Playground for Parents

The 15 Minute Rule

Whoever talks about "balancing" work and kids is lying, and should immediately be slapped with a wet diaper.  There's no such thing as balance.  It's more like prioritizing and re-prioritizing your life. At times, work will take the lead (like when the dreaded property taxes are due on April 10th and you have to work overtime to come up with thousands of "extra" dollars). At other times, kids will take the lead (like when a school project is due that only someone with a PhD in engineering could possibly complete by the deadline). And at still other times, very very rarely, YOU will actually be first and foremost in the hierarchy (like when...like when...Oh, I don't know, you'll have to give me an example).

 

And with two kids, the struggle is compounded. Two kids is double the struggle, right? Uh, no. Funny thing is, the issues and worries and struggles aren't doubled with two kids. Two kids doesn't mean twice the money, worry or time.  It's quadrupled. The money required for diapers, and food, and daycare/nanny/babysitter, and cute clothes and shoes, and activities, and doctor co-pays for all those freakin' vaccinations...the time required for disciplining and sleep training and teaching that every color is not called "green..."  Yea, the good times are multiplied too, the laughter, the giggles, the "firsts", yada yada yada, blah blah. But, I'm not trying to be sappy and sentimental this time around.  I'm trying to vent, thank you very much.

 

Another thing about having a second kid - during my calmer one-child days, I would laugh at the mothers who would lament about the poor second child, who didn't get as many photos taken as the first kid, who didn't get coddled over every scraped knee or taken to the emergency room with every fever over 100.  Certainly I would take 1000 photos of MY second kid during her first month of life, because I am attentive and doting and Stepford Wife perfect.

 

Well, folks may have lied about that whole "balancing" life thing, but they certainly weren't exaggerating about how much less anal more relaxed you become with your second child.

 

Which is why my second kid was allowed to do this, just so that I could have 15 freakin' minutes to clean my kitchen...

Yep.  You know that "5-second rule" you have about letting them eat food off the floor?  It turns into a 15 minute rule with that second child. Nothing buys you time like letting them scatter Goldfish across the floor). Don't worry. The floor was clean. Well, as clean as it can be with a toddler.

 

 

 

Boogers For Birth Control

Amazing, and amusing, what we'll do as moms that we used to find utterly disgusting.  We'll get poop on our hands while changing a diaper.  And we'll talk about bowel movements with other moms more than we EVER thought possible.  We'll get peed on by baby boys.  We'll wipe off eye boogers with our knuckle.  We'll bandage their gaping wounds without passing out from the sight of blood. We'll use our spit to wipe away crusted milk from the corners of their mouths. Nothing seems too nasty to us now.  Fortunately, this stuff still freaks out younger folks.

 

My 8 year old daughter was holding Munchkin's arms down while I used my bare fingers to pull long, thick mucous from Munchkin's nose. The kind of boogers that resemble rubber cement.

 

My 8 year old daughter was totally grossed out.

 

And I was pleased. I figure I just took one step further in preventing teen pregnancy.

 

The Cars in the Carpool Lane

I was sitting in my 9 year old car in the carpool lane at my kid's school. When you're sitting, and waiting, it's a great time to notice your immediate surroundings. Like the inside of my car.  I took that moment to curse the fact that my car has a light beige-colored interior.  At least, it was beige once. Two kids later, it looks more like...mud. Dealers shouldn't be allowed to sell light-colored interiors to new moms who don't know any better. There should be a warning posted, just like not drinking or smoking when you're pregnant.  Anyway (how'd I get off on that tangent?!), I'm sitting there in the carpool lane at school, and I'm noticing my surroundings: there's a parent driving a new Porsche in front of me, and another driving a new Rolls Royce on the side of me.  I was able to confirm right then and there that the recession is not affecting everyone equally. So, me and my little old Benz with the mud-colored interior are trying to fit in the best we can. We've done ok so far.

 

This is our fourth year at the private school.  A school where nannies are cliche. There are families with bodyguards, and private jets, and vacation homes in overseas locations that I can't pronounce.  You've seen some of these parents in the year's hottest movies.  You probably have one of their songs rotating in your ipod.  My 8 1/2 year old has come home from a playdate on more than one occasion, coveting the fun little household extras of her friends.

 

"I want an elevator in my house like Dorian." 

 

To which I replied: "Our house is one story.  Where do you think an elevator would go?"

 

"I want an indoor swimming pool like Celeste."

 

To which I replied:  "You have one. It's called a bathtub. Now get in it."

 

Now, I can honestly say, despite the fact that Little Jane's dad can be found on Thursday night Must-See TV, and my kid's dad works a regular 9 to 5, I have never felt less-than in their presence.   The moms, with very few exception, have been down to earth and friendly and...enjoyable.  You hate to say it when the diamond on their wedding ring is the size of a gala apple, but it's true. They're mostly...nice.

 

An interesting thing that I've learned during this whole school process is this:  that my own comfort with the school environment, my own feelings of acceptance among administrators and parents, and my ability to connect and establish friendships with the parents of my child's classmates, is more important than I ever could've imagined before becoming a mom. I may not be able to give the school a donation that equates to the cost of my house, but what I have given has been valued - arranging group playdates, entertaining kids at sleepovers and taking care of them like they're my own, keeping the moms informed about local events...I have a value that is appreciated, and makes me feel just as much of that community as the family who donated the new school playground. I feel lucky, because I know of moms who don't experience the same feeling of community.  They don't invite other kids over for a playdate because they reside in an apartment instead of a home with a bowling alley.  And that saddens me. Because the kids don't care...yet.  And instead of enjoying this fleeting experience to the fullest, they are thwarted by their own insecurity. 

 

There I go again. Raising our insecurity issue in yet another post. But truly, other than that damn Mother's Guilt, is there really any other emotion/issue that gets us as discombobulated?!  Can you imagine how liberated we would feel as parents if we could let that go? Can you imagine the children we would raise?

 

I'm feeling good about my choice of school.  I'm feeling great about the friends I've made.  I'm just "getting in where I fit in."  Take me or leave me.

 

But if this darn tuition keeps going up every year as it has been, my next school-related post may be entirely different - like what the going rate for a kidney is these days, and if I should start selling my internal organs just to keep my kid in our dream school.

 

 

Do Her Bowels Realize What Time It Is?!

I should not be up at 1am, especially when I had just gone to bed at 12:45am.

My husband should not be up at 1am, since he also just went to bed at 12:45, and has to get up for work in about 4 hours.

Munchkin should DEFINITELY not be up at 1am, since she's been sleeping through the night since she was 8 weeks old. And should know by now that mommy is more pleasant when her sleep is uninterrupted.

Except Munchkin pooped, and was crying incessantly. So, we were up.

And there I stood, in the nursery, with a flashlight aimed at her butt (hoping I wouldn't "fully wake her" by turning on the room light - yea, right), trying to hold my breath from the smell, changing a poopy diaper.

Now I have to figure out why she pooped at this un-Godly hour. She's a regular pooper, about 7pm right after dinner usually. So what the heck happened? Was it something she ate? Was she sick?  Mama has to figure it out in order to prevent it from happening again.

Because nobody should be pooping at 1am. Not dogs. Not cats. Not birds. Not munchkins, especially when they want to stay up afterwards and play. Nothing like a good poop to get your engines revved up and going again. Guess some things never change.

Last One Picked

When we were little, what did it mean when we were picked last by our classmates for a round of baseball, basketball or beloved kickball?  I just can't recall. I figure I was either so obnoxiously popular that it never, ever, in the span of 10+ years, happened to me. Or it was so heartwrenchingly, agonizingly, traumatizing that I've pushed the experience into the recesses of my muddled mind.  Let's go with that first reason, shall we?

Based on what I've seen on television (and we know how realistic that is), the last one picked for the team is always the nerdy, smelly, socially-awkward, overweight, shy kid, who doesn't really want to play anyway.  At least they act like they don't want to play (smart defensive move, if you ask me). 

If this imitates real life, then I am truly at a loss for why my kid was picked last for two recent games she played at our local YMCA. Afterall, she is none of those things...except shy. OK, maybe even a little nerdy. But certainly not the least athletic. It didn't matter that she was the fastest one around the gym, or the only one who didn't cheat doing the exercises, or the one with great running form thanks to all these months of track practice, or that she was the tallest one out there. Shocker - it didn't even matter that one of the young team leaders had just told me 10 minutes prior, "you're daughter is good at this."   What?! If she's so good, what took you so long to choose her for your team?!

There I sat on the sidelines, while the two misguided team leaders chose their players. Oh, how glorious it must feel to be picked first. The chosen one. The golden child. From what I can tell, that's usually going to be the biggest, loudest kid around. And like it or not, it's usually going to be a boy. I'm cool with that. Hey, I'd probably pick him over my own kid too, even if he was incredibly annoying and not following directions. I'll give them that one. But then you're also going to pick the kid who always came in last running down the court, before you pick my kid?  And you're going to pick the one who made an excuse to go to the bathroom or the water fountain everytime they had to do a new exercise, before you pick my kid?

WHAT is it?  Because she's skinniest?  Because she's tallest?  Because she's quietest?  Because she's (gasp!) the only brown child?

I gotta tell you, because I figure I can be honest with you - it sucks! It's painful to watch your child be..."un-wanted!"  And I was mad.  I feel silly confessing to this now, but I instaneously disliked each of those LAME kids who would dare pass over my darling daughter. Irrational?  What can I say. Mama bear doesn't just protect her kids from physical injury. She protects them from ego-injury too. 

Except my kid didn't care. Nope. Not one bit. Didn't even phase her that she was the last straggly one standing there. So, apparently it was my issue, and I was going to have to be resentful of those other brats all by myself. I guess that's a good thing. Her ego remained intact. Mine, on the other hand...

Letting Go...a Little

Over the weekend, I agreed to let my eight year old go to a carnival with her best friend's family.  At night.  As the event approached, it suddenly dawned on me that I have never done this before - released my kid into the care of another, at a crowded event. At night. And no, school field trips don't count.  I'm referring to the bustling amusement parks, concerts, festivals...and carnivals.  At night.

 

So, to ensure that she would be seen and kept track of in a crowd (and basically to make myself feel better), I tried to prepare her well: Bright orange shirt (if she wore blue or white or pink, she'd just blend into the crowd). Orange jacket (in case the shirt was covered up). Sparkly silver hat (in case all they could see was the top of her head). Mini flashlight attached to her belt loop (in case...I don't know...she needed to lead a darkened path?). Safety tattoo placed strategically on our arm, with our phone number (in case she got lost and was too traumatized to remember our phone number. Nevermind that she's known our phone number since preschool). And Daddy rehearsed the safety rules with her...after I did.  

 

The only thing missing was supplying her with a can of mace or a gun. Thought that might be overkill.

 

Can you imagine how it will be when she's allowed to date at 16  18   21?

 

Things I Will Never Understand

My daughter's coach is dead.  He was only 35 years old.  Thirty-five.  I hadn't even "found myself" yet at 35.  And it wasn't a quick and painless death.  It was brain cancer.  A nasty, evil disease that in the end left him paralyzed, immobile, and unable to speak for the final few weeks of his life.  Can you imagine being a kid and seeing your dad in that condition?  Or being a wife and witnessing your vibrant husband decline?  His brain cancer had been in remission, which is why we had the opportunity to meet him last spring during track season.  That was just...five months ago.  He looked fine.  He was upbeat, had a warm smile, a genuinely nice guy. Best of all, he was great with those little kids.  Had more patience than I could ever have.  We didn't know what he knew - that he had brain cancer and it could come back any minute and take him away from his three young children. And a wife.  Well, the cancer chose to come back just a month ago. A month. You know how quick a month is. Just a month ago, we were preparing our kids for the new school year. Coach Lamon was fighting for his life, and possibly preparing his kids for his death.  I didn't know him well. But, this I know - that 35 is too young to die. Leaving three young children.  And a wife. 

 

As I was reflecting on the news of his passing, the memory of another parent came flooding back.  She was the mom of one of my daughter's soccer teammates last year.  It was the first season of soccer for both of our daughters.  We were lucky if they kicked the ball without falling over.  The mom was bubbly.  I still remember her tickling her little boy in the grass to keep him distracted while her daughter practiced.  Her daughter had autism, and the mom showed a lot of patience.  She was separated from her husband, so she was doing a lot of this parenting thing on her own.  During one of the Saturday games, she congratulated me on our new baby, and we talked about the delivery experience. I remember that she was easy to talk to, really nice. By the following Saturday, that mom had died in a car accident. Poof. Two little kids who REALLY needed their affectionate and nurturing mom, was gone.  I can't remember her face now. But, this I know - that she was too young to die. Leaving two young children.

 

And now I realize that the more people that we meet and let into our lives, the more tragedy and death we are going to be exposed to. But, we don't have a choice, do we? There's no way around it, except maybe to isolate ourselves, build a bubble around us. That's not an option.  Yet, I can't help but focus right now on the unfairness of it all. Why "good people" have to go.  Why 35 year old fathers who contribute to other kids' lives, or young soccer moms...or my 28 year old little brother...why they don't make it as long as I have.  And perverted, malicious, violent "people" - like the kind who kidnap little girls and keep them in their backyard for 18 years and do despicable things to them on a daily basis - why those people get to live until they're 80. I think we've all asked that question.  Thank God my daughter hasn't asked it of me, because I surely don't have the answer.

 

My heart is heavy. I know this will pass. Another sports season is upon us. Another year of meeting new people, and making new friends. I can only pray that they all remain safe, for the sake of their children that need them.

 

RIP Coach Lamon.

The Negligent Tooth Fairy

My eight year old still believes in the Tooth Fairy.  Adorable, right?  Well, evidently, she also believes that the tooth fairy will come digging around under pillows even when you do NOT have a tooth under there. Evidently, the tooth fairy in my daughter's world is expected to respond to letters about loose teeth, or almost loose teeth, or teeth that may be lost sometime in the future. Letters that I don't even know are under the pillow in the first place. 

 

Letters like the one she showed me this morning, because the inept tooth fairy didn't respond to it when my kid put it under her pillow last night:  "Dear Tooth Fairy: When is this tooth coming out? It's painful and it's wiggling. Are you coming to get it soon?"

 

OK, nevermind that my kid's tooth is not even loose, but she swears it is and forces me to look at it every evening. Now, given that I am the intermediary for the tooth fairy, you tell me -how is the tooth fairy supposed to receive my daughter's highly important letters about loose teeth, if I don't even know that she wrote the letter?!? Am I supposed to start checking under her pillow each night JUST IN CASE my kid wants to have a conversation with the tooth fairy about floss?

 

I've responded to letters to the toothy fairy in the past, like when my daughter asked the tooth fairy a couple of years ago if she had a leprechaun for a brother, and if she knew the Easter Bunny personally. Oh, you laugh. But, you should've seen how hard it was to write that tiny, as if it the response had come from fairy hands. And at least that letter accompanied an actual tooth. 

 

Now what's next?  Cookies and milk left out for Santa before Christmas? Actually, that wouldn't be so bad. Surely, I would notice those.

 

 

She Doesn't Even Know You

The crying starts before I even let her go. As I walk away, they get louder, at least in my heart. I close the door, but can still hear the crying. I can't walk out of the building and around the corner fast enough. The guilt, and her cries follow me to my car. And I send up a prayer that it stops in a minute, like everyone assures me it will.

 

That's how I get to begin every morning when I drop Munchkin at daycare. And it sucks. Hugely. When we had the nanny, Munchkin would reach out for her and go into the nanny's arms, smile and wave bye-bye. But, at daycare, the caregivers are still unfamiliar and there are several of them. There are also other babies. Babies who cry when their parents leave, or for some other unknown reason. Munchkin cries when they cry. I try to distract her when this happens, but I see her senses perk up, as she prepares to join in the wail-fest. I comfort myself knowing that the morning transition is a brief one, and I'll be told when I pick her up that she had her usual good day of smiling, blowing kisses, and playing with her new friends.

 

Except when I picked up Munchkin yesterday, I was told that it had been a bit rough, that she cried on and off everytime someone left the room. Mind you, she didn't even know the people coming and going. But, apparently she doesn't want anyone to leave once they come in. Like separation anxiety with complete strangers! It's as if she's saying, "if this place is so great, then why aren't you staying here?"  They said they tried to distract her when someone left, but she'd simply look around for them and cry once she realized they had escaped.

 

So, now on top of the morning crying, and the transmission of cooties that have had Munchkin sick and out of daycare for more days than she's attended, I have to be concerned about her separation anxiety with strangers. All I have to go on is that all of this is supposed to be temporary - soon she'll get used to being left at daycare, soon she'll get immune to the germs...

 

Sigh. I'm rethinking this whole nanny versus daycare thing.

 

 

The Second Time Around

The first time I gave birth was in 2001. The baby was a week late, and I went to the hospital thinking my contractions were five minutes apart. Except not only were they not five minutes apart, I wasn't even dilated. As a complete novice, I didn't know anything except what I'd seen on tv, and what I could barely remember from What To Expect When You're Expecting. I endured 22+ hours of hospital labor, with a heavy dose of Pitocin. It was only made bearable by the uploads of epidural that I requested anytime I felt the slightest twinge. What was that? Is that a contraction trying to start? Maybe it's just gas. I don't care - more epidural please! I was curled up on the hospital bed, forced to lay on my side the entire time because baby's heartbeat became erratic. All while being restricted to sucking on flavored ice, while my husband and mother chomped down on fried chicken, macaroni n cheese, and German chocolate cake. Do you KNOW how much the smell of fried chicken fills a room?! Twenty minutes of pushing, and bouncing baby girl #1 was born.

 

The second time I gave birth was September 8, 2008. After only 5 hours of hospital labor (no pitocin, but plenty of my old friend, Mr. Epidural), bouncing baby girl #2 was born in five quick pushes. My doctor told me that I "made it look easy." I'm sure he was just glad to be getting back home in the middle of the night. There was no time for fried chicken.

 

The first time, I stayed in the hospital's deluxe maternity suite, in a room with a sitting area, pull-out sofa, two tvs, refrigerator, made-to-order meals, and my own doula. I was in no hurry to go home and try to keep an infant alive all by myself.

 

This second time, I was at a very different hospital, with obviously a very different cook preparing the meals. I checked myself out the next day after giving birth, because the food was worse than the contractions. 

 

The first time, I took photos of everything and anything concerning baby, from her hands to her feet to the crazy face she made when she first tasted smashed peas. I promptly put them in photo albums to share with everyone who pretended to care about pictures of my baby sleeping...and another one of her sleeping...and another...

 

This second time, I've still managed to take an insane number of photos. In fact, I dragged myself out of the house five days postpartum, on the day when I was in the most pain, to get those newborn pictures, when babies are so pliable and you can fold them in all sorts of ways. And I was the photographer, so I groaned and moaned as I stooped, twisted, and maneuvered to get dramatic shots. But, worth it, don't you think...

 

Baby and Photo made by Mommy

 

But some things don't change. Both the first and second time around, I birthed beautiful, healthy, brilliant, hilarious baby girls. And I now get to eat birthday cake two more times each year. 

 

Tonight, Munchkin MAY have enjoyed her chocolate ganache birthday cake that Daddy baked, as much as I did. I am truly blessed.