She told me that I should NEVER RUN AGAIN because I have weird calf and shin anatomy and I will separate my muscles from my bones and DEFINITELY need surgery if I run.

I'M NEVER RUNNING AGAIN.

Except after the boy the next time he decides to go walkabout into the road. 

SUPER VALIDATION.

But my stupid hip problem, you ask, what about my stupid hip problem? You know, the one I went in there for? 

No easy answer here. I need to see a spine guy now to rule out a nerve pinching spine thingy. 

SO, just the news we all wanted...

TO BE CONTINUED.

Gaga

For some reason pregnant people ask me for advice on newborns. I don't know why because I hate newborns (I mean--I love my children more than life itself ...they know this and exploit my weakness and try to kill me with sleep deprivation torture and boob infections.)

My advice is this and it sucks because it's not advice:

The weirdest thing about having a baby is not that a human lives in your house who didn't exist last year, it's BOOBS. Boobs rule your life.

NOW LET ME BE CLEAR: Your baby needs food to live and if that food is formula, PLEASE FEED YOUR BABY AND DON'T FEEL BAD ABOUT IT omg staaaaaaaap with the mom-shaming, boob tyrants (I'm looking at you, Le Leche League).

Either way, the first week at LEAST, your boobs rule your life.

You will feel your feelings in your boobs.

You will feel your baby's feelings in your boobs.

You will feel the fucking weather in your boobs.

Your boobs own you.

My boobs took ownership on March 22, 2014 at about 1 am when a nurse put the girl baby on me and she bit me so hard my nipple folded in half (bad pronoun. The baby, not the nurse. Nurses don't bite). It bruised that way, in a straight line, and then cracked and developed mastitis which tried to kill me a little bit. MOTHERHOOD IS A BEAUTIFUL FUCKING MIRACLE lol auuugggggh.

Then everything got easier. I made enough milk, she drank enough milk. Breastfeeding became easy and convenient and I loved it. Not everyone feels this way, including Queen Victoria.

And she was the QUEEN! But I liked it. It went well.

The girl was easy to wean. At 17 months, she stopped asking and I stopped offering. She was a Le Leche League poster child. My body didn't even go back to "normal" yet when my boobs (not my brain. Most definitely not my brain) made me say to my husband, "I wouldn't mind being pregnant."

Here we are. 2018. My second child, the boy, is almost 20 months old. And it's happening. He's weaning.

On Monday night he nursed.

On Tuesday morning he asked for a waffle instead of Gaga.

Gaga is his name for my boobs. I don't know why or how he came up with that name but everyone knows because, every time I picked him up from daycare in the last six months, he would jab his cute, stubby finger into my breast bone and yell, "Gaga!" until I either whipped it out or forced him, hysterical, into the car seat so we could Gaga in the privacy of our own home.

On Tuesday night my husband put him to bed and I tried to work up some emotion about the end of the era but I felt nothing but glee. I would be free! I could take ALL THE DRUGS (jk hugs not drugs)! I could drink all the alchomahalz (jk I can't drink more than one unit or I fall asleep)! I can get a tattoo (maybe)! I can buy REAL BRAS (DEFINITELY)!

On Wednesday, at naptime, the boy remembered Gaga. "GAGA GAGA GAGA!" He screamed. But it was too late! Wasn't it? My boobs began to question, threatening to break free from their sports-bra enclosure. I left him to scream and put the girl down for nap. When I came back in he reached for me. I picked him up, feeling like I was going to crumble. I was going to do whatever he asked of me. And he just let me hold him. He didn't ask for anything at all. I put him down and he went right to sleep.

I sobbed. I blubbered. I was breathless, unable to utter a sentence. My husband insisted on video chatting me. He praised me for being strong (he has selfish motives, of course, but also pure ones). I cried and cried and cried and ate chocolate to chase away the Dementors and read some articles online that made me feel bad (LLL....I SEEEEE YOU) and some that made me feel better (Kelly Mom, way to go), and did some work, and...

It's over. No more Gaga.

It was my boobs that were sad, not me. Lady Gaga was crying, not me. She was gonna miss being of use. She was going to miss being gloriously resplendent, unable to be contained by a simple underwire. She was going to miss spending time with that sweet little baby, who always held my hand as he fed. She didn't want to deflate into withered old hag bags. It wasn't me! IT WAS GAGA!

I was gripped by a crashing wave of loneliness. My husband told me I'd feel better soon. He agreed it was the hormones making me hysterical, not me. I'm FINE. I'm HAPPY.

Nearly as long as a one-term presidency (here's hoping), Gaga was commander in chief. And it's over. I'm in charge now.

Thank you, Gaga.

The Symbolism of the House aka I HATE POTTERY BARN

Is your home a symbol of your mindset? In a dream, yes, maybe. In real life?

My house is a complicated thing. It's large, unwieldy even. It is always a little messy and a little disorganized. It is hard to arrange furniture in it so that the children will not murder themselves. It is full of unfinished projects.

My house is a constant domino effect of broken appliances.

First and biggest was the furnace. The first time we went to turn it on for the season, we realized it wasn't turning on. I had someone come down and look at the old guy. He opened it up and said, "Well that's not good." I texted my husband, "Prepare to buy a new furnace today." Turns out my 1964 furnace had finally, quietly died in the springtime, alone and unnoticed in a (very fortunately not deadly to the whole household) blaze of internal fire. Basically it fried itself and all its wires and was unfix-able. Bring in the estimates. We ended up getting a new furnace and putting in AC and giving them allllllll our money.

Then went the fridge. It stopped working during a heat wave this summer and right before we were having ten people over for dinner. The guys fixed it and we went on our way. Two more calls and we got a new one.

Next the stove. This one turned out to be a quick ($80) reset because it was not actually broken, just flooded.

And the washer and drier decided to take turns three or four times this year, too. A baby sock was stuck in the washer and caused the water to fill but not drain, which is catastrophic when you're trying to wash out your son's blankie that he puked on. The dryer had a potpourri of fixable ($80 each) problems but has been mercifully soldiering on without need of replacement.

The appliance guy must think I have a crush on him with how often I call.

Oh and let's not forget the window. My husband tripped on a kid toy and put his head/shoulder through the kitchen window. He's fine. It looked like he mostly pushed the glass out of the frame with his body and then it shattered on the way down.

For some unknown reason though this, my husband decided we should update our lighting fixtures and have an electrician see to the lights that randomly don't work. So we hired a guy and bought fixtures from several stores including Pottery Barn. Now I'm in lighting limbo because we started the project but the damn Pottery Barn fixture refuses to ship. Every time I track it it has a NEW date two-weeks into the future for shipping and customer service is straight-up lying to me about it. I'm being ghosted by a lamp!

FUCK YOU POTTERY BARN NEVER AGAIN!

I bought another lamp and now have to wait for the electrician to come back to finish/take my money.

Cost of all of this: infinity.

Is it symbolic? Is there something cosmically wrong here? Or is it just the price of home ownership (reminder: the price is infinity)? Does everything break around me as a test? What are they testing? My sanity? Aren't we testing that enough with the whole two toddlers thing?

Someday I dream (and pinterest) of a home with all functional appliances and lamps, where there is never a random pile of cheerio dust and where you don't find one million toy cars littering the hallways, just asking to be ridden upon like runaway roller skates. I dream of a house where the cats and children will allow an undisturbed house plant to thrive, where photos are on the walls, straight, well-spaced.

No...I don't. Doesn't that sound so boring? Like a fucking Pottery Barn catalog from hell? The chaos is lovable, in its way. I will look back on this phase of insanity with fondness.

I see you out there, trying to be perfect. You might be better dressed. You might have that infinity money to have a perfectly functional house straight from FUCKING POTTERY BARN. You have professional photos of your family done every year and they actually look good and your children actually smile in them (the one time we did professional photos the girl glowered in every. single. one). Your body does all the normal things without incident. You and your children eat spinach on the reg. Do you exist? Or are you a facebook facade? I don't care. I'm not perfect and I don't care so much if you are.

This is it. My messy house. My messy rooms. My messy me. Also fuck you Pottery Barn.

Good Bad Day

I had a good day and I had a bad day. Some days are just like that. Even in Australia.

On paper, it seemed really good. There was chocolate. Fresh air. Sunshine.

But my morning started out early and rough. The boy either loves me so much it hurts or hates me so much it hurts. It's one of those. Nothing in between. When I said it was time to go to school, he began a full body scream tantrum, rendering him impossible to get out the door. The girl was holding it together but we all have sensory processing disorder and hate loud noises so it began to wear on us and finally, I asked her to carry the lunch boxes and she SCREAMED at me that she could not and I yelled at her and then we both apologized and I could tell this was going to be a terrible, no good,  very bad daycare drop off.

We survived the load in with only one dropping of a bag and made it the whole five minutes in the car listening to the baby sing the song of his people. The boy did not seem to know whether or not he wanted to walk into daycare himself or be carried so we took a good three minutes getting from the car to the door. Somehow, and I really can't figure out how, my daughter got her foot caught UNDER the door at this point and started screaming bloody murder. I think she was scared more than hurt. SO, that's right. I'm the mom with TWO screaming children, taking up the whole hallway at daycare.

I abandon my hysterical offspring with the daycare teachers aka saints and hand the valentines for tomorrow to one teacher as I flee. I hope no one notices I did all 25 of them BACKWARDS.

I go to work for a couple hours, tutoring. It is juuuuust fine.

I go to PT--go me. I tell her about how I did sixty minutes of Barre and how my butt hurts and she tells me I really should only do 30 minutes of any exercise at this point and I feel a bit deflated but she helps me with things and works on my stupid hip and then I leave, out into the glorious sunshine where two women on crutches talk about crutches things while they wait for their cars.

What happened next was ridiculous. I wish I could say I was enjoying the sunshine. I can't even say I was on my phone. I WALKED INTO A STREET SIGN. It was a construction "detour" sign and it was placed HEAD LEVEL on the side walk, which seems silly, but more silly is that I walked face first into it!

A very stylish older lady wearing red lipstick (#olderladygoals) witnessed this and was VERY CONCERNED for my health. I got a "sweetie!" And I yelled, "DID YOU SEE HOW STUPID I WAS TO WALK INTO THAT? I'M TOTALLY FINE!" It was super dumb. I'm fine. It actually might bruise.

At this point I decided I deserved ice cream. I know that's counter-productive to the whole go to PT so you can exercise but until then don't really exercise shebang, but I was very near Salt-n-Straw and it is a good month for the special flavors because they are all chocolate themed so I fucking got a scoop of goddamned fancy and amazing fucking ice cream. And I enjoyed it.

And then I bought a dress! I am attending a wedding and need a suitable dress. Shopping is supposed to be a fun activity but it is NOT fun for the poor mom bod because women's clothes shopping is insane. I went to Nordstrom Rack and picked out more dresses than I should have been feasibly carrying and I tried on every single one.

One woman can try on one million dresses and they can all be the same freaking numbered size on the inside and she will find a vast array of horrible fit problems: too big in the boobs, too tight in the boobs, doesn't fit over hips, doesn't zip, zips but with a gap, too long, too short, too low cut, too prudish, what the fuck is this slip thing, how am I supposed to get into this dress, too pink, too black, too too too too tooooooooooooo

I found two. I will do a fashion show at home and pick one.

And then I picked up the children and they alternated screaming at me and being really, really cute and playing nicely together and crying because one or the other was wronged.

Bedtime. Tutor another kid. His "cat" gave me a valentine. Because they are the best family ever.

Here I am. So tired. Still awake.

On paper, so good: worked. sunny day, chocolate, dress.

In real life...so much in between.