Perpetually Sticky

My Mom Body

2009-01-27T12:47:00.001-08:00

I haven't been blogging lately because it seems I can only concentrate on one thing at a time and this month it's been my mom body. I told myself I would lose the baby weight by the time Moxie was a year old and of course she's 14 months now and I'm still wa-ay past my weight goals. And my birthday is looming. I'm going to be 35-- I'm moving out of the 25-34 check box and into 35-4..... how high up into the forties does the check box go? Never mind, I don't want to know.

I remember once in high school looking at myself in the mirror and thinking, "if my stomach ever protrudes past my hipbones, just shoot me because it's all downhill after that." I don't know if my stomach protruded past my hipbones the day before I realized I was pregnant with Tallulah, but I certainly know it did the day after. The minute I became pregnant my body started retaining water, calories, and gas like I was a human bomb shelter.

I've been overweight since that first pregnancy and I keep vacillating between "enjoy life. It's only ten pounds." and "I'm overweight and middle age is creeping up on me." The thing is, I love to exercise. I'm pretty fit, I just weigh too much. And overweight has been linked to increased risk for diabetes, heart disease, sweat pants as formal wear...

My goals are modest. I no longer want hipbones that protrude past my belly button. I just want verification that my hipbones still exist.

The difference is shoes

2008-12-19T08:08:00.000-08:00

Moxie has developed her personality. It is: opinionated.

Yesterday, while Tallulah was in school, Mox and I were hanging out at home. I was attempting to clean house and The Moo was attempting to destroy it. She was winning. First she discovered Tallulah's crayons, left on the coffee table, and decided to decorate the plain, boring old table. "No!" I yelled. "No coloring on tables!" Then I remembered my positive discipline (it always comes to me a sentence too late) and re-stated it.
"We color on paper, Moxie, paper." I dragged out a big roll of paper, cut a strip to cover the coffee table, and let Moxie at it. We colored together awhile, then I began tidying again. While I was tidying, Moxie crawled over to the shoe rack and picked out a pair of white dress-up shoes I had never put on her before.
"Moxie, those shoes are too stiff," I told her. "They'll hurt your feet."
"Blah," said Moxie, shaking the shoes at me.
"You need shoes that are flexible so your feet don't get gnarled and grotesque."
"Blah. Beeelaaaah!" Moxie said louder.
"Your arches haven't developed yet, and you won't be able to walk in those."
"AAAAARRRRRGGGG!!"
So I put the shoes on her. They were a bit too tight, but Moxie immediately grinned up at me and pointed to her feet. When we went to pick up Tallulah she wore the shoes and greeted everyone she saw with a grin and a point at her shoes. Everyone agreed her shoes were pretty and she was pleased.

Tallulah, on the other hand, is a black shoes girl. Her auntie Kimmie bought her some fancy black Mary Janes and, despite the fact that she has about seven pairs of shoes-- all of which are more appropriate for her everyday activities like running, climbing trees, and pretending to do Kung Fu-- she wears these Mary Janes every day. For every occasion.

They're getting a little beat up so I went to the Stride Rite outlet in Ellenton to buy her some new shoes. They had these:

Cute, right? I wanted to get them for her so badly. I can picture her running and jumping and doing fin stuff in these brightly colored cheery shoes. But I've done this before-- bought her shoes I thought were great only to have her continue to wear black Mary janes until the coating is flaking off and the smell emanating from them envelops the entire house. So I bought her these:

Meh.

Both my girls-- apparently-- have huge opinions about shoes. And I thought, ok, they are opinionated and fiesty, that's cool. But they look different. Moxie is a little darker in her coloring, her cheeks are a little more bottom-heavy, their faces are shaped differently. They are totally different people with a similar strong opinion about shoes.

Then a friend came across some old pictures of Tallulah when she was about the same age as Moxie is now. Observe:

My children are identical!!! Can you even tell which one is Tallulah and which one is Moxie? Neither can I. I have started marking all the pictures with initials and dates because in about two years I won't know whose baby pictures are whose. The only way to tell them apart will be to look at their shoes. Black? Tallulah. White? Moxie. I have got to stop taking naked pictures.

FYI: if you're playing along at home, the answer key is Moxie, Tallulah, Tallulah, Moxie. Mixed them up, didn't you.

Ah, sweet mystery of love at last I've found you

2008-12-11T11:51:00.000-08:00

Moxie won't sleep with me. For the most part. What I mean by this is: Moxie will sleep only if she is attached, Hoover-like, to my nipple and even then she is restless and easy to wake. With Kent, she falls asleep and stays asleep. I tell him all the time it's because he's boring, but that only amuses me a little bit and the rest of the time I feel helpless at not being able to get the baby to sleep.

Kent has gotten in this routine of taking Moxie after her middle of the night nursing and getting her to sleep in the crook of his arm. If she doesn't settle immediately, he takes her downstairs to the living room couch and for some reason snuggling together on the couch puts her to sleep 95% of the time. A couple nights ago this didn't work and I gave her some more midnight snacking time. While I lay there with the baby kneading my tummy with her feet, pinching my breast, and slapping my face, I realized that Kent hadn't come back upstairs and was still sleeping on the couch. Aw, hell no!

Then yesterday it's 11am, I'm still in my pajamas, the kitchen counters are displaying a dirty-dish replication of the Swiss Alps, breakfast shrapnel is still littering the floor under Moxie's highchair, and I'm running around the house with a naked poop covered baby searching for a diaper when Kent breezes in from a meeting, announces that he's taking a shower and then proceeds to take one. The nerve!

I was thinking about this today when a friend told me she and her husband are 'taking a break'.

"We're not really separating. We just need to take a breather from 'us' right now," she explained. To which I replied, huh? Because this is not in my world-view. Sure, we'd all like to take a break-- from our spouses, our kids, the bills, work...all of it. I often, when Tallulah was little, complained that if only I could put the baby on pause for a week, a day, the length of a long nap, I'd be just fine.

But it doesn't work that way. Kids and life and stress and joy just don't wait. In fact, just this week Moxie has been walking, said two new words, Tallulah's tooth got loose, we rediscovered the joy of smoothies... not to mention the regular, everyday stuff like reading the bedtime story and having the following conversation after school pick-up: "How did your day go?" "I don't want to talk about it."

And I know this isn't what my friend was talking about. Grown up relationships have a different pace and rhythm, but I feel it works the same way. We-- all of us, the whole family-- are in this together and becoming each other's strengths by being present for all the little, everyday things. Through sleeplessness and stinkiness and piled up dishes and feet to the abdomen -- all of it. I just can't see how, once you become a parent, you can ever separate the everyday stress and joy from the relationship.

Kent and I have developed a marriage so far removed from the breathless wonder of falling in love. It's messy and loud and spends way too much time talking about who ran the washer last. We spend no time actively being romantic or discussing our inner selves or musing on why we love each other. We don't think about the mystery of love or where our relationship fits into it. Yet somehow, here we are. In the middle of it.

The zenith of cute

2008-12-06T20:03:00.000-08:00

We were at the bookstore and Moxie was pulling everything off the shelves and giving me the baby equivalent of "Whatchu gonna do about it?" so I picked her up, set her on her feet four feet away from Kent and said, "Walk to Daddy." And she did, thus ending her babyhood and propelling her on the path to sullen adolescence.

For the past two weeks Moxie has been developing new toddler-esque tricks. She kisses (only Tallulah gets the drooly ones. Moxie is content to give everyone closed mouth kisses, a fact for which Kent and I are extremely grateful, but attacks Tallulah open-mouthed and dripping. Tallulah is underwhelmed with baby kisses), she finally has some sign language (she touches her fingertips together to say 'more', but since she does it only after shrieking at the top of her volume and pitch levels it comes across as more Dr. Evil than Baby Einstein), and now, walking. There is no way to avoid the movement out of babyhood and into toddlerhood and, frankly, I wouldn't want to prolong babyhood.

We've been making a big deal about Moxie's new abilities and Tallulah had been noticing. "I think I'd like to be a baby again so I can be cute," she told me. So I lied to her and told her she, as a five year old, was just as cute as a baby. This is a lie, not because Tallulah isn't the cutest five year old in the history of five year olds-- she is, obviously. (anyone reading this who actually owns a five year old may take offense to this statement. And I'm sorry for that. I'm also sorry for you for not having the cutest five year old in the history of five year olds. For real-- sorry.)

But it's a lie to say any five year old can match a baby for cuteness. It's a biological impossibility. Babies are designed to illicit protective responses. Those big eyes, the impossibly large and ungainly heads. This is thousands of years of human evolution and we are helpless in the face of it. By five, milky sweet breath has developed into morning breath. Poops are solid blocks of stink. Cute helplessness has given way to incessant attention seeking behaviors.

So, as much as I'm ready to exchange baby lugging for toddler hand-holding, ready to see Moxie's personality change and develop and grow, I know that at some point I'm going to really miss the sweet cuddly baby stage.

But not today.

My name is Kellie, and I am a self-torturer

2008-11-30T19:20:00.000-08:00

There was no desperate housewives last week, thus no streaming episode online, the fug girls took the WHOLE WEEKEND off just because it was Thanksgiving, and I'm all caught up on Hulu's episodes of Bones, Kitchen Nightmares, and Battlestar. So you will excuse the fact that I read Dooce and now am wallowing in Mom Envy.

I don't usually read Dooce. Sure, she's funny. Yeah, she's figured out how to a.) write daily and b.) make a living from her writing. And I suppose that if I were to rate parenting insight and humor 1-10 with 1 being I'd rather be in that part of labor where my hipbones get wrenched apart from the inside, I'd rate her writing as a solid 15. But I'm on a self torture diet and reading Dooce is like an alcoholic sitting across from a Long Island Iced Tea sipping a glass of water. I started my diet, by the way, after attending a yogurt and kefir making class with a friend who does things like make her family's kefir and yogurt from raw milk produced by happy local organic cows. And I came away from the class believing firmly that I must make my family's yogurt and kefir if I want them to grow up healthy and happy. Until this class I had felt pretty good about getting kefir into my family on a regular basis. But now, the shame. The kefir my family drank was from the store. And sweetened. And pasteurized. I might as well just punch my baby in the face. Which is what my husband almost did when I told him about my plan.

Actually, what he did was laugh at me. Then gently reminded me that we'd just moved, had a six month old baby, and I was starting a new job. Store bought kefir was GOOD ENOUGH! Since then, I've had many opportunities to repeat that lesson to myself. I say it like a mantra whenever I start to stress myself over the little things. Dishes piled up in the sink. Moxie finding-- and eating-- Cheerios on the floor. Laundry going straight from the clean basket to my children's bodies with no stops in folded piles or dresser drawers along the way. It's GOOD ENOUGH!

So I kind of prepped myself before I opened up the dooce website. She's going to be funny and entertaining, I said to myself. I want a giggle. Even if she writes about an experience I've written about only she does it funnier and with greater insight. that's fine. What I do is good enough.

Only, dooce is pregnant in the first trimester and still writing every day in funny and witty ways. She's writing upbeat observations about pregnancy and parenting her older daughter. Tra-la-la, life is great and well-scripted. And I can't help but compare it to my own second child pregnancy. I spent week 6 through week 24 lying in the middle of my bed clutching the edges so i wouldn't fall off. It was my boat in a sea of nausea. The only sentences I put together were to tell Tallulah, when she crawled gently beside me, to stop breathing so hard, she was rocking the bed.

The other thing I did which REALLY made me fall off my self torture diet was weigh myself immediately after our second Thanksgiving dinner. Why? Why did I do that?

Sick in the head

2008-11-26T09:50:00.000-08:00

I'm sick, my head is pounding, my nose is running, and Moxie has decided that screaming is the best form of communication while Tallulah has chosen conversationis interruptus (it sounds better in latin) which means that every two seconds I start to ask Kent if he's seen the tissues or the tylenol to which Moxie responds "AAAAGGGGGHHHHHH!" and Tallulah says, "I was TALKING!!!"

Tallulah forgets about having conversation with anyone other than her imaginary superhero friends until either kent or I begin a conversation. Then she remembers, only, instead of beginning a conversation with us or joining our conversation, she just continues her superhero imaginary friend conversation and gets furious with us for not realizing that she is now speaking to us and how do we dare interrupt her train of thought.

And Moxie has decided that sign language, which I've been trying to teach her for the past four months, is totally lame and for suckers and she never sees us using it so why the hell would she? And instead, she's using imitations of the sounds she hears us making, only at a Much Grander Volume.

The only person making me happy in my sickened state is Kent, who just finished cleaning the kitchen after lunch while on a break from his work. I keep trying to tell him how happy he makes me, only I keep getting interrupted. Or out-volumed.

I want to leave the house to replace the tissues or the tylenol that have now mysteriously disappeared (why is it that these things sit on a shelf for months during health and the minute a cold comes on, poof, they scurry away to dark corners until you're healthy again) but I can't because I would have to take my children to the store with me and I'm afraid that some well meaning little old lady or young woman with ticking biological clock will stop me to gush over how cute my kids are and I will start weeping and warning them against the dangers of biology.

Moxie and the curse of the second child

2008-11-21T12:34:00.001-08:00

The alternative title to this post is: Damned if you do, damned if you don't

Moxie is turning one on November 28th. Can you believe it? It seems like only ten posts ago I was blogging about being pregnant. Umm, err, ahem. This might have less to do with the passage of time and more to do with my lack of blog entries. However...

Since it's her first, we haven't had to deal with the whole, birthday-near-a-major-holiday thing and I'm figuring out how to negotiate this. We celebrate Thanksgiving typically with my mom and family on the actual Thanksgiving holiday. Then, because Kent is ruthless when it comes to eating good meals as often and in as much quantity as possible, he's convinced his parents to have their Thanksgiving dinner on the weekend so we can eat with them, too. Next weekend is also Moxie's birthday so we decided to have a birthday celebration tonight, a week early.

And here's where being the second child is both a boon and a curse. On Tallulah's first birthday, we invited three babies her age, their parents, Tallulah's cousin, his parents, my parents, my sisters, Kent's parents, our neighbors, and another family. Tallulah was totally overwhelmed and in every picture she is looking dazed, confused, and on the brink of tears. For Moxie's birthday dinner, we invited grandparents. Period. And my set can't make it which means Grandma, Grandpa, Tallulah, Kent, me, and the birthday girl-- just a quiet family celebration. I think this will go over so much better with Moxie and we'll be able to really gush over her and laugh at her little fingers in the homemade carrot cake smashing it around messily. But when she is eight years old and trolling the photo albums for a final score in the game "Who does mommy and daddy love best," I believe she will hold up the first birthday pictures as proof of something unintended.

Plus, Kent decided to get Moxie a present today after he finished work, but she hadn't napped and he rocked her to sleep and inadvertently fell asleep himself. So now they are cuddled up together on the bed looking adorable and sweet. This is, of course, Moxie's preference in life right now: daddy cuddles rate way higher than toys and presents. But, again, an eight year old Moxie is really going to get some points on the scorecard since Kent's nap-share is taking up his shopping time.

This is probably a good time to even out the score: Tallulah, when you were two weeks old, I put you down on the couch and got up to make some coffee. I wasn't more than two steps away before you rolled off the couch and landed smack on the floor. I think this is proof that you should be playing the game, "why did we get stuck with these parents?"

Oh, and here--finally--is a picture of Tallulah's bangs. I took the picture that night, but the red wine made me too lazy to upload. And, no, I did not give Tallulah any of my red wine to dull the pain of her haircut. Who can spare the wine?

womanly advice

2008-11-17T16:30:00.001-08:00

Tonight I was googling sugar addiction because I'm pretty sure I have it and I found this pretty amazing site about how to balance life as a mom and caregiver with maintaining a sense of self. I'm a total sucker for this kind of thing-- I love flipping through Oprah's O magazine even if I have to roll my eyes every other page as she leads the reader through a maze of 'reasonably priced splurges' at $200 per 'must-have' cashmere sweater or affirmations to run ten miles and get a pedicure during lunch.

Then, because I was on a roll of finding helpful womanly advice, I checked out Gwyneth Paltrow's newsletter/website. And damn, was that a mistake.

What is wrong with Gwynnie? Has she been hanging out with Oprah too much? I mean, what could her thought process be? Gee, Oprah, you haven't acted since the Color Purple. All you do is sit around and tell people how awesome they could be if they were like you. Hmm....I'm awesome. I don't want to act and be away from my rockstar husband and oddly named children. I should tell people how to be like me!

So now I'm in a ridiculously bad mood. First, I'm realizing that I should cut the sugar out of my diet which makes me very very crabby. Second, I'm pissed off at Gwyneth for telling me that I can be just like her when I obviously can't. I have no Oscar winning actress mom or hunky actor dad, my husband is not a multimillion dollar rock star, and I don't, when I choose to work, get paid three million dollars to make out with hunky actors. But according to Gwyneth, I should not "be lazy" or "be passive" about my life. Thanks, Gwyneth, I'll keep that in mind. Here's some advice right back at you: if you can't write worth a shit, don't lecture via the written word.

Sigh. I think I'll take the first step towards de-sugaring my house and finish the Ben & Jerry's in the freezer.

Tallulah's bad haircut is good for me

2008-11-09T15:29:00.000-08:00

I gave Tallulah a haircut tonight even though we only had ten minutes in part because of wine induced urgency. I drank a glass of wine at dinner-- or two-- and was staring at Tallulah's bangs hanging down over her eyes like a sheepdog and suddenly, tipsily, couldn't stand the thought of her having bangs in her face for One. More. Minute.

So I cut them.

I think they're pretty straight, you know, relatively speaking. I mean, her forehead isn't straight, you know? And one ear is definitely higher than the other and even her nostrils don't line up completely. So I did great, considering.

I'm foreseeing a lot of these wine-induced emergencies in our future. I went to the Holistic Moms Meeting this week and the one take-away message I got was that wine is, indeed, good for you. In particular organic Australian red wine because it has the highest level of resperidal, the anti-aging nutrient grapes produce. Which is great for the times I go to the Wine Warehouse, but on my regular Publix run Cheap Red Wine (no shit-- this wine exists and is tasty) will have to do.

It's for my health.

Broccoli Blues

2008-11-08T03:22:00.000-08:00

It's 6:20 am and I've slept approximately 20 minutes all night in part because Moxie is uncomfortable and restless and in part because I get anxiety insomnia. I lay in bed and think about how I'm not getting any sleep and I have to work in the morning and how am I going to get through the day without any rest and why can't my babies sleep at night and whatever happened about that amendment about preserving land and oh my god the last episode of Desperate Housewives, Gabriel is hilarious this season and so much more relatable and do I have anything to pack for lunch and are my library books overdue....so on and so on ALL NIGHT LONG.

And I blame this on broccoli. We gave Moxie broccoli Thursday for dinner, right before Kent and I had a date night to do karaoke-- something we've been planning a long time but never seem to manage. We've given Moxie broccoli before and vaguely remembered some stink issues, but we figured it would hit the following day and not while Moxie was being watched by grandma. Poor grandma.

By the time we got to the grandparents house there was a definite odor emenating from our dear, sweet baby. Passing her off to grandma, she wrinled her nose and said, "someone's poopy." It's against my morality to hand off a poopy child, so I whisked Moxie away and began to change her diaper only to discover no poop. Just really really stinky broccoli pee. When I went back out to the living room, I discovered that the smell had lingered. It was now covering the living room and bathroom, drifting in Moxie's wake where ever she crawled. By the time Kent and I left, we were fleeing to escape the smell. Poor poor grandma.

This is only the second time we've left Moxie with the grandparents and, although they have always insisted that our babies are angels, even through Tallulah's constant screaming, I think the broccoli pee tested grandma's angel theory. I don't think any religion describes angels bearing that smell.

Anyway, we're still dealing with broccoli fallout. The broccoli pee made Moxie's bottom sore so she can't sleep and needs to keep us informed of her broccoli status throughout the night.

I don't even like broccoli.

The Tide is High

2008-11-05T19:11:00.000-08:00

Kent and I woke up this morning and immediately watched Obama's acceptance speech on youtube:

Then I went to one of my favorite blogs, www.americanelf.com-- I like it because it's a cartoon, the artist's kids are the same age as mine, and drawing random bits of parenting life gets a point across in a very different way than typing it into words. Like yesterday's:

Yes. Yes.

Dinnertime and the livin' is easy

2008-10-30T14:40:00.000-07:00

So I'm making dinner (right now in fact-- look at me multi-task). The sauce for the fish is boiling down, the fish is in the oven, the salad is on the table, and the veggies are roasting next to the fish. I start chopping dinner for Moxie: papaya is her latest fave and I've got a big bowl of that plus some chopped pears and I'll give her a little naked fish for protein. And chopping all this stuff is making me remember Monday night, Kent's cooking night, when we were all set to sit down at the table for dinner and I innocently ask, what's Moxie having? And he gives one of those 'Oh shit!' looks, then promptly grabs the box of cheerios and dumps a handful on her tray. "Done!" he pronounces.

I was kind of debating going for a run after dinner-- I have a headache and the cool weather makes me want to slouch around in my house with my socks on, drinking tea and being cuddly with my babes. But now I'm definitely going and let me tell you why: my health and well-being is very important to my family. Because if I die young from a heart attack or cookie-induced glaucoma, my kids are gonna be living on a diet of cheerios and Twizzlers. And I won't have that.

It's Tuesday, not perspective day

2008-10-28T09:42:00.000-07:00

It's Tuesday and I'm doing my regular Tuesday routine: running mad loads of laundry, tidying up the house, scrubbing the kitchen, folding and putting away laundry, running to the grocery, preparing meals for the week... you know, the usual mom stuff. Tuesdays are my catch-up day after working all weekend because, even though Kent does cook and run a load of diapers over the weekend, he just doesn't see the house the same way I do. The grease on the stove top, the crusties in the crevices of the highchair-- these are visible only to female eyes.

And everytime I put the baby down, she tries to climb Tallulah's stair step-- it's her latest 'work'. Moxie loves to accomplish things: climbing up the stairs, reversing and climbing back down, gumming an entire apple, climbing into the living room chairs and turning to sit like a grown up-- these are her Mt Everests. She is conquering the world one baby milestone at a time and today's milestone is climbing onto the 2 and 1/2 foot stairstep that Tallulah uses to help me in the kitchen and pulling all the books off the non- baby proofed bookshelf she can reach from the top. But every time she leans against the bookshelf with one hand so she can grab and fling books with the other, the stair step slides farther away from the shelf. Yikes! So I keep dashing from the laundry to her, the cooking to her, the scrubbing to her. Since this is my day at home with just Moxie, one could say that it's a day to relax, but one would be wrong. Then one would get a punch in the nose.

It is however, a gorgeous day. The sun is shining, the breeze is blowing in the windows, and it has cooled down so much Tallulah and Kent complained that they were cold. Then I went to the grocery store and people kept telling me to hurry from the car to the store and "get that baby inside where it's warm". Can you believe that? It's 68 degrees, people! Get some perspective!

Dirty, like I'll never be clean again

2008-10-24T19:37:00.000-07:00

I've been watching cable tv all day because my in-laws are out of town and when they go out of town, we spend at least one day watching their cable and swimming in their pool. When I've talked about watching tv before, I've been talking about watching streaming tv on the internet, which is a totally different animal: there's a minor amount of commercials and you have to search out whatever crappy show you want to watch. With cable, though, you're just flipping the channels and...Wham! You come across a show like The Mermaid Girl about a girl born with her legs fused together, unable to surgically part them, and her family's struggle to deal. And I have very mixed feelings about this show. Is it exploitive? Presumably, the show is giving the family money for filming them and they're raising awareness for the disease. But it's very hard to see that aspect when the camera keeps recording this girl scootching her 'mermaid tail' across the floor and I'm so glad the show gives her the name, Mermaid Girl, because it feels wrong to describe her. She has a flipper. If you've seen Brain Candy, the old Kids in the Hall movie, then you, too, have enjoyed a good flipper baby joke. But to see this girl is so much more disturbing than the flippers-for-hands image that Flipper Baby elicits. But I feel bad for feeling so disturbed-- she's a six year old girl. Anyway, after ten minutes of gaping, I gather the strength of will to tear my eyes away and change the channel. Deep breath of relief.

Then I fall into a "What Not to Wear" pit because it's featuring a 36 year old mom and I'm hoping that she looks just like me so the tips will be appropriate the next time I win a $1000 shopping spree at J. Crew (it could happen, right?). Then I spend the next fifteen minutes worrying that I do look just like her with the frizzy hair, pudgy legs, disappearing chin, and protruding tummy.

After a few hours of switching between bits of movies I've already seen, tivo'd episodes of Ugly Betty, and Celebrity Fitness episodes (Erik Estrada still has it, that cutie pie), I got excited when Super Nanny came on. I love watching other people parent their children. Love it. I can't even explain the deep satisfaction I get from watching well-meaning parents holding their kicking and screaming children in time out or yelping when they get bitten by a two year old. Yes, I think with grim pleasure, bite that bad mommy.

It hurts me how much time I've wasted today and how dark is the chasm that used to be my soul. I feel like the tv is trying to catch my attention by catering to the worst aspects of my character. If cable tv were a mirror, I would feel ashamed. While I've been typing this, Kent came along and took control of the remote control and now his soul is shining through-- a Johnny Cash biography and mixed martial arts fights.

Squinting

2008-10-23T09:38:00.000-07:00

I haven't been able to write about parenting because I haven't been able to think about parenting. In fact, I'm trying hard not to think about anything at all. I've been feeling lately that my life is all work-- working at my job, working at my housekeeping, working on my marriage, working on my friendships, work, work, work. Not because I'm putting any energy into any of these things, but because nothing is fluid or smooth right now.

You know what I'm talking about. Some days you tell your kids to get their jammies on and go to bed and they do. And then they sleep for four hours straight giving you and your husband a chance to drink a glass of wine, giggle about an Onion article, and make sweet sweet sexy time before falling asleep at a reasonable hour. Then the next day, well rested, your best friend calls just after you've dropped off your kid at preschool and she's dropped her kids at school and wants to giggle about fashion and celebrities and other non-important issue over omelettes.

Other days, you tell your kids to go to bed and they scream and kick and trash the playroom and it takes two hours to get the oldest one in bed and then the baby won't fall asleep even though you pace for an hour with her. And you pass her off to your husband just as the older one comes out of her room AGAIN to demand water. And at some point in the middle of the night after being awakened by a hungry nursing baby or a foot in the face by a restless preschooler (because of course she climbed in bed with you when she woke up for the fifth time at midnight) you are lying in bed unable to get back to sleep and realize that the only words passed between you and your husband all day was "Oh, I was going to tell you about..." before being interrupted by one or both of the children and "Your turn" as you passed a screaming child between you. Then the next morning your best friend calls to talk about her crappy day and when you are interrupted by the baby crying she gets frustrated and when you both try to figure out a time to hang out and chat no time is available because of this doctor's appointment or that errand. And when all of this happens it's no one's fault, it's just the way life is, but it makes every day feel like work. Even the things that usually are fun and fulfilling.

The days when nothing is fluid, it's easy for me to feel oppressed and depressed about my life. It's been a long time since I've had a complete night's sleep and with Moxie only ten months old, this isn't going to change soon. I'm back at work and we're still not getting ahead financially-- that's not going to change soon. Kent and I are doing fine, we're just too tired and busy to connect and that's not going to change anytime soon. I'm trying not to think about this too hard. I'm just doing what I have to do; washing the dirty baby or floor or kitchen or laundry. I'm taking care of the work at hand and squinting at the big picture. I'm trying not to rush through this hard time because this babyhood and young childhood is a weird combination of stress and joy and I'm not sure its possible to have one without the other. Of course, if I'm wrong and there is a way to get through this without the painful days, one of you bitches better tell me.

My zen moment

2008-10-11T19:47:00.001-07:00

Tonight Kent and I got into a fight. I forget what it was about-- laundry, kitchen duty, whether or not apocalyptic movies have to talk about god [I say if the movie is about the dissolution of humanity, the concept of god is practically begging to be addressed at some point. Kent says this isn't necessary and points out Mad Max. No talk of god there, he says. And that movie rocks.] Anyway, whatever the fight was about, it got loud. Kent decided he didn't want to go to our friends' house for dinner like we planned. And since the friends have kids Tallulah's age, she was promptly pulled into the argument. "Wait, wait. Let's not fight," she says, trying to salvage the evening. "I have an idea. Let's still go to our friends' house. It'll make us feel better." We explain that Mommy and Daddy need to work it out and then we do. We keep talking until we reach an understanding of each other's viewpoints, hug, kiss, tell each other how glad we are to be married, and hop in the car for our evening. We give Tallulah the standard, "Mommy and Daddy argue sometimes, but we always love each other" speech which she acknowledges with a grunt. As long as we're headed in the direction of playtime, she's got no input.

Fast forward a few hours. We're leaving our friends' house and I'm doing all my tricks. The five minute warning which I let Tallulah negotiate into ten minutes, the play/clean up time which now means cleaning up like superheroes, the race to the car, etc. We get to the car with surprising ease and I compliment Tallulah on her exiting behavior. Then Kent and I start to chat when Tallulah interrupts.
"Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom!"
"Tallulah, you know how to get my attention. Say excuse me and then wait your turn."
"But it's important!"
"Then say excuse me."
"Aaaaghhhh!"

Did I mention that it was 10:30pm? That her bedtime is 7:30? That she doesn't nap anymore? That bedtime is always our hardest time of day?

This conversation was the beginning of a half hour long screamfest. While I held her bedroom door shut and she kicked and screamed on the other side, I thought about something I've heard before about kids. It is developmentally appropriate for kids to behave well in public and school, and then act out with their parents. I always wondered about that. Why would a child understand how to get themselves heard and negotiate the toy they want and generally interact appropriately, then forget just because they're in a comfortable environment? As Tallulah gnawed the wood off the doorjamb, I had one of those flashes of insight: children are moving from a wordless, cultureless, lawless existence into a structured world with too many rules, words they can't comprehend, and expectations they have to struggle to fulfill. They hold themselves in as long as they can and then, Boom! They go completely bitchcakes. And they do it in the place where they feel most free, where the repercussions are the lowest.

So, in this light, Kent and I fighting is an important part of raising our girls. We show them that we disagree, we feel strongly, we yell, and after it's all over, we still love each other. We're still glad to be a family. And Tallulah is sending us an important message by losing her shit. She's saying, I trust you to still love me, even when I don't follow the rules or act the way you tell me to. So, it's good to fight, it's great when my kid yells at me.

Aah, insight. It looks so much like self-delusion.

Hot Guy Day

2008-10-09T09:53:00.000-07:00

It was hot guy day at the grocery store today. Usually the days I go are old people day which is fine because Moxie loves to flirt with the little old ladies-- she lights up when they call her pretty. Shallow baby. But today was hot guy day and it's weird for me on a few levels.

First, if they're under 25, I automatically rate their suitability to date my daughters. Especially Indie teenagers with pencil jeans and black floppy hair. I imagine their sullen looks when they come to pick Tallulah or Moxie up, Tallulah's anguished, melodramatic pronouncements, "I'm in lo-ove, mom, you don't understand!" I imagine Moxie matching cool-for-cool, "Yeah, he's ok. He wants me to go to prom but, I don't know, it seems kind of lame." I picture the cute clean cut boys picking up the girls, calling Kent 'sir' and telling me they know where my daughters got their looks from. While I wander the grocery aisle I practice my look: "I know you're going to try to get my daughter drunk and keep her out past her curfew and that's why we have GPS tracking implanted in her hip and an automatic rifle in the closet." It's a lot to get across in one look, so I practice now.

But the older hot guys I find even more disconcerting. I compare all of them with my husband or with guys I went to high school. Like today there was a tall blonde guy checking out ahead of me with his 4 year old son. Instead of keeping it simple and admiring his ass, I'm analyzing his parenting skills and wondering where his baby mama was. Is he taking the kid so she can have the morning off? Is he raising his son by himself? Did he just give his kid a chocolate bar? Because these things influence how hot I think he is. And this is crazy because parenting skills should only affect hotness level when it comes to my husband. But it affects how I view every man of baby-making age (I know this could potentially be a wide range. I'm thinking late 20's to late 40's. Not Palin's soon to be son in law or Sean Connery) Am I alone here? Like when Brad Pitt left Jennifer Aniston for Angelina, his hotness points dropped significantly. Jennifer may not be my ideal woman, but to leave her for a blood drinking Billy Bob Thornton cast-off? Yuck. But then they had babies and his hotness factor went back up again. Higher than ever. Actually, strike that. There's nothing higher on the hotness scale than the low riding pants he wore in Fight Club. But you get my point.

Anyway, I was musing about the intricacy of male hotness for a mom while I loaded up my groceries and I noticed Moxie making eyes at an older guy getting into the car next to us. He was in his 60's or 70's and making smiley googly eyes at Moxie to make her giggle. "Watch out," I said. "She's an incorrigible flirt."

"Just the way I like them." He said. "Only maybe a little older."

There is no subtlety or intricacy to the male mind.

What the Hell Wednesday: Tylenol

2008-10-08T10:34:00.000-07:00

I was playing Chicken with Moxie's fever last week, waiting for it to rise above 102 to get worried. I try not to medicate, trusting my children's healthy bodies, good nutrition, and occasionally supportive homeopathics to get us through the minor colds and flu bugs. But at night I worry more-- what if I sleep through the side effects of a dangerously high fever? Here are the side effects of a dangerously high fever I'm looking for:
*extreme lethargy and difficulty rousing
*difficulty breathing or odd breathing (shallow and fast or heaving in the diaphragm)
*dehydration (sunken spots on the soft spots of the head, no urination, no tears)
*seizures
*vomiting and diarrhea
*guarding of the abdomen--tummy is sensitive to the touch

Some of these are no more a problem at night than during the day-- I'd probably wake up if Moxie started to vomit on me. But lethargy?

So I tend to medicate with Tylenol at night, but I try not to medicate normally. I wait it out as long as I can, daring the fever to go over my comfort zone before I touch the medication. You might ask, why? Why not medicate for comfort and convenience? After all, having a miserable baby to tend all day is no picnic. The first reason is, our bodies punch us into fever for a reason. Fevers make the body inhospitable to bugs. If we don't allow the body to use its natural defense, how can it rid itself of the bugs?

The other answer is, Tylenol is evil. Oops, did I say evil? I meant....well, yeah, I meant evil. See, tylenol is metastasized (read: cleared) out of the body through the liver by binding to a powerful antioxidant called glutathione. Glutathione "plays an important role in antioxidant defense...Glutathione deficiency contributes to oxidative stress, which plays a key role in aging and the pathogenesis of many diseases including seizures, Alzheimer's, Parkinson's, liver disease, cancer...." So basically, when you take Tylenol because you're sick, the tylenol depletes your body of it's ability to keep you from getting sick. And it ages you. Which is kind of funny-- everybody is looking for a magic pill to keep them young, meanwhile popping a pill that makes them old. Ha ha, mmm, sigh.

But it's hard to find the information about this. I want to put links for this information, but I'm finding it in hard to read and digest medical texts or doctor blogs. Here is one fact sheet that spells out the dangers of Tylenol, but often the discussion is about toxic overloads, rather than damage caused by regular doses. Also, liver corruption directly caused by tylenol use is downplayed or not discussed in most texts, although I did find it here, citing tylenol as the #1 cause of liver failure. Number ONE! I guess I can keep drinking my gin and tonics-- just cut back on the morning after meds.

And look, you can't avoid medicating the kids sometimes. The night I was watching Moxie's fever, I lost my game of Chicken. The fever won. I medicated at one am when her temperature got to 102.3. I think we just need to have all the information before using a medication so we can make a good decision for our long-term health. And the pharmaceutical companies aren't going to give us that information, the FDA apparently isn't concerned, and we get lulled into believing that 'safe' is the same as not harmful to our health rather than the FDA's true meaning: approved over the counter medications won't kill most people if used within recommended dosage. A friend of mine medicates when her kids grimace, just in case they might have an ache. Why would it be over the counter if it wasn't safe, she asks. Good question.

My next question is: what's up with the red dye #40 in the children's liquid Tylenol? Because I promise my kids don't give a shit what color the drug is when they take it. The corn syrup makes sure of that.

The full moon

2008-10-02T08:49:00.000-07:00

We're still having behavioral issues with Tallulah, as evidenced by her behavior yesterday when her Grandma stopped by our house. Tallulah was excited her Grandma was coming over and prepared by coloring a picture and putting on her favorite dress. Unfortunately, Grandma was with a friend and could only stay a minute. Tallulah begged her to stay, and then jumped in the back of Grandma's van. When I reached back to grab her out, she hopped over the seat into the way back where I would have to climb over things to get her.

Now, I didn't want to embarrass Grandma in front of her friend with a screaming, disobedient granddaughter. I decided to move quickly and get Tallulah out of the van by reaching in and yanking her out of the car. I knew otherwise we would be talking and negotiating too long.

So I was pulling her out of the car and in the process she flipped upside down, yelling and giggling at the same time, when her dress flew up over her head revealing....somebody remembered her favorite dress, but forgot her underpants. And grandma's friend got a full moon AND a gynecological review.

Parenting is not for the weak of heart. Apparently neither is grand-parenting.

What the Hell Wednesday: The Joys of High Fructose Corn Syrup

2008-10-01T14:00:00.000-07:00

Have you seen the new ad campaign about high fructose corn syrup? Let's defer the obvious by first noting that the girl in the commercial linked here was really cute in both a Buffy the Vampire Slayer episode and in Desperate Housewives as the nurse who failed to see Carlos' mom waken from her coma and run around the hospital trying to narc on Gabrielle for her hot affair with the gardener. I'm so glad she's got a national ad campaign. Maybe the dairy industry can hire her next to talk about how eating more dairy can make you lose weight.

Because we all recognize this PR campaign as total bullshit, right? I mean, everybody and their grandma knows that high fructose corn syrup has been linked to increased diabetes, lowered insulin sensitivity, obesity, and, combined with a high fat diet and a sedentary life style, liver damage. The corn industry had to hire really good actors for these commercials because who else would be able to say those lines without rolling their eyes? And I LO-OVE that the commercial specifically talks about feeding that red food dye #40 and high fructose corn syrup cocktail to kids. Why wouldn't you feed that shit to kids? Hmm.

The Mayo Clinic recommends limiting consumption because "animal studies have shown a link between increased consumption of high-fructose corn syrup and adverse health effects, such as diabetes and high cholesterol." The article goes on to say that there isn't a definitive link between human consumption and these health risks because not enough studies have been done. Perhaps our government could spend fewer dollars subsidizing the Corn Refining industry and more dollars protecting its citizens with studies analyzing the health consequences of consumer products. Perhaps if we had universal health coverage, interest in keeping citizens healthy would be higher. But not only is the government subsidizing unstudied refined sugar, they also recently allowed high fructose corn syrup to be labeled "natural". That's right, check your products with the tag 'natural' on the front because you may be getting more than you think.

But let's say high fructose corn syrup is fine. No worse than consuming table sugar hidden in everything from ketchup to spaghetti sauce to bread to yogurt to toothpaste to fruit juice. What about the environmental damage caused by corn refining? Corn, according to a recent Washington Post article, requires more pesticides and fertilizers than any other crops and the runoff has long term effects.

Maybe if the Corn Refinery Association has $30 million for an ad campaign to tell consumers that we're stupid for not wanting their product, maybe they can afford to have their subsidies and governmental sponsorship slashed. In the meantime, we'll be checking our 'natural' products and continuing to keep the refined corn out of our kitchen.

One last thought: If you can't live without Coke, try getting it from a mexican market. Apparently imported coke, particularly from Mexico, is made with cane sugar. I haven't checked it out myself, yet, but that's the rumor. I hear the cane sugar really enhances the other chemicals in the soda.

Perfectly Imperfect

2008-09-30T18:51:00.000-07:00

At the park last night, after giving Tallulah the ten minute warning, I told her it was time to go. "No!" she screamed and ran away from me. I caught her, threw her over my shoulder and left the park while she screamed and tried to kick my head. Kent pushed the stroller with Moxie.

"I want a drink of water," Tallulah wailed.

But when I set her back on her feet, she immediately made a run for it back to the playground so up on my shoulder she went again. We cut across the baseball field and I tried setting her down again. She dug her heels in and leaned back so I was dragging her. "I'm going to let go of your hand and you're going to go Plop! right down in that orange dirt. Mm hm, you are gonna be one orange behind-ed four year old," I told her. But then I let go of her hand and she made a beeline again back to the playground. Kent and I alternated carrying her squirmy, wiggly, kicking body the quarter mile back home. She screamed the entire time. "No! No! I want water! I want to play more! Put me do-own!"

Of course we passed neighbors on the way. Of course they stared at us disapprovingly even though we smiled and waved and pretended we weren't related to the screaming growth on Kent's shoulder. (What, this? Huh, you're right. It is a screaming child on my shoulder. How did that get there?) When we got home, Tallulah was sent to her room where she kicked the door--repeatedly-- so hard I thought she would probably put a hole in it. Rather than allow more drama while Kent prepared dinner, I made Tallulah a peanut butter sandwich while she screamed and kicked in her room. When I finished making the sandwich, I went up to Tallulah's room, took her by the hand, wordlessly brought her downstairs to the table. I set the timer on the oven and said, "You have fifteen minutes for dinner. When the timer goes off, it's time to go upstairs, brush your teeth, and go to bed whether you've finished eating or not."

The timer went off, Tallulah ran for the couch cushions to hide. I picked a couch cushion up off her head and she started screaming, "No! I'm not going to bed!" I picked her up, took her to the bathroom for teeth brushing. She stopped screaming and declared, "I'll brush my own teeth!" I gave her the toothbrush and waited. Waited as she looked at herself in the mirror, waited as she twirled a few twirls, waited as she examined her toenail. Then I took the toothbrush and brushed the front two teeth for two seconds while she-- you guessed it-- screamed. Then to bed.

Normally I would have gotten angry with myself: we went to the park too close to dinnertime, she didn't get a good nap, I could have brought a snack. Then I would have gotten angry at Kent: why didn't he bring a snack? Why are we having dinner so late? I'm realizing that I've always believed that if I plan well enough, have enough foresight, I can set my family up to succeed. To behave perfectly. And let me tell you-- this is a lot of pressure.

For the past few months I've been getting an inkling of how destructive and counterproductive this outlook is; I've been short tempered, exhausted, scatterbrained. I spend more time making my to-do lists than actually doing things. By the time I finish thinking about the things I need to accomplish, I'm depressed, tired, and anxious. Instead of bringing the control and sanity I wanted, my to-do lists were keeping me from my activities. And worse, I spent all my time figuring out how to do the next item on my list instead of paying attention to the task immediately in front of me. So I would schedule play time with Tallulah, but I would be thinking about the phone call I needed to make or when to start dinner instead of the pleasure of our game.

So I've been working on it. Last night when Tallulah was acting like a crazy woman all over our neighborhood, I forced myself to stop thinking about how it could have been avoided. Getting the family home was the activity of the moment. An embarrassing, sweaty, annoying moment. And instead of being angry with myself and snarky with my husband, we put Tallulah to bed, congratulated ourselves on not strangling our child, and had a grown up dinner with wine and no conversations about Iceman and Firestar's secret identities. And we even finished our meal and a whole conversation before Moxie woke up with a fever and commenced her own screaming.

Tonight=Happy

2008-09-20T19:48:00.001-07:00

Tonight we went to Siesta Key Beach to scout out a spot for Tallulah's upcoming fifth birthday festivities. We left the house late to go to the beach-- 7pm!-- and the sun was setting as we got there. The night was perfect, truly. Big fluffy clouds glowed pink in the sunset and a breeze blew in from the water, cooling everything down until it almost felt like fall. Or summer in a much more northern climate.

Tallulah immediately ran off to the playground. She's always had tricks for making friends immediately in new situations. When she was younger, she would run in circles. Literally. She would run up to, and then around, any child who struck her fancy while laughing hysterically. Have you ever tried to not respond to someone who is running and laughing and circling you? Impossible! Tallulah's new, more sophisticated tactic is to play near the children she fancies and do stuff. Loudly. Tonight she climbed the monkey bars and attempted to flip off. When the first attempt failed because she slipped sideways off the bars, she tried once more then started doing a crazy dance. The crazy dance clinched it and then she was climbing the slide with a couple of older girls.

Moxie tried out the baby swings and spent most of the time leaning back in the seat and staring up as the clouds rocked back and forth. Then out of the corner of her eye she spotted me behind the swing and sat up and forward, her long legs dangling like an airborne frog.

Maybe it was the fresh air or the sand or the pink and orange sunset, but I was struck by the vibrancy of my family. So glowy and happy with their sparkly eyes. We walked down to the water with Tallulah chattering all the way about her new friends and Moxie humming a happy little song, then Tallulah and I went for a short swim while daddy and Moxie played in the sand.

"Let's catch the wave, Mommy!" Tallulah encouraged in waist deep water. We jumped when the miniscule bump of a wave hit us and pretended they were huge and overpowering. "Whoa! That one almost knocked us over!" It quickly grew dark and we started out of the water at preschool speed. Tallulah had to examine every step in the sand, every piece of seaweed, every shell crunched beneath her foot. "Let's run to daddy!" I suggested, wanting to speed her up. And of course it did. She ran, head down, elbows in, fists clenched to daddy and tagged him first. "Let's play in the sand!" And she plopped her wet butt down in the sand. "Noo!" Kent and I said simultaneously. Tallulah and I headed back to the water to wash off the sand. Quick dip and back to daddy, racing. But just as we got to him, he darted off to avoid the tag and Tallulah tripped and landed-- again-- in the sand. Back in the water, then back to daddy and Tallulah threw herself down on the sand to put on her shoes. "Noo!" Kent and I said simultaneously, laughing. Another trip back to the water, and finally we were ready to walk to the playground and parking lot.

Looking up, Kent pointed out the stars beginning to show in the night sky. "Look, there's one," Tallulah pointed. I recited the poem ending in "wish I may, wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight." When asked, Tallulah's wish was, "Candy! And being able to fly!" Moxie agreed by leaning in to my chest and biting me hard on the clavicle with her puppy teeth.

Being rich is for suckers

2008-09-16T19:25:00.001-07:00

Having a discussion with some girlfriends the other day, we were bitching about celebrity moms who pull themselves together after having babies in no time flat. The consensus was that, with enough money, anybody could do it.

"After all," my friend said, "they get a personal chef, a hot trainer, and a wetnurse for the baby. I'd be skinny as shit if I had that kind of help."

I, on the other hand, realize that if I were rich enough to hire that kind of help, I would also have the good cable-- with Tivo-- and spend my waking hours watching this season's lineup of Project Runway, Dancing with the Stars, the new Joss Whedon Dollhouse, and TrueBlood-- the new HBO show based on books by my favorite vampire novelist Charlaine Harris. I could also hire a personal chef, but she would quit when she realized that all I really wanted was Breyer's ice cream and a bottle of wine. And my trainer would quit when the only exercise I got was kicking his ass when he tried to pry the ice cream spoon out of my hand.

Thank god for poverty. Sigh.

I'm a vegetable, bite me.

2008-09-13T18:05:00.000-07:00

I received a crate of vegetable toys today for reviewing in MOMMY Magazine's nutrition issue. They are from Under the Nile and made with organic cotton-- even the stuffing is organic cotton. The veggies are adorable with bright colors and tiny little faces. Not that I usually pay attention to such things, but two of the veggies are decidedly Waldorf with little dot eyes and dot shaped mouths. In Waldorf-land, toys with faces are supposed to have neutral expressions so the child can imagine whatever expression they want. The carrot and mushroom have blown it all to hell, however, with their cheery grins. I understand the carrot's good humor, but what does a mushroom have to smile about?

Tallulah immediately claimed them, although I intended them for Moxie. "They have faces!" Tallulah exclaimed. "They are grow food!" (In our house fruits, vegetables and other healthy foods are 'grow foods' and junky foods are 'slow foods.') Tallulah's great joy in life is playing friends and family with objects. She lines up nuts and bolts and has them get married, make baby screws, and hunker down in a house formerly used as a paperclip holder. Moxie's bottle accoutrements are taken out of the silverware drawer and lined up into families of nipple, screwtops, and bottle covers. The new vegetables fit into Tallulah's worldview as they belong to a category and come with their own 'house': a wood vegetable crate that Pea Pod immediately takes over with his long, supposedly pea-filled legs. The vegetables reflect Tallulah's personal preferences: while Carrot gaily sings, "I'm a carrot. I'm orange and crunchy," Tomato seems to spend a lot of time defending itself against the others. "You have seeds!" they accuse.

Despite the interpersonal conflicts, the vegetables are decidedly on the side of good; they quickly capture and imprison a Star Wars bad guy figure received in a --gasp-- McDonald's Happy meal. And while the vegetables talk a little trash to the bad guy, their techniques would be considered tame by LAPD standards. Tallulah doesn't see the poetic justice in villianizing a toy from McDonald's-- she only knows he is a bad guy because of a conversation with her dad, the expert on all things geek-- and I wonder if I can use this good guy/bad guy dynamic to demonize the junk food Tallulah increasingly prefers. I imagine stuffed chocolate bars, cupcakes, and cookies brutalized by the vegetables and crammed into a graham cracker box jail cell.

Moxie examined the toys in the same way she approaches all objects. She picked them up, looked at them from every angle and both in close proximity to her eyes and as far away as her pudgy baby arms can extend from her body. Slowly, with eyes slitted in pleasure, she tastes each one, running her tongue along seams and gumming the notched stems of the carrot, tomato and bean. Shaking them viciously, she checks for rattles. Sadly, not one makes a peep and they are ready for the final test: gravity. Flinging them from the overhead position, they fly from her fingertips and take a quick downward trajectory. She watches them fall until them are firmly on the ground, then reaches for the next until all four vegetables lie in an organic heap on the kitchen floor. She peers over her highchair tray at them, then bangs her tray in her self-declared baby sign language, clearly communicating, "Those were great, mom, but it's time for some real veggies! Chop me up a snack!"

After years of spending time with vegetarians who refuse to eat anything with a face, it amuses me to see faces added to vegetables to make them more appealing for consumption. I don't know how Tallulah will rationalize it-- she hasn't yet understood that the 'Bock Bock' of a farm chicken in our rousing 'Old MacDonald' song is the same animal on her plate-- but I look forward to using the stuffed carrot to encourage Tallulah to eat her dinner carrots, a process my husband and I are calling 'carribalizing.' With the stuffed carrot in hand, I'll lean it's organically stuffed face down to the dinner plate where it's orange siblings lie steamed and awaiting their fate. "What was that?" the carrot will say in my puppet voice. "You say you want to be eaten? That your life will be a waste if you are thrown in the garbage? You love Tallulah and can think of no better ending than to be masticated between her teeth and ground into little tiny bits? You look forward to her pearly teeth, the gates to the heaven of her tummy? Hmm. Well, Tallulah?"

What the Hell Wednesday: Martha Stewart and cooking with kids

2008-09-10T20:10:00.000-07:00

I am a cooking voyeur. I love looking through recipes and cookbooks, thinking about food and making meals beautiful and delicious. But I'm also a realist: I'm not going to spend a lot of time on fussy recipes. So when I see the cooking section in Martha Stewart's Kids magazine, I assume the recipes will be dumb-downed so kids can actually be involved in the preparation.

I am such a sucker.

I forget that the Martha Stewart franchise taps into the desire to create a beautiful, tranquil home but not the reality. Who would ever, for instance, hand sew linens into a cover for trivets? Do you know what I'm even talking about? The pads you put down on the table to keep hot plates and serving dishes from burning the table. She has a how-to make linen covers for trivets entry on her website. I remember a few years ago she had an idea in her magazine about hosting a dinner-- she suggested slicing rings from a tree for placemats. Like, chop down a tree and slice it into thin slices of round wood to put under your table settings. How do you even hostess a party like that? I assume making people comfortable is a large part of being a good hostess. How do you make hand-hewn placemats welcoming? "Oh, the placemats? It was nothing. I just hacked down a Redwood before I diced the tomatoes for the gazpacho."

I do get sucked into it, though. Even now I'm wondering if it would really be all that hard to sew a few linens together.

Tallulah, too, has been drawn into the Martha Stewart spell. She likes to flip through my Martha Stewart Kids magazines and talk about the things she wants to make. Somehow she resists the linen covered crafts and goes straight to the sweets. When my sister came to visit, I told her to pick out a recipe we would make together to celebrate Auntie Kimmie's visit. She chose this:

Adorable, right? Looks easy, right? I mean, I'm not expecting Tallulah's decorations to look like Martha's, but with the candy as the main flourish, how hard can it be to make something that resembles a clown?

This is what we came up with:

I fully admit I used candy corn instead of gumdrops because candy corns are more delicious than gumdrops. Which can explain why our cupcakes don't look exactly like Martha's. But how to explain the fact that my clown cupcake looks like the Stephen King psycho killer version of what a clown can be? We had to eat them-- fast-- just so we wouldn't have to look at them anymore.

And you know what, Martha? Your recipe sucked.

On the other hand...

2008-09-09T19:42:00.001-07:00

the girls have been amazingly cute lately. Moxie is giving kisses, saying and waving bye-bye, and creating her own sign language: banging on the tray of her highchair means, "cut that fruit faster, dammit, I'm HUNGRY!"

And Tallulah's kid logic is fast becoming Kent and my favorite form of entertainment. Like today when we went to the YMCA, we got to a grassy area in the parking lot that was roped off, presumably so people would walk on the sidewalk. Tallulah looks at the rope and, in the same tone I use when I give her choices ("would you like to run to the car or skip to the car?") says,
"should we go over the rope or under the rope?" Then when we got home she farted at the dinner table, looked at us and asked, "wasn't that cute?" When we told her that not everything she does is cute, she let another one rip and asked, "how about that one?"

I know, I know. These are annoying stories found in the back of parenting or religious or old people magazines and amusing only to the people writing the story and related to the kid. But so what? Look at these pictures. They're freaking adorable.

Because typing doesn't leave bruises

2008-09-09T18:49:00.000-07:00

This month the Holistic Mom's Network meeting was about positive discipline and we started off the meeting by going around the oddly shaped circle and telling the group what we remembered about our parents' discipline style when we were children. Each mom talked about the spankings or the time outs or the belts used to ingrain parental lessons. And then they would add "...and I don't want to parent like that." Or "and I'm afraid of doing that to my kids." Every mom said something along those lines except for one solitary and brave mom-- particularly in that group-- who said, "We use corporal punishment in our house. And it works."

What struck me was the panic and anxiety written on the faces of all the moms. (Except the corporal punishment mom who looked a little defiant and flushed as though she was thinking, why did I just say that? And I know where she's coming from because for some reason I always get the urge to say shit like that at the HMN meeting: "Hell yes we eat meat. I can't get through a day without eating at least four different animals!" "Diapers? I use the disposable, extra long life in a landfill type. Those babies can suck up some pee! Sometimes we lay 'em on the floor and pour our beer into them just to see who can chug more-- the diaper or Uncle Earl.") Everyone was leaning forward, listening intently, pencils and notebooks at the ready, looking for answers to their discipline problems.

And I was right there with them. As a child, it was understood that my sisters and I didn't talk back. Adults were to be respected, not questioned, and disobedience wasn't tolerated. I really didn't have a problem with that, personally. I tried to get out of the way of grown ups as much as possible anyway so I could do my own thing (this generally involved tree climbing and long hours of spinning around and around in a futile attempt to turn into Wonder Woman.) But as a parent-- now-- requiring Tallulah and Moxie to accept adults as sacred authority figures would leave them defenseless. How do you align it with lessons in Stranger Danger and 'No means No'? I want my daughters to think for themselves, question the dictates that make them feel uncomfortable or unduly bound. I want them to fight and be mouthy and question everything. Except me. I am sick to death of them questioning me. (I'm talking specifically about Tallulah. Moxie hasn't actually questioned my authority yet, although she does like to rip up my magazines, turn around to make sure I'm watching and then shove bits of pages in her mouth while I frantically dash across the room to swipe my finger through her gums for retrieval. Then she giggles and slaps my glasses off my face.)

Here are common Tallulah statements:
"I'm not going to help set the table unless I get a different vegetable than green beans."
"I'll only pick up my room if you read me a comic book."
Wailing, "You're not listening to me!!!"

My skin crawls when I hear any of these statements. I. Am. Her. Mother. How dare she try to negotiate for a different vegetable or refuse to do what I ask her to do? I would never have spoken to my parents like that and it makes me feel like a bad parent when she talks to me so disrespectfully.

When Moxie was around 4 months old, I was carrying her around in the sling when a friend was over with her kids for a playdate and Moxie nursed, watched the activities, then fell asleep without a whimper, all while sitting in the sling cuddled up on me. My friend said to me, "Bonifield babies have the best life." And that made me feel really good. Yeah, I thought, Bonifield babies do have a good life and I'm doing a good job. But that evening, when I tried to put Moxie down for the first time the entire day, she started screaming in protest and I realized, she has no idea that she has a good life. No idea that being carried around next to momma all day is the good shit and that I deserve a bathroom break every now and then.

I'm not sure exactly what I'm saying here. Point one: all moms are anxious about parenting even, or maybe especially, good moms who think hard about the parenting choices they make. Point two: there is a disconnect between my ultimate goal for Tallulah as a person and my expectations for her behavior towards me now. Point three: parenting well is hard and my kids will see it only as parenting, not as good parenting.

Wait , wait. Point three needs more clarification: my kids will expect the standard of care that I give them. If my standard of care is low and they don't get their needs met, they will assume this is how life is, that their needs are not important and they are not deserving. If I meet their needs they will assume that their needs are important and they are deserving of having their needs met. I'm not trying to say 'desire.' I certainly don't buy Tallulah a bunch of crap just because she says she needs it. But emotional consistency, day-to-day predictability, food, safety, you know, the big stuff.

I'm writing all this down to clarify it for my own brain. To remind myself that Tallulah's sassiness is really the rudimentary forms of negotiating her desires, verbalizing her needs, and demanding others to treat her respectfully-- all skills I want her to possess.

And not techniques to drive me crazy or make me appear incompetent as a parent in front of other people.

The tooth fairy, however, is lovely and gracious

2008-09-07T18:49:00.000-07:00

After all my bitching and whining and negative reviews, it's time to blow sunshine in the ear of Tallulah's new dentist.

I started to worry after Tallulah's medical experience where she was identified as colorblind, blood pressure challenged, and buck-toothed. We got rid of the binky, but a gnawing doubt rolled around in the back of my brain. Have we allowed her palate to be permanently damaged by the binky? Was my binky laziness going to be paid for in years of orthidontistry? Is orthidontistry even a word? I guess I'll find out when Tallulah gets fitted for her first in a series of multiple sets of braces. I made an appointment with a dentist I'd met at the Holistic Moms Network, Dr. Glori Enzor.

Let me preface this by saying, Tallulah has been to a dentist before. I took her to Dr. Ronk, a pediatric dentist in Sarasota when she was two. His office was good at easing Tallulah into the cleaning-- they showed her what they were going to do and did a thorough job. But then they told me she needed to stop nursing and showed me multiple pictures of children's mouths with rotting teeth. See this? they said. And this? Which pissed me off because, hello? I'm taking her to the dentist at TWO YEARS OF AGE! She didn't have any tooth damage and we brush teeth daily. Is it necessary to try to shame me for nursing my toddler by showing multiple pictures of rotted teeth? So we didn't go back and, pissed off as I was, I neglected to take Tallulah back to the dentist until now, when apparently I've ruined her teeth with the binky, not the titty.

[sidenote: I received a lot of pressure to wean Tallulah during the year between two and three. It came from surprising areas like the dentist and always there was this underlying idea, stated or unstated, that Tallulah would never wean on her own unless I did something drastic like coat my nipples in jalapeno peppers. Then, shortly after she turned three, Tallulah decided she was done and never tried to latch on again. It was a good lesson for me in natural child progression: when a child is ready to move onto another developmental stage, they will. Pushing before they're ready is painful and exhausting and leads to excessive swearing and alcohol consumption. Of course, parenting itself leads to excessive swearing and alcohol consumption...]

So we went to see Dr. Glori Enzor. I like Glori. She's plain spoken and easy to talk to, has three or four children including a set of twins, and when she spoke to the HMN group, she told us she encourages her patients to bring their children to their dental cleanings to get children accustomed to going to the dentist. Her office is set up with a playroom in the back-- the same playroom her twins used when they were babies and she kept them and a nanny in the office so she could parent, play, and nurse in between patients. Talk about my kind of worldview! When we got to the appointment, the receptionist directed us back there immediately and Moxie and Tallulah played while I filled out paperwork. When the hygienist came to get us for the cleaning, she chatted up Tallulah for a minute obviously gauging T's mindset. She quickly ascertained T's comfort with all things new and exciting, and soon they were chatting about their mutual favorite color; purple.

The hygienist did everything right: she showed T. the instruments quickly and efficiently without giving T. room to worry, but familiarizing her with the instruments. She asked Tallulah to demonstrate brushing teeth and flossing and encouraged her to let Mommy and Daddy help with the back teeth. She even gave her sunglasses to wear so the overhead light wouldn't hurt her eyes. Then Dr, Enzor came in and chatted up Tallulah while she examined her teeth. Then she sent T. out with the hygienist while she talked to me about Tallulah. Everything looks good, she said. She wasn't worried about her overbite or the long binky use. She said Tallulah's spacing was good and the overbite would probably resolve itself before the permanent teeth came in and, anyway, she wouldn't worry about it until then.

I would like to insert here that although it sounds, and my mother would say, that I only like doctors and and dentists when they agree with me or tell me my children are perfect, I would disagree. I don't actually have any proof that it's not true, but I'm positive I'm not that egocentric.

Then I asked when she likes to see kids start to see her because I was thinking about Moxie and her new bottom teeth coming in, and she told me to just bring her when I bring Tallulah for cleanings and if I start to see her as my dentist, she'd do cleanings with Moxie on my lap or in the sling (what do you think about that, Du-ude Hairstylist Brian? Your baby phobia seems a little ridiculous now doesn't it?) and at some point, probably when Moxie was around two, she would ask for her turn in the chair and Wa La! Moxie's first dental appointment.

What I love about finding the perfect dentist is how easy she makes it. Like finding the perfect couch for your living room. You sit down and it just feels like home.

How fairies have been pissing me off

2008-09-06T12:33:00.000-07:00

I wrote about fairies pissing Tallulah off, but really it was about me being pissed off by Tallulah's pediatrician. So let me continue the theme and tell you more about me being pissed off by fairies.

Tallulah goes to her Grandma and Grandpa's house on Friday which is great for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is giving me some time away from playing superheroes. Kent has perfected playing Sleepy Guy, the superhero with magical powers of being able to sleep anywhere, but Tallulah doesn't buy my Clean the Kitchen Woman or Super Chef-- able to make dinner with magical tummy filling properties. She prefers me to be SpiderWoman-- and I get that. I'd prefer to have phermone and wall climbing powers, too, but unless that's a radioactive spider in your pocket....

Anyway. One Friday I decided on a whim to get my haircut after seeing a great short haircut in a magazine. A woman I know recommended a salon she goes to and I call them up, make an appointment for the late morning and head off for my day. I was feeling pretty smug because I had arranged my day so I could 1.) drop Tallulah at Grandma's 2.) take Moxie to the Selby Library baby storytime and 3.) get to my hair appointment with time for a nap in the afternoon thereby taking care of everyone's needs including-- for once-- my own. Good on me.

I get to the hair appointment with Moxie in my sling and ready for a nap and she drops off to sleep just as the hairdresser walks up. Damn, I think. I'm gooo-oood. Because I have timed it perfectly to have her nap for the entire haircut. She'll sleep for a solid half hour in my sling-- and no where else.

The hairdresser, however, does not seem as impressed by my magical feats of timing and organization. He gives a scathing look to me and my sling, but I'm so happy I misinterpret it as regular dickhead hairdresser behavior. The guy is a Du-ude. But after he pushes some paper around on the front desk he turns to me and says, are you ready? as though he expects me to whip a nanny out of my back pocket. Um, yeah, I say. What are you going to do with The Baby? he asks, all snotty. And I begin to realize that my morning is not going to go as planned. What do you mean, what am I going to do with the baby? I ask. You have a stroller or somewhere to put The Baby? he asks. No-o, I say slowly, she'll stay in my sling. Oh, you can't do that, he says. It's not safe. What if my scissors slip and fall on The Baby? Um, I say, it wouldn't be a problem for your scissors to slip and pierce my abdomen except for the fact of my baby sitting there? It's different with A Baby, he says with finality. So, I ask incredulously, you are refusing to cut my hair? Yes, he says, I wouldn't feel comfortable.

So I leave completely pissed off and end up going to get a haircut at some shitty place that fucked up the cut I wanted and gave me a shaggy, Q-tip Momcut. Bitches.

Now, to be fair, the salon called me back within fifteen minutes and the owner offered to cut my hair herself on Tuesday. Which pissed me off even more because I'm a woman with a baby strapped to my chest for a haircut. Does it look like I've got a lot of time and energy to be driving around back and forth for a goddamn haircut? Like I told Tallulah when she was a toddler, I don't fucking think so. And before you piss me off by writing a comment about how haircuts are the third leading cause of childhood dementia or blindness or gout, let me just say, I've had my hair done at Scott Thomas salon and Marmalade without anybody flinching or stabbing my baby. So what's up with Little Salon? And the du-ude hairstylist, Brian? Him and the Binky Fairy-- they're on the Bonifield Shit List.

How Fairies Have been pissing off Tallulah: Part 2

2008-09-05T11:29:00.000-07:00

So the nurse weighs Tallulah, takes her blood pressure and moves her to the eye exam chart with barely a word to either of us, except to say with an eye roll to me, "My, she's a chatty one." Really? You speak to her mother like that? Anyway, her blood pressure sounds high to me and when I ask the nurse about it, she shrugs her shoulders and says I should talk to the doctor about it. Then she runs T. through the eye exam and when she's done, very casually says, "20/20 vision in her left eye, 20/25 vision in her right eye, and she's colorblind."

Huh? The girl is not colorblind. But the nurse insists she is colorblind because T. said the blue bar was green. "Is there another test we could do? Because the bar does look blue-ish green to me," I say. And the nurse looks at me scornfully as though I was one of those kinds of mothers-- the kind that can't hear anything bad about my child. Which is very unfair. I can hear bad things about my child-- can I help it that my daughters are gorgeous, smart, talented, well-behaved, and all around perfect in every way? So when Dr Sevilla comes into the room I ask him about the colorblind thing and he says I can take her to an optometrist for further testing or do those online tests. {of course we did the test as soon as we got home and Tallulah dragged herself away from her toys for long enough to tell me the numbers with an eye roll, as if to say, "Duh"] Then he takes a look at her mouth and begins to give me a lecture about her binky. Oh yes, there is an overbite, oh that binky has got to go, she is much too old for a binky.... completely oblivious to Tallulah lying on the exam table listening with tears in her eyes and beginning to roll down her face. Finally, Tallulah hops up off the table and climbs in my arms, buries her face in my shoulder and mumbles, "I AM going to give up my binky. When I'm 16!"

Then Dr. Sevilla does this cursory exam, tells me her blood pressure is a little high, and we should come back for a re-check in two weeks. And yes, we have to pay for a visit when we come back in for the blood pressure test. At this point my blood pressure is a little high. But, being the rockstar mom that I am, I use the opportunity to talk to Tallulah about the Binky Fairy who comes to visit and exchange old binkies for new toys. And by rockstar mom, I mean, conniving lowdown briber. Because as much as I disagree with Sevilla's bedside manner, he's right and I've known that we need to ditch the binky for awhile. And since we'll be going back to Weinberg next time, might as well let her blame Sevilla for stealing her binky.

And before I move onto the Binky Fairy, let me just say that my needs in a doctor have changed. I need a doctor who has holistic mindset, doesn't push drugs, is calm, AND KNOWS HOW TO TALK TO CHILDREN. Because if he can make Tallulah feel like shit at a well-child visit, what is he going to do when she's sick? And how am I supposed to trust him when he's getting bijjigity about a blood pressure that is still within a normal range when Tallulah is dancing and jumping up and down while her blood pressure is being taken? And labels her colorblind with a minimum of testing? Piss me off. Plus, because Tallulah is such a healthy kid, we've got one shot at it per year. One shot to make an opinion about a doctor because we only go to our well-child visit and haven't needed a sick visit in two years. I need to have confidence in a doctor before she has some crazy disease or wildly irregular symptom.

Sigh. Luckily, I have found the perfect preschool teacher, Karen Leonetti of Earth Angels Preschool (she doesn't have a website or I'd put a link-- contact me if you need her info) and I immediately got on the phone with her to ask her opinion about the binky. She's perfect because she likes this sort of thing-- not just contacting her when something big is going on in her kids' lives, but also talking parents through a discipline crisis. She helps us weave the discipline style between school and home and incorporates the kids' interests with school. When our house got broken into last year she had a police officer come to the school to talk to the kids. When the kids go on vacation, she pulls out maps and talks about the destinations. She agreed about the Binky Fairy and helped me figure out how to approach the situation (let Tallulah wrap up the binkies and choose between two nights for the binky fairy to come. Give her some control about how it happens but not whether or not it is happening.) and talked me down from the cliff. Because, frankly, with everything else going on in our family right now, I had no desire to deal with the sleeplessness and tears of ditching the binky. But I do it because that's what a good parent does. Sigh.

And Tallulah managed the transition really well. She loved the princess dress the fairy left her (blame Cinderella for Tallulah's belief that fairies leave pretty dresses as gifts) and got to sleep well the first two nights. It was only the third night that Tallulah confessed to me, "Mommy. I don't like that Binky Fairy. She should have stayed home."

How fairies have been pissing off Tallulah: Part 1, the doctor dilemma

2008-09-05T00:13:00.000-07:00

We've been having a hard time finding a pediatric doctor. Hmm, let me amend that: we've been having a hard time finding a pediatrician I like. I'm picky, particularly when it comes to my kids' health.

My parameters, when I was pregnant with Tallulah and interviewing pediatrians, included a holistic mindset and calm manner. I'm not big into medications-- I like using gentle techniques like good nutrition, herbal supplements, and homeopathy rather than antibiotics and pain killers. And I very smugly read the articles coming out to support the validity of this. But despite the articles and the research, it has been very hard to find a doctor that will not only keep their hands off the meds, but also know supportive treatments. For instance, one of the doctors I interviewed told me, "oh yes, I practice natural, holistic medicine. Why just the other day I had an autistic patient prone to ear infections. After four rounds of antibiotics didn't work, I prescribed chewing xylitol gum and it worked!" I wasn't impressed with this story and didn't choose her as our doctor because, Holy Shit! Four rounds of antibiotics before you try something else?

Finally we found Dr. Weinberg and we loved him. Kind of. He's calm and gentle and actually prescribes natural remedies as well as conventional, like when Tallulah got an ear infection he told us to put garlic and mullein drops in her ear. He also gave us a prescription for antibiotics and told us what symptoms would make him give antibiotics to his kids. Very helpful. Plus he uses his same gentle demeanor with Tallulah and always asks her first before touching her or listening to her chest or heart. He did this even when she was a baby. He's respectful of her as a person and patient-- lovely and rare in medicine which either ignores the child and speaks only to the adult or does that weird babytalk thing with big eyes and simplified words. The problem I had, ironically, is that I didn't feel he worried enough. He runs a family practice and sees a lot of old people, so his "let's wait and see" response to my concerns made me worry that he wasn't looking closely enough. Wait and see? Wait and see what? If her nose will fall off? If her head explodes?

When Moxie was born, I called to make our first appointment after having a home birth. You have to take a homebirth baby into the doctor within 48 hours after birth so they can check the baby out and make sure the midwife accurately counted the toes, fingers, limbs, and heads. Intercoastal, the group practice Weinberg works with, is huge and the receptionist answering the phone and the nurse responding to her both apparently don't work with Weinberg very much (he has a reputation in town for being holistically minded and many of the homebirthers I know see him.) Anyway they both freaked out and asked a bunch of insulting questions before scheduling my appointment ("Did you have prenatal care? The baby was born when? Why didn't the midwife schedule the appointment? Do you have any record of the birth?" Luckily, I didn't have to worry that they would accuse me of stealing the baby from a hospital-- I have a video proving my ownership. And who was in attendance at Moxie's birth. ) Annoyed, I decided to look into another doctor who was promoting himself as a holistic pediatrician.

This year, with Moxie's visits, I loved Dr. Sevilla. He answered all my questions thoroughly, talked a lot about nutrition, and when I had a concern that he answered with a "wait and see" he also talked in length about why we wait and what we look for if there is cause for concern. I wasn't a fan of his nurse: on our second visit she took off Moxie's diaper to weigh her-- in a cold room-- and then screamed when she peed. Screamed! The woman needs to have a reality check about being a nurse. A nurse who works with children. I was a nurse who worked with old crazy people and let me tell you, baby pee should NOT make you scream. Plus she smells like smoke.

I decided to take Tallulah to her annual check up at Dr Sevilla's office instead of Dr Weinberg. I was concerned at Tallulah's four year old exam that Dr. Weinberg hadn't done a genitalia exam. Everybody else's doctors had done it and followed it up with "the talk." You know the one-- only doctors and parents need to look or touch and only to keep it healthy and clean, yadda yadda yadda. It seemed a symptom of the bigger, nonchalant or incomplete exam problem.

So we get to the appointment and the smelly, screamy nurse is there as usual. She weighs Tallulah with barely a word to her. If you've ever met Tallulah, you know that not talking to her is practically impossible since she will ply you with questions until she hits upon a mutually acceptable topic and then continue talking long after your eyes glaze over. But this nurse managed, with a few well-placed "uh huh"'s to completely avoid talking to T. except when she told her to hold still and be quiet.

Well, damn. I'm out of time and I have yet to tell you about Tallulah's fairy problem, her high blood pressure, color blindedness, or buckteeth. Stay tuned!

Naval Gazing

2008-09-02T19:46:00.000-07:00

I was going to apologize for not blogging in over a month or try to explain why I haven't been writing. But I kept putting it off and in the meantime, have been writing other entries in my head like about how fairies have been pissing off Tallulah. But I think, "I can't just write an entry without explaining why I haven't written in a month." And then I think, "But who wants to read a lame entry about not writing? It's like people calling to tell you they're never going to call again." And then I tried to write a non-lame explanatory entry in my head which actually went pretty well because it was two in the morning and I had drunk a bottle of wine by myself. I was clever and witty and interesting. Then I passed out without writing anything down and when I came to, I mean, woke up the next morning all I could remember was something about babies being like pink parasols. Which makes me think I wasn't being as clever or witty or interesting as I imagined because babies are nothing like pink parasols.

So the truth is, I've been going a little crazy lately, the crazy is not yet over, I may or may not write consistently, I may or may not write about what exactly a) is making me crazy or b) I do when I'm crazy because, honestly, I'm having a hard time nailing that down.

Let us proceed with the writing, shall we?

Returning to work; the marriage

2008-07-23T17:14:00.000-07:00

"...Like yesterday when you added the wet laundry from the washer to the almost dry diapers in the dryer. That made me so mad."

"Yeah but I separated the diapers after everything dried."

"After I told you to."

"But I did it"

"yeah, but I thought about the ten minutes it would take to sort the diapers and that made me mad. Then I thought about telling you to do it and that made me feel like a nag. And feeling like a nag made me mad."

He giggles.

"Uh huh. See, I want to see this as funny. I know I'm being insane. But I can't even see this as a little funny. Even though, theoretically, insanity is very funny."

"What do you want exactly?"

"I want you to be me when I'm at work"

"I promise you I will never be you."

"Shut up"

"It's like you want everything to go exactly perfectly when you're gone, but you also want everything to go insanely wrong when you're gone."

"No. I want everything to go perfectly as long as you do things exactly the way I do them. And the second you deviate even an iota..."

"The house implodes."

"Right. And I come home to you, Tallulah, and Moxie sitting on the curb with big puppy dog eyes and a charred square where our house used to be. And I get to say, 'What did you do wrong?'"

"Yep. And then Moxie would start howling. I can see it; it could be a comic titled 'What happens when you don't do it my way'.

He giggles. And, finally, I do too.

Baa! Moo! Mommy!

2008-07-14T18:41:00.000-07:00

I pumped 4 ounces today! Yay me! I’m a milk making mama! I have this sense of pride and accomplishment, even though I stored my lunch in the ice packed milk storage bag of my breastpump and placing my pumped milk next to my container of yogurt makes me feel funny. All I need is a single serve of goat milk cheese and I can line up the lactating moms in my bag: cow, Kellie, and goat.

On the subject of lactating. Yesterday I was in the shower with Tallulah (she insists on joining me if she knows I’m taking a shower. I generally allow it since bathing frequency is low on our list of priorities. We use the smell test or the “two days since fingerpainting, but you’re still painted blue” method of bath determination.) and she was having a discussion about breasts—hers are small but they’ll be bigger when she’s grown like mine, probably when she’s eighteen. Everything is going to happen when she’s eighteen, according to Tallulah. Then she takes a swipe at mine and gives them a squeeze. “Let’s make milk come out, Mommy.” Ok, I giggle.

At this point, you are rolling your eyes and/or getting grossed out. And, honestly, so was I a little bit. It’s like making a funky colored booger or a poop shaped like Elvis. Interesting, but not exactly something you want to think about too much. Or share. But hanging out with a four year old who thinks everything made by the body is Fascinating! And Exciting! warps the mind. So I shot some milk at Tallulah who promptly squealed and yelled, “Oooh! Milk on me!”

We were still giggling about it when we exited the bathroom and Kent wanted to know what was so funny, so we told him. He immediately rolled his eyes and shut down the conversation. “That’s gross. I don’t want to know.” And this annoys me. Who is he to say my body is gross? My body is Fascinating! And Exciting! Sometimes it’s easier to hang out with the four year old.

And I’m giving him a hand mirror for his scrotum.

The soundtrack of my life

2008-07-13T06:14:00.001-07:00

Mommy? Mommy?
Wahh! Wahh!
Mommy? Mommy?
MOOO-OOMMMY!!!!
Mo-ommy! Mo-ommy!
Honey? Honey?
MOO-OOMMY!!! NOW!!

Post Traumatic Ranting

2008-07-12T06:07:00.000-07:00

I am able to think more clearly today than yesterday. I apologize for the rant. I keep having mild panic attacks about going back to work. How will I parent effectively? How will I maintain our household? Where’s my to-do list?

What I was trying to make a point about yesterday, but was sidetracked by my anxiety, was how differently I approach working from my husband. I have mad amounts of stress and guilt attached to my working. Moxie is up all night? It’s because I work. Tallulah having a temper tantrum? She misses her mommy. The dishes undone and dirty laundry piled up? I can’t get to it because of work. Which is not exactly fair to any of these scenarios. Tallulah has been known to have a temper tantrum or two (or million) even before I started back to work. And the laundry has been known to pile up, even when I was a devoted housewife. And Moxie… no, Moxie has been perfectly reasonable and even-tempered. Even now she is perfectly reasonable and even-tempered. She sleeps more during the days when I’m working and then stays awake at night for quality nursing and mommy time. She even eats less during the day when a bottle is the only option. Which is perfectly reasonable unless, of course, I insist on sleeping, too, as well as working.

But I am racked with guilt and internal conflict. I need to balance my time. I need to give each child personal attention. I need to keep the household managed. I need to make sure there is enough food, laundry, diapers, and whatever else our family needs even when I am not there. And then I need to call frequently to make sure everything is running smoothly.

My husband, on the other hand, leaves in the morning and returns at night easy with the knowledge that if there isn’t food in the house, I will go get some. If the laundry has piled up to the point of no clothing or diapers, I will wash some. If the children are edgy and need new stimulation, I will find them something to do. And when he comes home, he is happy to see us. He doesn’t attribute my bad mood or the children’s cranky attitude to anything other than a passing phase or mood. He does what he can to calm and cheer us up, then moves on to the next activity.

He is a genius.

He is infuriating.

Why do I not possess this skill? Why do I make myself crazy, panic-stricken, and stressed? Is it hormonal? Some feminine gene that stays inactive until my egg is fertilized, then bursts to life with motherhood? Because I swear I wasn’t crazy like this before kids.

working mom blues

2008-07-11T09:02:00.000-07:00

I know, I know. It's been forever since I've written and even now I shouldn't be sitting down to the computer because there are groceries strewn around on my kitchen counters and my to do list is so long and I have a writing deadline for MOMMY Magazine but I can't do anything else until I write because I can't get past how HARD this is. THIS. This working and parenting and having two children and a baby and... Ok, I need to slow down and explain.

Here's my husband's work day:
7:30. Wake up, take the baby and Tallulah if she's awake and willing downstairs. Do some Gung Fu. Make breakfast for the whole crew. (he takes the kids when they wake up so I can get some non-child groping sleep time. I do the nighttime parenting because of the nursing and by dawn I'm ready to throw some baby heads out the window. Thoop. That's the sound I imagine they'll make as they fly through the air.)
8:30 Make sure I'm awake, get ready for work. Either get out the door by 9 or go into the studio around 9.
Lunchtime- make some lunch, tidy the kitchen, help me put kids to nap if everyone is home.
5:00 play with kids while I make dinner.

You can see that my husband is awesome-- awesomely participatory, engaged, and an equal partner with the family and household. So it's not a lack in him, but a crazy in me that my work day is so significantly different from his. Example:

8:00- wake up after 15 minutes of boob tweaking-free sleep time. Take a shower and get dressed before going downstairs since Moxie and Tallulah will jump me when they see me.
8:15- go downstairs. Scarf breakfast while nursing the baby and mentally tabulating how many bottles/diapers she'll need for the day.
8:30- check diapers. Find most of them in the dryer (we use cloth). Pull them out of the dryer and put them together ready for use, lay the cloth wipes next to them for easy husband access. Make one bottle, put in fridge, and leave formula or frozen milk on counter for easy access/defrost with empty bottle. Check fridge for lunch items for Tallulah. Holler out what there is for lunch to Kent and Tallulah OR write out lunch options and post on fridge. Think what a good idea it would be to make pictures of lunch options so Tallulah can choose for herself and request items from Kent at lunchtime. Look at clock.
9:00 freak out that I am once again not getting out of the house on time. Give Tallulah and Moxie hugs and kisses. Tallulah clings. Spend an extra 5 minutes talking to her about the awesome day she's about to have with daddy. Daddy lures her in the house with talk about a trip to the bookstore. My heart breaks. I like the bookstore!
9:30 get to first client (I do home health nursing and schedule my visits. Sweet gig for my mental state)
10:15 leave first client. have four more people to see in the north part of town. Plan to stop at home in between the north and south part to nurse baby. Try to guess what time that'll be. Try to guess when she'll have a bottle so I can time it just right to nurse her in between clients and I won't catch her sleeping or just having finished a bottle. Get stressed out about time management.

etc. etc.

I know it's my head that is sabotaging the work schedule. If I could leave the house and leave family stuff behind, the work would be fine. And little things wouldn't bother me as much like coming in with the groceries and wanting to throw Moxie in her highchair with a snack so she doesn't scream at me while I run in and out of the house. So I throw a handful of chopped fruit on her highchair tray a half second before I notice that her tray wasn't wiped down when she was last taken out of it and there is unidentifiable sludge crusted on it with three ants having a party in the middle. Shit. I know that wiping down the tray before taking the baby out of it is crucial to our well being, but Kent hasn't gotten to that yet in his learning curve. Shit. So toss the old fruit, chop more one-handed while Moxie squirms in my arms and groceries melt in the car, wipe down the tray, throw new fruit on it and put Moxie-- finally-- down.

I'm tired I'm tired I'm tired I'm tired I'm tired.

And Moxie is adjusting to my work schedule by sleeping a lot when she's with Kent during the day and not eating much so she can nurse and play with mommy all night when I'm home. Which, hello awesome smart baby and goodbye any mommy rest. And I've been going to bed early this week due to the lack of sleep time which is why I can't write and I shouldn't be writing now because Moxie finished her fruit so I threw Cheerios on her tray which she's never had before and she doesn't even have any teeth so it's only a matter of time before I try out the new rules for the Heimlich (did you know back patting is in again?)

Oops, sure enough, gotta go....

2008-06-25T20:27:00.001-07:00

Florida Sky by mommalikabooty

What the Hell Wednesday: Safety Scissors

2008-06-25T19:41:00.000-07:00

Cutting off a finger with kids' safety scissors-- we've all heard this myth. And it's undeniably an urban myth, right? So why did my parenting magazine feature an "It happened to me" column about a dude whose one kid chopped off his other kid's finger with safety scissors. Safety Scissors!!! Have you tried to cut anything with those things? I can barely get them to cut paper!

Now, I'm sure there are studies and technical data about the pounds per inch needed to chop off a finger and how much pressure scissors can exert, yadda yadda yadda. But this would entail much more research than this subject warrants. So I've designed my own protocol-- Safety Scissors for Dummies. Like the choking standard about not giving a baby anything small enough to fit into a toilet paper roll. Which never really worked for me because on my paranoid days I shove everything into the toilet paper rolls including Moxie's four inch stuffed monkey. And testing Moxie's stuffed monkey as a potential choking hazard is stupid because I would probably notice her cramming the monkey down her throat before it got so far I couldn't fish it back out again with my fingers. Probably.

My own scissor test is simple: how easily can you cut a carrot with your scissors? I dragged out my four year old's safety scissors, my own super awesome scissors, and a couple of carrots. Then I sat down with Tallulah and started chopping fingers...I mean, carrots.

Here's the scoop: I was able to cut the carrots with both my scissors (easily, quickly, and decisively) and Tallulah's scissors (slowly with lots of sawing action.) Tallulah was unable to cut the carrot with her safety scissors even after lots of sawing and chanting of "cut, cut, cut!" And even my super scissors were difficult for her to get enough pressure to cut the carrot. She was eventually able to cut the carrot, but only after a lot of sawing and chanting and I think whoever's finger she's trying to lop off would probably notice, what with the blood and the pain and the screaming.

Conclusion: That column in parenting magazine was total bullshit unless the dad regularly pits his children against one another, tells them to prove which one is the more manly child, then locks them in a room with freshly sharpened scissors and ignores the screaming. In which case, sure. It could happen to you.

My Odd Porn

2008-06-24T17:57:00.000-07:00

I have a breast pump I borrowed from a friend for this new job. It's a super sweet one with dual pumping action and simulated sucking rhythms. I could geek out on this breastpump like my college boyfriend could geek out on VW Type III's. It's beautiful and top of the line.

And I hate it.

Don't get me wrong-- I would hate any breastpump. They are weird and they change me from a loving peaceful mommy bonding with baby into a lactating milk-cow hooked up to machinery for maximum output. Rreee-yuh. Ree-yuh. (this is the sound the breast pump makes.) I actually enjoy breastfeeding Moxie. Nursing her is a quiet oasis in my day. She plays with her feet and de-latches to give me gummy, toothless grins, sprawled across my lap. I hum to her and rub her cheek and remember why I love being a mommy. But using a breastpump reminds me of my physical responsibility to my baby. It is a leash, a chain, and I am on the chain-gang. It is also uncomfortable for me to balance the double horns attached to my breasts and I inevitably lose my grip at some point which makes the suction break and it starts giving the side of my nipple hickeys until I can juggle the other breast and pump horn and readjust the loose one. Then there is the whole 'output' issue. I don't have much. Output.

When Tallulah was six months old I went back to work for a short period of time. I set myself up as well as possible; I got a serious, expensive, top of the line breastpump. I scheduled a time to begin pumping before I returned to work so I would have some reserve in the freezer. In the little picture pocket window in the breastpump bag I placed a picture of Tallulah making her "feed me" face; she would purse up her lips and shake her head back and forth saying, "huh, huh, huh." It cracked Kent and me up because she would do this with the desperation of a starving man even if it had only been 20 minutes since her last feeding. [sidenote: this is either a general baby thing or at the very least a Bonifield baby thing. Moxie makes the same expression and even the same sound. She also does it whenever she catches sight of my boobs, like if I'm changing my clothes, even when she's not hungry. Kent finds this hilarious and has started doing the same thing. My boobs are a hot commodity around here. When the breastpump starts doing it, I'm going professional.]

So imagine my frustration when, after all this preparation, I was only able to pump an ounce or two at a time. Do you know how much an ounce is? Not much. I would do the pumping and try to relax and look at pictures of my baby and think about her and try to relax some more and turn up the pumping action or turn down the pumping action and then after 20 minutes I would turn off the machine and take my measly ounce and a half and pour it into a breastmilk baggie and stick it in the freezer. And the top of the baggie would have so much room it would droop down, dejected to be used for such a pitiful amount of milk.

With Moxie, I refused to be sidetracked by the output issue. With Tallulah it really clouded the entire work momentum-- I worried about it, debated supplementing, researched type of supplementation, etc. This time around I decided, "forget it. Moxie is still nursing around every two hours. Rather than stress about getting enough Momma Milk, I'll supplement and pump for breastmilk buildup relief." And that's what I've done. I try to schedule my appointments so I only miss one feeding at a time and when I'm about to miss a second one, I pump. Meanwhile she happily drinks whatever is put in front of her because she is the best baby in the history of all babies. (and did I mention the most beautiful? This is not just the gushing of a biased mom. This is fact.)

So pumping this time around is a totally different experience because I'm less stressed about it and there is no pressure for me to 'perform.' But I'm feeling kind of funny about it for a different reason. See, when I borrowed the pump from my friend, she left the picture of her baby in the breast pump bag picture pocket-- you know, the one to help visualize your baby, relax, and get the milk to let down? And I've been so casual about pumping that I didn't bother to take it out or put Moxie's picture in, so the other day while pumping, I was thinking about Moxie and I found myself looking at the picture of Baby Eli.

"Babies at that age look so similar," I thought. "He kind of looks like he's about to make that 'feed me' face. I wonder if he makes the sound, too." Anyway, before I knew it, the pumping session was over and I had pumped THREE ounces, a miracle for me. Maybe it was just that I was distracted and had pumped longer. Maybe I was particularly well hydrated. Maybe it was just a fluke. But Moxie, it didn't mean anything to me. It was just physical. You know I love you. This was just pumping-- with you, I make milk.

2008-06-19T20:55:00.000-07:00

Larry, Curly, Mo, and Moxie by mommalikabooty

2008-06-19T06:13:00.001-07:00

Life Cycle of Moxie by mommalikabooty

what the hell wednesday: microwaves and plastic

2008-06-18T19:55:00.000-07:00

I received an email warning me about the dangers of microwaving in plastic containers. The email said researchers at Johns Hopkins linked microwaving plastic to toxic levels of dioxin leaking into food. It was forwarded to me, along with a list of other moms, from a concerned mutual acquaintance.

Oh dear.

Step number one when forwarding research based emails-- double check the validity of the research. The main page of the Johns Hopkins website refutes the email.

Here's the skinny:
Dioxins are not the problem. The actual problem with plastics is pthalates, which can leach into water and food, particularly when heated, and cause hormone disruption.

Here's the no-no list:
*Try to use glass or microwave safe ceramic containers when microwaving. If you use plastic, make sure it is microwave safe.
*When you put Saran Wrap on top of a dish to reheat, wrap it loosely and don't let the wrap touch the food.
*Don't use a straw with hot liquids.

And don't worry about freezing water bottles or storing foods in plastic in the freezer. Cold decreases chemical leaching.

You can apparently also stop worrying about pthalates in baby toys-- the particular chemicals are banned. Of course, lead is a whole other issue. And while baby might be safe, mommy and daddy need to practice safe sex-- pthalate-safe, that is. Sex toys often contain pthalate filled plastics. Hormone altering toys? Hmm, sounds like a whole new market, especially for the transgendered.

So, although this email was inaccurate, still use caution with plastics. Remember, you can't always believe everything you read; some sources are easily found to be misleading while others, like the Center for Food and Nutrition Policy web site, use mystifying and ambiguous statements to cover any contingency: "We...believe the benefits of using plastic wrap to protect food safety and quality on the shelf to far outweigh the imagined risks..."

2008-06-18T19:51:00.000-07:00

Something Import-net by mommalikabooty

2008-06-17T18:52:00.000-07:00

Oh crappy tv, how I love you.

Thanks to hulu I discovered that a tv show I watched as a kid is indeed as awesome as I remember it-- even if now the awesomeness is for different reasons.

I watched Fame when I was a kid. (the tv show-- not the movie. I think they said 'ass' in the movie. Or maybe they showed one. Anyway, as a child my mom protected me from ass. Now I'm all grown up and nobody protects me from ass.) We were a household of girls so we also got the soundtrack and acted out all the songs. Basically while my husband was geeking out by recreating X-men storylines, my sisters and I were geeking out re-staging Fame and Brigadoon.

So, watch this scene with the following knowledge:
1. I still know all the words to this song and can identify which character is singing each section.
2. I had a huge crush on the shaggy haired synthesizer player. Those eyes! That smile! His deep and gentle soul!
3. It did not even occur to me to smirk as a child when Leroy wore striped knee socks, a cut-off abdomen baring shirt, and shorts that must have had him tea-bagging all over the set.

And now I have to go. I've got some choreography to practice in front of the mirror.

The internal debate of a crappy housekeeper

2008-06-16T17:18:00.000-07:00

Today while I was showering I saw a spider in the upper ceiling corner of the shower. A little, compact spider. Now, I'm not a big fan of the long legged, gangly ones, but I read Charlotte's Web as a kid and I have a soft spot for the cute ones.

"Hello, Spider," I said brightly as I looked around my shower for something to knock down and kill it.

But then I stopped. Spiders kill and eat bugs. Maybe I should leave that cute little guy in the corner to clean up any bugs that get in the house. That way I get to choose the bug that lives in my house. One teeny cutie pie spider, no flies, ants, or other odd assortment of creepy crawlies.

But. Does the fact that one spider lives happily in my shower imply that many other bugs live in my house? I mean, it wouldn't be living in my shower if it were starving, right? So if I let the spider stay in my shower, is it just a living emblem of bigger buggier problems?

And. What if my cutie pie spider starts feeling her biological clock ticking? What's to keep her from starting her family in my shower? And if she starts a family in my shower, does that mean that the food supply is big enough to feed her entire family? Do I have a huge bug problem? Is my house gross and teeming with bugs?

But, if I don't kill her, maybe she can keep the population of bugs down. Maybe her presence will be a deterrent to bugs. If I do have bugs, maybe she is the first line of defense to start mowing them down.

To kill or not to kill?

Working Mom

2008-06-15T16:59:00.000-07:00

I know I have a good gig. I'm working three days a week. I'm trading child care with my husband. He is doing a great job. My six month old baby is adapting well to bottle feeding during the time I'm at work.

But I'm missing EVERYTHING!!

Wait, was that me? That sounded just like my four year old's whining. Sigh.

This weekend Tallulah went to a birthday party for one of her school friends at a gymnastics place. Normally I wouldn't whine about missing a children's birthday party, but the gymnastics place has teacher guided gymnastics play so the parents get to mill around and complete sentences with one another. Tallulah goes to a preschool where the parents really like their children and sometimes it's hard to complete sentences because they're always interacting with their kids instead of chatting with me. Bastards.

I really like the parents-- and their kids-- so I always want to talk more with them and it pisses me off that I couldn't go hang out.

AND some friends went to see Sex and the City without me this week because they wanted to go in the evening instead of for a matinee. I could have taken Moxie to a matinee because she'll just cuddle with me and stay quiet still (have I mentioned that she is the easiest baby ever?) but in the evening she needs quiet cuddles at home. And I don't want to leave her when I don't have to or give her more bottles than I have to because I'm leaving her and giving her bottles to go to work. So again, I miss out.

I've decided that anything cool that I miss out on is because of my stupid new job. Stupid. Which I think is starting to bug my friend, Robin, because everything she says she's doing, I immediately say, "Muh. I can't do that because I have to work." Even the things she isn't inviting me to do. [sorry robin!]

I'm missing things and I hate missing stuff.
I'm adjusting to a new schedule and I hate adjusting.
I'm being a responsible parent and I hate being responsible.

Muh.

What the Hell Wednesday- Dry Drowning

2008-06-11T02:22:00.000-07:00

Every now and then someone sends me an email warning me away from something so ridiculously farfetched and horrendous that I roll my eyes and complain vociferously to my husband for days. Like parenting isn't full of enough real dangers, we need to come up with some ridiculous things to worry about.

This is called Fear Factor Parenting and lots of people are doing it. TV stations run a segment in their local news reports, parenting magazines run anecdotal junk, and don't even get me started with the commercials for all the products we must own or our babies will implode. So just to give myself a little outlet for my disgust, I'm going to try to take these on semi-regularly and call them What the Hell Wednesdays. So bring it-- forward me all the emails, news articles, and ads you see that make you say, "What the hell? That isn't real...right?" And I'll find out just how much you need to worry.

For the first What the Hell Wednesday, someone forwarded me a link to this article about something called "dry drowning."

First, what it is. When water enters a person's airways, that is, when they inhale water, the body initially responds by constricting the larynx, or vocal cord, to keep more water from entering the airways and the lungs. As a person continues to gasp, the water goes into the stomach. This is called laryngospasm and can interfere with air getting into the lungs for as long as the vocal cords are constricted, usually 30-60 seconds. About 10-15% of drowning victims maintain a larynx seal until cardiac arrest-- this is called dry drowning because there is very little water in the lungs. An interesting description of the phenomena and its effect on drowning victims is here

Laryngospasm itself can occur regardless of swimming-- a bug flying in your larynx, for example. When this happens, it is very difficult to breathe in and easier to breathe out. The harder a person attempts to breathe in, the more difficult it will be to pull air into the lungs, At this point, slowing down the in breath and tilting the head back to lower the voicebox and prevent some of the clamping down may help. The spasms release usually after 30-60 seconds.

But dry drowning is NOT what this little boy died of. Here's where the news machine not only sows fear, but also spreads misinformation. What the article is describing, and the real problem for the boy, is Secondary Drowning. Secondary drowning occurs after fluid is aspirated into the lungs, damaging the alveoli's ability to uptake oxygen. The damage causes a relatively slow (compared to primary drowning) decrease in the body's ability to process oxygen. Over the next few hours-generally within 24-72 hours-- the person will show signs of decreased oxygen perfusion: altered behavior like confusion or inappropriateness (adults might take off their clothes or begin fingerpainting the walls with ketchup. In children this might just be the status quo) from the brain getting less oxygen, gasping or other changes in breathing, extreme fatigue and lethargy. These symptoms are similar to what you would watch out for after a head injury (concussion) or other trauma. Do you need to watch out for these symptoms every time your child takes a bath, goes swimming, or approaches a big cup of water? No. You watch your child for symptoms after a trauma. So, if your child has a drowning scare and inhales a bunch of water, keep on eye on her. Just like you would after she conks her head falling off the monkey bars.

The real threat There were 3,600 total drowning deaths in the US in 2005. Statistics aren't kept for secondary drowning that I could find. There are currently over 300 million people in the US which puts your annual drowning risk at about 1 in 100,000. Since there are 5,000 food poisoning deaths annually, you have a better chance of being killed by the macaroni salad at your beach picnic than the swim afterwards. Rather than staying locked indoors this summer and hissing with fear when someone turns on the faucet, use some common sense:
*Watch your children when you are swimming
*always have one adult designated for child watching when you are near water
*keep your child in ability appropriate water depths
*wear life vests when boating
*don't leave your child alone in the bathtub
*if your child has an episode of near drowning with gasping and struggling, watch for signs of decreased oxygen intake for the next 24 hours. Signs may include confusion, inability to stay awake, blue tinge around the mouth, difficulty breathing.

How much to worry Water safety is a very real concern and requires some planning and oversight. In the summer it's easy to let kids run off and play or think someone else is watching, so set some family water safety plan in motion. Should you worry about your child suddenly dropping dead days after going swimming? No.

I amaze me

2008-06-10T17:38:00.002-07:00

I am celebrating my accomplishments.

Those who know me well would never accuse me of being a fantastic housekeeper. But in my new house I'm trying to keep things lovely, so you can imagine my dismay when the countertops in my kitchen got random odd stains on them. I've been trying to use natural cleaners, but my poor cleaning skills plus the homemade cleaning products made me fear for my counters. Would they ever be clean? Was I doomed to a dirty hippy, stained countertop life?

Have you ever gotten directions from someone that you are sure are wrong? I do all the time because I think I know better than geography. So what I do is follow the directions but second guess them all the way: "Turn left? Well, that doesn't make any sense. 46th St is right over there and crosses Myrtle in another block. I should be turning right. Oh well, when I get completely lost, it won't be my fault." And then the directions invariably turn out correct.

Anyway, I feel the same about natural cleaners: "Rub the counters with baking soda and lemon? Well that won't work. That's crazy." But I did. I sprinkled baking soda on the counters and literally rubbed them with a slice of lemon. And it worked. My countertops are spotless. I am a cleaning, eco-friendly supermom. Hear me roar.

My other accomplishment from this past week-- and the reason I haven't written in a week-- is that I went back to working outside the house. I'm working three days a week and trading off parenting responsibilities with Kent.

It's a great gig because:
*the girls have continuity of care. They don't have to go to daycare or have different sitters.
*Kent has been able to really step up as a co-parent. Tallulah's babyhood was difficult and her constant nursing forced him into a mommy-support role. But Moxie is so much more easy going and more of a daddy's girl, that his confidence levels are high and he has really embraced the primary caregivver role. Yay, Kent!
*I can self schedule my appointments during the workday and manage to get home at least once during the day to nurse.
*the money is great.
*Moxie is showing her adaptability and easy going nature. Boobs? Yummy. Bottle? Great.
*the job is not stressful and the work slightly pleasant and rewarding.
*when I get home I am really happy to see everybody unlike most evenings when I'm ready to throw babies out windows if Kent doesn't take them quick.

So it's good. Really. And I will continue to list the good aspects of this job and not be a baby about going back to work even though I feel like a big baby and all I really want to do is cuddle my girls and take them to fun summertime places and plant my garden and keep our house running smoothly. And when I hit traffic on the way home I WILL NOT throw a temper tantrum and cry because it's taking me so long to get back home to my family. And when my boobs hurt from a missed feeding I WILL NOT worry that I'll lose my milk and Moxie will be screwed and have to drink formula laced with chemicals and poison every meal of the day.

Nope. I will, however, watch craptastic tv after the girls go to bed as an escapist treat to myself. I just discovered hulu.com which has a ton of full episodes of more crappy tv than you can wish for. Ahh.

So, in conclusion, my countertops are pristine, I have a new job, and crappy television pleases me. God Bless America.

Mom Body

2008-05-30T19:13:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-28T20:07:00.000-07:00

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....

2008-05-28T17:24:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-27T18:09:00.001-07:00

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

2008-05-26T13:28:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-25T17:13:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-23T05:40:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-22T20:15:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-16T13:46:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-16T13:35:00.000-07:00

Naptime Zen

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

Mayor of CrazyTown

2008-05-14T18:41:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-13T20:21:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-09T09:44:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-09T09:04:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-07T20:40:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-07T06:14:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-06T18:47:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-05T14:32:00.000-07:00

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.)

Thunder Thighs

2008-04-30T18:25:00.000-07:00

In case the Fear Factor Parenting entry was too negative and depressive, here's a new thought: Can anything in life be bad when cutie thighs like these exist?

This is the problem with parenting. Parental emotions yo-yo like a... umm, yo-yo. Life is scary! Life is delicious! I love these cherubs! I'm gonna kill these brats!

Thank goodness for naps, bunny ears, and crooked smiles.

Fear Factor Parenting

2008-04-29T06:35:00.000-07:00

I'm not into fear based parenting. A section in my Parents magazine called "It Happened to Me" detailing freak incidents like a child cutting off his sibling's finger with safety scissors really pisses me off. Really? Safety Scissors? I refuse to give in to the voice in the back of my head that wants me to worry about insane things.

My little voice: See that edge on your coffee table? Imagine it imprinted in your baby's skull when she falls on it with her first steps.
Me: Shut up.
My little voice: Your child has been asleep and quiet for 45 minutes. Obviously she has suffocated herself with her My Little Pony doll.
Me: Shut up. (then I check on her anyway. Hand in front of face-- yep, still warm breath coming out.)

But now I'm worried about invisible danger. And the FDA, slow behemoth agency that it is, backs me up with this fear. Check this headline out: FDA Reviewing Plastic Ingredient BPA. The article talks about a chemical commonly used in baby bottles which is being studied because the National Toxicology Program thinks it might alter human development. Ominous sounding, right? The article goes on to discuss findings that low levels of the chemical can cause changes in behavior, the brain, and the age girls enter puberty. Thankfully, the FDA is launching their review. Read: they may possibly sometime in the next few years ban this chemical. Maybe.

And this is only the latest in the invisible attack on my children (and my health, too!) Their poor, immature livers are trying to detox the formaldehyde in their clothes, the chlorine in the pool, the off-gassing of the shower curtain and furniture, not to mention every time they ingest some child-marketed food product with dye, msg, and aspartame. And moving in to our new house we have paint fumes, new carpet, and drywall dust, too. My little voice is having a party in my head.

On the plus side, the "It Happened to Me" column seems quaint, old fashioned and charming in comparison. Heh, they're still afraid of the visible dangers. Isn't that sweet?

Just the Facts, Ma'am

2008-04-25T09:33:00.000-07:00

It's been so long since I've written, and so much has happened in that time, that I'll give the quick and dirty details and fill in the rest (read: emotional side) as we go.

Feb. 8th- Moxie is 2 months old. My family goes to the Greek Festival with Kent's parents and enjoy baklava while, unbeknownst to us, someone breaks into our house for the third time in a year and a half and steals Kent's phone, our second replacement camera from the last two robberies, and my laptop. They do this in the span of ten minutes despite our huge dog and security system. Since the music at the Greek festival is loud, I don'y hear my cell phone ringing when the security company calls to warn us that our alarm has been tripped.

Feb 9th- Discussion with Kent about getting out of our house despite the really crappy timing (housing sales slump, drop in house value, new baby, our own constant poverty) Drive around our dream neighborhood looking for houses for sale.

Feb 10th- Dinner with Kent's parents. They offer to help us get out of our crappy neightborhood. My thoughts continue to be gloomy. Contemplating the decline of the neighborhood, the increasing crime, the drug use in our neighborhood park. The phrase "the whim of a crackhead" circles in my head.

Feb 11th- In our dream neighborhood, where the house prices range in the 225-250k's, we come across a four bedroom, two story cutie house priced at 175k. We call to tour.

Feb 12th-- A real estate friend comes to our house to talk about options for getting out. The situation looks bleak. We refinanced when the market was high and the value is close or below what we owe on it.

Feb 14th- We tour the other house and the real estate agent greets us with the news that the house has been lowered in price to 164k. We like what we see and invite Kent's parents to come take a look. They like what they see, too.

Feb 15th- We make an offer on the house. On my birthday. I make jokes about being THAT kind of wife-- the kind a husband buys a house for on her birthday. Next year I'm asking for a pony.

Second week after break in- I can't be alone in the house. I keep thinking about our house being watched, my girls being pretty, the insanity of somebody high on crack. We start preparing the house to list with an agent or rent out-- we haven't figured out what the smart thing to do is, but we know we're leaving. I realize that I have nothing left over from my house craziness and talk to my business partners about quitting my job as editor at the parenting magazine. I think, I don't know how to work without my laptop, I can't think creatively enough to write, I can't get organized with a two month old, a move, my panic, and no computer. And when it settles down, I'll need to get a better paying job to pay back the in-laws.

I cry a lot.

Third week after break in, last week of February- Our offer is accepted! We have a new house with a closing date of the end of March. Now we have to figure out what to do with the old house. I am in the new house for an inspection and go upstairs to nurse the baby. I get lightheaded and race out of the house worried about fumes, worried about Moxie, worried about our safety, our health. Out of the house, I realize it was stress, exhaustion, and the weird position I'd been sitting in. I sob. Will I ever be able to keep my babies safe? Will I ever feel in control again? The robbery took so much from us.

The month of March- Cleaning up the old house, finishing projects we'd put off, getting paperwork prepared for the new house, working on the last issue of the magazine and preparing a new editor to take over, parenting, crying a lot, panicking when I'm away from any of my family. I'm driving Kent a little crazy with my many check-in phone calls. I still can't stay at home alone so on evenings when kent goes to Gung Fu, I go to the Bonifields creating a stressfully late night for all of us.

The month of April- We are in the new house. We have renters lined up for the old house beginning in May. I am breathing easier. Somehow we got moved. Somehow events lined up just so. Somehow we are intact, safe.

Moxie is five months old (almost) and exploring the house by rolling from end to end of it, Tallulah is adjusting much better now that mommy isn't a raging, sobbing bundle of stress, our house is filled with boxes, but its also cute, tiny, and perfect for us. I am slowly, so slowly relaxing, unfurling my muscles and defenses an inch at a time.

Psychological Experiments

2008-02-02T16:48:00.000-08:00

Who doesn't like conducting pychological experiments on their children?

I was reading about delayed gratification on Wikipedia and it was talking about a marshmallow experiment used to predict emotional intelligence, the ability to delay gratification, even general test taking skills in four year olds.

I'd just bought marshmallows because graham crackers were on sale-- 2 for 1!-- the day I did the week's shopping (Sunday) and by Wednesday I'd had to run out and buy the chocolate and marshmallows to go with them. I mean, I waited until Wednesday, so I show the ability to delay gratification right? Let's ignore for the moment that I'm on a diet to lose the baby weight and we never should have had graham crackers in the house in the first place because I always have the urge to turn them into s'mores. We're not talking about impulse control, we're talking about delayed gratification! Hmm. Wait a minute...

Anyway.

I look at the marshmallows. I look at my four year old. I read more about how my daughter, if she can resist a marshmallow for 20 minutes, is destined for a life of joy, peace, and prosperity. And how, if she can't resist, she's bound to be a crack whore with 11 illegitimate babies fathered by former members of the Wu-Tang Clan. So I do it. I sit her down in front of a marshmallow and tell her she'll get two marshmallows if she waits until I get back to eat it. Then I take the marshmallows and leave the room to munch on them for twenty minutes.

After twenty minutes I have alleviated my fears of handing grandbabies over to Raekwon for visitation weekends. She resists! But I start to wonder, how well do these experimenters know four year olds? Because this same four year old snuck all of the Christmas presents from under the tree into her room for a frenzy of pre-Christmas gift opening. And maybe her ability to resist had to do with the s'mores she'd been eating with mommy all afternoon. Does the experiment count if her face is covered in chocolate?

I guess I'll have to wait about 18-30 years to see if her life is peaceful, joyful, and filled with prosperity. But if you want to test your own ability to defer gratification, check out this psychological test.

Worried about my parenting skills

2008-01-31T09:14:00.000-08:00

Not me. No, I'm pretty confident in my ability to keep my babies alive and even thriving. But Moxie, the two month old, has no confidence. She spends most of her day looking like this:

Worried.
Then, when she gets to crying, in those seconds before I figure out whether it's hunger, sleepiness, or poop, she screams, arches her back and looks frantically around the room as though to say, "HELP! Could someone who knows what they are doing Puh-lease Save Me??!!"

I thought this would even out as we got to know each other. She might cut me a little slack after a few weeks of getting her needs met, having her every whimper attended to. But no. Yesterday in line at the post office, a woman asked me if she'd gotten bitten (!!) on her face. Um no. Those are her worry lines. The deep divets at the eyebrow are just her constant concern over my parenting ability. I'm saving up for her Botox now because if things continue this way, I'm going to need to paralyze her 'skeptical' face before we get to kindergarten. Imagine facing this every time you fold a towel or pick out an outfit:

Just this morning she started getting crabby, obviously needing something. But instead of screaming outright, she gave me this meek little smile, as though she's given up on crying as a way to get her needs met and is resorting to playing cute games for attention. How can someone be passive aggressive at TWO MONTHS?

Give me plain old aggressive any day.

You must understand my obsession

2008-01-23T18:11:00.000-08:00

I woke this morning to a four year old standing at the foot of my bed.
"ssst"
"SSSssst!"
"Yes, Tallulah?"
"Mommy, it's morning and I have no pants on."
"Why?"
"Come here. I want to show you something."

What an ominous beginning to a day. Horror movies use less foreshadowing. I follow Tallulah into the bathroom where 12 rolls of toilet paper are stacked tall like the Eiffel tower....ok, Tower of Pisa, pajama pants and night diapers are on the floor, and the toilet is full of poop.

"...then it was on my foot and I wiped it with my finger and..."Tallulah was saying as I tried to make sense of the scenario with sleep-bleary eyes.
"Wait, what was on your foot?"
"Poop. I sat down and poop got from my butt to my foot. I wiped my foot with my finger and poop was on it. Then I wiped my finger on my leg-- here-- and poop got there, too. Then I played with my toys."

I don't even know where to begin cleaning this house, but my obsession with showers and personal cleanliness is becoming understandable, no?

Cleanliness is my new Obsession

2008-01-22T20:22:00.000-08:00

I took a shower today.

And before you applaud or sigh in relief or any other comical response I would normally find oh-so-funny if I didn’t constantly smell like baby spit and diapers, today’s shower is amazing because I didn’t have to

A. sing the entire time to assure my baby that I still exist and she was not, in fact, alone in the universe.

B. turn the temperature of the water just a touch colder than I like because some little girl decided at the last minute to join me. Or

C. have the following conversation while drafts of cold air enter my shower space:
“Have you seen my sweater?”
“What sweater?”
“You know, the black one with the shoulder detailing.”
“Do I know that sweater?”
“Yeah, you know I wore it to that party we went to with the girl you like.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“No, you know, that party, at the house with the thing…come one, you have to remember.”
“I have no idea what party. Or what sweater. Can I finish my shower now?”
Stomps off grumpy, leaving the bathroom door open so any bit of my body not directly in the water stream gets hit with cold air.

But not today. Today I got clean without interruption, without frenzy, and without compromising my temperature preference. So, how did I get this amazing shower? The YMCA. After strollerobics I put both kids in childwatch and took a leisurely shower. Which means I’m using a gym locker room as my personal spa and retreat. My life is sooooo glamorous. This is truly NOT what I imagined adult life would be when I was 12. But I’m not going to think about it too much because I’m clean, I got some exercise, my kids were not neglected, and I’m feeling pretty damned relaxed. It’s a good day.

I just hope I don’t get athlete’s foot.

I'm so clean, it's disturbing

2008-01-20T19:59:00.000-08:00

A friend suggested I share this email I sent her earlier and since I've got no other parenting stuff to write about, despite my aggressive, 24 hour a day parenting schedule, here goes:

you know that joke Sarah Silverman makes about how, when you take a shower with your boyfriend, your breasts will come out sparklingly clean? Tonight I discovered that it is also true when you take a shower with tallulah. Sparkling.

Actually, I take that back. I do have parenting stuff to write about.

Last week or so, I wrote about how my husband's Gung Fu practice was causing a dilemma: schedule it in the evenings and make me crazy with no help during our family witching hour, or make him (and me) miss doing a fun activity altogether. Kent and I negotiate our down time and now, with the addition of Moxie, are going through a completely new cycle of negotiation. Because both solutions were sacrifices, we kept going around with it until Kent came up with the brilliant solution of asking his sensai to change the class time. He did and now Kent's practice is at 8:30 and he can help me put Tallulah to bed before he goes. Yay.

There is some kind of moral here about negotiation and communication and expressing your needs, but I've been in uber-parenting mode all day with a limit-pushing four year old and all of my cause and effect processing has been whittled away by the word, "why."

"No, you can't have another muffin."
"Why"
"Because you've already had three"
"why?"
"Because mommy is weak willed"
"why"
"Hmm, I don't know. Low self esteem? A pathological need for love and acceptance?"

I have to post this now because my computer time is officially over. I just heard Moxie fill her diaper and I'm across the room from her.

Hallucinations

2008-01-11T19:30:00.000-08:00

After six weeks of four interrupted hours of sleep a night, I'm starting to hit the wall. I'm hallucinating bugs flickering around in my periphery and my eye keeps twitching.

Yesterday I fell asleep at Whole Foods. We stopped for an afternoon snack of chocolate cookies-- Tallulah, Moxie, and me. While Tallulah munched her cookie and played at the activity tables, I sat and jiggled Moxie to sleep. The next thing I know, I'm jerking awake as my arm goes limp. Thankfully, I jerked awake before Moxie took a header to the floor.

I'd really like to slow down a bit, but I don't know how. I set a precedent of being able to manage and now I have a bunch of goals and to do lists to maintain. Plus, everybody keeps telling me how awesome I'm doing with two kids and I'm kind of basking in the praise. I think I'll just keep going at this pace and claim I have narcolepsy. And tie my sling a little tighter.

I'm a person-- a really sore person

2008-01-08T13:49:00.000-08:00

My arms hurt so badly I don't want to carry Moxie around. And we had a bad sleeping night last night so I'm overtired. Parenting is such a roller coaster-- one minute everything is happy and glowy and the next minute, I want to throw myself out the window. Thankfully, I have no strength in my legs for jumping.

I'm a person again! And Moxie is turning into one!

2008-01-07T18:47:00.000-08:00

This week marks the six week postpartum point. Which means, working out is back in and sex is back on the table. Not literally--figuratively as in, medically approved.

So to celebrate I went to strollerobics and I feel great! Tallulah is back in school, I've got an endorphin high, and to top it all off, Moxie gave me a great big smile-- her first!-- in the middle of the sit-ups portion if class. This whole recovery from childbirth is going smoothly. I can tell that it is much different from my recovery from Tallulah because of the little old ladies.

Little old ladies have been mobbing me everywhere I go.
"Oh, she's beautiful. Let me tell you about my grandchildren."
"Oh, so tiny. Here's a picture of my three year old grandson."
Then they come at me and my tiny, beautiful baby with their grandma claws-- and they don't care if she's sleeping or in a swaddle or even nursing. Just today, I was having lunch while Moxie had lunch and a grandma came up to me, had a discussion about-- what else-- her grandchildren, comented on my nursing my daughter, "Oh, it makes them so healthy-- all my granchildren were nursed" then reached for the blanket covering my slurping daughter and naked breast. Are you kidding, lady?

I carry my babies in a sling and with Tallulah I felt that the sling helped delineate my dancing space. As in, my baby is attached to me, so you need my permission to touch. But it turns out that a much more effective force field was my harried look, unwashed hair, and ability to burst into tears at the approach of a stranger. Cuz these ladies don't care if my sling is strapping my child to my chest, my breast, I could probably strap her to my ass and they would still be trying to grab a handful.

The best were these two encounter:
*The drunk woman at a holiday party who bemoaned the fact that Moxie was sleeping because, "I just want to hold that little thing, squeeze her and cuddle her!" Like I'm going to pass my baby around at a party full of DRUNKS.
*The little old lady at brunch who said these memorable words, "Enjoy them while they're little like this. Soon enough they'll just grow up, tear your heart out, and leave you."

I should hook those two ladies up. And stop washing my hair.

Moxie speaks!

2008-01-05T18:02:00.000-08:00

I set Moxie down in her crib while she was in her happy babbling time and ran off to fold some laundry. From the other room I heard her say "Ahh!" so I called to her that I was coming and a couple seconds later I heard "Ahh!" again, a bit louder. Again, I called out to her that I was coming. This happened a couple more times with her calling out to me and being satisfied by hearing my voice. By the time I went back to her crib, she was making her crabby, I'm about to scream face. As soon as she saw me, her face relaxed and she started babbling, more quietly than she was yelling "Ahh."

It really seemed like communication. She's only five weeks! It's official, she's a genius.

Time moves erratically

2008-01-05T16:54:00.000-08:00

Moxie, unlike Tallulah as a baby, has a pattern and schedule. Every hour and a half to two hours she goes through a cycle: Wake up, eat, look around and kick and coo a bit, then get crabby needing to fall asleep, moving and rocking to fall asleep, sleep.

Wake up, repeat.

But time keeps doing weird things. Like yesterday, I was at a friend's house, nursed Moxie before we left and a couple minutes after we got home, she was hungry again. She can't be hungry, I thought. But then I thought about what really happened: Nursed Moxie (20 minutes)
Grabbed my diaper bag, found keys and phone, wrestled shoes and socks onto Tallulah and hustled her out the door (15 minutes)
Strapped Moxie into her seat, chased Tallulah off the front yard tree swing and into her seat (10 minutes)
Drive home (20 minutes)
FPL trimming the Oak tree in front of my house. Take Tallulah to look at the guys tied to the high branches and the wood chipper (10 minutes)
Tuck Tallulah into bed for her nap with a story and a song (15 minutes)
Moxie wakes up, ready to eat.
Total time elapsed: 1 and 1/2 hour

So I keep trying to do things, simple things, like spend time with Tallulah or write this blog in between feedings and rocking/walking Moxie to sleep. But then she starts doing cute baby things like cooing and babbling and I can't miss that, can I? So, the bottom line is, I keep getting surprised by the speed and whimsy of the clock. And I can't get anything done.

My dilemma

2008-01-03T16:27:00.000-08:00

*The Best Day*

Saturday Kent, the girls, and I went to the local Farmers' Market as part of our New Year's resolution to eat fresh and local as much as possible. We stopped at the french pastry shop downtown and got Tallulah a pastry for breakfast, bought ourselves a couple of coffees, and wandered the stalls looking at brightly colored fruits and veggies. We had a grocery list, but of course made a few impulse purchases: bright red, perfectly ripe strawberries, a cup of freshly squeezed orange juice, a balloon animal made by a man who shamelessly hawked his wares to our four year old.

When Moxie needed attention, Kent rocked her while Tallulah and I chose veggies. Tallulah helped count the sweet potatoes (4), choose the best strawberry container, and sniffed the fresh flowers. We chatted with vendors, scurried out of the way of tourists (recognizable by their inability to make eye contact as they tried to cut in front of us in line), and repeated endlessly, "thanks, she's one month. Yes, we think she's beautiful, too."

The day made me feel that life as a family of four wasn't just possible, it might be enjoyable.

*The Worst Day*

Tuesday Kent left for Gung Fu at 6:30pm, leaving me to put Tallulah to bed at Moxie's worst time of day. Don't get me wrong, Moxie is absolutely fine in the evenings as long as someone
A. holds her
B. keeps her tightly swaddled
C. walks briskly
D. pats her on the bottom or back
and
E. makes shushing noises

We figured out the combination from Harvey Karp's "Happiest Baby on the Block" book and it truly does work, but how do you care for an older child at the same time? In the evenings when Moxie needs the whole combo to be happy, Kent and I trade off-- one is with baby, one is with older child.

On my first evening as sole provider, Moxie spent a lot of time unhappy, Tallulah got to bed late and with less storytime than usual, and I cussed Gung Fu for existing-- and Kent, too, just for good measure.

*The Dilemma*

Kent's Gung Fu instruction has been variable lately, alternating between evenings and Saturday mornings. He loves the instruction and always comes home peaceful and refreshed. Not to mention the lovely way his arms fill out when he's been exercising regularly. So Gung Fu is absolutely important to his well-being. But the question is, should he do Gung Fu in the evenings at the family's hardest hour or on Saturday mornings, the family's finest hour? Is it better for him to share the burden of the family or complete the perfection of the family? Kent and I, since becoming a family, are constantly weighing the balance of freetime and familytime, chores and play. With Tallulah, we'd gotten the balance down pretty well. Now we're having to renegotiate.

The Top Three Reasons Moxie Captivates Me

2007-12-23T20:49:00.000-08:00

1. She frequently sleeps with her hands over her eyes.

2. Her fingers are so small and seemingly fragile they are translucent.

3. She stubbornly believes that no solid surface can exist directly under her back and insists she is falling when placed upon it, waving her arms frantically and shaking her head back and forth as though searching for something to grasp in her terrifying, non-existent freefall.

Tallulah has her own list.

Escapism, fun for the whole family

2007-12-23T18:35:00.000-08:00

I've been watching movies relentlessly, using breastfeeding as an excuse. I felt guilty about it-- why do I need to escape into movies? why can't I enjoy my new baby and growing family? But my head, my emotions, my nerves-- everything is just over-full right now.

And then I noticed that I wasn't the only one. Kent, the day Moxie was born, decided to clear an overgrown area of our yard. Immediately. We live in Florida and the overgrowth is made up of years, maybe decades, of pepper tree shoots and potato vines. If you've never had the joy of battling these things, let me fill you in: pepper trees cannot be killed and they grow at the speed of sound. So as fast as you can say, "I cut that pepper tree DOWN!" it's already grown back. And potato vines are the glue that hold Florida together. If you pull them long enough, you will actually detach florida from the rest of the united states. We have been battling this area for the six years we've lived at our house. But Kent has found new purpose in the battle. Can't stop the baby crying, but dammit, I can cut the shit out of those pepper trees. And to his credit, he is making amazing progress.

Tallulah is getting into the escapist game, too. Kent and I, a few months ago, watched a couple episodes of Big Love, the polygamy Mormon show. We didn't stick with the show, but it caused quite a few conversation beginning with "if we added another wife/husband from the people we know, who would you want it to be?"

I know you know these conversations. When you're dating, the conversation is "If we had a threesome..." then when you're newleyweds, it's "if money were no object, what kind of house would you want?" I imagine in another decade or so it'll be, "when the kids move out/go to college..."

But Tallulah is getting into it at age four. She's been starting conversations with, "if I had two mommies, I would want them to be..." Or, "If I had three mommies and two daddies..." No, she's not planning adoption by lesbians. She's choosing the adults in her life who would make better parents than us. Or, to be fair, she's imagining what her life would be in other families. Which is not quite the same as telling us our friends are better parents. I think it's just the same escapism Kent and I are experiencing. Because adjusting to life with a baby is difficult and we're all feeling the effects. Not just that we have a new baby who cries a lot and has more needs than the rest of us put together. What none of us realized is that our family of three has to crumble apart like an overcooked cookie before we can build it back up into a family of four. Everything is different now. Our bedtime routines, our hanging out time, the way we communicate with each other-- EVERYTHING. It's disorienting and hard and overwhelming and the only thing any of us can do is watch movies, attack pepper trees, and imagine life in another family.

The only one who isn't mentally escaping from our new circus of four is Moxie. She is alert to any sign of dissatisfaction. "I'm sorry, were you going to put me down?" she says. "I DON"T THINK SO!!!! "

Speaking of....gotta go.

our first experiments in fashion

2007-12-21T13:18:00.000-08:00

see the hair clips? Isn't that why she was born with lots of hair? Why isn't she thrilled?

Pizza face Bonifield

2007-12-14T07:27:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I ate a hamburger and fries from McDonald's. This morning Moxie woke up with pimples all over her face.

Cause, meet effect.

The connection between my eating habits and my babies' behavior/appearance is, thankfully, an obvious one. Well, obvious NOW, now that Tallulah taught me all about it with her babyhood. Tallulah had an allergy to dairy that made her scream for hours on end and could only be assuaged with constant nursing. The allergy went undiagnosed for ten months because her doctor and everyone else said, "Babies cry." And because I spent 20 hours a day with my nipple in her mouth so no one realized the extent of the problem.

Poor Tallulah. She was my Starter Baby. Like the car you learn to drive stick shift in but would never own because you know at any minute the transmission is going to just fall off from the mistakes you made.

But Moxie, now Moxie is going to have a blissful life. Dairy? Off the diet. McDonald's hamburgers? No more! Mommy's diet? Limited, but damn is mommy going to be hot. This baby weight is going to fly off. And isn't that what really matters?

Birthday celebrations-- already

2007-12-12T17:26:00.000-08:00

How is it possible? Moxie is officially two weeks old today. Where did those two weeks go?

Hmm. Well, I could say that it passed in a sleep deprivation haze. That would be true, but only partially. The whole truth is that I have been avoiding my life with a vicious cocktail of Leonardo Dicaprio (I know he's a total douche, but I just watched The Departed-- twice-- and he's an amazing actor. And his topless scenes didn't hurt the film's watchability, either.) and 4am doses of Canada's Next Top Model (for real, there is no better escapism than goofy canadian girls saying things like, "I don't think I did very well, I'm not good at walking"). Because

A.) Tallulah's enthusiasm for Moxie stresses my already shot nervous system and revolves around these three phrases:
"stop touching the baby, she's sleeping"
"don't climb on me, the baby's nursing." and, the one where I feel like the very best parent in the world,
"What did I say? Stop that! Now!"

B.) Moxie has no predictability yet. Which is fine because, hello, newborn. But I can't tell whether the next feeding is going to end with blissful sleeping or a crying jag. And it wouldn't matter so much except for Tallulah needing me to pay attention to her, feed her, take her to school, or any of those other little 'duties' four year olds require.

C.)The last week has established one predictable pattern for Moxie: she hates evenings. This is kind of common for babies and not much of a surprise, but my management technique involves lots of nursing, carrying, bouncing, swinging and pacifier use. But her breastfeeding latch hasn't been great and my nipples have been sore, cracked and bleeding. So marathon nursing was out and pacifiers are out until she gets a better latch. And she hasn't developed a love for any mechanical movement machines like swings or bouncy chairs yet. Which leaves me with carrying, walking, singing, and jumping in the bath with her. Oh, and passing her off to daddy.

D.) Tallulah climbs in bed with us in the middle of the night. She can't go to sleep until she pets Moxie, tells me how cute she is, pets me, snuggles up to both of us, pats my breasts, rubs my stomach, rubs Moxie's head, flings a leg over my hip, steals my covers, and takes over my pillow until I threaten her with eviction at which point she rolls over and does some combination of that to daddy. By this time, Moxie is awake and needs to nurse. Although I do fall asleep while nursing Moxie in bed and I know bed sharing is actually guaranteeing more sleep than most new moms have, I feel like I am always on duty.

Glamorous, right?

All right, my life may not be glamorous, but neither are the lives of goofy canadian girls trying to be 'top models'. And I get to eat chocolate.

Turns out, I'm not going to be pregnant forever.

2007-12-09T20:33:00.000-08:00

Moxie Grey was born November 28th, at 8:53 am.

Everybody is healthy and relatively happy, attempting to settle in to life on the outside/life as a family of four. Details to follow.

Still pregnant

2007-11-16T09:20:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I spent the entire day contracting painfully about ten minutes apart. In the morning I was at Tallulah's preschool being "an owl in the tree" which meant I was observing the class. During storytime I was squirming more than the 3-5 year olds. Should I stay? Should I pull Tallulah early? Is this real labor or just more Braxton-Hicks? If I wait to know for sure its real labor, will I be able to drive myself and Tallulah home safely?

I'm in this weird mind-space where every day I contract regularly and I think, "Is this a good day to go into labor?" I think about where Kent will be, where Grandma is (she's taking Tallulah when labor happens), where my midwife is, whether I've gotten enough rest, etc...

A lot of this is Tallulah. She needs to go places like the park and school and I want to spend quality time with her, but I don't want to be too far away from home since we have to get Tallulah to her grandma's (by 'we' I mean Kent or Grandma will come pick her up.) I don't want to be in hard labor with Tallulah around. I don't want to worry about how she'll react to me in labor. What I want is for the baby's arrival to be joyous and exciting for her, not a realization of the pain mommy goes through.

It's hard to even think about the reality of a BABY because I'm so busy in my head thinking about the timing and the logistics.

Yesterday, in the evening when I was still contracting we shipped Tallulah off to Grandma's and I thought, "ok, this is perfect. The perfect time to go into labor." And then I didn't.

Disequilibrium

2007-11-08T04:57:00.000-08:00

Tallulah is four. I realize that she actually turned four a month ago, but now she is waist deep in the maelstrom of four.

For the past few months we've been having this honeymoon period of calm happiness, but in the back of my mind I kept reminding myself, every two years, every two years. Because all of the parenting books say that every two years, children go through a period of disequilibrium. This is where the phrase 'terrible two's' comes from. In theory, the 'terrible' bit happens every two years as kids move in and out of comfort with their limitations and abilities.

Tallulah's terrible two's started at 18 months and lasted until two and a half years-- she was practically following the textbooks! She needed constant control and limits-- I couldn't say, don't touch that. I had to get up, help her put down the Faberge Egg or whatever it was she was holding with the intent of throwing through the nearest window, and re-direct with a more appropriate activity. And usually take her to the wall for timeout when she threw down with rage.

So I was expecting the fearsome fours or whatever it is they call this stage of disequilibrium. I just wasn't sure what they entailed. By the time four rolls around, most kids have developed their own weird eccentricities so the parenting books aren't as clear about them as they are aout terrible two's.

Let me tell you about four:
Picture a hummingbird in love with one particular flower. It may look motionless, it may refuse to budge from the flower, but it is still in constant motion. This is four.

Here's an example:
Yesterday we go to the park and it's time to leave. As we are walking to the car, Tallulah finds the perfect rock to throw in the pond. "Ok," I say, "one rock and then we have to go."
Unfortunately, the rock goes in a very unsatisfying direction and Tallulah needs to throw a second rock, but better. This rock almost hits some weird garbage in the water and now Tallulah needs to throw another rock to actually hit the weird garbage in the water. This, of course, takes not one rock, but five rocks, at which point mommy is thoroughly tired of waiting for the rock throwing to come to a satisfactory conclusion.
"But mommy, what is that thing in the water?"
"I don't know. Just some garbage."
"Why is that garbage in the water?"
"Um, maybe someone threw it in there. Or someone threw it on the ground and it blew in the water. That's why we always put our garbage in the garbage can."
"Why do we put our garbage in the garbage can?"
"So it doesn't get in the water"
"But that garbage is in the water."
"Because someone didn't put their garbage in the garbage can."
"Why didn't someone put their garbage in the garbage can?"
"Can we go to the car now?"
"One more rock, mommy."

But I can't rush the process because this rock throwing-- and every other excruciatingly time consuming thing that grabs Tallulah's attention-- is Very Important Business. Huge. I think I get important phone calls every now and then, but it is nothing compared to the business of whatever-is-drawing-Tallulah's-attention-this-minute. And if I try to grab her up and move her bodily away from the activity, I no longer get the tantrum or the hissy fit or whatever else she does that I've learned to ignore. I get the lecture.
"Mommy, that wasn't very nice."
"I told you it was time to go."
"Pushing me around is not very nice."
"Not doing what mommy tells you is not very nice either."
"Yes, but you need to be nice and tell me nice things and not push me around."
"Sometimes mommy isn't nice. Deal."
"Yes, mommy, I know. And that isn't good. You need to be nice."

And the thing is, she's not wrong. I do need to be patient with her and let her explore and all that. And being pregnant has helped with it because I can't just scoop her up bodily and whisk her away. But it's so slooooow. I think preschool time may be harder to deal with than toddler time. At least with toddler time I knew she was making a good faith effort to move in the appropriate direction, it just took a long time and she had to do it herself. Now Tallulah has every intention of doing what I want her to do, but after she checks this out. And asks questions about that. Oh, and that reminds her of this other thing she was going to do. And how come this isn't here?

Aah, four.

Sludge Water

2007-10-30T17:56:00.000-07:00

Five Times! I steam-cleaned Tallulah's carpet FIVE TIMES in the past two days and I am still getting thick gray water.

Actually, I take that back. At what point can you no longer call something water? Because I went beyond that. I'm still getting sludge sucked up by the steam cleaner.

Housecleaning for me is generally a comedy of errors. The first time I steam-cleaned Tallulah's room, I borrowed a steam cleaner that a friend had bought at a garage sale.
"I bought it from my neighbor. They assured me it works great. No, I haven't used it, but it'll be fine," I was told.
So I used it. And the first couple of minutes, I thought the black streaks it was leaving behind were just part of the cleaning process. By the time I had gone over the entire room, it was zebra striped with dirt. I had to rent a different machine to get the stripes up, but the carpet has never really recovered.

Tallulah's room is the only carpeted room in the entire house. It's possible that I have no idea how to maintain a carpet because no one I know has this type of problem with stains and dirt stripes and ever-regenerating steam cleaner sludge. In fact, a friend of mine who has wall to wall carpeting has a philosophy of "I'll clean it when I tear up the carpet to refinish the terrazzo." She could not pick out a steam cleaner from a line up. And yet, does her carpet have stains all over it like mine does? Can you see the most common traffic pattern written in dirt? No. My carpet might as well say "Walk here" in dirt, it's so obvious.

This non-carpet cleaning friend is an extreme. At the other end of the extreme is my friend who regularly gets on her hands and knees to scrub the floor with a baby wipe at other people's homes. (usually the non-carpet cleaning friend's home) I know everybody has different cleaning tolerances. We all feel like we straddle the line between "everything's pretty acceptable" and "I can't believe we live like this." I like to think I'm a moderate in the housekeeping category. Sure, when Tallulah first started crawling, I had a hard time deciding who ended up with more cat hair at the end of the day, her or the cat. And I made jokes about making her a onesie and matching knee pads out of swiffer sheets. But then I cleaned up. I vaccuumed and mopped on a semi-regular basis.

So renting the steam cleaner to clean the carpet of the room I'll be putting my new, pristine baby in-- this is normal. But when I started getting sludge, I felt a bit manic.
"I'm going to keep steam cleaning until the water comes up clear!" I declared to my husband. And usually my husband would be the voice of reason and say something like, "Well, why don't you do it a few more times and then see how you feel. You are 36 weeks pregnant, after all. You may not need to steam clean for the next three weeks."

But Kent has an odd fascination with the grossness of life. For instance, sometimes we use ear candles. Ear candles are for ear wax and buildup removal. They're cones: you stick one end in your ear and light the other end on fire. It creates a gentle vaccuum that sucks the crap out of your ear. You extinguish the fire when the candles is still about three inches long and then-- this is the part Kent loves-- you can unroll the candle and look at all the gunk that got yanked out of your ear. It really is fascinating. He loves to see just how much gunk he can get in one sitting. And he got the same way about the steam cleaner.
"You should totally see how long it takes to get clear water! Look at all that dirt!"

After the fifth round-- sixth on the high traffic areas-- I got really tired. And instead of feeling tough and determined when I was dumping the sludge, I started getting weepy.
"Why, why is our house so gross?" I asked my husband, sobbing, as we surveyed the slowly drying, still stained carpet.
"I don't know, baby. What's that smell?"

That smell? The one getting stronger as I type? That would be the smell of mildew. I am never cleaning anything again.

New development: Weekly posts

2007-10-21T14:13:00.000-07:00

Ok, here's why I only made one post last week:

Kent got an ear infection and was a miserable wreck because boys and pain? The opposite of chocolate and peant butter.

Then, I started contracting and continued for two days at ten minutes apart. They weren't terribly bad, but after two days, my whole body was sore. Imagine doing a set of crunches every ten minutes for two days. I totally deserve six pack abs.

Then, I was feeling better and Kent was still feeling crummy so I took Tallulah to a birthday party. All I did was stand around and eat and by the time I got home, my entire body was screaming with pain. Contractions? Tight and tired muscles? Fallout from the previous contractions? I don't know, but my now-patented cocktail and a heating pad remedy was only minimally helpful.

So here I am, behind in my posts, my emails and to-do lists piling up and all I want to do is lay in bed with my heating pad and alternate between reading really trashy romance novels and US Weekly. I don't know why these two forms of entertainment are so appealing-- maybe because they're at the opposite ends of the same spectrum. One is ridiculous and always ends in a happy and fulfilling marriage and the other is ridiculous and always ends in an unhappy marriage (or rehab clinic or shockingly bad couture).

It's possible that the lethargy I'm experiencing is purely because of the shitty week I just had. It's also possible that, as I enter my 35th week of pregnancy, this is how I'll be feeling for the next five weeks.

In honor of my lethargy, I'm proposing weekly posts. Say, on wednesday. I know the pressure will be on to make those weekly posts really great and scintillating, but let's not all get carried away with visions of wit and humor. I'm a little distracted right now.

See you Wednesday!

New study on depression doesn't look good for Mommy

2007-10-15T14:04:00.000-07:00

I just read a report about which jobs have the highest rate of depression. Basically the results show that
A. women have higher rates of depression than men.
B. personal care workers (like child care) in general have higher rates of depression than most other industries. And
C. the highest rates of depression are felt by the unemployed.

So what does this mean for me, a stay-at-home (i.e. unemployed) woman whose primary responsibility is caring for children?

I think this Halloween we should have a candy bowl for the kids and a Prozac bowl for the mommies.

Want to read the report?

We win [laziest] Parents of the Year!

2007-10-11T18:20:00.000-07:00

Tallulah has been in the forty pound range for about eight months. During that time her body has done that weird kid-thing where it totally shifts, morphs, and changes from a toddler body to a kid body. She's leaner and tougher and generally much larger at her four year old 40 pounds than she was at her three and a quarter 40 pounds.

Over the last eight months, Kent and I have often commented that
A.) we should move the straps up to the highest setting and
B.) we should get her a new chair.

Since we agreed that getting a new, 40 pounds and up sized car seat was a smart move for our rapidly growing 40 pounder and moving car seat straps involves a highly complex combination of calculus (to figure out how the straps are supposed to align after being used as twist ties, a straitjacket, and a teether for two years) and calisthenics to get the straps out of the current position and into the new position, we decided to skip the intermediate step of moving the straps and just rush right out and get a new seat.

Fast forward to eight months later: "Rushing right out" has morphed into a comical exchange of "when are you going to get that new carseat?" in a bid between Kent and I to be voted Laziest Parent.

Meanwhile, at sharp turns, Tallulah's seat tilts ever-so-slightly as her 40 pounds gets elongated in the seat. Now, Tallulah, at 40 pounds and four years old, is in the 75% of weight. But, because she is the daughter of a 6'8 father and 6'0 mother, her 43.5 inches puts her off the charts in height and a poor candidate for pushing the 'how far can this car seat take us' limits.

Last night we were taking a drive and Kent took a particularly sharp turn. A couple seconds later, we hear from the backseat, "Daddy, I think I need a new seat."
We look back and see Tallulah and her carseat riding at a 45 degree angle. The buckles and seat belt were holding everything together nicely, but sideways. We pushed the seat back into place and assured Tallulah not to worry, we would get her a new seat.

We're going to rush right out.

I'm a dumbass OR Cussing, part three

2007-10-10T13:36:00.000-07:00

This is how I discovered that my most common cussword is 'dumbass':

Recently at the dinner table while Kent and I talked and Tallulah stared off into space thinking her private thoughts (which I always assume are "Candy. Great big lollipops with the swirly colors all twirled in, purple gummi bears with pink spots....), Tallulah started to whisper "Du...dum...dummie...dumb...dumbass.." then loudly, triumphantly, "Dumbass!"

Forks froze. "Excuse me?"

"Dumbass"

"Where did you hear that?"

"Dumbass"

"Did mom...." "Did Dad..." mutual glaring between the parents.

"Dumbass"

"Ok, ok, that's enough."

"Dumbass." giggle giggle.

Well shit. So we give our patented "hurtful words" speech and spend the rest of the evening hearing about how "somebody else" said dumbass. This is Tallulah's favorite way to get away with bad words. She accuses everyone in the world of saying the word, meanwhile saying the word a few more times.

"Boogey (our dog) called me dumbass! Dumbass Dumbass! He called me Dumbass!"

You smell like pee pee OR Cussing, part two

2007-10-09T16:59:00.000-07:00

Its hard for me to make the cussing rules stick. Its because I find cussing to be an integral part of life. I mean, who the fuck doesn't?

And cussing rules are so arbitrary for kids because they have no concept of social mores. "Its ok to say a computer is stupid, but not to say your friend is stupid." Huh? So we have the Big List of Unacceptable Words. They are as follows:
pee pee
poo poo
stupid
dumb
dumbass (my fault-- apparently this is my most common cuss word. Tallulah picked it up over all others!)

But outlawing these words leaves some questionable social situations. For instance, telling a friend he smells like pee pee is rude, right? But what about when he really does? Poor Tallulah has faced this dilemma. Although I tell her that the appropriate response is to pull her friend aside and whisper, "You're smelling a little not-so-fresh down there. Why don't you ask your mommy to help you with that?" She insists on yelling, "You smell like pee pee! Ha! Pee pee, pee pee, pee pee! I smell pee pee!"

And I have a hard time sticking to the Unacceptable Words List. Have you ever noticed how many times you say stupid in a day? I have a personal auditor now.
"Mommy, you said stupid."
"I did? When"
"Just now on the phone. You said, 'stupid goddamn crap.' You're not supposed to say stupid."
"You're right, baby. I'm sorry."

Does Elmo look like a bitch?

2007-10-08T16:37:00.000-07:00

Saturday Tallulah asked to watch Potty Elmo, a dvd we got when she was two to help with potty training. She hasn't seen it in about a year and, in the meantime, potty words have had big discussion in our house. We've relegated potty words like pee pee and poo poo to the bathroom (as well as hurtful kid-words like stupid and dumb) which means that many times Tallulah enters the bathroom merely to shout out her 'cuss words.'
She's such a badass rebel.

Now, in the Elmo movie, potty words are used A LOT because they're talking about actually going potty. There's even a ten minute segment where a bunch of kids use all of their different words for the acts. So they're yelling, "Pee pee!" "Poopy!" "Doo Doo!"... you get the idea.

But by the way Tallulah's face showed surprise, then shock, then glee, watching this movie was the equivalent to watching Pulp Fiction for the first time. To a parental ear, the movie says "Lets put pee pee and poo poo in the potty!" To Tallulah, they might as well have been saying, "Does Marsalis Wallace look like a bitch? Then why are you trying to fuck him like one?"

Which is funny because 'real' cusswords don't register with her at all. I was at a friend's house and she was showing me something in the bathroom when her baby and Tallulah followed us into the bathroom. We didn't notice until we heard the splashing-- baby was playing with toilet water.

"FUCK!" my friend yells as she grabs the baby before hand can connect with mouth. Tallulah doesn't flinch. And when my friend apologizes a minute later to her for using a bad word, Tallulah looks quizzically at her and asks, "Did you say 'stupid'?"

my rookie parenting mistake

2007-10-04T13:38:00.000-07:00

I made a rookie mistake. The other day when I received a toy catalog in the mail, I handed it over to a panting Tallulah. She loves toy catalogs the way I love my Ikea catalog—we can often be found on opposite ends of the couch, studying the pages of our respective catalogs meticulously. Any day now, Tallulah will demand yellow stickies to mark her pages, too.

But this catalog came in September, just before her birthday and while I was trying to do some pre-second baby Christmas shopping. My typical holiday shopping technique is to wait until the week before Christmas and then frantically pull all-nighters with my computer and my credit card. But my baby is due at the end of November and it seemed sensible to attempt this whole “planning ahead” thing I’ve heard so much about. So I casually told Tallulah that if she saw anything she really liked in the catalog, to let me know.

Why didn’t anyone tell me to never say something like that? Or is this a commonsense bit of parenting? Because as soon as I said those magic words to Tallulah, she began her litany of gimmes.

“Mommy, look at this dolly. I like this dolly.”
“Oh, and this playhouse. I like this playhouse.”
“Oh, Mommy. Did you see these barbies? I love these barbies.”
“Mommy, I think these horses should be my presents.”

Twenty minutes later we were still on the first three pages.

“Tallulah, sweetie, how about you narrow it down to the best five toys in the catalog?”
“Ok, mommy. Ooh, here’s one. And this one, this one is two.”

I took a five minute potty break when we got to choice number four and by the time I exited the bathroom, my husband was rolling his eyes.

“She’s up to eleven picks. Great game you started, mommy!”

Finally I sat down with her to really look at the items catching her eyes. After all, I have been known to have the same response to J.Crew and Pottery Barn catalogs. Not to mention the love of my life, Ikea.

“You like this dolly, Tallulah? What do you like about it?”
“Oh, she’s so cute. And look at her hair!”
“Yes, she is cute. She looks like a big baby! What else do you like about her?”

Pretty soon, Tallulah was enthusiastically and poetically describing the positive attributes of all the toys within the pages of the catalog. We got chatting about the merits of toys in general and what she finds particularly exciting about different toys and which toys she could really live without-- namely blocks, trucks, and other ‘boy-ish’ toys. Break a feminist momma’s heart, Tallulah! After a twenty minute conversation, Tallulah seemed to have exhausted her toy enthusiasm. She put down the catalog and started playing with the toys at hand and I left for other, more adult pursuits. (Ok, I went to my room to read the Ikea catalog again. I never said I was immune to commercialism.)

My disappointing bellybutton

2007-10-03T18:23:00.000-07:00

Here I am, 32 weeks pregnant and has my bellybutton popped out? Do I have a cutie outie? No. And its never going to happen. Tallulah was 9pounds, 3ounces and my belly button remained a dark hallway to my soul. What would it take for me to get an outie? A 15 pound baby?

I want my body to be cute and charming: a button nose, ringlet curls, a light sprinkling of freckles. Pregnancy was my LAST chance for adorable foibles. But I am not adorable. I am dark, deep, and mysterious.

In my bellybutton.

Its Fall!

2007-09-30T12:42:00.000-07:00

Its officially Florida fall because there is a cool breeze blowing and we've opened all of our windows to enjoy it. After my big belly, sweaty summer I'm feeling this weather change profoundly. Its actually not cool enough to have the windows open AND do anything so I'm taking this opportunity to lay around catching up on my favorite radio program, Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me while Kent cusses under his breath and cleans house. (Yes, ladies, my husband cleans house while I lay on my bed listening to his Ipod. AND he's making me sushi for dinner tonight. AND he's a sexy beast. Fair warning, though: my pregnancy hormones are in such an advanced state that if you look at his ass, I'll pop your head off using just my thumbs.)

I probably shouldn't end this entry with such a silly threat. I mean, I'm a six foot, 200+ pound pregnant woman. My ability to respond to familial threats with the ferocity of a rhino should be kind of apparent, right? Its like crossing the street or parking lot. I don't worry anymore about how fast I waddle into Publix. There's no excuse for a car to hit me.
"Um, I didn't see her!"
"You didn't see the 6 foot, 200+ pound pregnant woman waddling across the parking lot? Turn around so I can get the handcuffs on you."

I should, instead, write about celebrating Tallulah's birthday yesterday and how cute she was, including a charming anecdote about how she got so excited when we were singing 'Happy Birthday' to her that she turned to me and hugged me-- like she just had to do SOMETHING with her excitement level. Or how she said her favorite part of the day was playing on the playground with her friends and cousin, as though she doesn't play with her friends on at least a weekly basis (and opposed to the annual event of cake+presents+singing+balloons)

But I'm getting overheated with all this typing. Its FLORIDA fall, after all. Its still 85 degrees.

In the third trimester, I'm far from nausea

2007-09-28T08:40:00.000-07:00

I'm being led around by my stomach. Besides the obviousness of my huge stomach preceding me into rooms and around corners, its also guiding all my actions.

Today I was preparing for Tallulah's fourth birthday. She wants a ladybug birthday so I thought I'd go get some real ladybugs-- I'd seen them at Home Depot awhile back. So I go to Home Depot and I ask if they have ladybugs. No, they say. We stopped carrying them a couple months ago. Oh, well, I'll just take a hot dog from the hot dog stand, then.

They suggested I try Target's garden center across the road.
Do you have ladybugs? I ask the garden center.
No.
Oh. Are those soda flavored jelly belly jellybeans?

And they were. Root Beer, 7-Up, Orange Crush, Grape Soda, and Dr. Pepper flavored. Um, yes, please. They are awesome. Of course, pregnancy for no rational reason makes me appreciate soda in ways I never do when non-pregnant. I LOOOOVE Dr. Pepper with this pregnancy. But I don't want a flipper baby so I try to stifle my urge to chug 2 liters daily.

Another amazing candy discovery with this pregnancy? Cherry cordial flavored hershey's kisses. I think I will love these even when I'm not pregnant. Unlike the Dr. Pepper. I usually hate Dr. Pepper-- its a beverage Kent gets when he doesn't want to share with me.

So, a hot dog and bag of jelly bellies later, I'm leaving Target and I have to pass by a Pizza Hut kiosk next to the exit. Ooh, they have little personal pan pizzas all made up, ready for me. No, no, I tell myself. You must resist! And I do. But don't feel too proud of me. I was only able to resist because I knew I had a frozen pizza waiting for me at home for lunch.

Perpetually Sticky

My Mom Body

The difference is shoes

Ah, sweet mystery of love at last I've found you

The zenith of cute

My name is Kellie, and I am a self-torturer

Sick in the head

Moxie and the curse of the second child

womanly advice

Tallulah's bad haircut is good for me

Broccoli Blues

The Tide is High

Dinnertime and the livin' is easy

It's Tuesday, not perspective day

Dirty, like I'll never be clean again

Squinting

My zen moment

Hot Guy Day

What the Hell Wednesday: Tylenol

The full moon

What the Hell Wednesday: The Joys of High Fructose Corn Syrup

Perfectly Imperfect

Tonight=Happy

Being rich is for suckers

I'm a vegetable, bite me.

What the Hell Wednesday: Martha Stewart and cooking with kids

On the other hand...

Because typing doesn't leave bruises

The tooth fairy, however, is lovely and gracious

How fairies have been pissing me off

How Fairies Have been pissing off Tallulah: Part 2

How fairies have been pissing off Tallulah: Part 1, the doctor dilemma

Naval Gazing

Returning to work; the marriage

Baa! Moo! Mommy!

The soundtrack of my life

Post Traumatic Ranting

working mom blues

Florida Sky

What the Hell Wednesday: Safety Scissors

My Odd Porn

Larry, Curly, Mo, and Moxie

Life Cycle of Moxie

what the hell wednesday: microwaves and plastic

Something Import-net

The internal debate of a crappy housekeeper

Working Mom

What the Hell Wednesday- Dry Drowning

I amaze me

Mom Body

Saturday Night Live skit

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

Tallulah-isms

I am in your kitchen eating your quiche

Tilt-A-Whirl Mama

Preschool Pariah, part 2

Preschool Pariah

Late night conversations

Friday Haiku

Mayor of CrazyTown

The Family Pet

Happy Mother's Day to me

Friday Haiku

Haiku Practice

The difference between mothers and fathers

Serious, boring me

Ok, Kid's music has some redeeming value

Thunder Thighs

Fear Factor Parenting

Just the Facts, Ma'am

Psychological Experiments

Worried about my parenting skills

You must understand my obsession

Cleanliness is my new Obsession

I'm so clean, it's disturbing

Hallucinations

I'm a person-- a really sore person

I'm a person again! And Moxie is turning into one!

Moxie speaks!

Time moves erratically