Thirty Six looks like this

I don't know what it is about birthdays but mine always suck. The last great birthday I can remember was when I turned 14. My friend Andrea and I planned my own surprise party and no one figured it out. Ever. All our friends came over right before school started and we swam and played silly games in the backyard and danced around. There was a big cake and singing and music and it was a FRIGGIN BIRTHDAY PARTY. The kind that celebrates your BIRTH. Best day that ever was. Since then, it's been hit or miss and mostly miss. Last year my plan to spend the day with my husband was quashed when my son started begging me not to leave him at preschool and I had a total come apart in a lovely cafe. Although I did make a list of everything I wanted to change in my life and short of a four bedroom house, I pretty much did everything else (note to self: must make new list for this year).

So this was my day yesterday. I wake up and the house is having post vacation stress syndrome. Everything is everywhere. I have the kids for the the last day of summer before they start their new school (which was today and went fairly smoothly). We have to be at the new school by 9:00 for some meet and greets with kids and teachers. I hustle the kids into the car and we're off. Instead of playing with the other kids and exploring their new surroundings my kids play with each other and even that is a lie because that mostly fight over who gets to put the doll in the oven over at the play kitchen. No big deal. I hadn't expected much more than that. Then we go over to the JCC membership office and I have to fill out some paperwork. Meanwhile my kids are running up and down the stairs throwing my daughter's rat Julio at each other. I call them to go and my son hucks Julio way up and he gets stuck on a beam that crosses the window about 14 feet off the ground. Fabulous. So I climb the stairs and hoist my 36-year old ass up on top of this beam and walk across to get the goddamn rat. I can't even describe what I'm talking about because it is so ridiculous. But instead of just laughing it off, which would have been fine, I get annoyed with my son and tell him as much. Now he's unhappy. We leave and they fight over who gets to push the elevator button and I let both of them have it in the car. So it's only 10:30 and I've already lost my temper twice today. Nice.

Now we go to Starbucks because at the very least I deserve to have some coffee. We run into two of my kids' teachers from the old school who they were thrilled to see but instead of being cute and charming they start acting squirrely and whining (chanting actually) about wanting vanilla milk and a morning bun, which Starbucks has run out of. We finally leave and head north because I have a rush order to drop off at a shop in San Francisco. Both kids sleep on the way which affords me 50 minutes of much-needed quiet after essentially three weeks straight with my kids. And I have the pen in my eye to prove it.

We arrive and deliver the goods. I have a second cousin who works there so we meet her for a few minutes. After about ten minutes my daughter wants to leave so we say our goodbyes and in the elevator on the way down they have another fight about the button so I lose my temper AGAIN. At this point my threshold for ridiculous behavior is at an all time low. And even though I've promised to take them to the big carousel by Yerba Buena Gardens I tell them we're going straight home. So they wail for about five minutes and then stop crying long enough for me to reconsider. We find a place to park and even though I have $39 in change, that only buys me twenty minutes of parking so we run as fast as we can up three flights of stairs and across the park to the carousel. They ride twice and I get some more change so we can book it back down to the car and feed the meter another $47 so that I can have thirty more minutes for my kids at the park.

On the way back up the three flights of stairs my daughter tells me that she has to pee and since it's been about six hours since she peed last I waste no time lifting her dress and pulling down her undies as I scoop her up and over a bush in a secluded corner of the park. She pees and pees and pees for a very long time and what ever doesn't land on the bush has landed on my shoe. Not a problem. I wipe my foot on the grass and roll my eyes. I've reached that point in motherhood that piss on my shoe is totally unremarkable. I'm not even sure why I mentioned it.

We finally head back to the car and I drive home with kids but midway through the journey my daughter tells me that she wants to hear her favorite song on the radio. She doesn't understand that I don't control the radio. And who can blame her since it's true that I control everything else in the universe. Just not the radio. I frankly don't even know what her favorite song is though I have a feeling that it is Happy Birthday since she makes me sing that every day to everyone we know while I'm putting her hair in a ponytail. It's the only way she'll let me touch her hair. And since Happy Birthday was not on any station, I just left Lady Gaga on the dial to which my daughter made clear this was NOT her favorite song and for the next 15 minutes, no matter what I did - open the windows, blare the music, explain patiently about this whole radio concept, she shrieked over and over again: MY WANT MY FAVORITE SONG!

We finally get home and no one wants to nap. I feed them and then try to get some work done while they're fighting playing. At 5:00 I take them to the car wash, an activity that is satisfying for all because the car gets clean, the kids get to ride the penny pony (a much better deal than metered parking in San Francisco) and everyone gets popcorn. It's really the best show in town.

We drive home around 6:00 and my husband is waiting for us. I give him the "take these kids before I kill myself" look and he asks how my day was. I tell him it was fine and burst into tears. Then I see the half dozen roses he bought me. Pretty. I leave and go to Target to buy my kids thermoses for their first day of school and some other stuff we need for the house. Then I get my eyebrows waxed so now my eyebrows are as red and puffy as my eyes and I'm looking my most gorgeous. By the time I get home it's time to sing my kids to sleep, which I do. And while I'm doing that my husband makes me an (amazing totally delicious) omelet. We spend some time with each other which helps to erase a lot of my crappy day and then we go to bed. And that's how I turned thirty-six.

Next year I'm throwing myself a surprise birthday party. Don't tell anyone.

Fuzzy is good

You know why digital television sucks? It's because now we get probably forty crystal clear channels, none of which I want to watch. We don't have cable so over the last five years I have grown accustomed to watching only shows on NBC, ABC and PBS. They came in fuzzy but good enough to watch the occasional show. We didn't watch much but if I happened to be home for the four o'clock hour, I'd catch a little Oprah. Or a little late night with Leno. Maybe the news with the news team I recognize.

But times change and we are forced to march begrudgingly toward the future. And the future, my friends, is digital. So we got our subsidized converter box for our 2002 RCA 22-inch fat-screen television. We even bought a new flat antenna so that at least something related to the TV would be flat. We hooked everything up per the instructions. We pressed the button to make the television scan all available channels. So now we get twelve Korean language stations, seven Spanish language stations, a NASA channel (to my husband's utter delight), CBS , the CW and a bunch of other local stations (like the radio - who the hell listens to the radio on the television?) The channels so obviously missing from this line-up are ABC and NBC. How the hell am I going to watch LOST if it ever comes back on the air? What if I want to catch an episode of Days of Our Lives (which I have been watching three or four times a years since 1986 and, miraculously, can still follow)? I'm screwed! I got nothing! Sure, we still have PBS. Only now we have like six PBS channels and I can't figure out which one is what. And none of them have Animal Planet.

Yes, I have tried moving the antenna and reprogramming. Nothing brings back my channels. Plus, did I mention, now that there are fourteen things hooked up to our television to make the damn thing work including our toaster and my hair dryer, the DVD player doesn't work?

I bet it's a right wing conspiracy to get me to learn Korean. OK uncle! 삼촌! Just give me back Oprah.

The Perfect Storm

And I'm not weathering it well. In fact, I am having a major come-apart. So if you read about our Thanksgiving weekend you know that we were hit from behind by a drunk driver which turned into a serious pain in the neck. Literally. Two days later I found myself at a chiropractor's office. Then the next day I had a previously scheduled minor surgery to remove what was left of a mole on my upper abdomen, determined by my dermatologist to contain some funky cells. This visit would require stitches. So she cuts everything out and sews me up with six stitches.

Now when I go back to the chiropractor there's not a ton they can do since it's painful for me to lay on my belly. Meanwhile my neck pain has subsided because my belly is so sore. That's good right? But then I've been so careful not to further tweak my neck or pull out any stitches on my abdomen, I throw out my lower back. Now my belly is hurting less, but I can hardly walk. Maybe I should feel lucky that my pain receptors can only focus on one thing at a time.

This happened once before (throwing out my back). It was ten years ago. So what did I do? I called in sick. I stayed home for three days. I slept and read all day with a cozy hot water bottle relaxing my back muscles. It was delightful. What am I doing this time around? Let's see. I'm lifting 60 pounds of children into my car and wrenching over to secure their seatbelts. I'm sitting at my desk all day typing. I'm putting my two year old in and out of her high chair. I'm making dinner, doing the dishes, folding laundry, straightening the house and watching The Berenstain Bears with my kids (that part's actually nice - although I can barely get out of the couch once I'm in there). Indeed my husband is doing more than his share, but there's just so much. It's enough for three people.

So how is my back, four days later? Worse. And how does that make me feel? Grumpy and resentful. That is why this morning when I was trying to get my squirrely kids out of the house I snapped at them—even my daughter who shines sunlight from her ass most of the time. I was all bent over and twisted trying to get her diaper on and his pants on and they were whining and crying so I just barked at them which made them cry more. It was awful. I'm just in so much pain and everything I have to do for them causes more pain. And all of it together—the accident, the neck, the surgery, the stitches, the back, not to mention the stress of figuring out which elementary school to send my son next year or if even to send him at all—has me coming apart at the seams. Specifically my newest seam, the one three inches above my belly button. Stitches come out Friday.

The 34 hour day

Almost two weeks have past since we returned from Israel and it's only now that I'm ready to remember the horror of the return flight. We'd had such a terrific time. Saw all of our people. Spent a day in Jerusalem, a day in Yafo, a few days in the Galil, a good amount of time with grandparents and family. And I myself had packed down an inordinate amount of shwarma. Even for me. And the weather was ridiculously good. Unseasonably warm for winter. Perfect fall weather actually. It was excellent.

And the kids had behaved beautifully. Especially our son, who is wont to ignore his grandfather, have tantrums in public and say no to nearly everything except chocolate milk. He was great in fact. Enjoyed his grandparents very much, played with the kids of our friends, and slept in several different locales. He even ate falafel, which I referred to as "falafel nuggets." Whatever works.

It was only in the last few days of the trip when our baby girl started having diarrhea that we started to get anxious about the trip home. At first I thought it was just a one-off thing. But two days and a very sore bottom later we knew we were looking at a nasty stomach bug, the likes of which we'd never encountered. Our son never had one. Well he had Rota virus but it was a mild case. So we were not prepared for what all would go down in the days to come. Or come up, as it were.

In fact it was already several days that she was not herself at all. Our perfect little baby girl became super grouch. Very whiny, very picky. It caught us so off-guard, I didn't even stop to think she could be ill. I just assumed our girl had gone to the dark side early and that we should just hunker down and prepare for the terrible twos. How idiotic is that.

So it was January 3rd when we woke up at 3:30 am to get ready for the drive to the airport for our 7:30 am flight home via New York. Twelve hours on a plane to New York - essentially ALL DAY LONG - which we knew, even with a best case scenario, would only yield a short nap or two. No hope for a five or six hour sleep. And the thing about a day flight going west is that it just keeps being day and more day and more day. It freaking never gets dark. So even with two healthy kids the flight is a bear. But a sick kid brings it to whole new level of discomfort.

About an hour into the flight our daughter seemed to be fairing well. She actually seemed starving, which she hadn't been in days so we took that for a good sign. We gave her yogurt, which she loves. Dairy in a sour belly. What the hell were we thinking. About a half hour after gobbling up a whole yogurt she started making faces and whining. Then crying and needing to be held. Not even her trusty rat Julio could soothe her. It was then that, with Julio close by, she barfed up all of her yogurt.

Suddenly there's vomit all over the floor, all over me, all over her, all over Julio and I'm running to the back of the plane yelling BARFING BABY! I NEED HELP! I get to the flight attendant station and they give me a paper towel. PAPER TOWEL??!! People I need a wet rag! I need a a tub of warm water! I need a biohazard disposal kit!

At this point I have to make clear that vomit is not my thing. I'm pretty good with other gross fluids, but vomit...not a favorite. So I'm trying to wipe her up and comfort her while taking off my sweatshirt and dealing with the rat who is now defiled. I bring her back to our seat and give her to my husband while I get her new clothes. Meanwhile my son has peed in his pants. Are you KIDDING me? So I get him new clothes too and now the plastic bio waste bag is nearly full.

Once everyone is changed and clean we begin to realize we have another ten hours on the plane and no rat. Julio is in the bio waste bag too because he is in a state of serious disrepair. And spare Julio is in the luggage hold. Note to self... So we take turns doing laps with our girl for the next six hours because she can't really sleep without her rat. And by now she's starving because we have nothing to feed her. She's even resorted to nursing again even though she weaned herself four days before. Anyway, we finally relent and give her a small bottle of formula though this time I drape myself in an El Al blanket. Half an hour later she's barfing all over me again. So we change her into the last set of clothes I have on the plane and while this is going on my son pees in his pants AGAIN!. This was not expected. I mean, the kid is potty trained for the love of jesus. Could someone please cut me a break here!

By now the bio bag is stuffed full of nasty clothes and my husband is now fighting waves of nausea - same bug apparently. We finally land at JFK and get through immigration. My husband runs to the toilet and I wait for the bags. I retrieve the spare Julio and things start to look up a bit. Hubby returns, I change into a new set of clothes, we get the kids into pajamas because even though it's 2 in the afternoon in New York, it's 9 pm for them. We come to find that our flight has been delayed two hours because of horrible weather in San Francisco so we camp out in a corner of the airport and after some chicken nuggets and french fries we all go to sleep for a few hours. The next flight is only six hours but by this point we are so wrecked I for one am basically hallucinating about my bed. I'm also fighting a gnarly sinus infection. By the time we finally get home and get everyone to bed we have been traveling for nearly 34 hours.

But the kicker is that no less than 30 hours later we are back on a plane flying to my mom's house for my friend's wedding, in which I am a bridesmaid. Bridesmaid of Frankenstein, more like it, between the bags under my eyes, and my zombie-like stare.

So I have to wonder if it was all worth it. I mean, we have friends in Israel whose kids have never even been on a plane let alone flown halfway around the world and back. It's such a small country, if you flew for an hour you'd be in Turkey. And I don't think they're lesser people for having missed the "flying with kids" experience. That said, and with all things being equal, I'd do it again. Even with the vomit I'd make the trip again. Time with grandparents is precious and the memories created, unlike the vomit stains, last a lifetime. People joke because my husband's first initial is M and mine is S. Together we're S&M. But it's the truth. We are a glutton for punishment - both inflicting and suffering. Bring it on, I say.

Is this legal?

Lessons from a Temporary Diabetic

I'm going back to work in a few weeks and I still need to shed a few baby pounds. In fact, I'm actually down to my pre-pregnancy weight but it's all accumulated in new places. Like my gut. And my boobs. I'm okay with the boob part since the "Breastaurant" is still open 24/7. But what the hell am I supposed to do about my gut. My old clothes basically fit I guess, if I were into the "shoved myself into these pants" look. Not super professional.

I'm just not a good dieter. I mean, if there are chocolate raisins in the house, and there are, then I will eat them. And if there are not, I will buy them. And I get super hungry toward the end of the day. Like right now. It's 10pm and all I want is a bowl of cereal. And that's after eating yummy salmon, fresh corn, cous cous and some salad.

But during pregnancy I was an expert dieter. At least for the latter part. I had gestational diabetes so I had to adhere to a super strict diet so that the baby wouldn't get too big inside that lovely sugary environment that my whacked out endocrine system had created for her, unbeknownst to me. I found out at around 30 weeks after my glucola test. My numbers were crazy high. I had been seeing a midwife so if I wanted to keep my midwife I needed to get my sugar levels low without the aid of insulin (once you're on insulin you're deemed a high risk pregnancy and then I would have had to go with an ob/gyn). At that point I had already gained 25 pounds. And with ten weeks left till term, I was on my way toward gaining upward of 40 pounds which could have resulted in a ten pound hypoglycemic baby and a C-section. No thanks. I'll stop eating chocolate.

If only it were that simple. I had to be so strict. Limited carbs, no sweets, no milk or fruit during meals, no fruit after dinner. And no cereal. But I was motivated by this baby inside. I was able to stick to this diet for her, deprive myself the joy of eating whatever I wanted during pregnancy so that she would be healthy. And in fact she was healthy. Only 8.5 pounds. No hypoglycemia. No C-section. A wonderful birthing experience with the guidance of my fabulous midwife and the encouragement of my supportive (and foxy) husband. Because of the diet I didn't gain another ounce from my 30-week checkup. I was essentially losing weight - just instead of dropping it, I was converting it into chubby baby. And I actualy felt much better during the end of this pregnancy than during the end of my first pregnancy. And I was really happy to be more mindful of the food I was putting in my body. Since I had to write everything down and check my blood glucose levels four times a day, I became a super conscientious omnivore.

But now that she's out and my system is back to normal I can't seem to stay on that diet or any diet. The diet wasn't even too bad and some things I even looked forward to (like my low carb fudge ice-cream bar for after-dinner snack every night). But I'm back to drinking juice (big no-no for diabetics). I'm back to eating bigger meals instead of my six small meals. I'm back to gorging on cherries and grapes. (I mean it's fruit for god's sake). But that stuff is pure sugar. And now that I've had gestational diabetes, I'm more prone to get Type 2 (adult onset) diabetes later on. So I should be watching what I eat for my own health. But I don't.

I think it's a mom behavior. I'll do anything for my kids. Even give up cereal. But my own health and well-being doesn't seem to be a strong enough motivator to keep me away from the chocolate raisins. Maybe the threat of looking like a stuffed sausage at work will get me back on track. The imagery alone is probably enough...