All Joy and No Fun

After I started reading Jennifer Senior's recent book about modern parenting, All Joy and No Fun, I figured I would never need to blog about parenting ever again.

She wrote it all.

It's all been said and done now. Her thoughts were a thousand times more articulate and illuminating than my own and I found myself nodding, chortling, and grunting in agreement pretty much non-stop throughout.

For example, her section on "flow" and the parent. Part of why parenting infants/toddlers is such a miserable experience is because there is no sense of "flow"--defined as that sensation of being totally absorbed and "in the zone", where an hour can feel like 5 minutes. Flow requires the perfect balance of stress and boredom--just challenging enough to keep you engaged and not too challenging that you're feeling high anxiety.

But parenting is like the opposite of experiencing flow. You are either bored out of your mind or stressed out of your mind.

First, the boredom--because babies can't talk, because reading Hop on Pop for the 50th time blows, because helping someone stumble around the park and not get to their destination for 30 minutes is mind-numbing, because tossing a ball back and forth, shaking rattles, playing peek-a-boo, labeling objects, and all the other stuff you're supposed to be doing for your baby's early development is, let's face it, completely boring after the first 90 seconds.

Second, the stress, which for me (and most parents I would imagine) comes from a very simple source--crying. Some people can tolerate a lot more crying than others, but we are all hard-wired by Nature to have a true physical stress response to our children crying. Heart rates are elevated, cortisol levels rise, blood pressure goes up, everything in you feels horrible.

So there you have it--the yin and yang of parenting small people--extreme boredom or extreme stress. No wonder in large national surveys mothers rank spending time with their kids less desirable than doing the dishes or other house chores. Hard to believe if you've never spent more than 8 hours with a small child, but I'm here to testify--that shizz is fo realz people. Fo realz.

Don't let the cuteness fool you!

Because the author was so dead on in capturing life with the 0-3 set, I was really excited to read on as she laid out life with school-age kids and then life with teenagers. Maybe this would give me a little road map toward what awaits and for once in my parenting life, I could get ahead of the curve!

Although I did find it somewhat helpful, alas, it didn't prove half as insightful sounding as the first part, maybe because she herself has only experienced motherhood up until age 5 (the age of her only son). All I gleaned is that kids between ages 4 and 12 are intensely over-scheduled and the parent basically morphs into a taxi driver. I'm thinking this might become irrelevant for me as Google develops the driver-less car any day now.

But aside from these little peaks into the horror and hells of parenting, I have to say my favorite part of the book was the last section in which the author explores the Joy of parenting. After all, the title does promise that it's "All Joy..."

Her descriptions of the deep and abiding joy in the midst of the pain of parenting were so poignant I teared up, a lot. In particular, she noted that single moms are by far the most stressed out people on the planet, BUT they are the least depressed. This seems counter-intuitive since you assume intense stress causes mental breakdown and depression.

But the author notes that depression is essentially a function of disassociation. When you feel like you have little or no attachments to the world around you, that is the key to depression. And parenting is the ultimate antidote. For the first time in your life, most likely, you feel the ultimate attachment. Never have you committed to someone to the degree that you commit to your child. And infinitely more so if you are his/her only, single parent.

To be on the hook, to be forever committed, to inextricably link yourself to another such that it is simply impossible to feel happy if that person is sad, is a monstrous burden--but also the gateway to paradise. As I've quoted before in reference to parenting--To love another person is to see the face of God.

And to that also, I can testify. That shizz is def fo realz too.

Learning to Read at Age 25

This is the story of how I learned to read.

Growing up, I don't remember a single instance in which someone read something to me. I struggled to find age appropriate books and I largely failed because no one helped me find age appropriate books.

When I was 7 I overheard that the Chronicles of Narnia were "really good". So I checked it out at the library and was stymied at the very beginning. It kept referring to a wardrobe. What the heck was a wardrobe those crazy British people? Did it have something to do with war? Or robes?

Reading was confusing, bewildering, frustrating and fruitless. If I were more patient, I supposed I could've made use of a dictionary. But my experiences with dictionaries were equally frustrating. Often the definition included words I didn't know so it was an endless hunt down farther and farther rabbit trails until I forgot what word I was even looking up in the first place.

But once in a great while, I was so drawn to a topic that I actually made the effort to read. In particular, princess fairy tales. I couldn't get enough of them. The enchantingly beautiful protagonist. The cruel and unjust things that she suffered. Magic. And of course, The Prince.

But eventually I got tired of the formulaic genre and haven't read another fairy tale since 5th grade.

I also loved Roald Dahl. He is the only author to ever make the child-me feel like I wasn't actually reading. I was just...living in his world.

And then in college I met a reader. My then-boyfriend, now-Spouse, had (and still has) an unholy love of all things books. For a miserably poor college student he had an unusually gigantic collection of books spilling over every surface of his tiny living space.

Somehow we got along. It didn't bother him that I didn't read. And it didn't bother me that he had way too many books. He read his books and then we talked about them and it worked out very well that way.

But one day, I don't even remember why, he suggested that I read a book. Not in a mean or condescending way. But more like, hey, do you want to try to do this thing that's actually really enjoyable once you learn to enjoy it?

And I resisted. Books are boring. I'm too busy. I don't know where to start. What should I read? Nah, like I said, books are boring.

Why don't you just pick one book from my bookshelf? he said. Here, this is a thin one. How about this one? Why don't we just start with reading one page. Together.

And so we cracked open Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse and read one page. And the next day we read another. And the next day more pages. And soon I was hooked. I got lost in the story.

The apartment in which I learned to love to read.

It took at least another few years for me to finally say that I love to read. But now, 10 years after first flipping through Siddhartha, I realize I've completely transformed into one of those people I thought I'd never be--a reader.

How dim and dark my world would be if he hadn't taught me to read.

It Was the Best of Times, It Was the Worst of Times

Last Saturday the day started off pretty well. I took the kids to an Easter Egg Hunt sponsored by a huge local park and it was everything you could ask for in a kiddie event.

The Spouse wasn't able to come but thank goodness a dear friend came along so I didn't have to schlep everything by myself and try to run after 2 kids at once going in the opposite direction--and bonus, she took some great pics for us!

I was more excited than the kids, this being MY first egg hunt too.

There were booths full of free swag, including law enforcement booths. Judah has been obsessed with policemen since age 1.5 but when he met actual officers he hid behind my back. Pity.

Brave enough to stand next to the car, but too shy to stand next to actual officers.

There was a free bounce house and face/hand painting. Judah was very insistent that glitter be applied to his artwork.

Judah proudly shows off his abiding love of law enforcement.

There was some creepy mute giant bunny, which Noah wisely wanted to get the hell away from.

Noah says "That's okay Mom, I'll just stand over here."

Noah would not have it. Not even for a second.

There was some arts and crafts and sidewalk chalk.

Pastel graffiti--lovely little signs of joy.

And of course, the piece de resistance, an egg hunt by age cohort. Noah got to go first in the 0-2 category which included adult accompaniment. I thought it would be cool to let Noah mosey around, leisurely picking up eggs, but I couldn't have been more wrong.

Noah, on the now empty field. Egg hunt fail.

 All the parents steam-rolled through the lawn like locusts in a wheat field and cleaned that puppy out in 20 seconds flat! One parent had pity on Noah's empty basket and dropped him a couple so he wouldn't end up empty-handed.

Look mom! One pity egg!

Judah got to go next in the 3-5 age group and managed to grab 3 eggs before they were all gone. Not a huge loot, but all the better since they were filled with candy.

Of course my kid is the one who doesn't know how to use a basket.

Preschoolers, preschoolers everywhere!

"I don't know who ate all of Noah's candy."

Noah, however, does know who ate all his candy.

The kids had fun and zonked out in the car trip home. But apparently one big adventure was not enough for that day.

In the evening Judah was climbing up a tall step stool to wash his hands and stepped where there was no step and crashed his chin down onto our granite counter top. Although there were no sharp edges involved, apparently the impact was so great it split his chin open about an inch and a half.

We took one look at it and instantly agreed that stitches would be needed--Judah's first stitches! At the ER Judah was actually in pretty good spirits as we waited for the doctor. He was a chatty Cathy and enjoyed being read his Justice League comic book.

Thank goodness for comic books.

The doctor came in and told us he'd have to get a numbing shot and get stitched up, which required him to get pappused (too lazy to spell check)--basically a straight jacket for kids--while 2 nurses held him down.

Judah gets pappused!

I will forever feel guilty that I mistakenly informed him about the numbing shot. I thought, and I told him, that they would shoot him near the wound but not actually in the wound and it would just be one quick shot. I could not have been more wrong.

The doctor stuck him right in his wound--SIX TIMES! Wow, that must've hurt! Of course that started Judah on a scream-a-thon that didn't end until he was released from his pappuse 10 long minutes later. Judah was also really offended that a bright light was being shone right in his eyes and a surgical paper was covering his face the whole time. Poor terrified kid.

You are all lucky there is no audio accompaniment for this pic.

The whole time I tried distracting him with made-up stories about Batman, much to the amusement of the medical staff. Alas, Judah was screaming to loudly to hear much of my story.

All stitched up! But still a little traumatized.

Happily Judah bounced back really easily and quickly. He went right to bed and woke up as if nothing ever happened.

I'm dreading when we get his (eight!) stitches out this Friday, but until then, we're doing great, all things considered.

Every Day

Every day Noah wakes me up at 6:30 am, screaming as if someone is choking the lifeblood out of him. His wake up times have risen steadily over the last month and I'm afraid he'll start waking at 6:00 am soon if I go to him immediately when he cries. And so I wait until 7:00 am to relieve him, the whole time, my bones aching with stress and sadness at the sound of my wailing child. "Good" morning.

The bane and boon of my existence--all joy and no fun.

Every day I face a mountain of dishes. And I heroically tackle that mountain, only to find another, even higher mountain materialize after lunch. I tackle that one with all the spare time I can muster. And then I tackle the Mount Everest of them all after dinner. I've learned that emptying the dish drying rack is just as crucial as washing dirty dishes. And surprisingly, it takes just as long.

Every day I look at piles of laundry in various stages of unwash and feel defeated.

Every day I rack my brain trying to figure out what to feed Judah, The Pickiest Eater on Earth. Noah is not a great eater either. Whenever meal time rolls around I have a mini-panic attack.

Every day Noah naps for 40 minutes and then cries indefinitely until I hold him for the rest of his 2-hour nap time. Of course I can't be holding him for an hour and 20 minutes each day so I let him cry. And again I feel like dying a thousand miserable deaths.

Every day I look around the house and frown at all the things that are not in their rightful place. Why is my toothbrush on the couch? How did Noah's shoe get under the kitchen table? All the upstairs things are downstairs and the downstairs things are upstairs. And I ask myself The Question--is it worth the effort to set it right only to have the kids mess it up again in an hour or so?

Every day I look at the dry rough patches and open sores on Noah's body--where his lower ears connect to his face, his chin area, his knees and calves, his feet and hands, the back of his neck--due to his eczema and I feel like a failure. Each rough patch whispers silent condemnation--you've failed. You've failed to cream him as much as you should. You've failed to figure out the right combo of creams to use. You've failed to adequately care for your baby. But the worst feelings of failure by far is when I open up his diaper to find that a huge, slightly acidic dump has started to eat away at his skin because I didn't know he had a dirty diaper for God knows how long. You'd think I would smell those suckers from a mile away, but I have honestly lost my sense of smell.

Every day I am doing house chores, washing, cleaning, picking up, setting right, activities up until my 10:30 pm bedtime.

Every day I feel like an over-educated domestic servant.

Every day I pray for sleep. And I thank God for mercy. I thank God I got through another day in which I did not too badly emotionally scar my kids (I think, I hope) by yelling my head off and shaking with rage at the end of what always feels like a looooooooong day.

Every day my will is thwarted. My desires are frustrated. My ability to have any meaningful control over my day is mocked. I have mini-tantrums and seethe that I never get my way.

And I feel like a stone being pummeled and worn down by the massive, unrelenting, magnificent ocean waves. And I am changing...into what, I do not yet know.

On Life and Death

Recently Judah's been asking me a lot about death and dying. I guess it was inevitable given all the killing that goes on between superheros and villains, his current obsession for the last 6 months.

He asks things like
Mommy, are you going to die?
Am I going to die?
Yes, Judah, everyone dies someday.
When are you going to die?
I don't know, nobody knows.

Apparently he's talked to the Spouse about it as well because he comforts himself (and me) by saying: Daddy says after we die, we will become alive again and then we will never get sick or die anymore. So it's okay if I die.

I told him that it is okay, but I hope he has a long life.
Why Mommy? What's a long life?
I hope you get to grow up and become a big boy like Evan (who is 8), and then a teenager, and then a grown up like daddy, and have your own kids, and then a grandpa.

And then Judah became distraught when I had to explain that he might not have a long life because no one is guaranteed that. He teared up as I explained in concrete terms that we could die any day. That Mommy could die tomorrow and I wouldn't see him again for a long time after that.
Mommy, my eyes are almost crying, he said.

The next day he asked how he could have a long life. I told him that was out of our control but we could pray about it, so he did.

And today, a week later he said
Mommy, I already have a long life.
You mean 3 years?
Yeah, 3 years is a long time.
When I told him his dad has already lived 37 years his eyes bulged in disbelief.

Judah, just 3 hours old, a "long" time ago.

But of course, he is right. Even 3 days is a long time if you count up every second of grace.

Heart of My Own Heart

Mommy, the sky was so beautiful, Judah recounted to me. It was blue and pink and purple!

Mommy, I love nature. Let's go on a nature walk. Nature is so beautiful.

Judah on a "nature walk" cira 1.5 years old.

I'm sure we all feel stirred by the glory of the skies, but very rarely do I hear people talk about it, and even more rarely do I hear little kids have self-originating, completely unprompted thoughts on it.

When I was in elementary school I first became aware of how my heart felt like breaking while staring at cumulus clouds slowly sailing across a piercing blue sky, or the rivers of gold in a vermillion sunset. I often exclaimed to friends, "Look at that sky! Gosh I love nature! Isn't it so beautiful?"

I've rarely if ever said that to Judah, maybe because I'm too distracted making sure he (or Noah) isn't eating dirt or about to get run over by a car. So to hear him echo back the unspoken beats of my own heart was pretty trippy.

I guess he really is mine.

Snippets

Noah

Noah is turning out to be a little comedian. I'm pretty sure he thinks he's hilarious when he does his little comedy routine called "blowing before nursing".

He's picked up on blowing his food to cool it down because he sees me do it all the time. He does it sometimes as I spoon-feed him mac n' cheese or steaming rice. So now he 'blows' on my boob before nursing as his little inside joke--ha ha Mom, see what I did there? I'm cooling it down before I eat it, ha ha ha. I'm hilarious!

How do I know that's what he's thinking? His tell-tale little smirk and the glint of his eye as he does it. Is 12 months too early for babies to "tell" jokes? Not this kid.

Judah

Sometimes I wonder if I infantalize Judah too much. I often help him do things that other kids much younger can do for themselves, like get up and down his step-stools and put on his jackets.

So today I asked him, "Judah, do I treat you like a baby?"
Without skipping a beat he replied, "No, you treat me like a slave."

Well, there you go. Someone feels like he's not being babied enough!

Actually, Judah has a good point. I've gotten in the habit of barking orders at him--Hurry up! Put your socks and shoes on! Get your jacket! We're late already! Drop that crayon WE HAVE TO GO!!!!

Sigh, it's because we can never make it on time to his preschool. And then his teacher gives me the stink-eye because we're late. Again. I need to start waking up earlier.

Sometimes He is Good

Can I brag a little?

Yesterday I experienced one of my parenting's proudest moments.

We were walking around and Judah found a dandelion and instead of wishing for his usual stuff ("t-rex gunner car" and "that I have a cooler toy than Noah") I heard his little voice say "I wish that no one would get sick or have nightmares." WHAT?!

Stop the presses. What did he say?! Did I hear that correctly?! Seriously, was that just in my head? Oh my heart, he actually said that! And it was completely unprompted and self-originating!

I'm realizing more and more that I can get my kids to obey me externally (by threatening all kinds of unpleasant consequences) but it's much harder to shape their inner moral life.

I don't just want them to share because they have to. I want them to want to share. Because they care about others' feelings. Because they are kind and gentle-hearted. Because they understand compassion.

I honestly don't care if my kids are "successful" or "accomplished" or wealthy. If they can just learn to wish for a better world for others, I will die a happy woman.

The Grown Up Baby

Noah is 90% walking now.

A week ago he took 4 tepid steps before crashing.  The next day he took 8.  The next day he walked half way across the room.  And now he's on 2 feet more than he crawls.

Knowing that Noah is 99.99% likely to be my last baby, watching him reach this milestone (to borrow another mommy blogger's expression) just hurts so good.

The night he started walking half way across the room, I dreamed of my once 2 week old burrito of love all fuzzy-headed and sweet-scented.  And I wanted THAT guy back again.  Which is completely insane because during the actual experience, I remember I was pretty miserable and wishing there was a button I could press to magically turn him into a 2 year old.

But parenting, as they say, is the ultimate disparity between the "experiencing self" and the "retrospective self." Things look diametrically different depending on where you stand in relation to the event. And looking back is always only chock-full of the mushy gushy good stuff.

But Noah could care less about my mush gushy nostalgia.  He is just trying to race ahead, even faster than Judah grew up it seems. Maybe that's what it means to have an older sibling--you just want to copy everything the bigger person does.

Noah doesn't smile or laugh a lot, but his biggest, brightest grins are always reserved for those occasions in which he knows he is copying his brother.

Noah only wants to drink from straws, like Judah.

He loves coloring, like Judah, and then whipping up his paper to show his handiwork, like Judah. He loves sitting in Judah's chairs and booster seats.

Coloring while sitting in Judah's favorite chair--the epitome of big-boy-dom for Noah!

And he absolutely loves wearing Judah's clothes. He is forever opening up Judah's drawers and pulling out a 3T shirt that he then tries to put over his head.

Noah is thrilled to be wearing Judah's everyday go-to jacket.

Noah raids Judah's closet like a fashionista looking for couture.

But I'm pretty sure, no matter what big boy skills he develops, I will forever think of him as my baby.  I wonder how that will play out through the years as he really does leave his babyhood far behind him. Will I be trying to hand him sippy cups of whole milk as he goes off to college?

Let's hope I get a grip on things before then.

Signs of Spring

We are not out of the woods yet.  But we're definitely getting closer.

One of the best parts of childhood--rubber rain boots.

Now that Noah is 13 months, I've had some time to feel like things are getting back in kelter. He's been sort of sleeping through the night for the last 3 months and he mostly just takes one nap a day now. That may not sound like much, but the accumulated effect is quite nice.  It boils down to me *usually* not being very sleep-deprived. And all of us *usually* able to plan and schedule outings with some degree of accuracy.

Rollin' with my Nomies.

And now that Judah is 3.5, he is definitely a lot easier to deal with. He mostly keeps his emotions in check and has cut way down on the oppositional behavior. About 6 months ago I was probably still giving him time outs at least once a day. Now we can go for week-long stretches without a single disciplinarian action.

And best of all, he plays by himself a lot. If you've been following Judah's development since birth, you know that's nothing short of a minor miracle. So take heart parents of clingy, attention-starved children! They do grow out of it! Of course, Judah being Judah, he's not that good at occupying himself. But compared to his younger self, he's like a freaking Olympic champ now.

The activities that hold his attention longest is building spaceships from bristle blocks and cutting construction paper. He says he's cutting out "badges" and likes to decorate them with hearts and write the occasional letter on them. "N" is for Noah. "M" is for Mommy. And "I [heart] U" is a little love badge just for his favorite person in the whole world--Mommy.

Super-heros and villians + bristle blocks = sanity for mommy

Judah likes to call himself a "cutter" and people who overhear give us weird looks.

Judah has always been a momma's boy and his crazy expressive affection has really exploded in the past few months. Now he can't go 10 minutes without exclaiming "I love you Mommy!" As flattered as I am, I'm pretty sure it's just kind of a tick at this point--kind of like love tourettes. He often exclaims love for all kinds of, uh, lesser-order-things, like string cheese and grapes.

But I'm sure a lot of it is genuine too. Judah's really into quantifying love these days. He says a lot of the following:
How much do you love me Mommy?
I love you as high as the moon, and then all the way up to heaven, plus a hundred, plus infinity.
I love you higher than Jesus' head. (That one made me pause for a sec...what?!)
I love you more than VIDEOS! (That actually melts my heart because the kid LOVES his videos.)
And the one that always stumps me--I love you more than you love me!
It turns out, it's really hard to explain to a 3 year old why that is kind of impossible.

I try to reason with him a little--No Judah, that's impossible because Mommy is a grown up and, and, and...I gave birth to you!  Yeah, not a convincing argument to him either.

And while Judah is very generous with his kisses, his brother is the miser-liest miser there ever was.  I beg Noah for kisses 50 times a day and although he clearly knows how to give them, he seems to take special joy in denying me each and every time.

And then Judah always chimes in to take away the sting of each rebuff--I'll kiss you Mommy!

Thank goodness for at least one kissy cuddly guy!

Just Call Me Mom-gyver

I'm not one to brag, but once in a while, you just have to let yourself do a little public victory dance. However small the victory.

So without further ado, I present to you, some accomplishments that I'm actually unequivocally proud of (and unfortunately for my family, parenting and homemaking does not make this list):

Or maybe I should just call this--"stuff I've fixed with duct tape."

Like this old BOB stroller.  The straps completely disintegrated under a Summer of sunshine.  And I couldn't reach corporate headquarters to request replacements because they are apparently never in the office.  Solution?  Duct tape.

What?  You slammed the buckle of your Ergo baby carrier in the car door and cracked the "male" part of the buckle for which there are no replacement options?  No worries, buy an extender and duct tape that baby up.  And yes, I find it kinda gross that buckles have "male" and "female" counterparts.

Can't get the baby foot rest pedal to stay on the push-trike?  Duct tape it!  Credit where it's due, the Spouse did this one.

There's just nothing like fixing old baby gear that gives me such unqualified pleasure.  Maybe it's the cheap Asian in me.  That's like, $600 in baby gear replacements I saved myself with just a few scraps of tape!

Love Was In the Air

Technically, this post is still relevant because today is still part of "Valentine's Day weekend", yes?

Judah wishes you all a very happy Valentine's Day and drew this picture in honor of the impending marriage of our two dear friends.  And yes, the guy-friend really does have spiky hair.

There are lots of things I like about this picture, especially:
--the fact that each person is just a head with legs coming out of it
--everyone's arms look like bird wings
--the girl-friend has a ring at the end of one of her bird wing arms
--the girl-friend has a smile no matter if you're looking at the picture right-side up or up-side down

Hope your v-day was just as picture perfect!

Birthday Party Angst

Judah will not have another birthday until August but I'm already starting to feel anxious about it.

I feel like this will be the first birthday that actually matters to him.

He talks about it occasionally, but today, driving home from preschool, he really laid it on thick--like, talked-about-it-non-stop-in-vivid-detail-for-10-minutes thick:

Mommy, I'm going to have a Justice League Party.  I want the colors to be blue and green.  And red and blue.  

Judah wants you to have fun at his party...or else.

I don't want to invite anyone from preschool [he hasn't made any friends there yet since he's only been attending this new school for 3 weeks.]  But you're invited, and daddy and Noah.  

Noah will be the only baby.  Only big kids are invited.  [He then proceeded to rule out lots of younger siblings who are actually the same age as him and insist that only their older siblings are invited. Apparently Judah thinks of himself as a 5 years old.]

And it will have a volcano with hot lava coming out.  Two volcanoes.

Mommy, is it going to be the coolest party ever?

And there's going to be a pool, a giant pool.  It will be warm so we can swim.

And there will be lots of pretend animals.  Like at the zoo. But these animals will be just pretend.

And a train ride, like at the zoo.

And a car ride, like at the zoo.

Mommy, it's going to be the coolest party, right?

Um...right...I'm glad his birthday is far away so I can take my time playing the game "Managing Expectations: Preschooler Edition."

Also, don't you love how he speaks in the future indicative, leaving absolutely no room for doubt that this will all definitely happen?  And it's so gracious of him to invite me.

I was hoping to do some low-key thing--you know, bring some fun party cups and napkins to his preschool and give everyone a brownie and some goldfish. But now I'm realizing that's not gonna fly with Judah. Guess this might actually be the first year Judah gets a real, bonafide, at-some-designated-venue party.

Ugh. I hate, HATE party planning. I didn't even want to plan my own wedding. I was so not into planning my own wedding that I hired my close friend to do it all for me, and she ended up doing an AMAZING job while I gave her very little direction or opinions.

I guess I'll start looking at Pinterest pages for "how to plan a birthday party for people who hate planning parties."  There is a page like that, right?

The Bedtime Bomb

Every night I put Judah to bed in an elaborate ritual that must be followed precisely if we are to avoid a horrible meltdown:

--Prayers (in which Judah dictates what order we pray in, the positioning of our hands during the prayer, what we should pray about, etc.)

--A "combersation" (in which Judah asks me what I like about various body parts.  Mommy, let's have a combersation.  Mommy, what do you like about your forehead?)

--A funny lullaby (in which Judah repeats each phrase I sing in a silly voice and gets ticked off if I don't find it funny and chuckle even though we've done this exact thing 47 times already)

--Sleeping together (in which I lie next to him and we sleep for a few minutes.  He usually asks to hold my hand and tells me he likes to sleep with his eyes open.  And then interrogates me about my facial expression.  Mommy, why you not happy?  Why you not smiling?  Judah demands I smile 24/7.  I usually reply something about mommy being tired but inside I'm thinking--because I freaking live with the 3 year old version of Kim Jong-Il.

--Hugs and kisses (in which we hug and kiss multiple times like what I imagine Kazakhstani relatives would do in greeting)

If any of these steps are messed up or not done in exact accordance to Judah's whims of the day, a huge meltdown ensues which makes me feel awful because (a) it takes forever to get him back to a happy place and (b) the alternative is to just leave him to sleep miserable and alone.

So every night I feel like I'm carefully defusing a bomb as I try to guide Judah through his elaborate routine as quickly as possible.  During the whole dance I'm pretty stressed out and all I can think about is how much I'd like to escape to freedom and finally finally have some "me" time!

And then as I chant a victory song in my head as I slip downstairs to brew some nice cozy sleepy-time tea, I feel it.  The emptiness.  The loss.  The regret.

Looks so sweet--I'm *almost* tempted to wake him up again for more hugs and kisses.

I realize the best part of my life is upstairs, drifting off to sleep.  And I missed it.  I was so focused on getting it all over with that I missed it all.  I wasn't "present" during the sweetest 'combersations', the jokey songs, the snuggly hand-holding, the oh so precious--how many more of these will I get in my lifetime?--hugs and kisses.

I just missed out on the best part of my day.  Again.

I did NOT sign up for this

Recently a friend posted this on FB: http://mrsgoresdiary.com/2014/01/09/i-signed-up-for-this/

It's a beautiful post by a wonderful writer who basically reminded herself that she "signed up" for motherhood and therefore should stop complaining about all the endless laundry and general lack of personal freedom she now must endure from now until...what feels like eternity.

I love that post, but one thought kept ringing in my ear: I did NOT sign up for this.

Maybe she knew what she was getting herself into, but I had no freaking idea.

I mean, yes I "signed up" in terms of willfully getting myself pregnant.  But in no way, shape, or form did I really know what I was getting myself into.  In contracts law, this is definite grounds for rescinding, yes?  Law school was a long time ago, but I think I remember something about there having to be some kind of "meeting of the minds."  Some knowledge, some transparency, some sense that you know what you're agreeing to.

Prior to having my own baby, the longest I ever held a baby was probably 23 seconds.  The most I ever babysat was twice.  The number of times I changed a baby or child, played with a baby or child, read to a baby or child, sang to a baby or child, clothed a baby or child, or put a baby or child to sleep was...zero.  You get the idea.

I did not know I would be unable to sleep well for 3+ years.

I did not know I would endure constant screaming in the car almost every time I drive.

I did not know I would be tripping over a crying, clingy small human every time I try to wash dishes or cook.

I did not know I would need to do laundry literally every day.

I did not know I would prepare food for people with no teeth, present it to them, only to have them throw it around or spit it out, and call that a meal.

And that I would go around and eat the regurgitated and flung scraps as if my mouth was some giant waste disposal system, and call that my meal.

I did not know my friendships would go down the toilet because it's (a) impossible to have a meaningful conversation with my kids around and (b) it's really expensive to hire a babysitter just so you can go and have a meaningful conversation.

I did not know my relationship with my spouse would be sorely tried.  At the end of the day, when the kids are asleep and we can finally have a conversation, we look at each other with dead cow eyes and mumble something about being tired.  How are two exhausted people with nothing left to give supposed to extend each other kindness and charity and patience?

And speaking of patience...I did not know I actually have very little patience.  I once, another lifetime ago, actually thought I was a patient person.  Hahahahahahahahaha.

I did not know that I would be feeling guilty when I work a full-time job.

I did not know that I would feel guilty staying at home with my kids all day and not engaging them in enriching activities but instead dragging them around town with me to do chores.

I did not know it cost an arm and a leg to find quality child care.

I did not know that guilt and a feeling of incompetence would be my left and right shadows.

I did not know that my mind would be so frazzled from sleep deprivation, feeding schedules, nursing schedules, nap schedules, bedtime schedules, trying to remember if I brought enough snacks or tissue or wipes or diapers with me, trying to remember to give baths, put on creams,  fill out prescriptions, wash hands, telling stories about superheros, managing meltdowns, etc. that I would lose my car keys and/or forget my wallet at Trader Joe's/Safeway/a restaurant at least once a week.

I did not know I would clean my house and put things away every day only to have it look like I never lifted a finger a mere 3 hours later.

Wow, this post is getting kind of long and I'm not even half way through!

Let's just say, basically I had no idea what I was getting into.  No one warned me.  Everyone who talks about parenting usually talks about puppies, sunshine and lollipops.  In that order!  Just kidding.

Of course the puppies, sunshine and lollipops are true too.  I do love my kids, yadda, yadda, yadda.  I just kinda wished I knew the other parts as well...

My Child, My Self?

Needy, clingy, attention-whore, leaky-holed love bucket...

These are not words I would use to describe myself, but I would very readily attribute them to Judah.

I could spend (and have spent) 2-3 hours of pure, unadulterated, one-on-one time with him and it's still not enough.  As soon as I break off and do something else or pay attention to Noah, Judah melts down and whines "You never play with me Mommy!  You never love me!  I'm soooooo saadddd"

He's been like this all his short life.  Yep, even as a baby he would make darn sure you know he HAS to be the center of attention or there were consequences.  Very unpleasant scream-filled consequences.  So it's definitely not a "phase."  It's just Judah.

Photocredit: NanDPhotography.net

But I had a jarring realization these past few weeks.  Now that Judah can express himself pretty articulately, I'm shocked that he sounds like...me!  Except that I've never said these words out loud.  I'm a pretty quiet, passive person (Judah's loud verbosity is definitely not from me), but every thing he says I've thought.  A lot.  Especially as a child.

It brought back flashes of memory that I hitherto had completely forgotten about.  How much I craved attention.  How much I craved praise.  How much I wanted everyone in the room to look at me.  Look at me!  Look at me!  Tell me I'm special!

Once in preschool I remember learning about bloody noses.  A classmate got one and all of sudden there was a flurry of excitement surrounding her like some warm angelic penumbra of love and care.  Oh how I wanted that too.  So...of course I punched myself in the nose repeatedly to try to make it bleed.

Turns out that just gives you a sore nose without a single drop of blood.

Realizing that Judah gets his attention-neediness from me has made me so much more compassionate toward him.  My poor kid.  Inherited some tough traits.

And it's given me so much more compassion for the Spouse.  So often we have recurring arguments wherein I accuse him of not spending enough time with me and he is completely baffled how I could come up with that conclusion.  He's always insisted I was a leaky love bucket and now I know exactly what it feels like to be on the other end of that bucket.

Filling it, filling it, and filling it again.  Only to turn around 3 seconds later to find that it's completely empty!

It's always hard to know what part of you is really you and what part of you was shaped by your environment and upbringing.  I'm realizing that having kids is kinda like an amazing internal mirror--helpful and revealing...but not very flattering.

Batboy and Chubs

This post is just a shameless vehicle for me to do what I really want to do--post these hilarious/cute pics of my kids.

Ever since Judah got this Batman costume for Christmas he's been loving it.  He very, truly, believes he morphs into a superhero when he dons it.  I mean, just check out the serious air with which he looks himself over in the mirror.  He obviously thinks he's a badass with that costume on--nevermind the cutesy penguin pajama bottoms.

At age 3.5 he has fully transitioned from a toddler who loved a variety of boy things--cars, policemen, trains--to a preschooler who loves one singular thing only--superheros.

As for Noah, he's getting more freaking adorable by the day.  Man I'm going to miss his baby days when he starts really thinning out.

Don't you think his facial expression here deserves an internet meme of his own?

Like: Seriously, you did what?
Or: Amiright?
Or: Really mom? Mac 'n' cheese again?

Okay, I'm tired, I can't think of any good memes.  Gold star for anyone who comes up with something better.

Whose Birthday Is It Anyway?

Dear Noah,

I'm sorry your brother is such an attention hog.

I'm sorry he talks literally non-stop and demands that I de facto ignore you as I listen and respond to him every 0.25 seconds.  Mommy, mommy, MOMMY!  Are you listening?!  Mommy!  I have to tell you something!  Mommy!

But if it weren't for him, you wouldn't even have this little party, such as it was.

Alice, the patron saint of brotherly love and half-assed birthday parties.

You see, I wasn't going to do anything because I'm just now recovering from wrecking our one and only car and almost breaking my hand.  But Judah pestered me about it all day.  When are we going to have Noah's birthday party?  Mommy?  Mommy, mommy, MOMMY!  You're not listening to me!

So I finally dug out our old party bag and found some party stuff and voila.  It was mostly to appease Judah.  But it was also to show him that you matter, that you get birthday fanfare as much as the next guy.

Judah sang the Happy Birthday song to you, but added his own name in that crucial third line--Happy birthday dear Noah and Judah!  Happy birthday to you!

And Judah was sorely disappointed that you didn't have a chocolate cake (like he did) and like he had been anticipating for months now.  Mommy, where's Noah's cake?  Mommy, mommy, MOMMY!  Why doesn't Noah have a cake?!

Um, because mommy crashed the family car last week and did not have the wherewithal to produce a cake!--is what I was thinking.

But I appeased him with some much hyped "Birthday chocolate."  You each got a Hershey kiss.  Stingy mommy wins!

And I spent the rest of the day marveling how this little peanut...

...has turned into this bigger little peanut.  In the blink of an eye.  (That sometimes felt like an eternity).

You've been such a wonderful addition to our family and the best little brother Judah could ever ask for--mild-natured, patient, independent, and pretty hard to provoke.  You don't mind your jealous brother hogging the limelight, but secretly I think you know you're the star in your own little way.

Mommy could not love you more sweet Noah.  (But shhhh, don't tell your brother that).

Bursting My Shriveled Little Raisinette Heart

This is Noah's first time going down the slide and Judah is very proud to be the one to show him how it's done.

I *itch and moan a lot about parenting.  But looking at this picture, my heart is so full.  Oh my loves.

Good-bye My Sweetheart, Good-bye My Dear Old

So this happened last weekend:

I was driving the kids to the library and hit a parked car.  Because I was getting them a stupid mum-mum cracker.  And the cracker was broken into 3 pieces.  And I was taking just a split second too long staring at the pieces and trying to decide how to dole them out to the kids.

And then I looked up just in time to see the un-moving car right in front of us.  I slammed on the brakes in disbelief but it was too late.  CRASH!  I think my hands were still gripping that damned rice cracker.

Thankfully the kids were fine.  I thought I had a broken hand bone but the x-ray revealed only a bad sprain.  But still the aftermath was/is not at all fun.

Mentally, emotionally, of course I berated myself endlessly, playing the 10 second clip of the accident in my head on loop.  If only.  If only.  If only.  If only I wasn't so dumb.  Forget alcohol, mum-mums and driving don't mix.  Friends don't let friends pass out snacks in the car while driving down a winding steep hill.  Argh.

Physically, I was handicapped for the next 3-4 days.  I couldn't use my left hand at all.  No dishes, no diaper changes, no cooking--I wasn't even able to floss myself!

And of course the biggest hit was financial.  Now we have to dole out a pretty penny for a new used car.

But strangely, there is another kind of sadness.  I realized I just really loved our old car.  Our good ol' tiny compact car that we bought from 2 Ukrainian mafiosos in Sacramento with no legit business papers and despite the salvaged title.  We got such a ridiculously good deal on it (hello giant assumed risks) and it had served us so well for the last 5 years.

I never knew I could get so attached to an inanimate object.  I think I need to name it and say a proper good-bye.  So here goes.

Good-bye Ol' Blue (cuz it was blue).  We hardly knew ya'.  Our time was cut too short.  With only 87,000 miles on you, we thought for sure you'd be Judah's first car one day.  You saw us through the happiest moments of our lives--driving home our newborn babes.  (I can't believe I actually feel on the verge of crying as I type this).  You were dependable and reliable.  Isn't that what we call a friend?

Say hello to all our old previous 4-wheeled carriages who are now resting in a better mechanical universe:
Gray (the gray Buick)
Forest (the forest green LeSabre)
and Tori (the gray Taurus)

Love, Your last owners.