Life is Elsewhere

I'm a little bit stuck on this subject.

I was chatting with a mom from my son's kindergarten class and she was telling me how before they had kids she and her husband had lived in Alice Springs, Australia, for three years.  And then they lived in England for two years where both kids were born.  And then they moved here to be closer to family. I told her how I'd lived abroad for almost five years too and we lamented the end of those days since now we are both fully embroiled in motherhood and elementary school and suburban splendor all the while wondering what the hell happened? When did we turn into these other people? 

Not that I used to live such a wild and crazy life. Let's be clear. In college I always took language classes at 8am so I went to bed at 10:00. Sometimes earlier. I sang in an a Capella group so that's about as nerdy as it gets. I never drank. My friends had to beg me to order a beer on my 21st birthday. In high school I only broke curfew once and that's because I didn't know Dances With Wolves was a three hour movie.

But when I was sixteen I went to London by myself to visit a friend and since then I've had the bug. The next year I went to Israel for five months. After college I went to Chile for five months with side trips to Peru and Argentina. Then I went to Israel for what I thought would be a year which turned into four+. During that time I traveled all over Europe. Always with a backpack, a Lonely Planet and not much money. But often with the address of a local friend or cousin or friend of a cousin whose couch was free. And then we took our big trip which brought me to places I'd never dreamed I would visit. Even in business school I managed to find an internship that had me living in a charming apartment in northern Belgium.

Those were my twenties. Running around the world, meeting wonderful people, learning languages. It was a ten year Eat Pray Love fest. And then I turned 30, got a job, bought a house, had babies and here I am looking down the barrel at the next thirty years feeling kind of hollow about the whole thing. And it's not just the kids. Lately I am bursting with love for these kids. But they have a funny way of making me feel tethered. Or maybe I'm the one doing the tethering.

Either way I can't figure out how to stop feeling like life is elsewhere. Because even when I was living my life elsewhere, I was still thinking about the next place. I even remember reading the book Life is Elsewhere by Milan Kundera, whose many books I have quickly devoured and just as quickly forgotten entirely, while staying at a guest house in Cuzco, Peru and wishing I was somewhere else. BESIDES CUZCO! Epically beautiful, spiritual and charming, "turn alpaca wool into just about anything" Cuzco. But for me life was elsewhere.

So where does that leave me? Us! Almost everyone I know around my age feels this to some degree. Bankers who wish they could open a deli. Lawyers who want to be chefs. Engineers who want to be bee keepers. I think that's why life coaching has taken off in the last ten years. We're a whole generation of people who have bought into this idea of having it all (work, family, love, adventure, passion, happiness, balance, inner peace) which, for me anyway, comes with a constant feeling like I've come up short.

To fill a gap, insert the thing that caused it.
Fill if up with other and twill yawn the more.
You cannot solder an abyss
With air. 
-Emily Dickinson

I feel the gap. Sometimes I feel like I might have found what will close the gap. I thought painting would do that. Sometimes I feel swallowed by the gap. Sometimes I'm at The Gap and nothing fits right and there's a long line and I'm wondering what am I doing here?

Seriously, what am I doing here?

And yet, of one thing I am absolutely certain. Ten years from now, thirty years from now, I will look back on this time in my life with an aching fondness and remember how simple it was when the kids were small and relied on us for everything. How squishy they were. How a kiss fixed anything. How they ran to greet us at the front door. And I'll wish I could go back. Or hopefully by then I'll have learned to live in the present.

Play dating

I have an afternoon problem. I pick up my kids from school after lunch, my daughter goes down for her nap, and my son and I are left to kill each other softly, one nerve at a time. We can't leave the house. We don't have much in the way of a yard, not that he wants to go outside. And there's only so many times a day I want to play (insert Zingo, Candyland, What's Gnu?, Guess Who?, War, Memory, Go Fish or Hungry Hippos). I mean if Candyland is not the most insipid game ever created, well then my name is mud. It gets to me. Sometimes we paint which can be nice. Sometimes we do a puzzle or a project. We often bake for part of the time. My thighs can attest. Sometimes he sorts the recycling when I'm really desperate.

And the thing is he has had plenty of play date invitations - to friends' houses, to the pool, to the zoo, to the library. He's in demand. But he won't go anywhere with anyone unless I drive and his sister comes. Two impossibilities since she's napping and I'm watching her.

The other day my daughter was fighting her nap so I decided to call our neighbor and invite her son, who's in kindergarten, to come with us to a park to ride bikes.  I could nearly see her beaming with delight through the phone. So we piled him in the car and threw all the bikes in the back and set out for the park. Keep in mind my son and her son have barely ever played together. I'm not really sure why. They're perfectly nice people. The kids are basically the same age. But that's how it is around here. We're all just too busy coexisting to be in each other's lives. It's the grown-up version of parallel play.

But the minute we got to the park and started to ride the boys were best friends. They only stopped gabbing long enough to sneak up on a squirrel and send it running up a tree in sheer terror. On the way home my son invited him to spend the night. We decided to save that for another day but I could tell the tides had started to turn. Solo playdates might be in our near future.

And as it happens, yesterday, after much persuasion, my son agreed to go to the library with his friend from school and then over to his house. And he LOVED it. He loved the library. He loved scanning my card. He loved driving in her fancy mini-van. He loved his friend's remote control train. He wants to go there again tomorrow by himself and every day forever. And I want to send a personal thank you to the patron saint of play dates for smiling upon my family.

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.

The best laid plans of mice and moms...

Last night we did end up going out for dinner for our anniversary. We wanted to take advantage of some free babysitting so we brought our kids over to my brother and sister-in-law's house in a neighboring town figuring we'd just go out for dinner around there with local friends and our easy-going, flexible children would play with their same-age cousins. What could be easier? We get there around 7:15 and my brother's family is wrapping up dinner with friends of theirs who have twin three year old boys and a 15 month old boy. Throw in my niece and nephew and the house is a little chaotic. Fun chaotic. Kids running around. Eating popsicles. Playing outside. Parents drinking wine. Good times. My daughter jumps right in and gets herself a popsicle. My son is hesitant. This isn't his kind of fun. But he's keeping it together. Then I set up all of their stuff in my brother's bedroom - two sleeping bags, two sets of PJ's, two toothbrushes, two toothpastes, a stuffed kitty and a stuffed rat. Then I explain to my son, for the twelfth time, that he will be going to sleep here. I even fib and tell him that we're ALL going to sleep here. And his stuff is set up so not to worry. But he wants to sleep with us in the guest room. Meanwhile the guest room floor is covered in paperwork and junk because it's a room in transition. I offer for him to sleep with his older cousin. No. His little cousin. No. On the couch. No. And he starts sobbing. Don't go. I don't want to stay here. Don't leave me. I want you to go out for dinner here. And I just can't bear it. I mean in those moments I just can't stand this kid. So I tell him in my best impression of nice mommy that he doesn't even have to go to bed; he can stay up and wait for me to come home. My brother even tells him that he'll clean up the guest room so he can sleep in there. Nothing is helping. So I say goodbye and leave.

And as I walk toward the car where my husband is waiting for me I can hear him screaming and sobbing from inside the house. And I know he will quiet down and enjoy himself in two minutes. And he'll behave well. And he'll play. And he will fall asleep somewhere. But as I'm sitting in the car seething, I never actually want to see him again. These are his cousins for the love of chicken nuggets! He begs me to take him here. He loves his aunt and uncle. He loves their yard, the toys, everything. Why can't he just keep it together? I know that he's not trying to ruin my life anniversary, but he does. He can. How can a five year old be so tortured? Will he be doing this when he's six? Seven? Eight? I know it's me and it's my problem. I just have to let it all roll off of me. But it's actually painful for me to feel so much resentment and rage (yes, rage) and not be able to scream YOU ARE RUINING MY LIFE right in his face. I need to find some other way to release or channel all of this negative energy. Sometimes I even ask if he would ever act this way with his teachers and he looks at me like I've lost my mind because he would NEVER throw fits like this at school. Which makes me wonder how the behavior is serving him at home? And what on earth am I doing to reinforce it? And can someone please send over a pita with nutella?

But back to the car. So I keep my eyes closed all the way to our friends and I stay in the car two extra minutes after my husband got out so I can collect myself. I didn't want to bring my negativity to dinner. And, in fact, dinner was lovely. I called to check in and my sister-in-law confirmed that two minutes after we had left my son calmed down which was no surprise. I guess I just thought we were past all of this nonsense. He's done well with babysitters for the last year or so and plus these were people in his family that he knows well and loves which is why this whole exercise felt less like an anxious preschooler expressing his insecurities and more like a purposeful act of aggression. Like he's some kind of vengeful, conniving monster.

I have to keep reminding myself that he's just a little shit boy.

Noticing Moments

Well I got through a morning without blowing up at my son so I'm patting myself on the back. It's been that bad lately. I don't know what's going on but we are not in a good way. And I have said things I wish I could take back. Which reminds me, I was at my coaching workshop the other day talking to my life coach about my need for affirmation, likely linked to a host of things but probably having a lot to do with the fact that I've gone out on my own as an artist having had no formal training. Sometimes I'm afraid someone will pull off my mask and say, see guys? She's an impostor. She can't even draw a horse. So I seek validation in the form of web statistics, i.e. who's been on my website, how are they getting there, who's reading the blog, who's on facebook etc. It's really LAME. And a waste of time and energy. So she suggested I take a noticing moment whenever this urge arises and turn the urge into a choice point. Instead of defaulting to my usual behavior, I can decided to do something else, like do a sketch or make a cup of coffee, go for a walk or eat a pita with nutella (I just threw in that last one). So I'm trying that out for my work and I think I will give it a try with my son too. At those moments of heightened stress or exhaustion, after already employing my arsenal of situational techniques, it might be in everyone's best interest to take a noticing moment and turn my urge (to strangle him) into a choice point.

It's usually during a transition period, like bed time or getting ready to go somewhere, or leaving somewhere that our needs begin to clash. I think part of it is finding ways to communicate with him that are more succinct so that our discussions are shorter and I don't reach the end of my rope. I wish we could eliminate discussions altogether. I mean I don't mind discussing the merits of an 8-ink printer with him as long as it's not while I'm trying to get him to brush his teeth.

We did have some successes yesterday (which I think made it even worse when it all blew up during the very last minutes of the day). We had a great morning playing with friends at a park nearby that has a sprinkler area so the kids ran around and then we had a picnic. It was a lot of fun. When we got home my daughter went down for her nap and I explained to my son that he also has to lie down for a short while to rest. He was not happy about this. So I let him hang around with me as I tried to make sales calls but that wasn't working so I said, listen, when you stay at home with mommy there are rules. When your sister goes down for her nap you have to rest also. You will go in my room and lay down for thirty minutes and then you can watch a video. He was having none of that. He started screaming. So I said, decide how you want to calm down! Either lie down on your bed with your kitty, play with your dollhouse or sit in the porch swing! He chose the porch swing, stayed out there for ten minutes to calm down and when he returned he was ready to lie down in my room. He slept for two hours. And he was delightful the rest of the day because he was well-rested.

But then there's always something. We can't seem to have a tantrum free day. Even this morning he started crying because he was sure that Aba was picking him up early to take him to Jonathan's birthday party (which is Saturday). I have no idea where he got this notion. I would never have said anything like that. And then he started to cry and tell me I'm wrong. But luckily I had just bought his favorite cereal so I distracted him with frosted mini-wheats. We'll see what the afternoon brings.

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.

Belly fat stalkers

Are the belly fat people following you too? You know who I'm talking about? These banner ads on Hotmail and wherever else (rather EVERYWHERE else) talking about how I lost 4 lbs. of belly fat by obeying one old rule. And the ad shows some chubby woman's midsection atop another, likely altogether different, woman's svelte midsection. And it's endorsed by ABC, Oprah, CNN and the Today Show. Sometimes Ellen too. And the ad is so cheap! I mean they are clearly spending a boat load of money to fly this bunch of ads all over the place and couldn't spend a hundred bucks for a designer to pump up the pixels a little? What gives? Who are these people? Who do they think they're kidding? And for the love of ginger, STOP FOLLOWING ME!

Because it's working. I'm starting to feel bad about myself. Never mind that from the moment I turned 35 my metabolism all but came to a complete standstill. Never mind that my clothes are all tight including my designer jeans that I got for $15 which now make me look like a stuffed sausage. Forget all that. I'm just wondering what piece of information these people have that's making them bombard me with "lose belly fat" messaging. Is it because they know I had babies? Because they know I'm between the age of 29 and 39? Because they know I love Nutella?

Curiosity got the best of me so I googled "lose belly fat obey one rule" and I found this blog posting on Cranky Fitness which made me laugh my ass off. Then I no longer had to wonder, maybe it is that easy. Maybe I can just melt away five years of radical weight gain and loss? Alas, it is a giant scam. Obviously. I knew this. But still needed to verify. So that's it belly people. The jig is up! I'm on to you. I googled and I won. So now it's time for some other ads to follow this mommy. Like ones for vacations or spas or a free yoga class in my neighborhood.

Back off belly fat.

Nothing sticks

We used to put star stickers on a calendar for my son when he had a whine-free day or some such other amorphous distinction. And we'd give him a monster sticker if he was bad. Or we'd threaten the monster sticker. He used to completely come apart at the very thought of a monster sticker on his calendar to the point where I just didn't have the heart to ever give him one. Anyway, it never really worked, the whole sticker thing. Mostly because the reward was not for something concrete (really, is there ever a whine-free day? Let's be honest with ourselves…). I could see how stickers might work for making your bed or brushing your teeth—these are measurable behaviors. Not for the absence of whining. But we also weren't especially consistent, plus I could never follow through with the monster. Too damaging. I had wanted simple green dots and red dots but couldn't find any. The monsters were actually super cute. Mrs. Grossmans. Love that woman. What's my point here…

Anyway, a few weeks ago I turned around and told my son that he could give me stickers every time I did my workout video on a given day. It lasted for about three days. It appears that nothing really motivates me to exercise. Not even stickers. Plus, my two kids always felt compelled to do the exercises with me and I was often scared of dropping a weight on someone's tiny toes. But the site of the two of them, often naked, flinging their arms around and doing kicks and poses, looking from the TV to me and back to the TV—I could hardly contain my laughter. But even that's not enough to make me exercise every day.

Gray Morning

Yesterday morning I was in the shower and my son came in to tell me that he decided to wear grey socks today. GRAY SOCKS PEOPLE! GRAY FREAKING SOCKS! At first I thought I had misunderstood. How can this be? You don't wear gray socks. That's against everything you stand for. You stand for blue socks! Who are you? Where's my real son? He went on to say, all of my blue socks are dirty so I'll just wear the gray ones. His nonchalance was startling.

You won't believe me (you probably will) when I tell you that those gray socks have been rolled up for a YEAR in his socks box. I don't remember exactly when it happened but at some point he made it clear to me that under no circumstances would he ever wear anything but blue socks. And not just any blue socks. They had to be the kind from Old Navy with the letters and size on the bottom. I fought it for a while because at the time we only had two pair of those. And I thought I am not going to indulge this completely irrational behavior. But after the fifth morning in a row when I wanted to kill him I thought, this is not an important battle. I went to Old Navy and bought six more pairs. And in future weeks and months when he'd run out of blue socks, I'd just dig a pair of stinky ones out of the hamper because I don't give a rat's ass. They can smell like moldy cheese, in fact sometimes they do, but if he wants them, so be it. I've become very zen about the whole socks thing.

Which is why I was completely shocked, ALARMED, if you will, about his decision to go with the gray ones—gray ones that are identical to the blue ones, aside from the color. He's just growing up I guess. But just to be sure he wasn't growing up too quickly I asked him this morning when he came into our bed if he was too old for morning snuggles. He replied no, as if to say, mommy you have clearly lost your mind. As though I had suggested to his younger self that he wear gray socks.

The Other Plague

The eleventh plague, which no one ever talks about, but which is second in severity only to the slaying of the first born, is the plague of the matzah crumbs. We have matzah crumbs in every friggin room in the house. I mean, who brings matzah into the bathroom? Probably no one - you just can't contain the stuff. It travels. This is the only week of the year when we allow shoes in the house because I swear matzah crumbs will tear your feet to shreds. We sweep it up, it comes right back. I even go so far as to wet the matzah so it's a little more supple but it still crumbles.

And all this without even mentioning the constipative qualities of matzah. I mean if we really wanted out of Egypt fast God should have made Matzah the first plague and ordered the Egyptians to eat it for a week. By the third day they'd have been begging the Jews to leave. I can hear the conversation between Pharoah and Moses: Alright alright Moses. I'll let your people go if you let my people "go".

Repeat after me

So what all went down. It started when I took my kids to school that morning. My son has to be there at 8:30 sharp for his "cutting exercise". They sit at table for 15 minutes and cut up paper. We arrived at 8:32 and my son started clutching my legs and sobbing that he wanted to go home. He's been doing the leg clutch thing for the last few months in fact, since they moved him to the older class. He has an October birthday so until now he's been the oldest in his class. Now he's the youngest. One girl is 14 months older. Don't even get me started on crazy parents holding their summer birthday kids back. It started with just the leg clutching and the rough drop-offs but since preK started a week ago, it's gone from bad to worse. He's started asking if there's school every morning and panicking all weekend that there will be school again. Then he started saying that he didn't want to go to school and on an on. He doesn't like nap time. Gabriel called him a monster. Henry was being loud. Etc.

So I tell him he just has to go and give his teacher a big hug and get settled but of course he's late and so he's not allowed to participate in cutting. He has to sit on the carpet and wait until circle time. Meanwhile no one has said a boo to him - no greeting, no hug, nothing. So I hug him and say goodbye and he's standing there lost and crying out not to leave him.

I drop off my daughter in the other room and she's also crying but she's new here and I know she'll stop ten seconds after I leave. I come back to the preK room and he's still standing there. No one has invited him to sit down or asked him what's wrong. He's just sobbing and the teacher is giving her cutting commands and it occurs to me that this place is all wrong. I mean, WHAT THE FUCK PEOPLE. Somebody engage my kid! Take two seconds out of cutting and figure a way to get my son involved and calm. But my hanging around is not helping so I leave and meet my friend in the parking lot and I sob to her about how suddenly my son is in military preK. Our play-based school is now all about worksheets and tasks and standing in line and repeat after me and circle the ladder and when you're done put your hand above your head! It's more than I can handle on my birthday. I suddenly and tragically realize I don't want this for my kid. And for the last three months I've been kidding myself that he'll be fine. He'll adjust. But he's not adjusting. He's regressing.

The rest of the birthday went like this. I then drive to a cafe to have special birthday breakfast with my husband but instead I cry for an hour about this terrible school and our tortured son. Although I did have a really good latte with a leaf design in the foam. My husband and I then sit down and on the back on my receipt we write down all of the things that we need to do to change this situation and make life here good for us. One of the items was finding our kids a new daycare. So while I had planned to spend the day painting or seeing a movie, I spent the day calling up preschools none of which have even one space, let alone two spaces. My last call was to a woman who was recommended to us by an Israeli guy we'd met at Starbucks eight months ago whose son went there. Turns out it was his second marriage and his son from his first marriage went to medical school with my brother in law. Small world. Anyway, he raved about this woman and said she had two spots but I never bothered to call because we were content with our situation. And I prefer not to rock the boat since that would require me to examine past choices and then beat myself up for being a bad parent. No thanks.

But I did finally call Sherry's Daycare and I told Sherry the story and we cried on the phone (seriously) and she broke the news that they had no spaces. But invited us to come over and see her place and get to know her in the event that she does have space. So I walked over there (did I mention that it's two blocks from my house) and met Sherry and felt like I had a lemon stuck in my throat. I got teary again. It was a perfect place. The perfect yard - a big mess of stuff to do and places to hide and tomatoes to pick and eat. A wonderful and warm house filled with toys and games and puzzles. Kids' artwork everywhere. But best of all there was Sherry and her husband Bob. Big quiet Bob who schlepped a kid in each arm and read stories while playing his accordion and rallied the kids around to wash down a dirty pretend kitchen set outside. No lining up. No worksheets. And no cutting practice. And yet it was not chaotic. Kids put away their toys and moved from one activity to the next. Sherry and Bob provide meals and snacks. They're open 6am to 6pm. They have a 14 person bus and they take the kids on field trips to museums and parks and libraries. They even pick up the older kids who go to morning preK classes and bring them back to spend the rest of the day at their home. It was daycare heaven. And it was cheaper than what I pay now.

So then I had to contend with the guilt of having not found this place four years ago when my son was born even though it was literally two blocks away. Wondering how different my tortured son would be had he spent his days in this amazing environment.

But in fact I know that he's been well-taken care of all this time and it's only recently that things aren't going as they should. So I made a decision that we need Sherry in our lives even if the transition will be tough and a little late in the game. I realized that I had been settling somewhat in the decisions I'd made about daycare and I wasn't doing that anymore.

There's more to the story but it's getting late. I actually brought the kids over there after school to check it out and they enjoyed themselves. My son found a dead motorola and a pair of sparkly high heels so he was thrilled. But when I asked if he wanted to go to school at Sherry's he said no. He wants to stay home and be with me. I don't blame him. But I'm still banking on Sherry and have been broadcasting to the universe my wish for two spaces at her house. Repeat after me boys and girls: How wonderful that Sherry has two spaces for Susie's son and daughter!

Excellent job! You must have gone to preK.

Sitter situation

Here's the deal. I had bronchitis and then we went to New York for a week for my cousin's wedding and to visit my in-laws who flew in from Israel for my husband's grandmother's ninety-fifth birthday. So that's why I've been MIA. And now I have all kinds of stories stored up in my head. Where to begin...

Let's go back a few weeks to July 26th when I meant to write about going to see the John Mayer concert with my husband and brother and sister-in-law. Great show. We don't often go out because getting a babysitter is such an ordeal. The last time we got one the babysitter called from her train in San Francisco because there was a fatality somewhere on the southbound line and she was stuck so we had thirty minutes to find a back-up before we needed to leave for our friends' wedding in a town an hour away. I scrambled and managed to find the friend of our old babysitter. When we left my son he was basically having a seizure, beside himself with grief that we were leaving him with a perfect stranger. I can hardly blame him. But still, did he have to be so dramatic?

Where was I? Yes, John Mayer. He is a tasty little morsel I must say. So we told my brother to get us tickets and I set up our usual babysitter who is lovely and sweet, but not the sharpest cheddar in the refrigerated section, if you know what I mean. And even though she's babysat for us at least a half dozen times, my son had a major come-apart because of the last ordeal and shrieked for twenty minutes until we finally left.

Anyway the concert was great and when we got home our babysitter said all was fine. But all was not fine. I mean no one was bleeding and she'd even cleaned up the hosue which was nice. But when I went in to check on my daughter she was sleeping in her crib wearing only her diaper lying on a sheet drenched with some kind of liquid. Then I saw her bottle in there with her. What in the hell?

I took her out and put her on my son's bed (he was sleeping in our room) and changed her sheet. The mystery liquid was milk. I got her into pajamas and realizing she hadn't had any milk since it was all in her crib, I made her a new bottle which she drank and went back to sleep. When I opened the bottle I came to understand that the babysitter had not put the valve in correctly so when my daughter tried to drink her milk it basically spilled all over her. I can only imagine the crying that that caused. What an idiot! Granted, this bottle is not the most sensical design but it's not quantum physics. It's just regular physics! I mean my son could have figured this one out. Shit, my DAUGHTER could have figured it out. Uch.

And it's not just this babysitter. The one before, the friend of the old babysitter, seemed like a competent 19-year-old. But when I went in to get my daughter the following morning she was drenched in her own pee. Why, you ask? Because the babysitter had put the diaper on backwards so all the absorbent part was on her tushy. I don't even know how she managed to get it on that way. It would have required her to put the sticky tape part on around her back. Huh?

I feel like if you can't make a bottle or change a diaper you shouldn't be offering your services as a babysitter. Maybe I'm too nonchalant in my hiring. I just take recommendations from friends and then hope for the best. It really shouldn't be this difficult. I can't decide what's worse, sleeping hungry and naked in milk or sleeping with a full belly in your own pee. Or some new babysitter whose shortcomings are undisclosed. I'm throwing my hands up.

Miss Communication

We went camping over the holiday weekend to Olema Ranch up in Point Reyes National Seashore. Usually we're too disorganized to reserve a spot six months in advance which is the earliest you can ever reserve and the only time anything's available six months from then. Especially for a three-day weekend. But friends of ours did the reserving and then asked us to join, then canceled when their baby girl came six weeks early.

It took us a good six hours to pack up the car and leave the house, at the tail end of which I looked at my husband and we just giggled. I mean, is it really worth it? Is camping with babies that much fun? I mean, not really. By the time we get everything in the car for the 48+ hours we'll be gone, we may as well go to Mexico for a week and stay in a resort. It's just so much stuff. And diapers. And toys. And enough Elmo underwear for three months. And a ton of food. And a hundred sleeping bags, two tents, two chairs, a stove, a folding table, 46 stuff sacks, and a flash light. It's dizzying.

But we do it because in the end it is enjoyable and the kids love it and it's fun for us to watch them roll around in dirt and not care. My daughter started walking on this trip which was an extra treat. But by walking I mean five consecutive steps - we still have to schlep her around in the backpack to cover any ground. Which we did, on Sunday.

Friends met us in Point Reyes Station which is about the coolest little town I've ever had coffee in. From there we drove to the trail head. The hike itself is fodder for another post. We ended up on a quiet beach in Tomales Bay and had a picnic. My son and his pal took off their pants (he had peed in his and she just wanted to be naked) and ran around and we ate and relaxed and fed the baby who continues to astound even the casual observer with her special aptitude for inhaling food.

We were getting ready to leave and the baby was holding two cheese sticks in her hand and whining. My husband said, "let's just put her in the pack and get going. She'll settle down." So we put her in the pack. She starts crying and waving the cheese sticks with greater gusto. "Maybe she wants an animal cracker." I give her an animal cracker. She throws it at me. Now she's hysterical and throws one of the cheese sticks at my head and gives me the hairy eyeball. It dawns on me that she might actually want the cheese stick. So I take off the wrapper and she gobbles the whole thing and smiles and sucks her thumb.

My husband and I were laughing so hard. She must think we are a pair of idiots. I mean she could not have been clearer in her communication. Here is a replay from her perspective.

Her: Can you open these cheese sticks?
Dad: She's tired.
Her: No, aba, I want the cheese. That's why I'm waving them at you. I can't open them.
Dad: I'll just put her in the backpack and she'll stop whining.
Her: Sure. AFTER you open my cheese stick pops. What is wrong with you?
Me: Maybe she wants an animal cracker.
Her: What in god's name would make you think that me waving my cheese sticks around means I want a friggin' animal cracker? Do you see the cheese sticks? Do you see me waving the cheese sticks? I'm pretty sure you see me throwing a cheese stick at your head ma! What is wrong with you people?!
Me: What is your deal freaky?!
Her: My deal? Maybe you should take a class in non-verbal communication and then it might occur to you that I WANT THIS CHEESE STICK AND IF I HAVE TO EAT THROUGH THE PLASTIC TO GET IT, I WILL!

Poor thing. Half the time I'm just projecting onto her what I want. Like a nap. And an animal cracker. But she clearly has a mind of her own.

Airport Absurdity

A few weeks ago my husband and I took a short trip to Vancouver because I was attending a conference so we figured we'd maximize on the free hotel room and take a much needed vacation from our darling children. My mom and aunt came to watch the kids for five days while we loafed around one of the coolest cities I've been to in a long while.

But it feels weird to write about sitting in cafes, reading books, walking around, seeing movies, listening to Celtic street music (it was St. Patrick's Day) and generally enjoying each other's company. I mean, what do you care right? Who wants to hear about boring happy times, except our mothers. So I'll spare you.

I will however take a moment to comment on airport security. How is it that nearly seven years have passed since 9/11 and we STILL suck at airport security? It's shocking to me every time. My husband's Israeli and I spent a few years living there myself and I am telling you the Israelis know how to do airport security. And yes, it's a relatively tiny airport with relatively little traffic when compared to SFO or JFK or whatever. And yes, the Israelis use racial and ethnic profiling. Bad Bad Bad. Shame on them. But it is the most secure airport in the world and you can still bring a bottle of water on the plane. And you don't have to take off your jacket, your belt, your shoes, disassemble your stroller, and drink your own expressed breast milk to prove you're not a hijacker. Last time we were there we pushed our double stroller right through a side gate. No need to wake up sleeping babies or rip them from their precious kitties or softies or wubbies to send through an x-ray machine. That's part of why this trip to Canada was so enjoyable. I mean just being in an airport without kids feels completely decadent. Throw in a latte and we're talking near nirvana.

But even without the kids I was still annoyed (which may just mean that I need to practice meditation). Maybe in fact BECAUSE I had less to worry about without babies to shuttle and more time to critique what amounts to, at least in my unimportant opinion, a total security circus.

After we finally got through possibly the slowest line I have ever stood in, my husband and I sat in some chairs on the side to put our clothes back on and just watch the other people file through. I swear I felt like we were on one of the candid camera shows (that are actually filmed in Denmark but then set to music for syndication in the US. Like Menthos commercials). They pulled a guy to the side and told him to take off his belt. Then hold his belt over his head. What? That's when we started to giggle. What was the TSA dude telling this guy?

Sir, could you please remove your belt?

Could you please put your belt over your head?

Can you please remove your shoes?

Can you please put your shoes over your head?

Sir, could you stand on your belt please?

Can you please stand on one foot and hold your left shoe and belt over your head?

I once went through security with my daughter and they actually asked me to take off her little Robeez shoes. Good grief. If they were looking for explosives, they should have checked her diaper.

The IKEA Incident - Part II

We set up the mattress in our room because there's no space for it in his room yet with his toddler bed still set up. At least he seems to be excited about the bed if jumping is any indication. But as we're getting him into his pajamas I realize that I don't have a mattress cover or any kind of plastic thingy to put under the sheets in case he has an accident. So I rationalize to myself that he hasn't had an accident at night for several months and I'll just put a little quilted blanket underneath him and it will be fine.

But of course, this whole experience has been everything but fine and the poor kid probably still has some left over resentment for having been made to leave his shopping cart upstairs so at 5 am I wake up to his crying. He's peed all over his new bed.

I know that it is my fault for not protecting the bed and that he is only three and three year olds have accidents but why now? Why tonight? Why on the new bed? Pissed off about tiny tim and the shopping cart? Don't take it out on the bed! I let him know I wasn't pleased. Not my finest moment.

So he's back to sleeping on the floor with his old green bambi blanket and his mattress is stripped and leaned up against the wall, a pile of laundry for me to do sitting in the hallway. I deserve it. I am a crap mom sometimes. I was such a good mom before I had kids.

The IKEA Incident

Yesterday was a beautiful day but instead of spending it with my husband and my daughter on a hike with our friends, I decided we needed to buy my son a twin mattress, a comforter and some sheets. And we needed to do this at IKEA on the busiest day of the week. He'd been sleeping on the floor in either his room or our room for the past six months and I just wanted him in his room. His toddler bed was too small and he didn't like sleeping in it anyway and since his sister is now sleeping through the night I just decided it was time. We talked about it and he was excited about his new mattress so we set out on what would turn out to be the worst day ever or at least since last Thursday when we flew home from Israel (a story for another time).

We arrived in good spirits. I found the comforter I wanted, he picked out the comforter cover and sheets, all we had to do was go upstairs to look at the bed, find out where to get it in the warehouse, buy it, and drive home.

Next to the stairs going up I ask my son if he wants to take the stairs or the elevator. Big mistake for we soon spiraled into an epic session of toddler remorse. He picked the elevator. So I get a cart to put our things in, put him in the cart and we take the elevator. We are not out of the elevator more than a minute when he starts to whine that he wanted to take the stairs. I have a "no re-do" policy now having suffered through months of toddler remorse tantrums so I try to redirect his desires. I spy a stuffed turtle. Do you want to hold tiny tim while we're in the store and then we'll take the stairs on the way down? He scoffs at the turtle idea. I point out the slide in the kids section, he forgets his troubles and goes to the slide. Tantrum averted.

After two slides we find his bed and he starts whimpering about wanting tiny tim. So we go back and get him, I take the stuff out of the cart so that we can take the stairs as promised, we get to the bottom and I put the stuff in a new cart. This is when the drawbridge comes down on the MOAT (Mother Of All Tantrums).

Him: I want the cart from upstairs
Me: Sweetie, we're not going upstairs to get our cart. All of these carts are the same.
Him: I want my cart from upstairs.
Me: But you said you wanted to take the stairs so we had to leave that cart upstairs. We'll just take another cart.
Him (sobbing): I want to go upstairs to get the cart!!!!!!!!!!
Me: Son, if you can't stop crying we are going to leave the store.
Him (shrieking): I want to go upstairs!!!!!!!!!!

So I pick him up and he's kicking and sobbing and shrieking so I have to hold him sideways with both hands like a ramming post and walk out of the store while he's screaming I want to buy my mattress. No mattress for you muchacho.

By this point I am livid because we have just wasted two hours, we have no mattress, my son is basically having a seizure over a shopping cart. So I throw him in the car and slam the door and get in on my side and turn on the car as if I'm about to drive even though his seat belt isn't on and he starts to FREAK OUT. I'm not safe! I'm not safe! which of course I know but I want him to feel extra bad for making me hate him. So I put the car back in park again and put on his seat belt and then I go into my quiet voice. I am not buying your mattress. I am never taking you to any store. You do not know how to behave. We are going home.

He's still begging for his mattress and in my head I'm thinking I really don't want to have to spend any more time at IKEA. I've already wasted one day of my weekend. So we drive to an empty part of the parking lot and stop and I wait until he stops crying. And finally we're at a point where we can talk about what all went down in the store. He promises to behave so I lay out exactly what our plan is when we go back in the store including an explanation of shopping carts and how they are ALL THE SAME (FUCKING) THING. He understands. By now it's lunchtime so the return visit also includes a stop at the cafeteria for some Swedish meatballs with lingonberry sauce (I love that stuff) and some macaroni and cheese for the kid. All is well again. We buy our items and he falls asleep in the cart. A wave of peace washes over IKEA.

But the IKEA incident doesn't end at IKEA. More later on inaugural night with the new mattress.

Potty chronicles continued

Just when we thought we were in the clear, our son has begun to have accidents again. A friend of mine told me to expect this but we were hopeful. And foolish. I made the mistake of putting my son in his underwear at night. He'd been dry at night for nearly a month so I thought, what the hell, right? Better if he's in underwear. He'd started waking me up at night to take him to go pee because he couldn't get his diaper off and on again. In his underwear he's a free agent. Fully independent. Pees standing up like the big boys.

We did it one night. Success. Second night aba put him to bed and unaware of my latest decision, put him in a diaper. Third night, back to undies.

Right around 5am he comes padding into the guest room (I'm sleeping there while we sleep train our daughter) holding a pair of socks and wearing only his pajama top. He gets really close to my head and whispers, I made a pee pee on the carpet (he sleeps on the floor - that's a whole other post).

Apparently it woke him up, he stripped down, went to the closet and grabbed for the only clothing he can reach which are his socks and came to me for help with rest. I was so impressed by his efforts I totally forgot about the reason for them.

Then the next day he peed in his pants twice. Just plain forgot to go on the toilet. What is that? That never happens to ME. I realize he's new at this but I mean once you learn a concept how do you forget just like that? When I learned how to drive a manual shift, it took a few days but then I got it. A month later I didn't suddenly forget how to put in the clutch?! I did back the car into a gas pump three days after getting my license however. I guess we all have accidents.

King of the Potty

Well our son is potty trained. And it only took two weeks really. Two weeks and nine months. I made the mistake of listening to a colleague of mine at work who potty trained her three boys using an intensive behavioral modification method. She said it would take a day. Read the book, she said. Buy the pee pee dolly. You'll be diaper free in no time. Not the case.

I made my first attempt last November when my son had just turned two. I was about six months pregnant and thinking it would be really super to only have to diaper one child. So I designated a weekend for potty intervention. I bought "Potty Training in less than a Day" or something like that, and I bought an anatomically correct doll named Paul who came with underwear, a diaper and a mini-potty. I bought all kinds of treats to reinforce positive behavior - brownie bites, popcorn, chocolate raisins. I bought a ton of chocolate milk. I made notes from the book to keep us on track. And my son was a pretty good sport for a while. But the constant asking, "do you have to go to the potty?" "Are your pants dry?" - I started getting a headache. And it was a beautiful day and he was desperate to go to the park. So we did and he peed on the slide. I gave up after he soaked the bed during his nap. I figured I'd try again after the baby was born. Which I did.

By then he was about two and a half and could follow directions better. Plus some of his friends from school had started using the potty. I bought him a new potty, which we called Baby Paul's potty. Whatever. He started peeing in it which was very exciting, but he was terririfed to poop in that thing. I didn't push the issue but I must admit I was getting pretty tired of pulling big poops out of his underwear. His teachers weren't thrilled about it either so I started sending him in pull-ups, those evil diaper substitutes that are twice as expensive and half as absorbent. Then, since he was basically wearing a diaper, he started wetting his pants again.

Anyway, we decided two weeks ago that we would just forget about the diapers and forge ahead with underwear. And it worked. We had a handful of accidents but for the most part the kid is now doing his business in a designated receptacle. Even in public places. I bought a little fold-able plastic potty top that sits on a regular toilet to make the hole smaller (so tiny tushies don't fall in) with elmo and friends on there. He's willing to poop on elmo. Now he's even going by himself and taking down and pulling up his pants. So overall we're thrilled. Except for a few things...

I can't say I'm super happy about having to dump his poop in the toilet after he goes in the potty. First of all, it splashes and then I have to wipe down the toilet. It also stinks like all get out. It's amazing how much the water in a toilet really masks a lot of the smell. And the wiping isn't going that well. I can't get him clean enough. I ask him to bend over so I can be thorough but that feels like a little invasive. And then I have to clean the poop streaks off the potty. Nasty. And not to mention the pee which he insists dumping by himself. This morning he completely missed and poured a quart of piss on the far side of the toilet and all over the seat which I then had to mop up. And that's if it even goes in the potty. If I don't hold his penis down with my finger, he literally sprays straight ahead.

But he's trained. Gone are the days of diapers and Desitin - the last remaining vestiges of his short time as a baby. Another milestone achieved. Another notch on the belt of parenthood. Another reason to adopt a five year old next time around.

I love the smell of urine in the morning

I knew it was a bad idea. My husband was putting my son's pajamas on and asked if he could wear his elmo undies tonight. He'd been dry for the last five mornings so I figured, what the hell right? But then when I asked Mr. Underwear if he would sit on the potty for me before going to bed he started to whine.

Noooooo....I'm ti-yud. I want to go to sleep.

He had that pouty puss look and I was certain he'd wet his bed but I just could not be hassled to:
A). Wrestle with him onto the potty
B). Wrestle him out of his elmos and into a pull-up

Plus, he's always wiggly at bedtime so the idea that he might actually just go to sleep without a big production because he was, as he claimed, "ti-yud", well I just couldn't pass it up.

Indeed he was tired and went to sleep without a peep. Until 5am.

The horror. The horror.

I hear him bellowing, "I don't want it. I don't want it." The IT in this case referring to the liter of urine that he is now lying in. So I get annoyed and start lecturing him about how he needs to listen to mommy and go pee pee before he goes to sleep as I'm peeling off his wet pajamas and stripping his bed. Of course it was obviously my fault for not putting him back in his pull-up, but in the fuzziness that is 5am everything is his fault, or my husband's fault or god's fault.

One thing I know for sure, tonight is a pull-up night.

Luggage creep

We went to my mom's house this weekend for the wedding of a very old and dear friend. My mom always spends time scrubbing the house before we arrive and sometimes even gets the carpet professionally serviced so that the baby can roll around without fear of inhaling a stray cheerio or paperclip (I haven't cleaned my own carpets in about a year...)

And no matter how organized I am, no matter how many ziplocks I've used to separate my daughter's onesies from my son's elmo underwear and my bras from my kids' pajamas, invariably, five minutes after we've arrived, our crap is strewn all over the house.

It's not as though we open the suitcases and then parade around dropping articles of clothing and accessories in every room. It just happens spontaneously, literally within minutes of our arrival. Bottles and sippy cups, shoes and cell phones, blankets, toys and diapers. Just piles of our crap everywhere. I used to try to straighten up each morning, repack whatever had crept out of the luggage, make the bed, organize the toys...but I've given up. Because by the end of the day the place looks like an Old Navy after a holiday sale. Crap everywhere.

So I'm working on letting it go. This is not easy for me as I am a true virgo and I can't stand clutter. I hate knick knacks, curios, collections of porcelain cherubs, smurfs, even too many ratty paperback books. In my world everything has it's home and must reside there when not in use. And sometimes home is a box in the attic or Goodwill and that's okay.

But luggage creep is unavoidable. I thought it was bad with just the one kid. Now it's taken on a life of it's own. It's like a living, breathing organism, molting as it moves through the rooms of the house, shedding 3T feety pajamas, 0-6 month booties, Aquafor and bathings suits.

Thankfully, within a half hour it's all contained again and we're off to the airport after another wonderful weekend at Grandma's. However, as I write this from my home, with our luggage unzipped and sitting in the living room, a trail of our belongings has already taken form reminding me to accept the things I cannot change and embrace the crap and clutter that comes with family.