Friday, April 29, 2005

050424

I've come to the conclusion that even if I were a taste tester for Ben & Jerrys (and for whom would that NOT be a dream job?) I'd probably want to go out for a steak every now and then. And the question then becomes why should I feel guilty about that?

So why is it that when I feel the need to ask for "time off" from being a mommy do I feel guilty? Angelina is 100% a mommy's girl, to the point that she looks at Daddy when he comes home from work wanting a hug, and screams "NO!" while hiding behind mommy. Unfortunately for her, she's just at the height where she's burying her face in my ass, and I always wonder why this would be more appealing than giving Daddy a hug. 'Course I don't mention that one to him, he's demoralized enough.

Then I was pondering how I could explain this to men... Suppose your 24/7 job was painting bikinis on super models. Wouldn't you still occasionally want a break to go watch a football game, be around people for whom you don't have to suck in your gut, and drink beer? Would you feel guilty about abandoning the now bikini-less super models for your ball-scratching beer bash? NOOOO. You'd boast about how perfect your job was and how much fun it was to paint perfect perky breasts. You'd be the envy of all the guys. You'd come back refreshed, and with the wonderful idea to paint a bikini top like two beer cans with the tops popped, and a bikini bottom like a bowl of chips -- the ultimate dream of just about every man. Enough with the artsy hibiscus blossoms! You'd win an award and the cover of Sports Illustrated -- precisely because you were able to go get some R & R.

Do you think men would "get" that? I wish. And why is it we so often have to ask, demand, wheedle and beg for our little breaks. Is it our fault? Do we sing the virtues of Mommyhood so much that they don't think we need our version of the beer bash? I'm happy with being able to shop at Rite Aid without having to piss off other shoppers by going down the exact center of the aisle to keep AJ from grabbing EVERYTHING and throwing it in the cart. How often can I calmly say "No, sweetie. We don't need _______________" fill in the blank with: incontinence pads, a bottle of tylenol, lipstick in purple, a garden gnome.

Listen to me. Sheesh. "Is it our fault?" What IS this? Are we PROGRAMMED to find a way to feel guilty. ARGHHHHHH. Or is it that men are just never going to be intuitive about what others need? It's the old "I can't read your mind" defense. But we women can. He pours his coffee, I hand him the cream -- did I read his mind or am I just aware? I love men, don't get me wrong, and Doug's beyond super. It's the purpose of life to keep learning.

A friend of mine is now pregnant with her third boy. When Daddy comes home, she might as well not exist for the other two. Another Seahorse who has a boy reports the same phenomenon, and was actually able to read several novels on a recent vacation. I vaguely remember what a novel is. On those rare occasions when I've read for entertainment, I've made sure it's in German so that I am at least refreshing the language while I'm "relaxing."

So then the question is, is it a gender thing? Does it switch? Am I going to have one on the breast and one on the hip come September? I'm almost looking forward to the mandatory post C-section five days in the hospital. Where else will I have help like that? And now that the ultrasound has shown that #2 will be a girl, I'll probably have two mommy's girls. And that will be absolutely wonderful except for those two or three hours a week when I've totally lost my mind.

How is it I can be completely charmed by her while she's lying to my face. She stands there with THAT look of concentration on her face and I ask if she's going poo poo. Between grunts she looks at me with big blue eyes and says "No, Mommy."

Angelina's a runner. And she hasn't gotten to the point where she understands, or should I say complies with "Come Here!" Since she did this on my 75 year old mom, I thought I needed to put a stop to it. I have one of those politically incorrect enough harness/leash combos for kids, but since I don't want to trust my daughter's life to velcro I went to PetSmart. She's officially -- by weight - a "medium" dog. I've gotten some weird looks but, as that brilliant philosopher Mr T. was fond of saying, "I pity the fool" who actually ever says anything since I've got my soapbox and speech about child safety in my back pocket at all times.

There have been a lot of boo boos lately that need kissing. Angelina insists on kissing OUR boo boos too. Doug was hopping around on one foot the other day, intently NOT cursing and Angelina insisted on kissing his foot. She'll bang her head on the table, gotta kiss the boo boo. She'll stub her toe on a toy, gotta kiss the boo boo. This was fine until she had a bad reaction to something she ate and wound up with diaper rash so bad she was arched up in her car seat, screaming. I got her in the house and was changing her when she sobbed "Mommy! Boo boo! KISS!" And of course, because it was my sweet baby's cute little behind (and because I'd didey-wiped the heck out of it) I planted little kisses on each cheek. What we won't do for them.

Angelina thought it was fun this morning to take little pieces of toilet paper and stuff them up my nose while declaring "Booger!" -- in German it's "poppel." Even more amusing for her was when I'd press on the side of my nose, closing the other nostril, and snort the TP out of my nose with as much velocity as I could muster. The hubby walked into the bathroom and declared this disgusting... This? From the gender who considers lighting farts a rite of passage? If it amuses my daughter I'll snort TP for hours. I doubt this will spare her a singed heiney if she winds up a tom-boy.

Peekaboo has become "BeeBOO!" It took me a while to realize what she was saying. Poor little thing must think I'm really dense. It was brought home to me again how careful we need to be with our word choices. Don't ask me what got into her, but just yesterday while I was in another room, she ripped off her diaper and sat on the potty -- and peed -- all by her ownsome. Wow! Was I shocked! Her reward of choice is to get naked and roll around under the down comforter in our bed. This being Pacifica, I only own flannel and it does feel good against the skin. She cheerily ordered "Mami, NAKT!" (Mommy, get naked!) and since I was dying to lose the bra anyway I complied. We rolled around, tickling and cuddling. She dug under the covers to get at the "Boobies!" and pretty soon we were playing BeeBoo, Boobies! I've made peace with my poor choice of words for the boobs, but then she was laying on her back, one ankle in each hand she said "BeeBoo Pussy!" Holy crap! Where did THAT one come from? Seeing my shock, and responding to my "What did you say?" she let go of an ankle, and unmistakingly pointed to her little privates and said with a proud grin "pussy, beeboo pussy!" She closed her legs together, then spread them again and said with an angelic little laugh, "beeboo pussy!" All it takes is a couple of times telling her during a diaper change "Hold still, Mommy's got to clean your little pussy" and the word is cemented for life. Oh well, I think it sounds nicer than "vulva."

I told Doug I was going to ask the Doctor if she could make a whole new incision for the next C section. Doug's response was something on the order of "Why the hell would you want another scar?" I told him I might get each tattooed with the baby's name. He just rolled his eyes. Never underestimate the maudlin sentimentality of a pregnant, hormonal woman, I told him. I'm sure Doug was wondering what the heck I'd have done with episiotomy scars.

So wish me luck, I'm starting week 20. I'm half way there and enjoying this pregnancy immensely now that the baby is moving around and letting me know she's there. What a joy this sensation is! What a blissfully happy time in my life. I'm so phenomenally blessed that at age 40 we were able to get pregnant again, the baby's healthy. Exhaustion is a tiny price to pay to be part of this beautiful miracle. My house is a mess, I never wear makeup, I look like crap but I'm blissfully happy. Copyright 2005, Evelyn James

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

050404

I inadvertently discovered an interrogation technique that I plan to use on Angelina (and, of course #2).

Doug came to me out of the blue and said "Is there something you want to tell me?" with an odd look on his face. At this point thoughts began flying through my head like lightning through a very muddy swamp. What had he discovered? What did he know that I didn't? Not that I'm confessing, mind you, but there is a technique for surreptitiously spending money where you make the actual check out to Nordstrom, but write "Safeway" in the check register. Couldn't be that, so I hedged.

"I think you already know I'm pregnant."
"Noooooo. I think you need to tell me something." He said again.

Again the lightning dragged its sorry butt through the muddy swamp of my brain. Not that I'm confessing, mind you, but there is the technique for concealing a minor fender bender by waiting for the perfect moment when you're both approaching your car in a parking lot then gasping theatrically and, with equally theatrical outrage pointing out that someone must have scraped your car while you were shopping. I actually learned that technique at work, and thank goodness the statute of limitations has expired. Couldn't be that... The swamp had consumed my thought process and Doug must have noticed that I was pitifully wracking my brain so he again asked "Something you need to tell me?"

"Uh," I hedged again "Now that Brad Pitt's single again, you're hanging by a string?"

I guess he didn't want me to smart ass further down that particular line of inquiry, so, with an amused but exasperated look on his face he prompted "The phone?"

Light bulbs suddenly flickered with all their feeble 60 watts in my brain as I recalled "OH! Your Dad called while you were in the shower!" He must have been letting the water warm up to have heard it, then checked the calls log.

On the other hand, I was pleased to realize that I had overcome my childhood tendency to be a compulsive confessor. I'm hoping it's a genetically dominant trait and that Angelina has this too. I must have been 8 or 9 when my younger cousin got her hands on a book of matches. Always the instigator, Debbie suggested we start a campfire in the hopes of making some s'mores. About 6 or 7 of us went out on my grandfather's back 40 near the creek (yes, I grew up in the country) and began gathering the ingredients necessary, wood chips, little twigs. Some adult, who must have had kids of his own, saw the huddle and heard his Up-To-No-Good-Radar go off. He hollered at us over the fence "What're you kids doing!?!" We all popped up, took one look at the guy and scattered like cockroaches that had seen the light. Flight is a defacto admission of some sort of guilt, but the guy couldn't possibly chase down 7 kids, all going in different directions.

This just happened to be the same day our boarder collie got peppered with buckshot in the hindquarters -- like I said, I grew up in the country. That evening I heard my mom ask my dad whether or not they should call the cops and I burst out into tears and wails and spontaneous confessions "We just wanted s'mores and it was Debbie's idea and we didn't really start a fire PLEASE DON'T HAVE ME ARRESTED!!!!!" Both mom and dad looked at their wailing daughter, thoroughly confused but they realized that there must be an issue here and with very little prompting got the rest of the story out of me. Only AFTER they got the full confession did they tell me they were going to report that our dog got shot. I swear when I left the room I heard them chuckle.

So with her genetic contributions and with Doug and I both having had interview and interrogation training, I'm thinking AJ doesn't stand a chance. Here's hoping

Do you ever look for talents in your kids? Aptitudes that indicate a possible future career? I know it's way too early but I can't help wondering. For example, she doesn't call me when she wakes up from her nap anymore. I hear rustling on the baby monitor, then I hear the sound of her laughter as she bounces up and down. Eventually she's having so much fun that she wants to share it and calls for Mommy. Every day when I get in there, she's thrown everything -- yes EVERYTHING -- out of her crib. That's the rustling I hear first. I'm wondering if this means she'll be a future rock star trashing hotel rooms. Hmmm.

Or worse yet, once she's done joyously bouncing, she runs from one end of the crib to the other and I SWEAR she looks like those silly wrestlers careening around the wrestling ring. I'm wondering if I throw another kid in there, will she pick him up and do the flying helicopter? Or maybe they'll do the super figure four leg lock. I have no idea, but for right now she's the cutest little giggling wrestler I've ever seen. Then I'm thinking the acorn doesn't fall far from the tree. The other day when we were leaving the house Doug grabbed Angelina and hollered "LET'S GET READY TO RUMBLLLLLLLLLLE" We'll leave the career choices for later, like when she's three.

One of the sacrifices of Motherhood -- I've given up wearing lipstick, as lately I've been having to kiss a lot of boo boos. I'm thinking of using Neosporin as lipgloss. Now that's motherly multi-tasking!

I've been talking about pregnancy with a lot of my buddies. Was interested to hear one gal say that her husband isn't all that disappointed that they can't get pregnant again as she was fairly well psychotic when she was pregnant. I had to think how lucky Doug is as I'm perceiving myself as fairly even keeled. I mentioned this to him -- big mistake.

This morning I was in the kitchen. Angelina was eating blueberry bread and I was giving Doug a haircut. Made me think of what a lovely scene of domestic bliss we were enjoying. Then Doug hauled out the vacuum cleaner and diligently vacuumed up the hair clippings. That would have been fine, except then he left it on, clapping his hand over the nozzle repeatedly so that it would make a different sound. I'm not sure if this was amusing Angelina -- his intent -- but it was annoying the hell out of me. I barked at my dear husband, as all loving wives do. Something on the order of "WILL YOU SHUT THAT DAMN THING OFF!" With the vacuum still on, he said, "Uh huh, you're not hormonal at all, and don't swear in front of my child." I know of NO woman who likes to be accused of being hormonal, even if it's true.

After a few moments of steaming, I decided I needed to make a point. Unfortunately the point I made was proving my hormonal status, of course that didn't occur to me until later. I took a pot and a spoon, and went to the bathroom where he had just lathered up for shaving. He didn't see me coming. I then began banging the spoon against the pot right behind his head. You can imagine that his reaction was to be seriously irritated and I got a spray of water and shaving cream flicked in my face for my troubles. In his shock, he said "What the HELL has gotten into you?!?!" I then said, in a voice that sounded a little smug even to me, "OH! So obnoxious sounds irritate you too? You MUST be HORMONAL! And don't swear in front of my child!" I wonder if there are support groups for men trying to survive their wife's pregnancy with any level of sanity.

We'll survive, we'll just be a little more twisted than before.

Evelyn Copyright 2005, Evelyn James. All rights reserved

Friday, April 01, 2005

Dr Seuss Overdose

I read AJ books,
We don't watch much TV
To prevent her becoming
A cute pink zombie.
So we read books about Fuzzles
And books about Woozles,
And how one can best tame
A Hullabanoodle.
We practice our As,
Our Bs and our Cs.
We read books about counting
Our one, twos and threes.
These books drive me loopy,
They'll make me go mad
But I read and I read
'Cause it makes her feel glad
So I read and I read
And I read still more drivel
But when hubby comes home,
You can bet that I snivel
"It's YOUR turn right now,
Yes it's YOUR turn I think.
As for me, I'll go out
And I'll have a stiff drink
I'll forget Dr. Seuss,
I'll get loose as a goose
I'll drink 'til I can't tell a man from a moose!"
"It's wishful thinking," said he.
"It's wishful thinking, this drinking.
You're knocked up, you're pregnant.
You're with child, silly, see?
"A pedicure then, or a wax or a bob.
But I Must MUST go out." I said with a sob.
"She's an angel." I said.
"But this day's been too tough
And an angel we know, me?
Not so much."
I'm losing my marbles,
I've lost half my brain
My intellect I suspect
I will never regain.
So I ran out the door
As if I were chased
By the Cat in the Hat in some really weird race
A pedicure? A bob?
A quick trip to Reno?
I thought as I grabbed a San Pellegrino.
Barnes & Nobel, I thought,
As I dashed out the door.
Oh why had I not thought of that one before?
What a joy it would be just to wander the aisles
To browse and to shop with my odd little smile.
Kid free, thought I, YEAH!
No more reshelving books
Torn by sweet little hands
from their little book nooks.
Without chasing a toddler,
What books could I browse!
On knitting! On cooking!
On husbanding cows!
My time I enjoyed with decaf cappuccino
I gave up all thoughts of escaping to Reno.
So then I came home,
My sweet angel in bed,
And the hubby with more
Grey hairs on his head.
And what had I bought with the almighty dollar?
More parenting books 'til my husband did holler.
"How many more books can we have?" Questioned he
as I showed him one on the best use of T.P..
"Potty training's important!" Protested I.
(I should have bought him a book on how to tie flies.)
What he doesn't know,
What he doesn't yet see
Is the stash in the trunk
Of books, not for me.
A new book about Fuzzles,
And more about Woozles
And more ways to tame a Hullabanoodle.
A new book about letters D, E, and F,
And a video about a puppy named Jeff.
My sanity returned and we crawled into bed
I have joy in my heart, and thoughts in my head
That we'll read, and we'll read,
Maybe more than I oughtta
'Cause I really do love my sweet baby daughter.



copyright 2005, Evelyn James