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.

A Ball Named Serenity

It has been one of those days. One of those "shake my fist at the sky, throw furniture out the window, bang my head against the wall, baby is asleep only when being held and in motion and has somehow managed to throw up more milk than she has drank" days. So, instead of grumbling about the trials of motherhood, I am going to tell the tale of a BALL.

A ball we have named, "Serenity."

Serenity grew up at a department store. There was nothing magical about her youth. She always assumed she would be bought by a health conscious vegan person between the ages of 18 and 50 who would use her at the most once a day, and then give her all her holidays and evenings off.

But the god of yoga balls had other plans for her.

When the store opened that fateful day in August, she had a sense of impending doom. She had been pushed to the front of her shelf, so there was no hiding when a very VERY rotund woman (seriously, did she eat balls for breakfast??) came around the corner with a look of frazzled desperation in her eyes.  She barely seemed to notice Serenity before tossing her between a box of #5 diapers, a nursing bra, and a jar of Nutella.

For months she sat un-inflated, still wrapped in her plastic shopping bag. Then one day she was fished out from under the couch where she had been accidentally shoved, ripped out of her box, and hauled to the basement where she was filled with air.  She was sure that now she would be taken to the magical healthy food person, with her tidy Ikea decorated apartment.  Right?

Oh, poor Serenity.  Instead she was greeted by a truly terrifying, ear splitting sound.  A sound somewhere between a fire engine and a donkey killing a cat. Two people sat on her (one was tiny, but VERY LOUD) and BOUNCED. Oh the indignity. They didn't even pretend to be doing crunches.  And then the tiny loud one VOMITED. ALL. OVER. HER.

Soon she realized the screaming noises were getting quieter...and quiter.....and stopping...and the woman was expressing in the warmest way how very VERY much she loved the yoga ball, and Serenity decided it wasn't such a bad life.

Which is how I came to be sitting on a yoga ball named Serenity, bouncing Thing 2 to sleep and typing this with one hand.

I would say that 90% of my day is spent here.  She works hard traveling from room to room as needed, is refilled with air weekly, is currently streaked with remnants of urped up milk, and is making it possible for me to bounce Thing 2 and eat/read/check my email.  Who needs a desk chair?

(Of course, we haven't told her the tragic tale of her predecessor yet.  The Yoga Ball who was stabbed with a pencil through the heart by Thing 1, the very child she had bounced to sleep so many times. Very "Giving Tree".)

Hopefully, Serenity will live a long happy life bouncing Thing 2, ending with a peaceful retirement in the back of my closet.  She will certainly of earned it.

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 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.