My Last Initial is Z

For any of you not familiar with the finer workings of my untuned mind, I had PPD (postpartum depression) after the births of both C & A and then, as I felt it start to hover over me after the birth of H, I said "ah no, wish I had the time, but I just don't". I mean, who has the time to sit in a chair for three hours staring at the floor crying? While it sounds nice, I can no longer even squeeze in one hour of weekly therapy.

Imagine my surprise as I became more and more NOT DEPRESSED. When I'd feel down, I'd remember I didn't have time "sorry ppd! maybe next time! ha ha ha". However, I did take note that my temper, once nice and even, was swinging here and there haphazardly. I ignored it. Who has time.

And then, yesterday, I was dragged across some sort of personal threshold for noise. In the car, C & A battling it out over some obscure thing ... a barrette, the battery cover for a remote control, an old straw ... who knows. Without realizing it at first, as the yelling and crying escalated, I began to tune in instead of out. Not to the argument but the noise ... I gripped the steering wheel, occasionally slamming on the brakes to stare into the the rearview mirror with my bulging eyes and scream "YOU GIRLS HAD BETTER STOP! STOOOOPPPP! STOP NOW!!!" It worked for two or three minutes at a time. I somehow made it to our destination (the library) without crashing the car but I was FRAZZLED. Shaking, upset, wondering how I was going to get them through the library and then back home again, alive. I considered calling John at work to come get us ... but then what?? For the next two hours, I yelled a lot, talon gripped their little shoulders with unnecessary force, and dragged them around by the arms until we were finally home. It was awful. I stumbled in the house and said to Carolina with gravity "please play with them downstairs until John comes home. I don't care what you do ... tv, candy, whatever ... I will be upstairs with Harriette" I marched off and left poor Carolina to get THEM out of the car.

I locked my bedroom door, took a hot bath, drank tea, tried to talk on the phone, but nothing could calm me. My blood pressure held steady at 150/95 (really high). I was so worked up, could have thrown a car over the top of our house. After an hour, with John's eta approaching, I was feeling desperate ... thinking of where we keep the hard liquor and finally settling on my little bag of leftover prescriptions where I found, among other treasures ...

Angels singing ...

... the remainder of my old Zoloft prescription. I admit, I self medicated wildly, swilling it down with tap water from that morning's coffee cup. I sat on the bathroom rug, trying to decide what on earth could be wrong with me. I wasn't depressed ... I was mad, really really mad. I craved cooperation and consecutive moments of peace so much that even when I got both, it wasn't enough to make me feel better. I googled until I found information that fit ... PPD can sometimes be PPR (r for rage) or A (for anxiety). Never PPB (for bunny rabbits). I am seeing my dr on Monday to get a real prescription. In the meantime, I cannot believe how much better I felt yesterday, doped up on zoloft. I could breathe, ... loved my children, in the sense I could be in the same car with them ... John came home and I wasn't angry that he had disappeared off to work all day ... I played on the kitchen floor with Ava while he cooked dinner. At playgroup, I mentioned my struggle to some mom friends. They ALL said "oh ha ha! I have the same thing! I am in therapy/on drugs/under the supervision of a dr etc etc" and one even confided she was regularly resorting to percocet, over the counter cocaine, to cope.

Really?? Are we all crazy? Does mothering babies and toddlers invariably require prescriptions and psychological diagnosis? Honestly, I don't know. John says American women are soft and that, until we start experiencing the hardship of birthing babies in fields of chinese vegetables, we will stay that way. (I added that last bit but I think that is really what he must mean ... what makes Chinese women so "strong"? It must have to do with the field thing ... or using chopsticks instead of forks?). Anyway, I'm not going to spend a lot of time worrying about it ... I am just very happy to have found that little bottle of oblong orangey colored pills.

Yes, and through this, I still want more ... maybe just one, though ...

Grateful Heart

She woke up on the floor by the couch, wrapped in a bath towel. Through the lingering effects of the night before, she heard a baby's cry ... it still took a minute for her to process the meaning of it, that her five week old baby was hungry. She set out on bare, unsteady feet to find him. Even in the small apartment, it took a few minutes to hone in on the thin wail. She sank to the floor by the bed and fished out from under it the smelly and damp little creature that was her son. His eyes were puffy from crying and she knew if she kept looking at them, at him, she would begin to cry. She looked away. He was sick, probably from spending another night stuffed under the only stable piece of furniture in his world ... a place his mother thought he would be out of the way from the harsh feet of last night's party. She fumbled with his skinny arms and legs until his head pressed against her breast. She discovered he would not nurse, his wailing shook his whole body, she swore quietly and wove her way past piles of debris to the bathroom ... broken bottles, old magazines, a twisted crack pipe still resting in the outstretched hand of one of LT's friends, the one who was stabbed the year before. Past all of this she carried the writhing little figure. In the bathroom, she brushed aside piles of dirty clothes and laid him on the linoleum to change his diaper. She briefly tried to recall when she had last changed him but could not. His cries grew stronger as she attempted to wipe him off with a paper towel from the role that lay next to the toilet. Dried feces and rash worked against her until she could no longer bear his screaming. She cradled the naked little form against her own naked body, shushing him. It was too late ... LT, a liquor bottle in his hand, flung the bathroom door open with a bang that made her jump. "Shut that little fucker up" each word was calmly separated in a way that underscored their menace. He peed in the toilet that was missing a lid and seat and limped back to the bed swearing as he went. She let out a breath, relieved he had not bothered to kick at them on his way by. She held her baby as closely as she could, letting his screams numb her to her surroundings. Still, she wondered how she had come to be there, clinging to the only precious thing in her world on a bathroom floor at 5am.

A world away, I awake at the same time. Nestled safely between her snoring father and me, Harriette cries, suffering from a stomach bug. I listen for a moment, hoping she will fall back asleep, but she does not. I begrudgingly turn on the light on my nightstand and knock an empty formula bottle onto the floor in the process. "oh drat" I hiss and turn toward my baby. She is hot to the touch and I administer a dose of baby Tylenol from a dropper into her expectant mouth. I carry her to my bathroom and lay her carefully on the throw rug. On it, I can see the yellow stains of stomach bug events from earlier in the night. I apply a fresh diaper and toss the old one in the trash. I use wipes to wash away all traces of the "stinging poo", relieved to see it hadn't sat long enough to cause a rash. As I snap up her baby suit, she throws up for the fourth time in as many hours. Over her crying, I reassure her "it's ok, little baby ... you're fine ... mommy will clean it up" My shushing calms but doesn't silence her and I turn my attention to removing our clothes and running a bath. I step into the warm water and wonder if there is anything warm water can't fix. Harriette is instantly quiet, we are both relieved to be back in our beloved tub. I turn the jets on and they stir the water with a steady hum that drowns out my own humming. I hum to her anyway, figuring she can hear something of it as she lays with her head against my chest. I stare down at her little baby body as she sleeps and try to decide when or if I should call the pediatrician in the morning. I decide to keep her home all day with Carolina and call later in the day if she does not improve. My mind is anxious and I pray silently for her recovery, feeling her steady breathing.

I AM GRATEFUL that God has sent me this baby and the ability and resources to properly care for her. That is all.

Much Ablog About Nothing

After many helpful hints from my dad as to the date of my last post (August 29th), I am returning to give you a quick update on our progress here. What I want to tell you is exciting and, for me, shocking ... I am pregnant!

Ha ha, no ...

That was really mean. Sorry, Dad.

What I want to tell you is that we are all GETTING OLDER! You may think that is an obvious thing that would have occurred to me many years ago when I began getting wrinkly (but I was told I could blame the sun! Damn that sun!). But only through totally zenned out eyes of never-ending motherhood have I noticed aging. Sure, I am getting older ... we all know that ... but what I am talking about more specifically is CHILDREN ARE GETTING OLDER. Yep. That is the revelation that has brought me back from many silent months to reconnect with you, my readers, if any of you are still "around" ... hee hee

But yes, Claire is getting older and ditto for the other two whatshernames. It is a sad commentary that I have been using this knowledge for a week or two now to get through trying times when I just want to hit everyone in sight. I think about it as I drive Claire to school, calm in spite of her pure contraryness. She is the most contrary little person! Uh uh you can't tell her 'NUTHIN (Kanye West).

I think about it as I wrestle with cherubic Ava as we decide who is going to dress her and in what clothes. I think, in my spiteful little mind "you will be THREE next year and I am shipping you off to school with Claire! Three days a week for three hours per day, you will be GONE ... got that, sweetheart? And you are not wearing that shirt again".

I even think of it as I dress Harriette. Harriette is a sweet little baby, but my mind still wanders off to her aging as I change those stinky little diapers. I think "oh you sweet little baby ... before I know it, you will be gone! And in your place will be a cranky toddler and then a sullen teen!"

And so it appears that my triumph over time, which so often seems to "crawl by like a wounded animal" (siouxsie and the banshees), is in its passing. Claire is no longer a toddler, but a little girl. My lovely little baby with the big brown eyes with eyelashes like a push broom is now a lovely little girl. I devote lots of brain power to important revelations like "if I had to describe Claire with one word, what would it be?" I used to invite John to share this fun but he made it clear he has no use for it, with his mind being tied up with so many important things. "Vibrant" is the word I choose for Claire. Ava is harder, with her strong will, steely temper, and harder to capture affection ... the best I have for her is maybe "adorable" which I know sounds like such a clique for a mother to pronounce her two year old. But really ... she clumps around the house on stubby legs clinging to an ever varying collection of stuffed animals. Her smile swallows her eyes in a mound of plump cheeks and her tantrums are legendary but rare. When I cross Ava, if we happen to be out, we have to go home ... there is no negotiating or reasoning with her. She has a soft little voice but seems to be forced into frequent yelling to survive in a world of Claire. And she is getting older.

Harriette is still largely unknown. I do feel she is especially gifted at being a baby. It makes me nervous about the future. If she is "in her groove" at three months old, what does the future hold?? Well, one thing we know for certain, it holds AGING!

Life is indeed "a Beach"!

A first hand account re why you don't rush off to the beach with children...

The painful irony is that, in this time of my life when, for the first time, I can wander off to the beach as many times as I like (up to five, if I go once a day every day I am home without John, who "doesn't like" the beach. WHA??!), I am inclined to just stay at home.

So, the beach analogy of my life begins with my anticipation and packing. I conceive the plan ... I know! I'll take the girls to the beach!!! ... I invite a covictim, yesterday Bridgett, and we talk about it together in excited tones ... Yay! The beach!!! I pack a giant bag with everything we could possibly need at the beach, including an extra towel for drying off after dipping in the ocean waves and a clean sheet for spreading a sand-free lunch. I pack toys, drinks, bathing suits, swim diapers and the regular kind, dry clothes (extras) and anything else I can neatly organize into my overflowing bag. I love the feeling of being fully prepared. Which is a good thing since I never get the rich satisfaction of being actually prepared. We all get in the car, chatting happily of surf and sand and set off for the sun.

Arrival and unloading of bags and children from the car adds a bit of patina to the general feeling of joy ... but, as I head toward the sparkling scene of beach bags, towels and umbrellas, I am excited. Yay!! The BEACH!!! We stake out the perfect spot ... close enough to the water to monitor children, far enough back to avoid the approaching tide. As I spread my freshly laundered towel, it seems as if we'll be there until nightfall because WHY would we leave such a beautiful scene?? I carefully take off my flip flops and step on my sand free towel. Things start to sour a bit as I shoo sandy toddlers off of my pristine towel. I quickly pass out (sand free) pails and shovels and say cheerfully "ok, here you go! Remember not to get any sand on mommy's towel!" Bridgett settles into her beach chair "What a beautiful day!", she exclaims. I take off my dress coverup and replace with a tie around cover up. All is well with world.

Fast forward two hours ... each of our three children have almost drowned a few times, my towel is so sand covered, I've given up and sand is permanently sticking to my sweaty legs. My cover up is wringing wet from chasing toddlers in the water who think that they can swim since they've never actually drowned. My scalp is gritty with sand from Ava running her sandy little hands through my hair. Our beach toys are scattered in a 100 foot radius around me and half of them are missing, having been "adopted" by strangers' children. I can see a shovel and rake drifting out to sea and I make another rescue at sea. We decide (still cheerful) to break for lunch. Bridgett bravely stays with crazy children while I slog through the sand to the snack bar. I am there for a half hour while I wait for food I hope will be ingested with limited dirt, sand, shells and rocks. I think with satisfaction of my gloriously sand-free sheet, still folded in my bag, waiting to be the floor of our little picnic. I finally slog back through the sand with our lunch and Bridgett sees me approach with a look of relief that says "it would be easier to let them drown".

I set down the spoils for a moment to get my picnic sheet spread out ... in those ten seconds, a seagull swoops down and makes off with a fry. HEY! We yell and then ha ha aren't those seagulls AGGRESSIVE? Ha ha ha. We call the girls and trouble starts. Scarlett doesn't want to eat at all, C & A want to eat what isn't their's. The seagulls have staked out our picnic in force and Ava, a true bird lover since infanthood, throws them a fry. There is a general squawking commotion as seagulls frantically attack the fry and the lucky seagull who got to it first. More good natured laughter from the moms ...

Fast forward two minutes, after Ava has UNwrapped her "Tuscan Wrap" and Claire has dropped her grilled cheese in the sand. The sheet is now covered in sand. I say to Bridgett regarding the wrap ... maybe I'll just throw this to the seagulls? Sure! she says ... they'll fish it out of the trash anyway! So I do and we are instantly in middle of a vortex of fluttering wings. Bridgett yells over the squawking din "it is good luck to be pooped on by a bird!" Our sunbathing neighbors have halted conversations to watch the scene unfolding in front of them. I am beginning to feel sweaty, sandy and frantic to return to the interior of my sand free car and home. I capture a passing arm and wrestle Ava out of her bathing suit and into a dry set of clothes. I haul her into her shoes, ignoring the massive quantities of sand on her feet, and turn to capture Claire. Ava heads for the waves. "STOP!" I order her as I repeat the undressing redressing on Claire. Claire heads for the water to join her sister. I am losing my temper. As I roll my soggy sandy towel, tie around cover up, toddler bathing suits into the soggy sandy picnic sheet, I resist my urge to shout my new favorite obsenity (that begins with the letter F). I grab Claire by the arm with clenched claws and shout at her. I now have the undivided attention of every neighbor between us and the parking lot and I DON'T CARE. I drag Ava out of the water hissing threats regarding her future. I realize I can't find my shoes. After a minute of searching, I give up and we set off over the scorching hot sand toward the car. I yell directions at the three girls to follow me. Bridgett brings up the rear, pregnant and weighted down under a load of bags and foldable seating. She keeps the herd from scattering completely. I cross hot sand, asphalt parking lot, and a crosswalk all barefoot. In my mind I am thinking "No. I will never ever go to the beach again. Not with Them."

We make it to the car and I shower my two with threats until they are safely buckled in their carseats. My head aches, my feet hurt, I feel that sunburny feeling which is aggravated by a general sensation of sandy grit on skin. It takes the whole ride home before I can speak to C&A without saying things I don't mean that they will be recalling in therapy in the years to come. I strip us down to diapers and bikini on the front porch, amassing a huge pile of sandy attire by the door. I drop bags in the entryway and note my shoes inside one of them. I call for backup (Carolina) who appears like a vision to sweep my children upstairs for a nap. I grab Harriette and head to my bedroom to hide out for two hours before I feel I can go on.

Today, at playgroup, Bridgett and I actually told everyone how lovely the beach is and I went as far as to suggest a "playgroup at the beach". So I AM insane!

So yes, life is pretty much like that.

Parenting Ideas from the Orient

John and I are nicely in synch when it comes to most things ... finances, fashion, goals, other things I can't think of just now. However, we part ways on occasion when it comes to parenting technique... Some of his more interesting ideas I have not adopted ...

- Big Bad Wolf: a recent parenting invention and a real gem ... if you (child) do something he (daddy) doesn't like, "a wolf will come and eat you up". The wolf is especially sensitive to poor manners like crying and nose picking. He especially likes to eat children who disobey, refuse to nap or who are messy when eating dinner. If you, child, happen to be disobeying while out with parent, daddy, daddy likes to loudly ponder dropping you, child, "off in the woods" so the big bad wolf can find you and take you to his house. Once there, he will then probably eat you for dinner. John even fields phone calls from this terrible creature (known by a "bark bark" ringtone). The conversations are amusing to an unthreatened third party:

John ... hello? Wolf? Yes, they are both here.
Wolf ...
John ... Well Ava is sleeping so don't come to eat her, but Claire is here and wide awake ...
Wolf ...
John ... Ok, great! So five or so minutes? See you then!
Me ... You are hopelessly diluting your parental authority

- Swats to stop crying: Another interesting parenting approach involving inflicting swats to diaper padded bottoms to stop bottom owner from crying. The surprising thing is how poorly this works!

- I don't like you anymore and other sweet nothings: There are times when you may displease John and he is at a loss regarding how to punish you ... the wolf is out, it is too hot to swat. These specific and tricky situations often arise from hurt feelings ...

John ...Claire, who is your favorite, mommy or daddy
Claire ... Mommy
Me ... JOHN! We don't have to have favorites in this family, we are brimming with love
John ... Claire, you said daddy?
Claire ... No, Mommy
John ... Well then! I don't like you any more. I like Ava.
Me ... John! Oh forget it.
Me ... Claire, daddy likes you very much, he is just ...

I am Public Relations director for the one of the world's most PR resistant figures. Daddy is tired, Daddy is trying to concentrate, daddy doesn't understand little girls, daddy is ... Chinese? In any case, I think by the time he gets around to the seventh or eighth child, he won't be so out of his depth. If you are interested in adopting earlier versions, act now! Children are going fast!!!

Two Weeks

Yes, I have made it through eight and a half months to the final two weeks. The problem now is that I have been SAYING "two weeks" for over a week, ever since one day fewer (not less) than three weeks. As you can imagine, this is not the recipe for making time fly by. Many times each day I stop to contemplate how many days remain ... for example, the math for today ...

[The day before my sceduled C (I will not be waiting through THAT day!), 28 - today's date, 14 = 14 days / 7 days = two weeks]. Around 5pm, I will adjust the math to reflect today as "practically over" so that I will be once again likely giving in to the urge to round (drastically) down to "one week left to go!" Help me, please help me.

For those of you who have not experienced pregnancy, I urge you to not judge me. To help you better empathasize, I will break pregnancy down into, not three trimesters (which suggests the three are equal periods of time) but into three PHASES ...

- PHASE I: wow, am I really pregnant?? Lasts 24 hours
- PHASE II: how much "real life" activity can I continue without (hideously) deforming my child? Lasts six months
- PHASE III: gosh, am I really still pregnant and when does the time begin to "be gone before I know it?" Time varies. I am on year six.

To aggravate matters, my life has slowed to a crawl as my enormous belly makes it difficult to waddle to the refridgerator. I combine trips now, even from the kitchen table to the sink. I am a whizbang at efficiency of motion. My pre-existing children automatically look to others for assistance with everything but sitting on my lap. THAT I still do as well as I ever did, if you are old enough to climb on yourself. I say with such regularity "not now, mommy is tired" that Claire responds with an understanding nod "because Harriette is in your tummy." Should add ...

PHASE IV: How many times can I do this without emotionally deforming pre-existing children?

I know you (Dad) are wondering how this could possibly be so bad. Well let me tell you!

1) I cannot sleep face down, cannot roll over, at times I have questioned my ability to sit up. And yet, I find a way to hobble to the bathroom three or four times a night. The moaning and groaning was so loud two nights ago as I jerked across the eight feet to the bathroom door that John WOKE UP and mumbled "you ok?" He was asleep again before I answered but I thought "Wow, things have gotten bad!" This is the man who doesn't hear children crying, dogs barking, doorbells ringing in the night.

2) I am grossed out by my anatomy ... according to my OB, my stomach is up by my heart, my lungs are crushed up and back sort of between my shoulder blades, and (GROSSEST) my intestines are pushed in FRONT of my uterus. It is all too horrible to contemplate. Yuck! Imagine the poor bastard who had to discover all of this unpleasantry during the autopsy of a pregnant woman who "didn't make it". I think God would have been kind to design some kind of fleshous handbag for pregnant gals to sling around. Something NOT so ... embedded. Something cuter. That goes with shoes.

3) My new darling is getting so big in there that, the other day while I was collapsed on the nursery floor on my side (so C&A could climb and jump on me), Harriette was grinding her little heel on the floor-down side and it PINCHED like a mother! Yeeoow. Her feet are up under my ribcage and my sternum aches all day long. Sometimes I feel strange sensations on other things of mine in there (bladder? liver?? who knows) and wonder if she isn't trying to tickle me, the little rascal.

4) There is zero chance of John experiencing so little as five minutes of any of this. There is slightly less chance of him finding the time or focus to imagine it. The chances of me battering his pretty face are much much greater. I overheard him a few months ago (while still in PHASE II) that this has been "his hardest pregnancy so far". HIS. SO FAR. Oh that is classic. Sometimes, when I am extra angry, I like to quiz him about how many weeks pregnant "we" are just to see the look of fear pass across his face.

5) It is all SO FREAKIN' WORTH IT. This is the worst part becuase it absolutely dooms womankind to repeat, repeat, repeat.

Today, I am wearing one of those bicycle dude style rubber bracelets that says "I can do all things through he who strengthens me" Phil 4:13.

As an aside, Dad, I take issue with the theory of evolution. No woman ... NO WOMAN ... could survive this living in a cave. She would die of discomfort, or be thrown out to the wolves (because of the moaning/groaning), would be left hobbling miles behind her tribe to be eaten by saber tooth tigers. I am such a liability to everyone I know. If survival depended on it, I would be OUT.

So Far Today

Well, my list of parenting offenses is already sizeable today and the day is just half over! Before I took C&A to playgroup this morning, I continued my experiment with "stationary parenting" which largely relies on noneffective verbal commands and threats rather than physical intervention. I mean, something HORRIBLE has to happen for me to lumber to my feet and intervene. So this morning, the girls spent an hour or two hitting eachother and screaming while I sat a few feet away threatening. Then we went to playgroup where Claire had a titanic tantrum because Ava was swinging in a swing she wanted. Rather than pull Claire away for a "corrective discussion" about appropriate behavior, I just kept pushing Ava in the swing while Claire frenzied around like a little tiny madwoman. Well, soon enough ... SMACKO! ... she frenzied into the path of the oncoming swing and her little nose took a full hit. All of my capable playgroup mom friends were watching in horror as blood sprayed all over my clothes and down the front of Claire's shirt. I shifted quickly into active parent mode and did the proper thing re comforting, nose pinching, admonition speech to Claire in soothing tone. She recovered well and quickly ... wonderful wonderful Bridgett, gave us changes of clothes (and it isn't easy to dress me at this point!) and oxy cleaned our wardrobe for future washing. Then I lugged the girls home and ... sigh ... fed them raisins and string cheese in their cribs for a lunch/nap combination. I am not proud.

They are going to John's parents for a day on Friday and I admit (profusely!) that I am so thrilled with the idea, I get giggly when I think of it. John's mom was traveling for the last 1.5 months so I haven't been able to send them over there in that amount of time which means NOT A SINGLE DAY OFF. When John goes off to work on Monday mornings, I sometimes find myself silently swearing at his retreating backside ... "oh sure, go hop in your Porsche convertible and drive off to "work", you big jerk" Parenting brings out the ALL TIME worst in me!

A story to make us all feel better

I was visiting Jenica on Saturday with C&A and I realized I'd forgotten some things for them that would make staying Saturday night possible (bottles, diaper wipes, my trusty lovenox injection ... where would I be?). I knew I'd have to drive the three hours home that same night ... I waited until as late as possible to leave to guarantee me the most possible driving time with them ASLEEP. I left late and was tired, so stopped for a giant cup of coffee at a DD drive through. I slurped it down and felt more awake, but then. I realized (duh), I had to pee. I didn't know what to do ... it was dark and my girls were sound asleep in the back of the car. It is pretty much physically impossible for me to carry them around anymore, at least at the same time and I'd also forgotten their shoes (yes, I do that kind of thing!). I drove and drove, becoming more uncomfortable by the minute.

Finally, I decided I had to do something. I ruled out rest areas because I knew I could never leave my little babies in the car even for a minute in a place like that (especially at night!) ... what if what if ... or even if they just woke up and got scared because I wasn't there and they didn't know where I was ...

I decided against some other alternatives, including parking by the side of the road to pee so I could stay near the car (while still taking care of my business) and peeing in a diaper (just too gross!). I was, by then, in pain with all of the pressure on my poor bladder and trying desperately to think clearly in my pain/caffeine fog. I saw a sign for the state police and got off the highway. I drove into the police campus and it looked closed ... no lights on anywhere. Plus, I wasn't sure if I'd get in trouble for leaving the girls in the car long enough to go inside to beg for assistance (and they could still wake up alone and afraid). Steph, this one's for you! So after circling a while, I finally settled on parking my car in a far away lot. I then hopped out and peed like a racehorse using my car as a visual shield from the station building. It took forever! I had so much pee to pee but finally, I was done. I hopped up and was about to open the driver's door to go on my way when a super tall and good looking police man walked around from the other side.

EEK! I was all afluster. He said "can I help you?" and I was a stuttering, whiny mess. It all came out in a rush like "I just peed right over there (gesturing to the place to make sure he could properly visualize the scene) ... I'm pregnant (gesture to my abdomen in case he missed it before) and my babies are asleep in the car (gesture there too ... my hands must have been flailing around) and I can't get them out (I did NOT add that they had no shoes ...) and and and. The poor guy just stood there, trying to absorb it all. I can only imagine I made his night as he retold the story to his buddies in the station. "... so then I came across a whopping pregnant lady who PEED in the back parking lot ... man, you should have seen the puddle!"

I was so humiliated I cried as I got back onto the highway but I felt like a million dollars with an empty bladder! I vowed to myself I would never tell a soul but here I am, unable to resist a laugh! On Sunday morning, I mustered the courage to tell John (who... shh.. once pooed his pants on Ravenwood Drive hustling back to our house) and he said "why didn't you just pull over and pee into the empty coffee cup". Head smack! Yes ... why didn't I??? Next time for SURE!

A Story to Share

I witnessed something so moving yesterday ... I just wanted to share it with you.

We were at Costco and eating a healthy pizza/hotdog dinner in the foodcourt after shopping ... I saw a woman sitting nearby with two children. I was just noticing what a great mom she was to each of them individually ... hugging a little girl who seemed to be around 2 years old and telling knockknock jokes to her son who was maybe four or so. Then I noticed the little girl had a really horrible birth mark on the entire lower portion of her face. That registered a little but overall, I was just enjoying their happy family scene, thinking about what a good mom she was.

THEN. When it was time for them to leave, she hobbled over to a motorized wheelchair and sat down! She called her two children and they happily tumbled on it with her, one in a basket in the front, the other on her lap ... and they scooted off.

I teared up and jabbed my husband to turn around so he could see. "THAT is a strong woman!" I remarked. My heart was so moved by what I'd just seen ... I had an urge to run after her to see if I could help her get to her car or whatever. I settled for a quick prayer to God that he would see over her and her two and bless her efforts 20 times over.

The Giving Tree

I offer advance apologies for subjecting you to another post on martyr mothering. I feel compelled to write more on the subject because the stark reality of it all has really been hitting home, thanks to the toxic cocktail of pregnancy hormones charging through my veins.

So, it starts with a grotesquely sad story, The Giving Tree, by a strange looking bald guy. In case you were not traumatized by this story (and the giant black and white photo of its author on the back cover) that nearly dehydrated me as a child from all of the crying, here is a summary ...

Baby and sapling grow together, as child and tree mature and child exploits tree, tree, with a self destructive giving nature offers shade, then fruit, then leaves, branches, and finally its very self, right down a nub in the grass in an effort to meet the needs of its selfish man friend. The end, it is a rotting stump. Now, those of you who have ever tried to rid your property of a tree, know that this is not a true story. No, the true story begins with the tree dropping rude amounts of little black berries and dead leaves all over your belongings and scraping the side of your house with its branches that termites and carpenter ants use as elevated highways. It ends with the tree thwarting all attempts to exterminate it by producing endless shoots from its general stump area. Removal of the stump is impossible to achieve as the tree has been, from its very inception, been planning for the moment it would be brought to justice by sending out countless super human strength root lengths that, stretched end to end, would cross an astonishing distance in space. I digress.

The made up story is a beautiful illustration of the unlimited, giving heart of mothers everywhere who literally allow themselves to be consumed and destroyed by their offspring. I am not talking about spiders ... women, HUMAN women are doing this every day. It occurred to me this morning ... John and I woke up at six, while our parasitic shoots still slumbered in their beds. We walked the yard, together marveling over the miracle spring has brought to our dull gardens, drinking coffee, and feeling fortunate. We ended on the deck ... it was a rare moment on a magical, misty May morning killed by the sound of a wailed "MOMMMMMEEEEEEEEE" from somewhere in the house. I sighed and went inside while John went on to do important yard work.

I changed the soggy diapers of my two ungrateful toddlers while being kicked repeatedly in the gut by our soon to be newborn. I found clean clothes appropriate for a day that is scheduled to start rainy and end warm. I transported us downstairs, found four little shoes, and correctly applied them to four corresponding and wiggly little feet. Then we went outside. Claire ran off calling to John who I could see striding away from her toward the water. "Keep an eye on her!" I called after them and turned my attention to Ava who was reaching for something I couldn't identify on the ground. I pulled her away as she howled in protest. I sweet talked her away from it and walked to the front yard where John and Claire were mulching a flower bed. Ava and I sat happily for a moment on a nearby wall, watching the progress ... but then. Ava wanted down so she could drag sleep sheep through muddy puddles for a moment before howling to get back up in order to smear her grimy little hands on my white maternity pants. Aahhh! I yelled. No! She quickly shifted goals to wanting to climb on top of the wall to get to the dog who was perched on top, ten feet away. I was busy telling her 'no' and why (she is a PRECIOUS BAAABBBY! She can't be allowed to walk near a five foot drop to an asphalt driveway!) when I felt two little hands being wiped on my last pair of clean maternity pants. Claire, pausing from her intense work with damp, cedar red mulch, had "cleaned" her hands off on me.

I felt the intensity of hormonal anger welling up ... NO! EVERYONE INSIDE!! For those of you who have not experienced hormone anger, it is positively hydraulic. Or volcanic. It is like being in a small raft going over a waterfall into class A (or five or whatever) rapids. All there is to be done is brace yourself! Claire, my compliant little girl, headed toward the front door while Ava lingered uncertainly behind, embracing her filthy sleep sheep. I called to her again, insistently "AVA!" Nothing. John, who at times serves as lighter fluid for my outbursts said "Ava come give daddy a kiss".

Claire was at the front door waiting, I was halfway there, dressed in previously white pants, heart pounding with the effort of just being me right now ... I just wanted to get the girls inside where they would be contained and away from wet mulch and puddles. DAMN IT! I yelled. I have been adding to my swear word repertoire as life requires. Damn, while mild in comparison to some of the other gems in my vocabulary, is new (and therefore, effective). John said sorry and shooed Ava on her way.

I stalked to the house to make breakfast for the girls. I broke eggs into a pan for scrambling and bit my lip as I tried to fish out pieces of shell before they became obscured by cooked egg white. "It's not fair!" I said aloud. "No, it isn't fair!" As I was making oatmeal, limping around on my bad pregnant hip, desperately trying to retrieve microscopic pieces of egg shell from our breakfast, John was outside gardening. It wasn't fair. I quelled my frustration with this thought until he foolishly entered the kitchen, done with his important outdoor work. I let him have it ... it isn't fair! Here I am, rushing around fat and pregnant, making breakfast for your ungrateful little children on a SATURDAY while you garden (I emphasized that word with a dubious tone that insinuated perhaps it wasn't a job at all but a pleasure).

He agreed with me so I repeated myself until he was forced to come to his own defense ... something about how I don't go to work, don't administer the payment of bills, don't maintain the house or yard or the cars, don't even pump my own gas! I clarified in a sputter "but on WEEKENDS, it is so unfair!" The discussion fizzled out then, leaving me feeling adequately vented. But on I brood.

I mean, think about it ... I am rounding the bed of 150 pounds, with unsightly bulges in what used to be "non problem areas". I am tired and broken down, hobbling around with a bottle of Tums to ward off the heartburn, tirelessly explaining to C&A why they should avoid jumping on or kicking me in the belly. My poor belly, bruised by daily injections of Lovenox until this Harriett character arrives. I am no longer the knowledgeable, problem solving up and coming vice president of whatever small department in one of the world's most prestigious banks ... I am a mom and a wife.

I was just polishing off this round of self pity and the remainder of my oatmeal when Ava held her fat little arms out "carry you". I scooped her up, cradling her cool little body against mine and she lay her fuzzy head on my shoulder. We swayed together like that for a minute or two and I said "oh little one, you, my love are worth every second of every day. EVERY SECOND OF EVERY DAY" I can't think of a single other thing that needs to be said on this subject.

Happy Mother's Day!

Message to Toddlers: Manners Matter

Yes, I know what you're thinking "Good Luck Lady". Well, I have all of these unrealistic memories of being well mannered from earliest childhood. I believe as an infant, my amazing parents had me saying please and thank you and holding open doors for others before passing through myself. Therefore, I determined to set my sites high. I believe, in general, that children will rise to meet your expectations and, with that in mind, I launched on a full scale effort to finish school my children right here at home and right now.

Like a lot of good things, our lessons in manners are meal centered. My kids are open to all kinds of suggestions when weakened with hunger. I require the word "please" to be spoken as part of a sentence when food/drink requests are made. Claire, clever girl, has developed a very short and convenient catch-all sentence "Yes please". I am sorry to report compromise won a round. Okay fine, I thought. A little yes please would have me leaping to attention to serve. But then, two nights ago, I came to my senses. We had guests over and Claire said to me "Mommy, juice???" She really says these demands so sweetly and with a long, questioning end tone that it usually fools me for a second. I hustled to the kitchen and was nearly to the refrigerator when I realized I'd been tricked. I turned and faced her "that is not how you ask" and then continued to walk away. She hustled after me "MOMMY!" I stopped expectantly waiting. She turned back toward the door and said dismissively over her shoulder "yes please." Oh wait ONE RED SECOND. THAT was not what I had in mind when I was aiming for manners. It occurred to me that what I really want is for my children to ask sweetly (and include the word 'please' in a grammatically correct way) because I just might say NO.

Now I say NO all the time. ALLLLL the time ALLLLL day long. But they know I can't resist feeding and watering them so food/drink requests are delivered with the smug assurance of success. Yesterday, in an effort to reestablish myself as mean alpha mom, I told Claire that from then on, if she didn't say please, the answer would be no. I only remembered I told her that just now, so I am guessing she's been ordering me around ever since without me even noticing.

I bought a book "How to Raise a Lady", written by some snotty woman who probably has no children. It is published by Brooks Brothers so I should have known to not expect a hands on guide. The first chapter ends with a section titled "Your Daughter is Becoming a Young Lady if ..." with a long list of ifs that would bring sinister laughter to my child's mouth if she knew. The third item "She always knocks on a closed door, particularly one that leads to a bathroom or bedroom." Hmm. As I read this, I suffered a collage style flashback of times I've been "caught with my pants down", and let out a chuckle. Oh boy. Claire barges in and then says in an accusing voice "Mommmmmyyyy, what are you doooooinggggg?" I SHOULD say "go back outside, close the door and knock." but instead I give her honest answers "peeing" or "clipping my toenails" or "plucking out creepy random beard hairs". Well no more! You may ask "why not lock the door?". That just tells me that you are either not a mom or you are a bad mom. What if I fell in the bathroom and was unconscious on the floor while my babies wail at me from outside a closed door "Moooooommmmmmeeeeeeeee". No, I'd rather they discover my bloody body themselves. I really think things through like this.

On to another gem on the you-know-she's-becoming-a-lady-if list "If she is wearing a cap, beret (oh please) or hat, she removes the headgear when she sits down to eat at a table at home or in a restaurant." It then adds helpfully "a kerchief is not officially a hat, and need not be removed". The only reasonable response to a book like this is to throw it away.

I will close with a recap of our very rude morning. We went to playgroup at my friend Li's house. Li works full time, so couldn't actually be there to host. Instead, she arranged for her poor mother and angelic friend, Grace, to be there. I'll keep this short because I am still working through the emotions. Claire and Ava got enormously attached to a jack in the box toy and were taking turns hitting each other with it to determine who would play with it first. Grace came over to assist and Claire, detecting Grace's generous nature, flew into a rage (tantrum) which began its decline only as I dragged both girls out to the car to go home. Claire then threw up and somehow Grace (I was and am mortified) ended up mopping up the worst of it and waved at us as we drove away. I was so angry with Claire. During the ten minute drive home, I contemplated the pros and cons of forgiving her. Or not. I forced myself to be civil and her sweet repeated statement "Mommy, was I very naughty?" was answered through my clenched teeth. I peppered my terse language with threats to never ever take her anywhere again and to throw up on HER the next time I am not feeling well. I decided, on the drive home, to send Grace flowers. I am still cooling off.

Big Softy

I've told you a little about my life before I met John, but what I haven't said is just how different I was back then. I was a self proclaimed "type A" person, and fled from all things B. In school, I pushed myself in science and math, I prided myself on being an "unemotional person", I could be downright robotic. It takes a certain kind of person to wake up two minutes before a 4:30 alarm every morning and charge out of the door to take a subway full of creepy guys to a gym full of creepy guys to work out at a dead run for two hours. On top of that, I dieted mercilessly as I imagined the slight squishiness gathered at my hips was undesirable. In reality, I was 112 pounds of hard charging muscle and 80% water (aren't we all?). At the time, I voted myself most likely to do all kinds of things, none of them fulfilling, satisfying or creative.

The first time I went out with John on our best ever Blind Date, I picked him up in front of Trinity Church and marched him back down wall street at 20mph, chattering all the way. You can imagine what a blessed relief it was when he a)rejected my initial restaurant idea b)selected our table and, c)disputed my order of goat cheese salad (which was in keeping with the Atkins diet) and force fed me rotini. It was like being rescued. I love that Ella Fitzgerald song "... when an irresistable force such as you meets an old immovable object like me ... you can be sure as sure as you LIIIIIIIIVVVVVVVE, somethings gotta give somethings gotta give somethings gotta give!" Except I didn't "fight fight fight with all of my might" ... no, I, over a short period of time (weeks?), turned my back on all that I had been. I suppose it went little by little since that day, but since that day was less than five years ago, it SEEMS like *poof! I was gone!

In the place of that emotion free dynamo is a bit of a wreck. Between my children and John and (especially!) this new baby with all of HER hormones, I am in tears all day long. Last Sunday, I went to church, needing to feel closer to God as I inevitably do after a week of being nasty to others. I walked in the sanctuary door, was handed the bulletin, and burst into tears. People looked at me kindly ("need to be here, eh, hon?"). I left before it started because of the sniffling noises I knew would only become more pronounced as everyone else became more quiet. I cried all the way home. Nope, I have no idea why but it was a morning after John and I had a fight. Where is my immunity?! How could I have gotten so SOFT?

I keep a diary (something I'd always thought childish), I love old romantic movies and songs (ditto), I love pink and pretty things and I DON'T CARE WHO KNOWS! I, always the person to say I didn't have a nurturing bone in my fierce little body, am my children's emotional ballast. A few times a day, they each fling themselves into my arms for a good cry. I rock them back and forth with all kinds of "there theres" and sometimes, Claire, my little me, says "Mommy, I need a HUG!". I enfold her.

I am terrified of the very idea of reentering that crazy world I mastered before. I prefer to make pretty artwork for the nursery walls and make flower arrangements for the tables. Without some major adjustments, I would be crushed by the hard charging people I had eating from my hand a few years ago. My dream of being a CEO is now replaced by competing desires to be the best darn mother and wife on (this side) of my street, running my own stable, and working in some kind of sideline capacity for Frontera.

But then, I remember the situation of an ex boyfriend's mother who lost her husband to cancer 30 years ago when she was younger than I am now. She was/is what I consider a "real woman". She said goodbye to her husband, brushed herself off, and went to work to raise two boys. She started her own consulting business and life went on for all of them. She was so strong! I know she was just doing what she had to do. Still, I am full of admiration and I pray nothing so great is ever expected of me. I imagine I would crawl into my bed in a fog of sorrow, drugs and possibly alchohol and stay there until I don't know when. A very dear friend of mine, insists a woman must always ALWAYS be prepared to support herself and her children. I confess to her now, I am not prepared. Maybe I need to toughen up a bit. And turn off Ella who is making me sad!

I still love math and science and have devoted shelves in my library to those subjects. But, I am afraid I am more of a philosopher these days.

Have a really good day!

Middle of the Night Musing

At playgroup today, it was with great joy that I discovered four of the other eleven other moms are expecting ... almost half! As one after another confessed to me, I found myself becoming giddy with joy. Misery loves company like a pregnant woman loves another pregnant woman. To top it off, I have two other close friends who are expecting. John said "maybe we all have nothing else to do with the economy like it is" but I am amazed that so many of us are willing to bravely march forward in the face of tremendous uncertainty. I do have a phobia that our health system will break down before July 30th and I will go into (gasp) labor. Can you imagine? What if there was no cesarean, no epidural?! I would be just another screaming woman writhing around while people yell "BREATHE" or "PUSH!!!!" The very thought makes me want to schedule something for tomorrow, never mind the poor little person emerging will be four months early.

So tomorrow is my baby spa day and then, on Friday, I am going to Boston with the girls. This means my week is as good as over with church to take up Sunday, the seventh working day of John's work week. I nearly lost it all when I discovered the oil light on in my car today. Now that damn light has been flickering on and off since we bought the car over a year ago, and it is rushed to the shop every few months when it becomes known that the oil is actually low. It spent MLK day there, in fact, bathing in the luxurious care of its Mercedes dealer home, being hand washed and otherwise lovingly checked for this and that while I was stuck at home with my "replacement" Smart Car. Oh ha ha, the "Smart Car" is not so ... it fits no car seats, it feels like it is breaking up at speeds higher than 50mph and each pothole means a ruptured disc in my back. And only ONE lousy person bothered to comment on how darn cute it is, a woman at Dunkin Donuts who ran to get her coworker to check us out. That nearly made the hours I spent vibrating down the Merritt Parkway, surreptitiously glancing in the windows of every passing car to see I was not being noticed, worth it. In general, I spent a few days feeling very very green, yes even disdainfully so. But, other than my fast food friend, NO ONE noticed (refer to my post on Martyr Mothering to see how this affected me). I was so relieved to get my gas guzzling sweetheart back, never mind the fake blood being thrown at us as we smoothly weave in and out of traffic with my toddlers screeching "stop touching me" at eachother in the back.

So, my stupid (sweetheart) car nearly blew not only my baby spa plans (John would insist on not driving it tomorrow so the girls couldn't go anywhere), but it also would have completely ruined my getting to Boston to kill another weekend plans as I don't budge from the house without two armchair sized car seats. Sigh. I am so pleased with the sneakiness that ensued. I drove to our local service station and had "Oscar Desouzas" add a quart of oil. As he did this, he turned an admiring eye on me (I know!) and said "so what ... three months along?". I giggled "oh no, four months TO GO". He then told me he once "knew a girl", which turned out to be his sister in law, who was as straight up and down as his very finger, who exploded into a big puffer fish during the final weeks of her pregnancy. He spoke of this like it would reassure me and I thought "does this man even see me?" As I wondered, he finished his oiling and looked me over carefully "yeah ... real nice ...". I wondered again what on earth he was talking about ... I mean, I'd just tipped the scales an hour before at my doctor office at 146 pounds on a short girl ... not "real nice". But I admit, I felt a little sexy (and scantily dressed in my dress and sweater and clog shoes) as I followed him back to the cash register to pay. As we went, Oscar told me about his woes concerning most women he meets (they just want to set him up on a monthly payment plan ... not good mom material) and we traded truisms about having children (or not) as he rang me up. I walked back to my car and caught him checking me out through the garage windows ... I vowed to stop by the next time my man is not dishing out the compliments I need to feel like a 150 pound supermodel. Oh Oscar ...

So my scheme re oil may or may not work. John will be driving my car all day tomorrow and if it manages to piddle away a half quart or so of oil, that damn light will go off with a loud warning beep. John will swerve it off the road and call the dealer right then and there and I will be stuck this weekend, touring around here in my Smart Car. Maybe I'll drive it on down the the gas station for some complimentary lovin'. In any case, if it burns through enough oil to set off the light in one day, I guess (sigh) I shouldn't be driving it to Boston anyway.

The Great Debate

I want to provide you all with an update concerning the name of our little one, expected to arrive on July 30th at 7:32am. I went into this pregnancy with the name to end all names ... Aenore, a lovely name meaning "light" and "sweet". I'm just kidding ... that is how I like my coffee. It just means "light" or, in a pinch, "bright light". It is so unused it is the next best thing to a totally made up name. In general, I disagree with totally made up names because, if none of the other three billion parents have thought of it yet, maybe it is just you? I am also against made up spellings. Odd spellings do NOT make a name unusual just as odd pronunciations do NOT make a name unique. My favorite in this latter category is Michelle pronounced "Meechelle". We can all see the i there and we know it says an i sound like it does in "fig". It just compounds the complexity of MY life to have to remember in your one, special case it says e as in me. Yes, this is all coming from a bitter, chubby girl named "Lisa", the most popular girl name of the 70s. Oh wait. With an i pronounced like the e in me. So I'll just move on to other things I think about when naming.

My list of important things in a particular order:
1) pretty sounding
2) familiar enough to be pronounced successfully by reasonably intelligent people
3) not so common there will be three or four of them in every class
4) a name with family significance
5) not trendy sounding
6) something with a nice meaning

Claire Frances adheres to the list except for #4. Avery Belle, I am afraid, falls short of #3, #5 and #6, as it means something strange like "ruler of the elves". Aenore wasn't a bad attempt according to my list but as you can see from John's list below, it falls remarkably short.

John's list of important things:
1) it does not sound foreign (so ironic)
2) it doesn't sound like any other word in the English language (right. so in direct opposition to #1)
3) isn't also the name of his slightly overweight (but so nice) bank teller
4) it sounds like a hedge fund manager's name (stay with me)
5) it sounds "right"

So my list of super super girls names (I have names for an entire flock of girls arising from future marriages) are not so super after all. See if you can identify the John rule broken for each name.

Aenore - didn't make it past #1 but never would have survived the remaining rules
Maisie - stopped dead by #4
Morgan - clearly the name of a future bank teller, so you can just forget about the house of morgan, arguably the most successful banking family in the world EVER
Violet - disqualified by rule #2
Harriet - passes all rules with flying colors and hits #5 squarely!
Penelope - yes and yes
"Consuela" - I am not kidding. This name came about on the same night as Penelope as we watched "Eligy" with Penelope Cruz in which she looked not a bit trampy but 100% beautiful Audrey Hepburn. Her character's name was Consuela. Which, I think, is possibly the most foreign sounding name I've ever heard. And how it sounds like a hedge fund manager, I do not know. I have all kinds of problems with this name so it falls off the end of the list.

So, coupled with Lauran (a family name on my side), Harriett Lauran, to be nicknamed "Hattie" is a possible winner. Yes, that is a stylized "t" on the end, a nod to other great names out there with stray ts (Bridgett, to name one). If you can unread paragraph one, maybe you should do that now. Tee hee I am such a hypocrite hee hee. hee?

So please, comment! So far it has elicited a lot of "huh." responses. Dad, you are a lovely man to say you "love" the name. And I love you!

The Question

Last night, as we got ready for bed, I asked John "if you could do it all over again ... having the kids ... would you?" He was understandably shocked "Of COURSE! What would I do without the girls?"

I followed him into his closet and qualified my question slightly to reflect my own answer "I mean, if you didn't KNOW anything about them ... if you just knew what it would be like ..." He didn't answer and walked back toward our bed.

I brushed my teeth, climbed into bed and persisted "Well, would you? Hmmmmmmm???" No answer.

I couldn't wait for him to politely reverse the question any longer "well I think I would say 'no thank you' I don't really think I could handle all of that" Silence as my answer sinks into the air of the room. No no! I retreat "no, actually, I think I would say 'no thank you' but then regret it severely later".

Yes, and THAT is my final answer. I like to say that no person in his or her right mind would choose to have children if he or she truly understood what is required. The sneaky thing is, you can't KNOW what is required until AFTER you have the kids. And then it is too late ... you are hooked. It reminds me of a frozen food vendor who shows up at my door once or twice a year peddling $20/pound pork tenderloin. He wants to give me something for free, secure that I will find thawing out his delicious food for dinner irresistible, rendering me stupid. If he was peddling babies, he would be absolutely right. Well, maybe not frozen babies.

The thing is, there is nothing less convenient than having a baby. They show up out of nowhere, all cute and little, needing endless tactical things like food, baths and diapers. You, new parent, stride forward, scoop up the little creature and go about caring for her. She is needy, sure, but you know how to fix things. A new diaper, a cuddle, a drive, food. It is certainly no harder than your last project at your "real job". You are thrilled to discover that she has a personality, that she smiles she laughs she wants no one but YOU. All of those things are like a bonus because, oddly, you would provide diaper changes, drives, etc without her ever responding in any way. And it is right about this time you realize you are hooked, so hooked you can't only NOT go back but you can't even WANT TO go back. And there are no addiction groups urging you to quit, offering their compassionate support to help you get back on your feet. No, the entire world (this bears iteration ... the ENTIRE WORLD) expects you to not only continue, but to get further and further hooked. It is a crazy situation but you don't have time to or want to think about it. You just dive in further.

Odor free newborn diapers turn into dry heaving spells that leave your eyes watering. And yet you smile adoringly at your sweet little girl as you will your stomach to calm. The other day, being pregnant, I barely managed to finish the wiping process before saying reassuringly to Claire "be right back, sweetheart" and charged off to the bathroom. I spent the next five minutes retching. Claire rushed in after me, concerned "Mommy, you sick?" and I managed to open my eyes a bit to see her sweet little face hovering over the bowl with a look of understanding concern. I SMILED, melting at the sight of someone so sweet and caring as to get that close to such an ugly operation. My thoughts were entirely centered on her ... was she disturbed to see me in that state? Would it damage her trust in me? Would I get another diaper on her in time?? I swayed back into the nursery to finish the job and change her sister's disgusting diaper. And I can offer no better illustration of the madness than this.

But another, almost as good ... about a week ago, Claire called me from the living room. I rushed in to be of assistance, getting down to her level (as all the books recommend), peering into her little face, hoping to help. She looked at me with those big brown eyes. And sneezed right in my face. No, that isn't why she had called me over. She wanted to talk about juice boxes. I wiped the spittle from my eyes and mouth and agreed to rush order her a juice box. I have been sick ever since and am coughing now.

To top it off, I am voluntarily having another one. There is no explanation for this kind of behavior. "Thank you sir. May I have another?" Insane. But I am not alone. The world nods its head with me "ha ha, so true so true". But I will say that if John was one day in my role, he would have answered my question without any politically correct rhetoric. No! Is anyone crazy enough to do this KNOWINGLY?

John

Yes, this is to be the post about John, Hui John Zhang, the man I married. I am dedicating it to him because he is such an important part of my life. If you read about him only in passing in other posts, you may come away with the wrong impression, that he is less than he is. So here it goes ...I'm not actually sure where to start so let me dig through an old diary to read my description of him soon after we first met ...

Ah yes, so at the risk of making your eyes roll ... yes but wait ... first, some context about the author. I was 33 years old, working 12 hour days at JP Morgan. My colleagues were no longer talking of setting me up, perhaps because they had had time to detect the ways in which I maybe wasn't a perfect catch. And their lists of single friends were dwindling. I had broken up with a very nice guy 1.5 years previous (I decided I could do better) and had totally lost track of time. I hadn't had a date since then and had been too busy to notice. I was a machine, waking up at 4:30am every weekday morning to take the subway to Water Street station. I arrived at the "New York Health and Racquet Club" every morning at 5:30am and stood outside waiting for it to open with a handful of other people with exercise issues. This handful included some odd, some old, none interesting. The stockbrokers I worked out with in the mornings were old and married or players. They approached me occasionally while I worked out to compliment me on various muscle groups. I know! Anyway, it was not a great environment to meet men but I relied heavily on the creepy guy compliments to get me from one workout to the next.

Times were dire. I was working working working and then working out. I lived a secluded life with occasional social interaction with friends from work. So when I met John, my sepia life was instantly full of color. My glowing assessment ...

(dated 6.27.05)
Last year, nearly this same time (July 7th) I met the love of my life, a most wonderful man. A man among men, really and my favorite person. I can't explain how I adore him. John ... isn't that the most amazing name? He is everything I ever hoped to find: strong, sweet, kind, loyal, brilliant, funny, handsome and in charge. He has incredible (underlined) eyes and a dimple on one cheek (smiley face). He has an elegant hold of himself, always looking sophisticated somehow no matter what he is wearing. I think that the word "gentile" does a nice job describing John. He is well spoken and well respected.

It goes on from there, entry after entry about this amazing amazing man. Before those of you who know my incredible husband, begin to dispute areas of my list, let me say that the road from glowing journal entries to sour blog posts is a short one. One's flaws and virtues are only visible under the glaring light of Real Life. My list of his qualities was incomplete, missing some important ones like generosity and perseverance. Time and marriage have revealed him more completely to me. I see that all of those things that attracted me to him in those earliest days are not just on the surface, that they run very very deep and that I can count on him to remain himself no matter the circumstances. He apologizes when he is wrong, he is dedicated to an ideal of fairness like no one else I know. Because of him, we run what I like to call "to the extent possible, a fair household". Most importantly, he loves me!!!

We've done a lot in our few years together ... we moved across the world (twice), I had a stroke, we are new parents, I stopped working, he's been laid off, we bought a house, his dad is dealing with poor health and dimentia, we are starting a business. These things have all shaken our little foundation, but in the end, I know they will only make us stronger. With John, I feel really really strong ... I shout at life "BRING IT!"

If my girls find a man like their daddy, I will rejoice!

Good Things

1) Having Nelka around allows me to go out when I want ... to get my nails done, to get coffee, to have lunch ... I try to time it so C&A are napping while I'm out. Yesterday I met up with Uma for lunch. I left at 12:30 with the kids asleep and told Nelka "they should be able to sleep until I get home at 2:30". I got back at 3pm and found Nelka holding a furious Ava. From her tear stained face and puffy little eyes, I could see she'd been crying. Nelka said apologetically "I had to get her up because she was crying so much". Oh, my heart broke! So while I was eating away, chatting with Uma, that little baby was sobbing. And she was really really angry with me! When I came in the door, she wouldn't look at me, she clung to Nelka when I tried to hold her, she was so mad! I decided to give her a bath which always makes her happy but even after she got out, she was still mad. I dried her off with her back turned to me. I leaned in to kiss her cheek and she stepped out of reach. I patted her on the arm and she actually brushed me off with her hand. It took MANY HOURS for her to forgive me. I will need to be more explicit with my instructions to Nelka... get them up when you think it is necessary!

2) Not being hugely pregnant in the dead of winter. Since I don't mind heat and humidity, going through the summer that way isn't any trouble for me. This time around, I narrowly escaped having to buy one of those massive maternity coats. So far, my protective fat layer does the trick!

3) We have the nicest coffee machine. It is technically "automatic" in that it generates a tasty cup of coffee at the press of a button. The drawback is the amazing number of little trays that must be filled (or emptied) between and during the making of each cup so that the timeline looks something like this:

7:25am Lisa hits "on" button
7:27 Error message "fill water tray"
7:28 Lisa replaces refilled water tray, hits "on" button
7:35 Machine completes "descaling"
7:37 Machine completes "heating and self cleaning"
7:38 Error message "empty waste bit"
7:39 Lisa replaces emptied waste bin
7:41 Machine is ready to make first cup of coffee
7:43 Machine grinds beans and makes yummy smelling cup of coffee
7:43 Lisa requests second cup for a friend, Error message "refill coffee bean tray"
7:44 Lisa replaces refilled coffee bean tray, hits "on" button, apologizes to friend
7:45 Friend must leave to drop son off at school
7:46 Machine delivers second cup of coffee, Error message "error#41", Lisa kicks machine, enjoys delicious cup of coffee and forgives

A person could enter and recover from caffeine withdrawal while waiting for this very very fancy machine to produce a single cup of coffee. Lesson; When at my house, LEAP to grab the first cup ... it could be the last one. I won't say how much we spent on our coffee machine as it is a little embarrassing. It seemed like a good idea at the time. And like I said, the coffee it does manage to make is good enough to make my list of good things.

4) I spend what I like without John interfering. This is a wonderful thing! Granted, my weakness at the moment is used books, but I also like to get my nails done once a week. John is a worrier and I could totally picture him reading over my credit card statements sputtering "What?! What did you buy at RB Books for $24??" or "So you're still getting your nails done at that Towne Nails, huh? ..." Instead, that lovely man just pays those statements. Knowing how he worries about money, I count his treatment of my spending as a pure act of love. Ooooohhhh, isn't he GREAT?!

5) Being married to that amazing man I like to call "John". He is incredible ... a partner, a friend ... I beam when I think about him and don't get me started talking about him! Sure, he can be a real piece of work. Just yesterday I was recalling to a friend how, after I'd had Ava and lay helpless and in pain in a hospital bed, he couldn't be bothered to hand me the tv remote or help me track my pain medication. Most of our lovely four days there with our new baby were spent yelling at each other. I'm sure the staff was wondering if they should contact social services to start looking for a foster home for the child. More likely they were thinking ... "these people always think a baby will bring them closer together ..." What I love about being married to John is that, at least so far, we have survived those lows together. I see the times I hate him as marriage strengthening times. For example, I now KNOW we can survive his being a complete jerk after I carried and delivered his child. Isn't that wonderful?! ... if you are wondering, this time around, I have plans to replace John's "function" at the hospital (handing me things) with a well stocked handbag kept near the head of my bed within reach. He will be welcome to hang out there with us or not. There will be no pressure. I will be willing to sleep there alone ... Yet, he was the only one in whom I could confide that I hadn't had a bowel movement yet even when I'd assured the nursing staff that "oh yes!, my bowels have been moving!" He was the only one with a matching look of adoration in his eyes as he gazed at my new baby. He was the only one missing Claire as much as I was. He is really the only one with whom I am mature enough to share my children. I love it when they clamor to get out of my arms to go to him ... I love it when they love him more ... it just seems right.



6) Watching the water outside. Our house was marketed as "lakefront" which is the reason we wanted to see it. I was disappointed to find that the lake was a bit like a puddle, really just a large pond. But that's okay! It is so pretty! Every day it looks different ... I am looking at it now and it is still and dimpled with large expanding circles of water rimming from where it is being disturbed by geese. Sometimes it is frozen sometimes it is marshy sometimes, during certain kinds of summer storms, it is so many different colors. It seems to set my mood ... when it is frozen over, I just want to stay inside all day and eat soup, when it is calm, like today, I want to get out for a walk, when it is being whipped by the wind, I want to go outside and throw up my arms. I can't really do these things, of course, and my day is pretty much dictated by two very influential children. In a paper scissors rock style game but with children and water, I'm not sure who wins. I suppose water covers children? ("with as little as one inch" I've heard but I am sceptical)

7) Other good things exist in my life, I am sure, but I am slipping into a Nyquil coma and must sleep.

8) Oops, must mention my lovely sister Jennie and handsome brother, Geran. They are still talking about the last time they didn't make one of my facebook lists.

Breakfast at the Lunchbox

Before I had children, eating in restaurants was at the tip top of my fun things to do list. I can't quite seem to update my list to reflect the reality that now, dining out involves an entire FAMILY. For a change, I am not the one glowering at the parents with the bratty children at the next table. No, now I can glower directly at the children sitting at MY table. And they are not bratty ... they are toddlers, struggling to learn their way in a complicated and boring world. When I was in college, I worked for restaurants and I remember being so angry at people who left with their children to their nice clean home while I tried to repair the damage left under, on and around their table. Now, I am that person, clutching two hollering toddlers, ducking sheepishly out to the car, speeding away from the mess. It is exhilarating and shameful at the same time ... maybe like driving the getaway car for a bank robbery?

But I am actually writing to capture a moment of glowing praise for my two children. As John left us this morning, Saturday, for work, I silently swore at his retreating backside and thought "great. What now?? How am I going to fritter another day away with these two bored children?!" I know the guy is just doing what needs to be done, but if I'm not angry with him, I've got nothing. Out of spite, I decided to carry on with my plans to have a nice Saturday morning breakfast at the Weston Lunchbox without him. I hesitated about whether or not I should drag Nelka away from her day off to help with the girls. I decided against it and moved with purpose, changing diapers, dressing and applying shoes and sweatshirts with speed and agility. I loaded both little girls into their (lethally outdated) car seats and headed off to the Lunchbox. I cheerfully lectured C&A in the car about being good girls for mommy and how funny was it that we could eat breakfast at the LUNCHbox ha ha ha.

Given history, I didn't expect much from them. But they were so good! We found a place directly in front of the entrance and I herded them through the door and our waitress directed us to a table in the back that was covered in a plastic tablecloth (no offense taken!). She had a cup of coffee in my hand in less than a minute and took my order asap. Maybe I should dedicate this post to her! She was brilliant (and hopefully not still scraping up after us). Claire, chose to sit in a restrictive highchair (I let her sit in regular chairs when she prefers). Ava didn't complain about her seat either and they were both reasonably QUIET while eating with FORKS. Claire asked me politely if she could play with a cream pitcher, and nodded understandingly when I said no. Ava obediently said "peese" after demanding things. Half way through our breakfast, Claire exclaimed "Mommy, I such a good girl!" I beamed. Beamed and beamed, hoping other diners noticed the frazzled, pregnant lady in the corner with the two beautifully behaved children. Yes, toward the end, I was cramming last bites into my mouth, taking big gulps of coffee as C&A melted down, but they are toddlers.

We are all going out to dinner tonight with John's cousin, Barkley. I will let you know how it goes ...

Martyr Mothering: Do They Even Notice

Like most things in my life, I may have acted hastily when I accepted the time honored role of martyr mother. In retrospect, I'm not sure what other route I could have chosen as it seems the two, being a mom and being a martyr do more than go hand in hand ... they are fused together as a sort of conjoined beast. Where one ends and the other begins, I don't know, and in my case, they share vital organs. My problem with the arrangement comes not in the sacrifice ... oh no, sacrifice is the life blood of the martyr and the very gasoline that drives me to accomplish the vast amounts of mothering that must be accomplished every day. My trouble is with the invisibility of it all. To labor without recognition is ... well ... it may be a bit like writing without being read. Not that writing can be compared to martyr mothering ... it doesn't offer the same smug satisfaction.

It all started with the turn in our lives that came when we decided we wanted children. Someone female was required to donate her trim little body to the cause, and that female would have to be me ... unless I gave in to John's constant suggestions that we bring in a second female ... a "little wife" as they are known in old China. Like hell. I'd do it myself, thank you very much. And I did! My body modification actually began the moment I met John, so long before I was actually knocked up. At somewhere in the vicinity of 100 pounds, he thought I looked pinched and "fierce". I preferred to describe it as "fit" or "athletic" but in any case, I eagerly abandoned Gym, the only man in my life at the time John and I met, to pursue a brave new world of Philly Cheese steak sandwiches and horrible monster sized breakfasts at Jackson Hole Diner. I gained ten pounds ... a start. Try as I may, I was unable to exceed 112 pounds on my new diet and exercise (none) regimen. John was forever pinching my cheeks saying there was no meat there. I felt like a porpoise. When I got pregnant with Claire, I was suddenly a porpoise with purpose! I have a photo of myself proudly posing in a maternity outfit, nine weeks pregnant. My stomach is flatter than it has ever been since and my little arms hang thinly from my sleeveless top. I was TRYING to be fat and failing.

Things changed quickly then. By the end of my pregnancy, I was 125 pounds ... scoffable now, yes, but an important first step toward obesity. I gained (and kept) another 15 pounds to generate Ava and now stand somewhere up the weight hill from there, too afraid to look down. I soldier on bravely.

The other starter sacrifice was to give up my career to raise my babies by hand, as Dickens would say. I wasn't about to let any other woman or daycare provider experience the intense satisfaction and joy that comes with all of those glorious firsts ... first spit up, first poo in a crazy color, first smile, first laugh, first this, first that. Oh ho no! I would be there mySELF, thank you very much. I maybe didn't realize at the time that there would be a three month span between first spit up and first poo in a crazy color. Did I need to be there, sacrificing my career every moment in between? Yes and I gladly left it all behind; coffee and muffin mornings, lunches out with girlfriends, normal bank-centered conversation, marching around a city large enough to house a store, looking important and cute in a size two suit. Other small things abandoned ... admiration from my colleagues regarding my blossoming expertise in Float dynamics (a finance thing) and financial independence. Gone, all gone.

Instead, I sacrifice. And I would be more than fine with that if the sacrifice came with recognition from my husband and an occasional expression of gratitude from my children. My latest sacrifice has been "holding down the fort" while John launches our business. Holding down the fort includes but is not limited to: not expecting John home for dinner any day of the week, not pressuring him to spend some time with us, not calling him while he is at work to seek adult companionship or to commiserate or consult with him regarding his faulty offspring, not minding when he works on holidays and weekends, entertaining his family at our house with enough witty conversation to prevent their noticing John is not here, and the one I canNOT handle ... not complaining. I canNOT not complain! I am operating a boarding house for his Chinese cousins who require a base situated between BOS and NYC on weekends (granted, this was only necessary last weekend and this approaching weekend), I am raising two children, I am pregnant and overflowing with exciting emotions like sadness, anger, excitement and apprehension. All alone!

For the first almost three months of this, I stoically looked to the future for my reward ... John is going to realize one day how selflessly I gave of myself during this time and he is going to apologize for not recognizing the epicness of my struggle and will buy me a whopping gift. But I am such a lousy martyr that I couldn't even hold my martyr enterprise together through the first quarter and broke down last night in an explosion of bad feelings toward John. Which would have been in keeping with martyrdom except it was a verbal explosion without any of that subtle art known as passive aggression. What tipped me over the edge, specifically, is I have a cold. There is no freakin (sorry, Dad) way I can do all of the above with a cold and without medication. I have been sneak dosing Nyquil ... I keep a bottle under my sink in the bathroom ... not recommended for pregnancy but WHAT EVER.

But yes, I am ok. Don't worry about me. I will be fine laboring on as I am, pregnant, tired, and effectively single, knowing my reward waits for me in heaven.

your correspondent

Hours in the Day

I often hear people (with older children, or without children) say that there are not enough hours in the day. Their missing hours have been added to my life. As mentioned in my "fun with fish" post, for some of us, time is like an enemy. My days are completely structured around activities designed to WASTE TIME. For example, today is a Wednesday which is a glorious day because it is playgroup day. It is the day we magically leap from breakfast to afternoon rest time without awkward fillers. On this day, I meet up with my time wasting mom friends and sip coffee and chat while we provide collective and shoddy childcare to the masses swarming at our feet.

Playgroup and other cherished outofhouse activities like grocery shopping (with additional adult) provide milestones in my week that bring fleeting awareness that time is indeed moving and that we are inching forward with it, toward some ultimate relief. Yes, you are all thinking "that's death, stupid". Well, yes, I suppose that is the ultimate end, but I have a vague, wavering sense that between now and death lives an elusive period of time during which I will greet my remaining mornings with joy. Surely my children cannot linger in their current state forever. And yet, in the seeming 25 years I have set aside all else to care for her, Claire has progressed from laying helplessly on her back hoping I will notice her diaper needs changing to yelling "MOMMY .... I POOOOOING (in my diaper)" in restaurants. If that bit of progress took 25 parenting years, I will be crying at her wedding in 2609. She is 75 in Parenting Years and I am something like 379 years by that measure. Yet still, I think rather miraculously, I am able to behave like I am 14 (John's favorite accusation; "what?! Are you 14 years old??"). Yes, 14 going on 380.

Back to cherished activities ... the foundation of my day is nap time. My babies spend alarming amounts of time sleeping and yelling at each other in the nursery while penned in cribs (see Nap post). I wonder if I am stunting their intellectual growth by allowing them so much time away from me. No, probably not. When they are not napping, during the cold months, you are likely to find us either a) eating or b) "room hopping". We live in house with all kinds of rooms (see some earlier post, not sure which) and I've learned that changing scenery is as good as a new toy. The entertainment value of the nursery is so threadbare that I count five minutes spent in there playing as a wildly successful five minutes gone.

Then, unfortunately, it's often on to my bedroom where we alternately take baths and fondle and drop electronic items like cameras, remote controls and various charging devices found by "daddy's side of the bed". The TV in this particular room, has magnetic allure because it is sitting on the floor as it waits in a decades long line to find its place on a wall (paintings, framed photos, other misc. all share this fate while John works on his anxiety re "putting holes in the walls"). It is possible to get so close to this special television that one can actually place one's greasy little paws right on the screen until directed to stop.

After that, we head downstairs to the living room where I fear I am losing my battle to keep toys OUT. See previous post re my great pride in ability to limit toys to certain designated areas. Or don't. The living room is now home to a kiddy kitchen, a toy that shoots balls into the air while making vacuum cleaner sounds, and a toy barn. My plans to thin out that crowd are giving way to complacency. The living room also is home to coasters which are hit toys. Who knew?! Yes, stone coasters ... great toys. Also, after one brief training session, my girls both know to use a coaster before setting sippy cups down. Even Ava, at one and a half, knows just what to do with a coaster (other than making stone coaster towers).

The living room is often followed by the "Great Room" where I vainly try to get those two hooked on TV watching. When they were younger, I'd get up on the couch and watch consecutive episodes of "What Not to Wear" while they crawled around on the floor. These days, the three of us cozy up on a couch and watch two minutes of Baby Einstein before leaving for the kitchen. Why is it that MY children are not the ones getting fat from sitting in front of the TV all day long?

Desperately long days call for visits to places like the game cupboard (this is always a mistake ... when playing Clue at my house, you can either kill someone with a candlestick or the game board itself as other dangerous objects have disappeared). Another choice time wasting locale for desperate days is C&A's bedroom which is full of older kid toys with little parts. If you are craving a marble or a jack, go there! Our little theater will hold endless opportunities for wasting away time and minds in another 150 years. So far, they have only shown interest in the rope lights on the floor.

Reporting from my planet,
lisa

Fun with Fish

John has been working every day, starting up his hedge fund, Frontera. This means that my long weeks at home with the girls are not delineated by weekends ... I try to make a weekend for us, to make it seem like I'm not a single parent every single day. For the last two weekends, I took the girls to my sister's house near Boston. The drive takes up three hours of time I'd otherwise have no idea how to spend and, my parental duties are shared by my sister and brother-in-law. The cousins play with each other, and it's also just nice to have a change of scenery ... and new toys!

Last weekend, I decided to give my sister a break ... and decided to spend as much of Saturday as possible at the Norwalk Maritime Aquarium. I talked about Fish all day Friday to get us in the mood for our Saturday excursion. We were all very excited. I thought of taking Nelka but Saturday and Sunday are her days off so, rather than bother her, I braved it alone. Everything went very smoothly until we got to the parking lot of the aquarium. The parking garage is across the street and a block down from the entrance ... Claire is a wonderful and independent walker but without constant verbal cues from me ("Claire, stay close to Mommy", "this way, Claire", "Claire! Stop!!!"), she tends to head the wrong direction or in front of a car. Ava, our giant infant, is a horrible walker. She falls a lot, even with when I have an iron grip on her chubby little hand. And she is starting to assert herself by pulling in unwanted directions and making me drag her after me while she squirms and cries. She is also short so I have to bend over in order to keep a hold of her without dislocating her baby arm. So, I carry her. She may be short but she is solid at 30 pounds. It is funny that Claire, a little small for her age, is within a pound of the same weight. All of this to say that by the time I got them to the garage elevator, across the street and down the block to the aquarium entrance, I was ready to go home.

In retrospect, perhaps I should have. We got into line to buy entrance tickets and my children scattered ... one charging down the hallway to the first exhibit, the other making a break for the door. I hustled behind the one going to the street, clutching at my big pregnant belly "STOPPPPP!" A marvelous aquarium employee stepped from out of nowhere to block Ava's freedom charge. "Thank you!" I breathed heavily. He gave me the look (Lady, are these really your children because you look like you don't know how to take care of them. And just look at yourself, pregnant again?!). I may have been reading a little too much into our brief eye contact. Maybe what he was thinking was "my hat off to you, little lady!" Eventually, I was able to purchase our tickets and dash down the hall with kicking Ava under my arm like a football to catch up to Claire.

The wonder of sea life was most profound when the girls caught a glimpse of a giant, stuffed animal squid (or cuttlefish ... they look so much alike) suspended from the ceiling before the first exhibit. "Look Ava!!" said Claire breathlessly looking up in fascination. I jumped on the opportunity to make good use of our pricey tickets "yes! wow, girls!! That is a GIANT stuffed (animal) squid! Or cuttlefish ... they look so much alike." Eventually, it was necessary to drag them on to the real fish, but I think if we'd turned around and gone home right then, they would have been satisfied with their trip to the museum. Like when they are so enthralled with the wrapping paper, bow and box you catch yourself thinking "I'll just return the gift!"

Our first stop was a tank full of little turtles. "Oh BOY!" I exclaimed ... "little turtles!!" The girls were fully absorbed in pushing each other off of the narrow step stool platform and staring at those incredible little turtles. Like a moron, I soon hustled them off to other exhibits that were not nearly so interesting as the little turtles or the giant stuffed animal cuttlefish suspended from the ceiling. One truly giant turtle was minimally interesting. A tank full of hungry looking sharks was dismissed with disdain. I spoke enthusiastically about jellyfish, seahorses, weird little fish that lived in holes they dug into aquarium rocks. None of these sparked much interest. It wasn't until we got to the open tank of STINGRAYS that my two came alive. Claire hopped up on the step stool thing in order to reach in, but Ava was still too short. I propped her up with my knee. An aquarium employee came over and asked if I had any questions. I asked the one I thought that she'd expect from any loving mother who's babies were dipping their grimy little paws into a tank full of STINGrays "do they sting?" I intoned with the correct amount of concern. "Oh no" she said "we clip off the stingers". I knew I was supposed to gasp in horror and exclaim "but doesn't that HURT them??" but I didn't really care. I turned back to Claire and Ava to discover their sleeves wet up to their elbows. Aaahh! I wrung them out the best I could and rolled them up, aware that the couple standing next to us was observing our activities with unveiled interest. The woman began to ask the usual questions about their ages and ethnicities. I don't mind these kinds of questions at all ... I think it is kind of people to show interest in my wacky life. I answered cheerfully, even adding I was expecting again ("I must be really crazy ha ha"). I turned back around but no Claire! I tucked kicking Ava under my arm and prepared to charge around like a crazy mom yelling "Claire? CLAAAIIIIRRRREEE!!!" but had to first go back for Ava's dropped shoe. Finally, clutching my bag, stray shoe and screeching stingray obsessed child, I began my running around calling routine. Claire soon came out from behind a display and all was well.

I looked at the handful of papers I'd been handed along with tickets and noted that a seal feeding was scheduled in 20 minutes. Fortuitous! I pulled Claire toward the seal enclosure away from the stingray tank (which acted like a really strong magnet ... only when I managed to get them far enough away, could they turn their attention to other things) and to the seal place where Ava wanted to get in with the seals. I wasn't so opposed to that except she first had to make it down three or four very steep and dirty steps. I was so tired by then I was afraid I'd topple down if I tried to carry her. So I set her down at the top and grabbed her hand, thinking she could walk down the steps while I prevented her from falling. But she had something else in her mind ... specifically that I would carry her down BY her arm. Which, in the end, I did. Exhausted at the bottom, I sat on a step and pointed weakly to the torpedo shaped mammals whizzing around in the water filled tank now six inches from our faces. Ava wasn't impressed. She turned and began crawling up those filthy steps. "Oh heaven help me!" I thought, got to my feet and, in the end, carried her UP the steps suspended by her chubby baby arm. Meanwhile, Claire was falling in love with seals and their funny sealness. I called for her but she remained glued to the glass (at the bottom of the steps). With a resigned sigh, I carried Ava back down the stairs by her arm, got Claire's attention and then we somehow made it to the top, all three of us.

Now you can imagine I was hoping against hope that the seal feeding was just moments away. But, after digging my phone out of my bag while chasing the girls between boat displays, I saw that time had stood still and only three measly minutes had passed since I initially noted the only twenty remaining until seal feeding time. I, helpless optimist, had been rounding DOWN to get to twenty minutes in the beginning ... it had actually been twenty TWO minutes until seal feeding time, making it nineteen long minutes still to wait. The random suspension of time is one of the most profound effects of having young children.

I looked hopefully around the boat display room and saw one of those photograph platforms with holes cut out in a board so your child can stand behind and poke her head through while you take pictures from the other side. I've never been a fan of these things but the girls discovered that this one had a raised and carpeted platform in the back which was great fun for standing. I sat heavily on the edge of it while the girls tirelessly climbing up and down from the platform (Ava) and by poked heads through the cutout thingies (Claire). This passed five relatively peaceful minutes. But then, "real parents" (with cameras and strollers and reasonably spaced children) started coming by and sending their children behind the board (where they encountered a strange woman with two feral looking toddlers) so they could take pictures.

Feeling a bit like a predator camped out back there, I got up and pulled the girls off to a bench to sit between two women who looked surprised that a stranger wouldn't mind parking herself between them. I didn't mind at all. Most of the time, Claire is a compliant and sweet little thing who will actually stay close when I ask her to. Ava no. I held her squirmy little self half way on my lap while she cried and tried to wiggle down and simultaneously issued orders to Claire every five seconds to not wander away. This lasted a brief time before Claire gave me a naughty look and ran around a corner. "Claire!" I yelled. One of my benchmates asked if she should hold Ava so I could go get Claire. Can you believe how NICE (and foolish) people can be?? I knew that wouldn't work with Ava in her current mood so I hoisted her under my arm along with my bag and went after Claire.

I caught up with her back by the boats. With just twelve more minutes to go (remember that Johnny Cash song about the poor guy waiting to be hanged?) and I felt I'd waited too long to forgo valuable entertainment like sealfeeding. This is what I call "throwing good minutes after bad". I spent the remaining minutes just chasing behind them as they raced around the boats squealing. Two minutes before feeding time, I reholstered Ava and forcibly pulled Claire away from the boats and back to the seal area. I managed to overcome their reluctance with lots and lots of enthusiastic talk about seals and feeding seals ("wow girls, we're going to get to see the seals have their lunch!!!") We sat among the crowd on one of the higher steps where Ava discovered she could, from her seat on my lap, kick the people in front of us. I apologized but not profusely (I had little energy available for non vital activities like apologizing) and reigned in those meaty little legs. Ava protested and tried to get down, Claire stayed to the farthest reaches of my vision and I checked my phone for the time. Two minutes late and no sign of any feeding. I was tired. I'd had it. I was angry! "What the F^$%!" I exclaimed in the angry frustration that, from my experience, only pms or pregnancy plus small children can generate. I ignored the looks, stood up abruptly with Ava implanted under my aching arm, grabbed Claire and MARCHED out of there.

Oh failure. Fail.Ure. The worst part of it, I could see right away, was my deplorable language in a room full of adults and children all enjoying a Saturday outing to the aquarium. I hobbled back to the entrance head down in defeat to strike off to the car which was once more a block and a street crossing away. I snapped mercilessly at Claire to keep her on the sidewalk ten feet or fewer in front of me. I looked into the eager happy faces of the normal people entering the aquarium and felt shame, envy, and some urge to warn them. Of course, they didn't need to be warned ... they clearly had everything under control. And now that the weird swearing lady with the entire preschool class was gone, nothing stood between them and a lovely time looking at fish and water dwelling mammals.

God knows when we are at the point of despair and he mercifully acts on our behalf. Halfway up the block, there was a bench. And on the bench was one of those obnoxious girls asking every passing family if they'd like to get their children into modeling. She proffered lollipops as she asked me the modeling question. I said "no" but could we possibly have lollipops anyway. She kindly gave us two and I sat on the bench, not caring about anyone ruining their lunch or getting sticky, just breathing in the fresh air and feeling grateful for that bench and silence inducing lollipops. I quietly rooted for our salesgirl friend as she accosted each passing family until Claire began to wander again. Feeling just refreshed enough to make it down the rest of the block, across the street, to the parking booth (to pay), down the elevator and to the car, I did.

We then drove to John's office to see how he was doing. He asked about the aquarium. Was it fun? I told him "yes, but I won't be doing that again any time soon". How could I explain what I'd just been through? Our visit to the aquarium is not unlike many of my days. I just can't quite remember all of the craziness to be able to relate it back to anyone. Not that John has the patience to listen anyway. He's got a million other things going on in his mind. So I am very glad I took the time to relate all of this to you. I really needed to share!