Good Day

Today I felt, perhaps for the first time since Thing 2's birth, that I managed to successfully parent both my children, showing them equal affection, and taking care of ALL their needs. Crazy, I know.  The weather was creepily balmy for March, so I strapped on the tiniest Tyrant, wrestled boots and coats onto the least tiny Tyrant, and marched down the street to the school playground.  Thing 2 cooed and drooled all over her bjorn, gasping and shuddering when wind hit her face, and was basically in a blissed out sea of over-stimulation.

(The sucky thing with having winter babies is that you are trapped inside for months on end, not only by the dark and cold, but by the desire not to expose your tiny new born to the elements. By the time spring comes even the baby has cabin fever, and she doesn't even know what she's missing!)















Thing 1 met a slightly older man (he had just "changed" four) who was hanging from a rope bridge and claimed to be Peter Pan (Thing 1 and I had our doubts), and somehow, miraculously, when it was time to leave there was no tantrum throwing.  I might have used ice cream as an incentive. Parenting a two year old is like running the mob.  It's all about bribery.
 On the way home  she asked me if she could go to school.

"When you are more grown up."
"Mia grow up too?"
"Yes, Mia and you will grow up together."
"Grow up to-ged-er.  Momma grow up too?"
"Sure, Momma grow up too."
"When you go to school will you learn how to read?"
"Yes. And learn 'bout da SATURN. And da VENUS. And da JUPITER. And da MAAARS! Yes. And da MOON. Yes. When I grow'd up I hold dem in my HAND."
"They are too big to hold in your hand. Do you know where planets lives?"
"On da wall?"
"No, they live in outer space."
"With Wall-E?"
"Yes. With Wall-E."
"And EEEeee-Vaaaa?"
"Yes. And Eva."
"Yes. Sometime we get a Wall-E?"
"Sure. When you are grown up."
"Yes. That will be good."

Yes, that will be good.

ABBA, ABBA, Everywhere...

 I never meant for my home to become invaded with ABBA music.  It was all just an honest mistake.

When Thing 2 was born we shortened her name to "Mia" so that Thing 1 could pronounce it easier. Thus the arrival of "Baby Mia" unfortunately coincided with my sister renting "Momma Mia".  Thing 1 loves anything with singing, dancing, and apparently huge sequenced costumes.  Once she realized that this movie was named after two of her favorite people, and that there was even a song sung specifically for them, she fell head over heels in love.  It has been continuously requested.  To make matters worse, it was one of her Christmas presents (one of her favorites, naturally). So now it is always available.

 Almost any conversation can remind her of it:

Mention how we need more MONEY and suddenly a small voice will chirp, "Money song? Watch Momma Mia?"
 Refer to something we did LAST SUMMER, or having a DREAM, or EMOTIONS, state TROOPERS, or TAKING A CHANCE and the same thing happens. Especially if we mention Momma and Mia in the same sentence, which at our house can be quite often since Thing 2 is usually glued to my chest.
"Where are Momma and Mia?"
 "Da Momma and da Mia? Mamma Mia? WATCH Mamma Mia?"
  Even Winnie the Pooh will bring it up.
 "...bears love honey and I'm a - "
"Honey? Honey honey song? Watch Honey honey song? WATCH'A MOMMA MIA? PEEAAS?"

 Apparently Momma Mia is like the Kevin Bacon of movies, if you pay attention everything can be traced  back to ABBA songs. It's a little disturbing.

Which is why I am walking around this evening humming "Money Money", and banging my head against the wall.  That music is like velcro on my brain. Who would have thought I would have a two year old obsessed with feel good 70's Swedish music?  I should have named my second child Jane.

Sweaty Mouth Prevention

The reason why Thing 1's face smells so fresh and clean this evening (in a manly, musky sort of way) is because while I was attempting to get Thing 2 down for a nap this afternoon, she found her way into the bathroom.  She had climbed onto the toilet, found a stick of men's deodorant, and had just removed the cap when I found her,

"Smells like Daddy!" she informed me with delight,  nodding emphatically, "YES, smells like Daddy!"

She then proceeded to RUB the deodorant onto her cheeks, nose and mouth while I stood frozen in horror.

"NO! We do not put that on our faces! That is not lotion!" I shrieked while attempting to remove the deodorant from her hand without smearing more on her person, fish the cap from behind the toilet where it was making friends with the dust bunnies and replace it, and lift Thing 1 down from the toilet with one hand while holding a fascinated Thing 2 with the other. "We DO NOT put that on our FACES!"

As I was desperately looking for a clean washcloth, Thing 1 stood staring at me in the doorway of the bathroom with giant innocent eyes.

Then she LICKED her deodorant smeared lips and said, "Mmmmmmmm....I like it! I LIKE IT!" nodding emphatically again.  "Smells like Daddy. Nummy. I LIKE it! More?"

"No. Wash your face." I said as I tried not to gag and handed her a soapy washcloth.

She looked at it for a moment, shoved it's soapy goodness in her mouth, and began sucking noisily.

"NOOOO!" I wailed, "Don't suck on it! WASH WITH IT!"

 Then she dodged out of my frantic reach and ran from the room, declaring to the house at large; "Mmmmmmm!!!! I LIKE IT!!!! NUMMY!!!! I LIKE IT!"

Which is why, if you were to kiss  my daughter good night, you may have caught a whiff of Irish Spring mixed with Old Spice.
At least she won't have a sweaty mouth.

The Itchy Beaver

Thing 1 picked out a new show from the library all about nature and animals with cute animation. Excellent.  I like nature. I was a PBS kid.  Educational programming will make my child a future genius. Right? 

Little did I know the parental humiliation this show would cause.  I hold it responsible for Thing 1 running around in a public library with a delighted grin declaring, “Find da Itchy Beaver! Itchy Beaver! FIND DA ITCHY BEAVER. SCRATCH’A DA ITCHY BEAVER!!” while respectable librarians and homeless gentlemen and mothers of superior children looked on in horror and judgment and contemplated calling social services. 

The facts are these:

There is a character on the show named “Benita”.

“Benita” is a Beaver.

A female Beaver.  (That alone is inexcusable for the creators of children’s shows.)

There is an entire episode devoted to the Itch that Benita the Beaver cannot reach.

That’s right, she is an itchy Beaver.

She needs some help to reach that itch.

Izzy the owl helps out her gal pal as best she can.

Sammy the (male) Skunk tries to scratch it for her, but his hands are just tooooo soft. “Ooooo Sammy, that tickles!” (true quote in a ridiculous high pitched voice.)

It becomes imperative that the Beaver learn how to scratch her own itch to be truly satisfied. Hmmmm…..

 I realize that it is my dirty mind filling in the gaps and trying desperately not to laugh out loud every time we watch it, but the writers of this show are obviously 15-year-old boys that have the munchies and are giggling maniacally at their own cleverness.  All I know is that Mr. Rogers never scratched any itchy Beaver - not even in the Land of Make Believe.

      

Lactation Paralysis

Today I would like to raise awareness for a little known condition in new mothers. Particularly those that decide to breastfeed. No one ever warns you about it. Not the midwives. Not the nurses. Not the doctors. Not your own mother who really should have said something, except I am pretty sure she has blocked out the first 16 years of all her children’s lives.

            
 It is called “Lactation Paralysis”.

             
At first I didn’t notice it because I didn’t have the energy to do anything but sit on the couch/bed and wonder how I was still alive after pushing a human out of me and then sleeping 4 non-consecutive hours a day for two weeks. But as my energy began to return, I became aware of thing around me. 

Things like the dirty diapers under the couch keeping company with a petrified apple core. And the soda bottle on the bookshelf. And the books on the floor next to the laundry basket full of clothes that may or may not be clean. And the family of empty toilet paper rolls that had moved in under the bathroom sink. None of these things would be hard to fix. 15 minutes of cleaning tops. Easy. Right?

            
This is when I notice that I CAN’T MOVE. Why? Because there is a tiny human being attached to my breast for a half an hour, every two hours, all day long.  So I stare at the apple core, the fine layer of cereal crumbs on the floor, the coat that has fallen off it’s hook, the toys and cds that are having a mixer under my dining room table, and panic begins to bubble. I have to move. I have to clean. I want to clean. I'm a clean person. I can’t live like this. I start to making to-do lists in my head, because I am holding Thing 2 with my right hand, and I can’t write a list with my left hand.

            
 I take deep breaths and force myself to stare out the window and think about green meadows and unicorns and Jedi Masters. I wait for her to go to sleep. Then I attempt to lay her down. Her eyes fly open as if to say, “Psych! Just kidding mom, I was never really sleeping because I have GAS!” 

By the time she has burped my mental list has been transformed into a blazing mental scream of “MUST MOVE! MUST CLEAN! PLEASE GOD LET ME CLEEEAAANNN!” And then another adult enters the room, and casually tosses something where it DOESN’T belong, and I turn into a psychotic weeping bundle of paralyzed nerves.

            
The good news is that lactation paralysis doesn’t last forever. My mind can’t maintain that level of stress for long, so I slowly stop caring about anything while nursing except that I am actually keeping her alive and that is probably more important than dusted bookshelves.  As she gets older, the paralysis begins to recede, and I discover I am able to do things with one hand. 

Like anyone recovering from a serious illness, progress is slow. Most of this post, for example, was written after Thing 1 decided it was a good idea to break out the xylophone while Thing 2 was trying to sleep. Which means my right side has been lactation paralyzed while I laboriously typed one handed with my left. For someone who can type 70 words a minute with two hands, it has been a special kind of torture. BUT I DID IT, GOD DAMN IT! Because I refuse to be a victim. I conquered lactation paralysis once before, and by golly, I can do it again.

Zombie Children

   I once believed I would never let my children watch television until they were, say, 12 or so. Then I was stuck at home with a new baby for three months in the dead of a Minnesota winter and figured she didn’t even know what was going on yet, so it didn’t count. I stumbled onto a cartoon network,  and I noticed  my colicky-baby-from-hell-Thing 1 was alarmingly NOT screaming, but staring zombie-like at the screen. At that moment I decided I would rather have zombie children than, say, werewolf-banshee children. And here we are.

            
The day now begins with  “JUICE TIME!”, followed by “Watch’a Show! Watch’a Show! Mommy, Watch’a Show!”, at which point I sleepily ask, “What do you say?” in a vain attempt to redeem my parenting.  

Thing 1 then turns long suffering eyes on me as if perhaps my hearing is already going and yells, “WATCH’A SHOW!!!” 

This is when I break out my best mom voice, “How can you ask nicely?”  

Comprehension: oh, right, that trick; “Please,” with an angelic face and a sign language gesture to sweeten the deal.  Sigh. 

This morning was Back Pack Jack from the library (I do not recommend.) all about trucks, recycling, garbage removal, etc.  Unfortunately, the only 10 minutes she likes is when they crush cars. Naturally. As I stumble around (with Thing Two wailing on my shoulder because the lactose gas in her stomach is obviously trying to murder her), attempting to use the bathroom and check my email, every 10 minutes there is a heart wrenching cry from the living room, “Smoosha da cars? Smoosha da cars. Skip to Smoosha the cars?! PLEASE! SMOOSHA DA CARS?!” By now she has found me and is staring at me with intense desperate eyes. Must. Smoosh. A. Da. Cars. Here is where I really fail as a parent. Instead of teaching my child that she needs to watch the show until the end or find something else to do, I push the damn skip button right back to that smooshing car machine and buy myself another 10 minutes. 

            
As I finally get a clean shirt over my head and am looking for some pants, Thing One finishes her juice, and begins hyperventilating and running in circles yelling, “More Juice! More Juice. More Juice? MORE JUICE! GIVE ME JUICE OR GIVE ME DEATH!!!!!" I am heading for the fridge when Thing Two expertly turns her head and vomits down my clean cleavage, and I contemplate faking a nervous break down so I can go somewhere quiet. 

The Things That Start My Day...

This is a typical morning at our house. Thing 2 starts having incredibly loud, grunt inducing gas about an hour before any living thing should be awake (5:00 am).  Thing 1 leaps onto the middle of the bed and start spinning in circles like a hyper house cat. At her arrival Thing 2’s eyes pop open and her face crumples into the beginnings of “I don’t know what the hell just happened but I am damn sure not happy about it” screaming mode, so I scoop her up in a vain attempt to get her back to sleep.

Upon seeing Thing 2 nursing, Thing 1 begins to dance and chant gleefully at the top of her lungs, “Nurse on Booby! Nurse on Booby! Baby Mia! Nurse on Booby! Touch’a Baby? Touch’a Babies EYES? Touch’a Booby? Please? PLEASE TOUCH’A DA BOOBY!” At which point I inform her that she cannot, in fact, touch my booby, all the while shielding Thing 2 from her sister’s well intentioned but possibly fatal advances. At my denial, Thing 1’s lower lip begins a truly impressive quiver and huge tears well up in a precursor to full out hysterics. This is when I stumble to the kitchen for the life-saving-first-sippy-cup-of-apple-juice-in-the-morning and drops it in front of Thing 1. She shrieks “JUICE TIME!!”, pounces on it like a giddy pyro who has been handed a fire cracker, and catapults off the bed.

Obviously feeling left out of the action, Thing 2 has an explosive case of diarrhea. I fantasizing about staying in bed - while searching for the new diapers under the clean laundry piled next to the bed and trying to untangle my feet from the three baby blankets that have somehow come to life and attacked - but deep down I  know, once Thing 1 has awoken Thing 2, there is no more sleep for mommy. Not until that magical day when Thing 2 no longer wants to “nurse on booby”  and Thing 1 can get her own damn juice. Oh magical day. You are my own personal unicorn.