Mom Body

Tallulah is fascinated with my tummy. Her fascination began with pregnancy when my tummy grew and grew and grew, but it has continued past pregnancy. In the night, when she crawls into bed beside me, she inches my shirt up and rubs my tummy slow and cautiously, trying not to wake me up.

When she climbs on top of me, like she did tonight, she kneads and rubs my tummy like making bread dough, her eyes all soft and lovey like a kitten kneading before falling asleep.

"Tallulah," I ask, "Why do you rub my tummy? Do you like it because it's all squishy?"
She nods and smiles a shy, sleepy smile, continuing to knead my tummy.
"She told me she liked your tummy because it felt fluffy." Kent says.
I guess it's time to do some sit ups.

Saturday Night Live skit

I haven't seen Saturday Night Live since we gave up cable for screaming baby entertainment, but just ran across this and had to share. Kent says, "It's a period joke and it didn't make me roll my eyes." What higher recommendation do you need?

and the nominee for Mother of the Year is....

I could preface this by saying that this kind of cussing is really an aberration in our house, but you wouldn't believe me.

Tonight while making dinner, I call out to the family,
"Hey guys. Who's ready for dinner?"

No answer. I start to mutter under my breath. Kent walks in and asks me what's wrong. Apparently Tallulah walks in behind him, but I don't see her.

"Well, I asked if anybody was ready for dinner and nobody said dick!" I say indignantly.

In unison, Kent and Tallulah sing out, "Dick!"

Tallulah-isms

Out of nowhere:
"Hey Dad? Do chinchillas have thumbs?"
"Um. No."
"Oh." Pause.
"I thought? When you were telling me? About animals that have thumbs? You said chinchillas have thumbs."
"I probably said 'chimpanzees'. Chimpanzees have thumbs."
"Oh. That's what I meant."

I am in your kitchen eating your quiche

Today I made an awesome dinner. I get recipes from the website, allrecipes.com which is a great website. People post their favorite recipes and then when people make them, they write a review and give it a number of stars. So when I'm looking for a particular recipe, say, quiche (like tonight) I type in the name of the recipe and then sort it by ratings, best rating first. I also will search according to ingredients I have in the fridge (jar of artichokes, can of condensed milk) and up will pop recipes using those ingredients. I like to read the reviews people make because some people are crazy. Like they'll write "this recipe was great. I just added milk, took out the butter, added thyme, basil, and oregano, cooked it for three times longer than the recipe said and added toasted pinenuts to the sauce." Umm, see, now that is just plain a different recipe. But they'll still give the original recipe five stars.

It makes me think of a friend of mine-- Sara-- who does the same thing. "Well, I like that idea. How about we do the same exact thing except..." and then she makes a new plan. Or "It's great you will plan that event. How about I research where to hold it, figure out who will go and what time to be there and make the reservations." Sigh.

Anyway.

I went on allrecipes.com today and up popped a spinach quiche recipe with 585 people rating it 5 stars. They all pretty much said this was the shz-zit of quiches. So I sauteed the spinach (frozen spinach, mind you, how good can that be?) in the butter, onions, and garlic and ohmagod. The greatest thing came out of my saute pan. Heaven. For real. Then I added feta cheese, put it in a crust, poured milk and eggs on top and heaven went to heaven. The best part about this recipe is that I could have stopped with just the spinach. I could have eaten the entire pan of sauteed spinach for dinner and in the future I will be making this as a side dish often. As often as I can justify that much butter in a meal.

If you are salivating, the recipe is here

Tilt-A-Whirl Mama

I'm preparing to go back to work and, besides the long hours of work I'm not thrilled with, I'm worried about my poor poor second child.

She's such a sweetie pie, so easy going during the day. But in the evening, during the witching hour between six and eight, she needs movement; a specific type of movement. I hold her tight against me by her head and bottom and rock back and forth. When she cries, I swing her back and forth, faster and faster until she could stay against me by centrifugal force alone. I'm a human Tilt-A-Whirl. It takes time and is tiring and after a long day I'd much rather be doing something else like sitting on my butt. But I rock her and walk her and swing her because she's my sweetie pie and she wants it.

But when I go to work, who will do this for her? It's too strenuous for grandma and Kent just can't get the hip swivel right. Going back to work turns me into the toothless carnie who tells everyone the Tilt-A-Whirl is closed.

Preschool Pariah, part 2

So my friend was telling me about this little girl who acts out and how the other moms at preschool are freezing her and her mom out: no playdates, no invites, no outings.

"What does your preschool teacher have to say about this?"
"Nothing. The girl doesn't act out in school, so she has nothing to say about what people do out of school."
"Yeah, but she could. She could get the parents together and talk about this girl's developmental stage and how to handle it, she could help the mom know what to do when the girl acts out to show the other moms that the girl is being disciplined properly. She could do something about this dynamic between the moms to keep it from being such a clique."
"My preschool is a clique. And this teacher has worked there long enough to know that no matter how many tea parties she throws, the women are going to go back to 'the club' and talk shit anyway."

Which leads me to this thought. When you select a preschool, you do it based on price and hours and philosophy of the education and how much you like the teacher. But there is a social component as well that you can't really research, but that affects your family hugely. So far I've identified four types of school:

*the socialite school. This school is generally regarded as 'the best'. It will have full accreditation, be expensive, and when you say your child goes there, people will nod knowingly. Often the hours will be short or oddly inconvenient because who cares if the nanny is inconvenienced by pick-up time.
How this school affects you: Dress to impress. Never pick up or drop off in sweats unless they are a Juicy Couture matching set and you are 'off to meet your trainer'. Your child will need to be in outfits as well. Don't worry, they won't get dirty. The other parents wouldn't stand for messy activities. Watch out for backstabbing, gossiping, and exclusion. Benefits- starting the in-crowd early and plenty of fancy playdates with great snacks.

*the two income family school. This school has extended hours and flexible pick-up time. The teachers are usually relatively new and/or young and classes are large. Progress reports are written on fill in the blank forms and you won't necessarily be told about the little things (ex. lil johnny pushed or got pushed at the swing)
How this school affects you: the other parents are busy people, so don't expect to start great friendships or fill your social calendar with playdates. The teachers are focused on keeping the kids alive and stuffing a bit of knowledge in their heads-- overseeing social interactions and dynamics may be limited to 'don't push' and 'put down that baseball bat'. Watch out for your child's needs. If he or she is having a hard time with another kid or with learning, it may get lost or under reported. Worse, your child may be blamed instead of given tools and tactics to cope. If you school has started throwing around words like ADD in preschool, let it be a warning sign to you about the school, not the kids.

The hippy school. This school has short hours and a community feel. Everybody knows everybody and when a problem comes up, its discussed with the group and lots of solutions and teaching points are given to the parents. Classes are small and progress reports are handwritten and most of it is conveyed verbally. What to watch out for: if your child or YOU don't fit into the group or behave inappropriately (according to the school- for some schools inappropriate is sending the wrong snack) the school will boot you. In this environment, because you've gotten involved in the family like atmosphere, it will hurt.

The neighborhood school. The neighborhood school is a lot like the two income family school, except with shorter hours. Everybody picks up at the same time so you'll see the other parents more frequently, but oddly, that won't necessarily lead to more playdates and friendships. The neighborhood school, like the two income school, is a prep for public school and the paperwork, progress reports, class size, and dress code reflect it (ie clothes will get dirty during art or recess, progress reports will be impersonal, class size will be large.)

Anybody know of other tyypes of schools?

Preschool Pariah

Lunch today with a friend, catching up on gossip, she tells me about this incident:
Kids are playing. One girl walks up to another girl and throws sand in her face. Mother of sand thrower goes to sand victim to care for her. Mother of sand victim goes to sand thrower and FREAKS OUT. Screams at child and says something like, "Nothing will happen anyway because there is no discipline." Storms away. At this point in the story, I interrupt.

"Oh my God. I would lose my shit if somebody said that to my daughter."
"Yeah. But both victim and perpetrator and mothers just ditch the playdate-- I'm left with the fourth mom who I don't know very well."
"Was she aghast at the mom's response?"
"No. Apparently Sand Thrower has a reputation. Fourth mom says sand thrower had it coming."
"Huh? How's that?"
"I don't know. I've never seen a problem, but apparently Sand Thrower has done this type of thing before to other kids. But I think this time the sand went in the wrong kid's face."

My friend went on to describe the social structure of her preschool. How the victim's mom is a Queen Bee at the school and how Sand Thrower's mom is soon to be the recipient of many cold shoulders and much fewer playdate invites.

Which is crazy. This mom is awesome and fun and lovely to be with. But-- and here's the weird mom-drama-- when you befriend a mom you also befriend the children. And, sure, some kids have phases, but some kids never grow out of their phases or they just move into another sucky phase.

There's a whole continuum of mom friends vs kid friends dynamic to work out. In an ideal world, you and your kid will be attracted to the same type of people, but in reality you'll love the mom and the kid will be boring/aggressive/controlling/a biter. Or the kid is awesome and the mom is smelly/overbearing/no sense of humor/a baby-talker. And then, when you all decide to like each other, there's parenting differences to work out. The snacks and amount of tv and allowable language and what is considered backtalk. It's a parenting landmine. At some point your kid is going to go through a crappy phase or you'll drop the f-bomb in the wrong crowd and Bam! Your whole family is preschool pariah. Mommy roadkill.

Late night conversations

In the dark, late at night with a quiet house, this conversation occurred between two parents:

"Are you awake?"
"Yeah. What?"
"Sometimes I worry that I'll love one kid more than the other."
"Mm hm. Yeah, sometimes I do too."
"Which one do you think you'll love more?"
"The second one."
"I worry I'll love the first one more."
Long silence.
"Well, that's ok then. It'll be even. 'Night."
"Good night."

Friday Haiku

Naptime Zen

Rolling on the bed
arms flail; the toy is so far
she struggles and laughs.

Mayor of CrazyTown

You know how sometimes you eat an entire bag of 'Family-sized' mint crisp M&M's by yourself a handful at a time out of the freezer so your family won't know that the bag exists in the house? And you justify it by thinking to yourself, "these are bad for them anyway" which means that the only kind and 'good parent' thing to do is finish the bag in one evening?

And you know how you get a headache afterwards that lasts the entire next day because of the green dye and preservatives and god-knows-what-else that makes it so deliciously minty and crispy? And how the next night when it's time to get a dessert-y sweet treat all you can think about are those awesome M&M's even though your head still hurts? So you eat two bowls of Breyer's mint chocolate chip ice cream with all recognizable ingredients in an attempt to stifle the urge to go to the store and get another family sized bag of mint crisp M&M's?

And you know how those two bowls of ice cream don't really satisfy the urge to eat another bag of Family sized mint crisp M&M's because eating one junk food to stifle the urge to eat another junk food never works? And you grab your keys and head for the door, completely planning to get another bag of mint crisp M&M's?

That's when your husband elects you mayor of CrazyTown.

The Family Pet

The first dog catastrophe: 18 month old Tallulah was eating a cracker. Monk, our family dog, was two feet to her right. I was four feet in front of them both. We were a triangle. An isosceles triangle of destruction (ITD).

If you are a parent, you know this triangle. It's the triangle between you, the child going through a biting phase, and the soon-to-be bitee. Or the triangle formed when you see the plastic shovel in one child's hand, the satisfyingly round, soft target of a playmate's head, and the parent just one half step too far away to prevent the inevitable.

End result: Monk got the cracker, Tallulah got three stitches, Monk found a new home in, um, heaven. Shelters don't take kindly to dogs with a history of biting. (ooh, writing this brings back my feelings of guilt. Poor poor Monk. But you try living with an animal who has bitten your baby.)

Since then we've had Boogey 1-- too yippy and jumpy. Boogey 2-- large and energetic. He knocked Tallulah over so many times, she decided big dogs were for suckers and started a whining campaign for a lapdog.

So when Kent pulled out our Dog Breed Book tonight and started talking about the Italiano Spumoni breed, I thought, "Oh no! Another dog to torture and ignore." But look how cute!



We want to name him Antonio and say "Ciao" and "Espresso" a lot.

Oh, I know, I know. We won't get another dog-- we are on a dog hiatus. It's just us and Gladys, the yellow foot tortoise. But maybe we need a kitten. And then if we get a kitten, we'll need a friend for it. Have you read "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie"? We're "If You Give our Family a Pet."

Here's the thing: there's all this research about pets being good for a person's health. They lower blood pressure, decrease depression, they probably cure cancer and stinky armpits, too. But you never hear about children curing ANYTHING. Except maybe bloated bank accounts. A dog is loving and affectionate, doesn't whine for juice or scream because he just pooped himself. A dog is an easy companion.

Of course, this is only in theory. In reality, dogs need a lot of attention and walks and food and they actually do whine and yell and beg, but in the doggy way. So really what Kent and I are doing are fantasizing. About dogs. Which, I guess is ok? Is maybe a little weird? Maybe a little pedestrian or suburban? Like fantasizing about the Pottery Barn or Ikea catalogs. Which we do.

Aah. Ikea.

Happy Mother's Day to me

I'm in the kitchen, it's two o'clock in the afternoon-- waa-a-ay past my lunchtime especially since I was too busy this morning organizing my crew to get out of the house on time to eat breakfast-- I've had Moxie in the sling all morning (she wouldn't have it any other way) and I'm desperate to make some lunch.

Usually I keep some one handed meals in the fridge for just this occasion, but Moxie has been going through a needy phase for the last couple of weeks and I haven't been able to plan ahead. Do you know how exhausting it is to do everything one handed and with a wiggling, crabby, 13 pound weight attached to your chest? Pretty exhausting. I've been multitasking to the extreme and it wears on the soul.

So I'm trying to make lunch and it's not looking good for me. Moxie is getting progressively more pissed off that I'm moving around when what she wants is some relaxed, playing-around-with-some-titty time. As my husband says, Who wouldn't? I work through the screaming for awhile, but finally, I adjust Moxie in the sling, pull out my breast and pop it into her mouth so I can make a sandwich with a side of quiet. Calories in, calories out.

So, in honor of all the indignities, the discomfort, the inconvenience, and the nudity, Happy Mother's Day to me! I rock.

And no, I'm not posting a picture.

Friday Haiku

When I sit to rest
My baby gets too distressed
she says, "Keep dancing!"

I move through my work
with my baby in the sling
She clutches my shirt

As if to say, "Stay
closer. It's just you and me,
dancing through our day."

Haiku Practice

I'm trying to join a haiku carnival with Mr. Linky cuz haiku's are cool.

[Sidenote, every crappy job I had kept an 'employee's log' which supposedly would be used to pass on important info like where the paychecks had been hidden but actually featured meaningful gems like "who ate my bagel? I had it clearly marked in the fridge with MY NAME!!!" I used to fill them with haikus about our bosses, my co-workers, the regulars, how boring afternoons at two o'clock are, etc. Aah, haiku. You helped me survive menial labor and slave wages]

So here is a trial run:

I love my babies
They never sleep through the night
Thank God for caffeine

The difference between mothers and fathers

This morning when the family woke up, Kent and I realized that Tallulah had not crawled in bed with us.

Me: "Oh no! Is something wrong?" Immediate rush into Tallulah's room to check on her breathing status. Whew. Still breathing.

Kent: Stre--etch. "That was some good sleeping! You think this is the beginning of a trend? Kellie? Kellie? How'd you get out of bed that quick?"

Serious, boring me

I'm so tired of being a grown up!!

I didn't write while we were going through the move and all the stress-y time that went along with that because I just got so bogged down with being serious and grown up. There was NOTHING FUNNY about Parenting or being Adult.

Little things would catch my attention and scream out for sarcastic commentary like that crazy flame war Catherine Newman is trying to start with Jerry Seinfeld's wife about vegetables in Wondertime Magazine. Look, I know I'm not the poster child for sanity, but a word fight about food? Isn't it supposed to be the other way around?

Or when my daughter's preschool teacher was talking about reverberating sounds and she said as a demonstration, "I'll show you by humming on Danny's [her husband] bone." Huh. huh, snicker snicker. How could this not lead to witty commentary and one-liners? But no. I'm just serious, boring ole me. I'm out of the habit of seeing the world in humor-colored glasses. Which obviously does not bode well for my family, all of whom rely on me to see the absurdity of random disagreements before they escalate into the serious-- and seriously loud-- fights.

But maybe I'm moving into a better place because the Parenting magazine I'm reading right now (I have no idea if I'm in the current issue or not and I can't be bothered to check because its upstairs and Moxie is asleep on my lap with her mouth kind of half hanging off my nipple. Every time I try to put my boob back in my shirt, she shifts restlessly and roots around. Hey, at least she's allowing me to sit this evening instead of demanding her usual slingride while I dance and jiggle her like a State Fair ride.) had this awesome "It happened to me" column. A dad booted all the big kids out of a bounce house so the little kids could jump and then he got in the bounce house to 'supervise.' Apparently 'supervise' really meant jump around until a kid flies out of the bounce house and fractures an arm. I can't stop envisioning some 200 pound meathead grinning maniacally and leaping like a ballerina while nine year olds stand around looking glum and toddlers fly through the air. Why can't they rename the column, 'Dumbasses on Parade'?

For all you serious adults reading this disapprovingly ("oh the poor child, how could this writer mock such a tragedy?"), the column is funny because
A. the column acts as though we should all be wary of freak bounce house accidents when in fact we should be wary of jumping fathers. And

B. the kid that broke her arm was his own child. I know someone who's getting ice cream and Princess dolls any time she wants!

So, thank you, Parenting, for giving me a little chuckle!

Ok, Kid's music has some redeeming value

In general, my stance on kid's music is: No, thank you. The only nasal, high pitched children's voice I want (have) to hear singing are the voices of my own progeny. And grown people generally are overbearing and annoyingly bright eyed when they 'sing' to children. They were the perky rejects from real bands.

Oh, but today has been the revolving door of bad moods as Kent and I have traded off choretime, babytime, and attitudes. So when Tallulah got up from her nap and we spent the first 15 minutes in sullen silence while Tallulah jumped on the couch for Moxie's amusement, I broke down and turned on Laurie Berkner.

She is a lyrical genius.

Listening to her simple chords, her silly lyrics, and her clear voice, I started getting back into the parenting mood. Her music reminds me to have fun with my kids. She makes parenting seem fun, lighthearted, and easy. And when she sings that we aren't perfect but we do our very best, I believe her.

Meanwhile, Tallulah has found a box of pictures I still need to go through and find a home for and is laying them out like a deck of cards; "me, me, me, me." Then she turns to me happily, "Mommy, I'm so cute!"

I love that she is so simply pleased with her pictures. She hasn't gotten to the age of judging her looks or her body. She just enthusiastically enjoys reflections of herself. And I can't help thinking that at this age, her most accurate reflection is me and how I see her, how I respond to her. And obviously, that reflection is pretty damn great. Maybe this parenting thing IS easy. (could Laurie Berkner have a brainwashing track in her music? Something that, when you play it backwards, says "I love to parent! My children are fantastic!" If she adds, "Chocolate is for suckers! I love to exercise!" I'll replace all the music in my Ipod with her tracks.)