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Kate & Oliver’s Baby Soothing Service: We Make House Calls

The other night, my three year old son, Oliver accompanied me to our neighbors’ house to help soothe their baby. Actually, I was being consulted for my medical skills (if you call squirting saline solution up an infant’s nose and then finishing the job with a plastic syringe “skillful”). As a mother of three small children, I tend to command a great deal of respect in the knowledgeable mommy department. Which makes me feel very important – when I stop laughing.

I may not be the best choice for Rich and Cathy’s parenting guru, BUT I’m the fastest aspirator sucker in the West (or East since I live in Virginia). Oliver had a stuffy nose from the day he was born until his first birthday. And then six months later I gave birth to the twins who had their fair share of snot – though nothing to match Oliver’s prolific booger production. Bottom line: I may have to call the nurse hotline to get advice on constipation or vomiting – but I know exactly to do about a newborn with a stuffy nose.

Ironically enough, they really did think that Jack (the adorable two month old baby) might have a more serious problem. And when Rich knocked on our door to ask me to come over because Jack was having trouble breathing, I was expecting to find a baby gasping for air – and possibly turning blue, since I have a rather overactive imagination about this kind of thing. Instead I found a placid baby staring up at worried adults and comically snorting out breaths.

The reason that I brought Oliver with me is that I had been at BlogHer DC all day and since it was a holiday, the kids were at home and noticed my absence. I couldn’t leave the room without hearing a panicked Oliver calling for me. Somehow leaving the house didn’t seem like it would bode well for a peaceful bedtime. It was decided that he would have to accompany me on my house call.

It was about 8:45 p.m. when we arrived – just about the time that I usually start trying to convince Oliver that it really is time to put on pajamas and not just some crazy idea I dreamed up. Although he can’t read the clock, he can sense an approaching bedtime like a tracker hearing hoof beats from a mile away. (Does that metaphor work? Not sure…a little awkward…but I’m keeping it.) This is when he generally starts his redirection routine: “Hey look! It’s Curious George!” or “Sammach [sandwich] PLEASE” or “Uh Oh! Pee pee!”). So you can imagine how thrilled he was with our impromptu excursion.

He was equally enchanted with “baby Jack” and did a lot of pointing and Cousin It-like babbling (Oliver’s version of talking) about him. And he happily watched as I examined my patient. Diagnosis? A lot of snot plugging up Jack’s nose. Prognosis? A very uncomfortable and sleepless night for everyone that lived with him. But a little saline and aspirator action would help.

Because I’m all about sharing my gift. I held the baby and made Cathy do the work as I guided her through the complicated process. Step one: have someone restrain flailing baby as you insert the saline bottle in the nostrils. Step two: hold the bottle over each nostril for approximately three seconds. Step three: wait a few more seconds for the saline to do its work. Step four: continue to hold baby’s arms – now that he’s most likely gaining Incredible Hulk strength and can beat you senseless with his fists – and use the aspirator to remove “the obstruction.” Note to new parents – saline for babies will drip, so you don’t have to squeeze the bottle. I made this mistake for an entire week of Oliver’s life until I finally realized that I was powerwashing his brain with saline.

It was only after we finished the procedure and started trying to soothe a hysterical Jack, that I noticed Oliver’s agitation. He was horrified by what we did to that poor sweet baby and hovered around us as if he was trying to figure out how to snatch Jack and make a break for the front door. And when I imagined the scene through his eyes, I had to admit that it probably looked like something that would happen in an alien abduction. It was definitely time to go home and watch some Barney.

So we said our goodbyes to the happy little family (translation: shell shocked parents and wailing infant) and made our way back. As soon as I closed our door though, I knew that it wasn’t going to work. Oliver just stood there, lips quivering and tears streaming, asking for baby Jack. What could I do? I took him back.

I didn’t even bother knocking since barely five minutes had passed, and sure enough, we found them just as we left them – trying to calm Jack down. Oliver gave me a “do something!” look – so I took Jack and did another one of my baby voodoo tricks on him.

When George was a newborn, he had bad reflux and upon the suggestion of another twin mom, I purchased the Itsy Bitsy Yoga Book. Apparently yoga poses help with reflux. Since George couldn’t exactly lower himself into a downward dog position, I had to read the book and do the little exercises with him. The only really useful piece of information that I took away from that chapter of my maternity leave was that if you hold a baby out in front of you with their head in your hands and their feet at your chest, and then quickly squat down and slowly rise up over and over again – the baby will be instantly soothed. It’s absolute magic.

While it did look ridiculous, my squatting routine did the trick after just a few drops. I continued while I spoke with the exhausted parents and watched out of the corner of my eye as Oliver relaxed. Since it seemed as if my work was done, I returned Jack to his mother and hustled Oliver out before the crying could begin again. No such luck. The wailing started as we were walking out the door.

This time we didn’t even make it into our house, Oliver charged back without me. I told Chris that we were returning and asked him to come with us. I don’t even know if Cathy and Rich were surprised to see us. All I could say was, “yeah…we’re back.” I returned to my squatting routine, Oliver found Wonder Pets on the TV and Chris opened a beer. We certainly do know how to make ourselves at home.

One problem with the Itsy Bisty Yoga soothing magic is that it’s impossible to sustain for long periods of time. This is the exact reason why people hate going to the gym. It’s hard. Unfortunately – Jack was a grumpy boy, and the minute I would stop, we would start crying. Since Oliver refused to leave Jack in his time of need, I was starting to wonder if we’d ever get out of there.

My solution was for Rich and Jack to escort us back to our house. This ALWAYS works when Oliver doesn’t want to come inside after playing with a neighbor’s dog. Now instead of fighting with him, I just ask the owner to come back to our house for a few minutes (maybe I should write a book – I’m just full of great advice!) So we applied the same principles to the crying baby. Have I mentioned that I live in a townhouse? This story sounds a lot less bizarre if you know that we’re only walking about 20 feet door to door.

Jack continued to be fussy at our house, and Oliver wouldn’t go upstairs with me. I couldn’t do one more squat if I tried. As it was, I was worried about being able to walk the next day. Chris said he’d give it a shot. Apparently – he is the secret weapon of our baby soothing service. He just held Jack close and rocked him while making shushing sounds. Within minutes, the baby was asleep. I was a bit suspicious and thought Chris may have learned that Ninja trick of pinching the side of someone’s neck to make them pass out… Either way – he seems to have a gift. Why he wasn’t using it on the twins when they were newborns and woke up every 20 minutes at night? I’m not sure. But it certainly did work on Jack.

It’s too bad that we don’t plan to have anymore babies, because DAMN – we’re good! But we really don’t plan to have anymore babies. I can barely control the ones that I do have. Who knows? Maybe Oliver absorbed everything he learned that night and will become The Baby Whisperer for his generation. Or more likely he’ll just cultivate an unusual fear of nasal spray and develop the disconcerting habit of entering his neighbors’ houses without knocking.

Toddler Confessions

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In honor of the twins’ birthday this week, I’m going to give them the mic. They will be taking over this Friday Confession. I’ll have to translate for them since they don’t really “talk” so to speak – but I’ll try to keep it honest.

First, we will hear from Eleanor:

Hello! My name is Eh-ni-ner [Interjection from Mom: This is how Eleanor pronounces her name]. I am pretty much perfect, but I do have one little fault. I’m just the teeniest bit of a princess. I demand to be the center of attention at all times, and whatever you have? I want some. Of course this is entirely justified as I’m in a word, fabulous. I’m terribly multifaceted though in that I’m what some of the neighbors call, “a tough cookie.” I fall down a lot (oh yeah – another flaw: I’m kind of a klutz), but I don’t waste much time crying. If I’m having fun, I can shake it off. Regardless of what may seem like a tomboy personality though, I really am quite the girly girl. I will only wear one pair of shoes. They are silver mary janes with little bows, and they are so “me.” Mom tries to make me put on these clunky brown shoes (must be a throw back from her past) and insists on calling the horrors my “school shoes.” Well I don’t go to school yet, and if school requires wearing shoes that Mom preferred back in “the olden days,” then I’ll pass. I have a reputation to maintain you know.

ANYWAY – I have also recently become addicted to barrettes. I call them “pretties” which seems to make everyone laugh. But when Mom first started putting them in my hair, she’d say “so pretty!” She didn’t say “so barrette!” What was I supposed to think? Mom says that she’s just excited because I was more or less bald until a month ago. I prefer to say “follically challenged,” but George is signaling to me that it’s his turn, so I won’t get argumenative about it. So…in conclusion…what were we talking about? Oh right a confession. I don’t really have one. I pretty much perfect.

Take it away George:

Right, thanks Mom. Hi there (big wave). HI…..hi……..hi (still waving). [Interjection from Mom: We could be here all day. He loves saying HI and BYE, and no one can out wave him. So I’ll get this started. “Hello. My name is George, and I am weird.”] YES – that’s right. I’m weird. Sorry about that – I just really like waving. It’s kind of my thing right now. But you know – like Mom said, I am weird. First – I’m obsessed with toothbrushes. I love them – and I want to brush my teeth pretty much 50 times a day. My parents have to hide all of the toothbrushes since I am a climber. And when I do have a toothbrush in hand? I dare you to try to take it away from me. You will find it next to impossible to prize it from my iron tight grasp. And if by some miracle you do? I will blast you across the room with my super human shrieking. I’m not kidding, you may have some temporary hearing loss. At the very least, you will drop the toothbrush.

The other weird thing about me is that I have just this week become extremely attached to a pair of shoes. They are lime green Vans that are just a little too small for me. Here is a picture of me in me half dressed for bed – still wearing my Vans:

Aren’t they rad? Vans are a West Coast thing, and people say “rad” on the West Coast. Or that’s what Dad told Mom when she said that they didn’t match anything (I mean – he said that Vans not matching your outfit is a West Coast thing – he didn’t say rad). Dad is getting a bit long in the tooth to say things like rad. Have you met my parents? They’re really old. They’re not rad. But they are very patient with me. And they’ve let me wear my lime green Vans every day this week, even though they don’t match anything. And now they let me wear them to bed. Well they kind of have to. Because if they don’t, I’ll scream. And I’ve already explained the consequences of that. So that’s pretty much it for me. I’m just weird.

Thanks kids! I can’t think of a good closing for this, so I’ll just go play with the little ones now. Playing with the twins generally looks like this:

Make Mine a Double: Part II

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We last left off the evening of October 9, 2006, with me driving to the hospital with amniotic fluid soaking through my pants and into my car’s upholstery. How’s that for an opener? Didn’t catch the “Part I” post? Maybe you should read that first.

Back to the story. I was very lucky in that I didn’t start having painful contractions until I arrived at the hospital. It was only when I was sitting in some light traffic, that I started thinking about the fact that I might not be able to drive if my barely perceptible contractions became more intense. I was definitely rethinking that decision to let Giacome finish my blow dry before leaving for the hospital.

Ideally, Chris would have been driving me – but it was important that I go to the hospital immediately since I was definitely going to have a c-section (George, “baby A,” was breech). And Chris had to drop our 18 month old, Oliver off with friends before coming to meet me.

It was a little anti-climactic when I first arrived. I drove around for a bit looking for a good parking place, and then I stopped to give someone directions on my way into the building. Once I reached the reception area, I had to wait in line behind people who were interrogating the receptionists about whether it was possible to order vegan meals from the cafeteria. Okay – I just totally made that last part up. But I did have to wait in line behind a bunch of people that did not have blood pouring out of a gunshot wound OR amniotic fluid streaming down their legs.

Eventually I was sent up to Labor & Delivery where I finally got a little service! Actually – it was a bit disconcerting because when I provided my name, the nurse said, “oh – your doctor just called. She’s very worried about you.” I asked if I should be worried about me. She clarified that since surgery was necessary, they wanted to check me out right away. So off I went to triage.

Here is where the pregnancy crazies come into play. The young nurse who “checked me out” said, “oh yes – I can feel that head.” Now – this made me very excited because last I heard, George (who was positioned to be the first one to come out) had his little heiny jammed firmly into my birth canal. Could he possibly have turned? Could I skip the whole major abdominal surgery thing and have the twins the old fashioned way? I was really getting psyched about this.

Then my doctor arrived. She is great and I trust her implicitly, but that woman is strictly no nonsense. I told her about the miraculous head sighting (or feeling), and she gave me one of her famous looks. “Kate,” she said, “it is almost impossible for that to happen now. They have very little room to move at this point.” But I wanted my fantasy to be real, so I begged her to check – just to make sure. She agreed to go get the ultrasound equipment, and I could literally feel her eyes rolling as she walked away from me. Long story short, the nurse gave me false hope. She felt George’s butt, not his head.

Shortly after my disappointing news, Chris arrived looking like he had just parachuted onto the front lawn of the hospital. He was excited though and I needed some positive energy in my little corner of triage. Then I noticed that he only had one bag with him. I had packed two. Was it the bag with my skincare products and my toothbrush and my comfy socks? No – it was the bag with my DVD player and my books and magazines. I asked him if the other bag was in the car, and he said, “what other bag?” I said, “um, the one sitting right next to this one?” Nope – didn’t ring a bell. I expect that when I called to tell him my water had broken, he didn’t register anything more than, “water broken…blah blah blah…hospital…blah blah blah…Oliver…blah blah blah…bag.” Oh well – at least I could watch some Gilmore Girls if I got bored.

As much as I really was dreading the surgery part, I was happy to see my anesthesiologist and get the news that it was go time. The contractions were becoming more than uncomfortable. And Chris was starting to get on my nerves, all windblown and positive with only one suitcase… Men.

Since I had expected to have a c-section, I knew what to expect. I kissed Chris and told him that I’d see him in the OR. He had to scrub in. Then the anesthesiologist and I walked down the hall together. Which seemed weird. I was kind of expecting to be wheeled in on a gurney. Or to at least be pushed in via wheelchair.

The next thing that I remember finding a little unnerving is that when I lay down on the operating table (which was so thin I thought I might fall off – is it me or do you picture something more along the lines of a dining table?) I was completely stripped below my chest. I don’t know why this would surprise me since I’m familiar with the area where they make the incision. But I just didn’t picture being naked. Especially with strange men wandering around talking about sports. Everyone seemed a bit too jovial for my liking… What did they think this was, Gray’s Anatomy? Were they going to be too busy flirting across my blood and guts to notice that I was bleeding out? No – I wasn’t overly fond of the banter. I wanted them to come to MY surgery with their A game.

Anyone who has had a c-section before may have noticed that I skipped the part about having a needle poked into my lower back to administer the spinal block. It wasn’t my favorite part – but it was over quickly enough. Let’s leave it at that. But the actual effects of the spinal block made me want to jump up and run screaming out of the room (if I could actually move my lower body that is). They had positioned me so that my knees were up in the air, and then suddenly my lower body just disappeared. But I knew that my feet were on the table and my knees were bent. BUT I couldn’t feel them. This made me ca-razy! But once they moved my legs back down so that they were on the table again (couldn’t feel it – but I knew they were doing it – eeeeww!), I felt better.

I also noticed that the numbness reached up to my chest and I was finding it hard to breath. Of course that could have been due to the general sense of panic, but the numbness didn’t help. Finally I couldn’t stand the jokes and the sports and the numbness and the tiny table and that fact that I was AWAKE for all of this, and I pulled off my oxygen mask and clutched the arm of the closest nurse. I dragged her down so her face was right next to mine and said, “listen – I just need to tell someone…I’m REALLY SCARED.” She kindly patted me on the shoulder, replaced my oxygen mask, and told Chris who had just entered the room to come hold my hand.

And then it started. I of course couldn’t see what was going on since there were about ten inches of sheet screening my view. But Chris had to actually avert his eyes since he was sitting up. He was given instructions to stay facing me if he didn’t want to “see anything.” Chris and I are pretty much in agreement when it comes to the inner workings of the human body. We never want to see anything.

Most of the procedure was a blur – but suddenly, there was George with a full head of dark hair. He was pink and screaming – and he looked nothing like my first baby. So it was kind of like having my first baby – if that makes sense. I had never seen anything like him. Chris went to go look at him as they started to pull Eleanor out. She looked a little bizarre since she was up in the top of my uterus and didn’t get washed off the way George did when my water broke. She was covered in vernix – but she looked more like Oliver did when I had him (just a little light brown hair on her head). But she was a girl and that was new to me. Chris watched them clean her off and saw both babies get weighed. Born at 9:23 p.m. and 9:24 p.m. (respectively) George was 5 lbs. 11 oz. and Eleanor was 5 lbs. 12 oz. They were so tiny.

It was at this point that Chris decided to come back and talk to me. Big mistake. Or it wouldn’t have been if he turned back the way he had come: facing me. Instead he went in the other direction, and got a perfect view of the intern inspecting my uterus (outside of my body) and then shoving it back in. A nurse had to grab his arm as his legs started to buckle. He didn’t actually faint, but he almost did. Now that’s an image that will haunt your dreams. And he wasn’t too keen on what he saw during the “regular” birth of our first son. You know how the doctor says you have to wait six weeks before you can have sex? Six weeks after I had Oliver, Chris looked at me and said, “I’m not ready.”

Stop making faces Chris – that last line is crucial to the story. Well maybe not – but it’s really funny.

So that’s it! We got to hold our babies and take a picture and then all kinds of drama began the next day. But that is a story for another day. Today is a birthday. And while I’ve never been one to get sentimental the miracle of birth – I’m VERY sentimental about the birth of my own little angels.

Happy Birthday George and Eleanor. I love you so very much.

Make Mine a Double: Part I

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Exactly two years ago (give or take a week), I looked like this:

And yes – it was just as uncomfortable as it appears. And what is even more outrageous is that I remember looking at that picture and thinking it was “flattering” – that it made my stomach look less gigantic than it actually was. So apparently, I was even bigger in real life. People who have never been pregnant before can pick themselves up off the floor now. It’s not like that happens overnight. You do have some time to get used to it.

Enough about my enormous stomach though (shut up – I mean then, not now!). I am showing embarrassing pictures of myself as an opening for the story of the birth of my twins. It’s their birthday! On October 9, 2006, at 9:23 p.m. and 9:24 p.m. (respectively) I gave birth to George and Eleanor Hood. They looked like this shortly after they departed my body:

And no – they were not nearly as angelic as they appear. Actually, they were perfectly sweet babies – it’s just that there were two of them. And having had one newborn already – I knew the difference between one screaming baby and two screaming babies. It’s simple math: 2 x 1 baby = 1 seriously deranged mother. But that’s another story.

On the morning of October 9, 2006, I had a feeling that the end was near. While my scheduled c-section (my “baby A,” George was breech) wasn’t supposed to take place for another week, I just didn’t feel right. And of course I was already four centimeters dilated and showing some “signs” that are TMI for even this blog. Also, we had just moved into a new house three weeks prior and I was still carrying my 35 lb. 18 month old up and down the stairs. This probably helped to speed things along.

The bags were packed and waiting by the door and I was finally resigned to the fact that George was not going to turn over for me, and I would have to have my first experience with surgery. Awake. One word: barbaric.

We were as ready as we were ever going to be – and I decided that I would spend the day trying to wrap things up at work, even though it was a federal holiday and the office was closed. It’s like I knew…

I won’t get into the details of the day – mainly because I barely remember them. But at about 5:00 p.m. I was ready to leave. I felt the urge to do some errands, so I called Chris and told him that I would be running late, and that he’d have to do Oliver’s bedtime routine (which he was more or less covering already in preparation for my post surgery limitations). Then I was off to the mall.

First stop – the cosmetics department at Nordstom. I was running low on concealer, and you know – this is a huge priority for someone that expects to be sequestered to their house for several months. I have to look good for the mail man and all. Then I headed over to Suissa, a hair salon where I had a history of success with random stylists (I’m notorious for being a walk in client).

When I arrived, the receptionist smiled at me and told me that I was the third expectant mother to come in that day. My first thought was that I hoped the others were as far along as I was and also sporting ill fitting maternity clothes that hinted at a penchant for inappropriate belly baring. I didn’t want to be “the big one” when they talked about the run on pregnant ladies that day. She told me that Giamcome would be able to take me immediately. (I don’t remember his name – but I once had another stylist named Giacome, and I think it suits my no name guy.)

Giacome? Not that much of a talker. But that suited me well enough, as my mind was racing in fifty different directions, and I didn’t mind NOT playing 20 questions with him as he pretended to be interested in my pregnancy. But one persistent thought running through the rest was that I was starting to worry about incontinence (don’t worry – this isn’t a story about incontinence – but it’s relevant in context). All day, I had been feeling a little…well, loose – for lack of a better word. I had never experienced incontinence before, and I was wondering if this was an early sign.

It was while my hair was being washed that I had the first pang of concern. There was definitely something going on down there – and I was feeling extremely grateful for the long black gown that covered my legs. At this point, I was thinking that I might look as if I had just had accident – or more accurately, that I looked like I HAD had an accident. But at the end of the day, I’m an optimist, and I hoped that it either wouldn’t show once I was standing up – or that maybe it would be dry by the time I had to unveil myself.

The haircut was uneventful. It was looking exactly like what I had requested and Giacome continued to play the strong silent type. But about ten minutes into the blow dry, something rather significant happened. I suddenly knew that I was not experiencing incontinence. I had my water broken for me in the hospital when I had my first son, and while this was not the same, there were definite similarities. It finally dawned on me: I wasn’t peeing my pants – I was going into labor.

I had never spontaneously gone into labor before. My 9 lb. 2 oz. first born was a week late and I had to be induced. And I was expecting a scheduled c-section for the twins. So I was completely unprepared for the slapstick situation of having my water break during my blow dry at the Tysons Corner Suissa where I was a goddamn walk in for god’s sake. Oh my god! Damn!

But I’m nothing if I’m not practical. And I never panic. So I quietly weighed my options as Giacome continued to smooth and straighten my hair. I had done this once before, and I knew that I had some time before I actually went into real labor. At this point I wasn’t even having contractions. Oh what the hell – my hair was only half done, and I figured that it wouldn’t hurt anything if I just let him finish. I deserved to have perfect hair for my first surgery. Awake. BARBARIC I tell you!

Plus – I kind of needed time to figure out what I was going to tell Giacome. I couldn’t imagine that this was something that happened every day at Suissa. So when he finally finished his last flicks and fluffs, it was time for me to break the news. I said, “so Giacome…I have to tell you something. I THINK that my water may have broken.” He looked at me blankly – and if he did say anything, I don’t remember what it was. At this point I was beginning to wonder if he was actually mute.

Then I stood up and he removed the vinyl drape. And that’s when I realized that my water hadn’t really broken yet – it was just starting to break. It was only when was vertical and gravity took over that it really BROKE. All over. With sound effects. I was truly in a sitcom from hell. And as an added bonus, that morning I decided not to wear the black pants that I had sported every day for the past two months. No – I was feeling “khaki.” And there was no camoflauging the river of amniotic fluid running down my legs.

Giamcome looked me. I looked at him. And then as if we had the same thought at the same time, we both looked at the chair where I had been sitting. Thank god it was the usual fake leather. I can’t even imagine the humiliation of leaving a soggy chair in my wake. I guess I expected more of a puddle – but maybe my pants absorbed most of it. All that was left was what you might find after a very sweaty person in shorts got up from a vinyl seat. And in silence, stoic Giacome switched on the hair drier and commenced to cleaning up my mess.

The receptionist’s desk was conveniently located directly behind me, so I grabbed her attention and explained that I’d have to settle up rather quickly. And I would have to use her phone because – of course – I left my cell at home that morning. I called Chris – told him to get the bags, make the necessary calls, take Oliver to our plan A person, and if she wasn’t home, to our plan B person. And then I was ready to go.

The receptionist was incredibly sweet and asked if there was anything she could do for me. I couldn’t really think of anything… She wasn’t a doctor, and she had already helped me with the walk in appointment… And a pedicure was definitely out of the question. So I said that I thought not. But then she offered to get my car for me – and that sounded like a great idea since I seemed to be losing gallons of amniotic fluid with every step I took. And I was pretty sure that I’d needed to keep some in there for another hour or two.

After some discussion about where I may or may not have parked (pregnant women NEVER remember where they park), I told her to “walk in that direction and just start clicking.” Eventually she’d hear the “beep-beep” noise.

While I was waiting outside for her, strategically covering my soaked pants with my purse, it occurred to me that I hadn’t called my doctor. Rookie mistake! And I didn’t have my cell… so had to again rely upon the kindness of strangers. The only person in speaking distance was a touristy looking guy who I think I remember as being Japanese (I know that there were characters on his phone screen instead of letters/numbers). Either way – he definitely didn’t speak much English, and I could only hope my appearance made up for any confusion over the translation for “broken water.” Apparently it did since he handed the phone over without any questions.

Just as I signed off with my doctor’s answering service, the receptionist peeled around the corner in my car. I handed the man back his phone and realized that I had never said goodbye to Giacome. Seems like we should have hugged or something. But it was too late, and it didn’t seem appropriate to hug the Japanese tourist. We didn’t have quite as much of a history, and you know – I was really wet.

With effusive thanks to the receptionist and the tourist, I was finally on my way to the hospital. As I drove off into the twilight, I wondered what my story’s cast of characters would make of my cameo appearance in what seemed to be just another ordinary day at the salon. Would they reminisce about me in months to come? Would they wonder what happened to me and wish me well? I didn’t know – but I didn’t have time to think about it. My real journey was only just beginning…

Cool ending huh? Like something from a really bad romance novel. Yeah – I just kinda went with it.

What’s that? Yes – I said “ending.” Have you noticed how LONG this post is? It’s definitely a “to be continued.” I’ll finish up tomorrow. And here are a couple of spoilers: I realize that when you have surgery you have to be naked, and Chris almost faints. In that order. But the two are not related. Till tomorrow then…

Drink Me

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For this week’s Friday Confession – I’m going to admit to something really dumb I did last year. And I blame it entirely on the fact that I had infant twins and was clocking an average of 3 hours of sleep each night.

Right after I had the twins, my mother in law came to stay with us for a couple of weeks and help out. She noticed that my only hair dryer really needed to be replaced (seriously – it was pathetic – felt as if someone was standing next to me blowing on my head). She purchased a new one for me, and for the first time in months, I actually had the ability to blow dry my hair straight without any noticeable frizzing. Did I do this very often? No. But the fact that I could gave me some hope of one day, having a normal appearance again.

Time passed, and I began to use the hair dryer on a more frequent basis. Once my maternity leave was over, I had to look semi human during the week. Before I knew it, the twins were a year old, and my hair dryer was still going strong. It was perfect for me: no fancy settings, just high (which I use) and low (which I don’t). There was only one problem. I was beginning to notice that the cord was a bit on the short side.

It made me wonder for a moment if it was possible for me to have gotten taller. Like the infamous Alice (whom I’ve related to before), I felt as if my world was starting to shrink. Except I didn’t happen upon any strange bottles that said “Drink Me.” And unlike a fictional child, I’m far too smart to actually drink something without knowing what it is (unless of course I’m jonesing for a Diet Coke and the bottle looks to have some good potential in that direction). At any rate, I knew that it was next to impossible for a 35 year old woman to suddenly start growing.

Maybe it was because I had recently started wearing my hair shorter and the new style required more contortions on my part. All I knew is that I began finding it very difficult to reach the back of my head. I don’t know that I’d ever had that problem with another hair dryer – but I did know that as much as I liked it, it was a cheap one. So I assumed that it must be a matter of getting what you pay for. I knew that I should buy a new one, but I never seemed to get around to it. I just continued to suffer.

Finally the day came when I picked up my hair dryer and thought I was losing my mind. The cord was not only short but SHORTER. So short that it could not even come close to reaching the back of my head. And I KNEW that cord had been longer the previous day.

After several seconds of open mouthed incredulity, a thought came to me. In wincing realization, I reached down and (I think you’ve figured it out by now) pulled the cord. That’s right – it was retractable. So apparently, it had been slowly retracting over the past year and I only discovered it when I literally could not hold the damn thing up over my head!

Awesome.

I’m that Mom: Part II

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Yesterday I started a list of reasons that I’m not winning any awards for mother of the year. I had to cut it short because I was starting to feel depressed. Or more accurately, because I wanted to stretch this material for a couple of days to free up more time for work, I mean, my kids. Here are ten more things that make me “that mom.”

11. I’m that mom who threatens my three year old with naps even though he hasn’t napped in over six months and I have no intention of following through.

12. I’m that mom who will finally break down and offer my children candy if it will make them submit to my will.

13. I’m that mom who will bring my kids out to run errands before cleaning the magic marker off of their arms and legs.

14. I’m that mom who says I won’t let my kids taste raw cookie dough because “it’s not good for them” – when what I really mean is that I’m afraid that they’ll find out that it is in fact, much better raw. Then I eat some when they’re not looking.

15. I’m that mom who will let my toddlers play with things they shouldn’t (i.e. our cell phones, the dishwasher, the clean laundry, toothpicks) because I’d rather have them be happy and quiet than screaming while I try to assert my authority.

16. I’m that mom who will wait until Monday morning to realize that I have no clean school clothes for my son and then madly search through the dirty clothes for something that can pass for clean.

17. I’m that mom who will trick her son into leaving the (dreaded) pet store by saying, “I bet John and Cheyenne [John’s dog] will be out playing ball when we get home.” I’d rather deal with the consequences of that later in my own house where it doesn’t smell like gerbil poop.

18. As a continuation of #17, I’m that mom who will let her son believe that we are going to the park or the pet store, when we are actually going to Target or daycare. I don’t TELL him that we’re going where he thinks we are – I just don’t tell him that we’re NOT. So it’s not a lie as much as an omission. Right?

19. I’m that mom who answers my daughter’s thousands of calls for “MOMMY!” with “ELEANOR!” instead of just saying, “what is it honey?” And then she answers my “ELEANOR!” with another “MOMMY!” And because I find this incredibly entertaining I just continue the cycle until we end up enacting a personalized game of Marco-Polo. Except we’re not in a pool. And she knows exactly where I am.

20. I’m that mom who believes that ice cream is the solution for everything. For my children – and myself.

I’m That Mom: Part I

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I have a running list in my head of things that fall under the “what not to do” category of motherhood. Not that I’m saying I’m a bad mother. I do many things well. I’ve had uncounted triumphs, moments of genius and mental high fives. But I often fall short as well. At the very least I’ve had to look at myself from time to time and say “not your personal best, Kate.” Here are some examples:

1. I’m that mom who lets my three year old eat Goldfish crackers for breakfast when we’re in a rush – because “it’s just easier that way.”

2. I’m that mom who allows my nudist children run around in underwear all day as long as they stay inside (although I sometimes have to retrieve them from the front lawn).

3. I’m that mom who doesn’t even bother trying to force my kids to eat vegetables at dinner anymore. They eat them for lunch with that magical woman at daycare – so that takes some of the pressure off.

4. I’m that mom who lets my toddlers believe that Tic Tacs are “candy” and that they’re a BIG TREAT. They will find out about Reeces soon enough.

5. I’m that mom who accidentally locked myself and my twins IN my three year old’s bedroom with him on the outside (you can click to read what happened but if not, don’t worry, we all made it out without tragedy).

6. I’m that mom who hoisted my three year old over a chain link fence rather than walk a mile carrying him while his “accident” soaked through my shirt. More on that one another day…

7. I’m that mom who sometimes skips every other page of the longer bedtime stories because I’m tired and hungry for my own dinner which is at that very moment sitting on the kitchen counter getting cold.

8. I’m that mom who may know the children are doing something in the other room that I expressly told them NOT to do, but pretend I don’t see it so I don’t have to deal with it.

9. I’m that mom who will yell at my children and then hug them and tell them how “good” they are. Just to stay consistent…with the inconsistency.

10. I’m that mom who let my three year old grab all of the tampons that fell out of my purse onto the floor of the car – just because it was easier to let him have them than to try to take them away. Then I had to fight him to get them back once we arrived at the grocery store and I discovered that he had systematically opened each of them and ripped them to pieces. THEN I had to explain everything to my husband when he arrived home with wads of cotton clenched in his hands. Yeah…that was me…

I think I’m going to make this a “to be continued” post. I have more to add – but I like to keep my lists down to ten points apiece. (Plus I’m having a busy week at work and don’t have much time to write my usual novels.)

So come back tomorrow for ten more things that make me “that mom.”

Why I Worry About My Son

23 Replies

I need to stop telling people that my three year old is potty trained. Because without fail, he will have an accident within an hour of my boast. He doesn’t even have to be present to hear me say it. He just knows. And then he has to show me how very wrong I am. As a result – I have a hard time trusting him when he tells me that he doesn’t have to “go pee pee.” I have to actually check to see if he’s wet. So in effect, I’m constantly grabbing his crotch. Obviously I have my reasons (to check for pee pee), but I can’t imagine what sort of message this is sending him. I have to try to back off a little since I worry that it may have long term effects on his personality. He could grow up to be an incredibly skittish person…or just have no sense of boundaries.

I also wonder if it’s normal for him to like being naked so much. He’s always stripping down when we’re at home (but not out in public thank god), and I’m lucky if I can get him to keep his underwear on. I really hope that grows out of this. I don’t want him to be “the naked guy” when he’s in college. You know that guy – he can be out at a bar, at a party, just hanging out at his apartment – and somehow by the end of the night, he’s naked. And of course, it’s really funny at the time, “hey – look Oliver’s naked again…Oh don’t mind him, that’s just Oliver. He’s always naked…” Or even better – he’ll be thirty years old, and at a party, and out of nowhere he’ll whip off his clothes and try to get everyone to go streaking with him. And he’ll interrupt Snoop Dog’s performance to announce that everyone is going streaking and to follow him. And then his wife will pull up next to him in her SUV and demand to know why he’s running around in nothing but his sneakers. And he’ll realize that he’s the only one streaking, and get into the car. And then he’ll embarrass his wife by mooning her friends and asking if she thinks KFC is still open. I just don’t see any good coming of this…

And in addition to being naked all the time, he is very handsy. You are probably thinking that he gets this from me with all of my crotch grabbing – but that’s not what I mean. He literally cannot keep his hands to himself. Or his feet. If he is sitting on the floor and you are walking by, you can pretty much guarantee that he is going to try to attach himself to your leg – like a husky baby octopus. I’ve already mentioned that he is freakishly strong. This means that when he does decide to wrestle with you, it’s next to impossible to shake him off. I don’t know how many times I’ve crouched down to pick something up off the floor, only to find that I can’t get back up with the weight of a 50 lb. three year old clinging to my back. I can try to lean from side to side in hopes that he’ll lose his hold – but he’s tenacious. For the most part, all I can do is use all of my strength to stand up so that I can use my arms to peel him off. Of course now his brother and sister have gotten into the act, so I’m usually trying to stand up with Oliver on my back and George and Eleanor on either arm. So I now have to execute this feat supporting approximately 100 lbs. of child. It’s very challenging, and I often think we must look like some bizarre Cirque de Soleil performance.

But I suppose some of his “quirks” could be useful later in life. Maybe his lack of inhibitions will translate into a healthy self confidence. At the very least, “naked guy” was always pretty popular. And physical contact is a good thing! We should feel comfortable with giving and receiving physical affection (even if it’s in a Lenny from Of Mice and Men kind of way…). Nakedness and affection are both perfectly normal, natural things – that I hope to god he never decides to combine while in polite company. Especially not if he has to go pee pee.

If I Could Take it Back

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If I could take it back, I would never have:
*See update below regarding margaritas.

Watched The Ring.
This was the scariest fucking movie I’ve ever seen in my life. That’s right, I said “fucking.” I rarely say it and never write it – but I really have to make this point. The point being that this is the SCARIEST FUCKING MOVIE I’ve EVER seen. When that black and white girl climbed out of the television, my face actually contorted in the same Silent Scream that that marked the faces of her victims. I have never been so horrified in my entire life. The people that created this movie are sick, sick geniuses. I hate them.

Watched The X-Files episode about the inbred Peacock family.
Oh. My. God. That’s right – I have to resort to an overused blogger’s writing device to communicate just how incredibly scarring this experience was. I watched this episode with a friend and I actually called her at work the next day to find out if she too was thinking of lighting her hair on fire and jumping out of her office window. I spent the day masochistically reliving the entire program in my head. Every small detail – from the moment that the kids playing baseball discover the newly buried monster baby, to the end when the last living brother climbs OUT OF THE TRUNK of his car where he was having a quiet heart to heart with “Mama.” If I even think about the scene in which “the boys” feed Mama chewed up bread, I immediately curl up in the fetal position and begin to weep. Who came up with this idea? The fact that someone actually had this in their brain makes me fear for their sanity. If armless, legless old women that have sex with their mutant sons regularly pop into their heads in a burst of inspiration…Well, I don’t know how they sleep at night.

Read Salem’s Lot.
Noticing a theme here? I don’t like the scary stuff. I will cut myself some slack regarding The Ring which I had thought was “a thriller” when we rented it. And I can usually take the creepy themes of The X Files. But I have had a reccurring vampire nightmare since I was a toddler – so I don’t know what pod person took over my body when I decided to buy this particular paperback. Once I opened the book, I only put it down to sleep or go to work. I read it in two days. On the second day I walked into the apartment after work, picked up the book and didn’t put it down until I finished it. When my husband tried to talk to me, I reacted as if he was interrupting my attempt to deactivate a bomb. Only when I finished reading the last page could I return to the reality of holding conversations with my husband and using the bathroom. Then I proceeded to sleep with a light on for three nights straight. And shades had to be drawn lest I look out the window and see one of the undead scratching on the window pane and asking to be let in.

Agreed to share a pitcher of margaritas with a friend one night in Hoboken.
I have overindulged on occasion. And I have paid for it in unpleasant ways. But I have never before (or since) had the pleasure of puking all over a popular bar town. I’ve seen others do it, and I’ve felt pity for them (poor wretches). I always assumed that they were pathetic degenerates or stupid teenagers. But a 30 year old woman who can kill a couple of bottles of wine with her husband and suffer little more than a headache the following day should be able to have a few margaritas without fear of alcohol poisoning. Nancy (my friend) and I never did figure out how that happened. The waitress at the scene of the crime suggested that we just order a pitcher since it would be cheaper if we each planned to have a couple of drinks (sadistic bitch). So we assumed that they must not be unusually strong. And maybe they weren’t (Nancy didn’t puke her brains out) – maybe I just didn’t eat enough that day. I don’t know, but it was quite possibly one of the most humiliating experiences of my entire life. No matter how fucked up (god – there is that word again – so I must be serious) I was, I knew exactly how awful I looked and the only two words that came out of my mouth were “I’m sorry.” Over and over and over again as I puked over and over and over again all the way from that evil hell hole posing as a Mexican restaurant to the train station (and in the train station and on the train and oh my god if only I had just ordered a diet coke). I think about this often and I always cringe. I really really really wish I could take it all back. But I guess it could have been worse. At least it was just Hoboken.
*Note to eveyone that seems to think that I drank a pitcher of margaritas by myself – I DIDN’T. I shared the pitcher with a friend – which made for about 2 1/2 each. I am stupid – but I’m not crazy. Hope I didn’t scare any of my Mormon friends away…

Told my mother that I DIDN’T want to do a semester in Paris my senior year of high school.
I can’t even write about this without wanting to go back in time and shake that stupid girl senseless. Okay – so I KNOW that I was a bit of a late bloomer and leaving the country for an entire season was a little outside of my comfort zone… But honestly – why couldn’t I have had more self confidence back then? Why couldn’t I have mustered up just a smidgen of adventurous spirit? I have it now. NOW I want to go to Paris for a semester. I’m ready NOW, Mom. And I have no concern that I’ll be missing out on anything going on at home. You know – since I actually stayed home and experienced a whole lot of nothing that semester. Fun nothing of course – but not once in a lifetime, change your perspective of the world SOMETHING. Oh well – I would also go back and rethink those white tights with the jeans skirt – but hindsight is 20/20.

Read The Notebook.
I know – everyone LOOOVED this book, and cried and marveled at a love so strong that it could endure blah blah blah blah blah…this is where I may as well have gone back to Hoboken for satanic margaritas since the whole thing just made me want to puke. I did hear that the movie was great – and maybe I’d prefer that medium for the story. But my distaste for the book has left me with little desire to see it. Years ago when I was talked into reading that syrupy snore festival, I honestly didn’t see what the big deal was. Maybe I was just going through a cynical phase, but I couldn’t get into it. It was SO BORING. And what was the deal with all of those references to how they lived a life “full of love and laughter?” All of that laughter was puzzling to me. I read the whole book and I can promise you, no one ever said anything funny. What could they possibly be laughing about? Anyway – I should have made this one of my Friday Confessions since I will most likely be dragged out of my house and stoned to death for blaspheming the eternal love of what’s her name and don’t remember his either. If I have a few last dying breaths, I’ll be sure to tell everyone what I really think about Dirty Dancing, Atlas Shrugged and Eyes Wide Shut.

This is What Crazy Looks Like

22 Replies

Parents
Kate (36*)
Chris (35*)

Children
Oliver (almost 3 1/2)
George (almost 2)
Eleanor (almost 2)

*I included the ages of the children as a frame of reference and then decided to do it for all of us. Just like Us Weekly and People Magazine. They always do that. I don’t know about you – but I find something very reassuring about knowing how old people in magazines are. So what the hell – we’re old.

A Little Background:
It’s Sunday. The day started at 7:30 a.m. (which is a miracle since it usually starts at 6:00 a.m.). Chris left on Saturday for a business trip. I am alone with the kids for the day – and while it’s sunny, it’s also too muddy to play outside.

Oliver: Play Doh please!

Kate: Okay – let’s all play at the table. Sit in chairs. No Play Doh on the floor.

Eleanor: Pway Doh!

George: (Drags a chair over to the TV to play with the buttons.)

Oliver: Snakes!

Kate: Okay – let’s make snakes.

Eleanor: Nakes!

Kate: Oliver – put your Play Doh back on the table. George – that’s too loud. Come back to the table.

Eleanor: Tay-boo!

Kate: (Moves both George and his chair back to the table as he shrieks like he’s being dipped in a vat of boiling oil.)

Oliver: More snakes please!

Kate: Okay – let’s make more snakes.

Eleanor: Nakes!

Kate: George, I said stop it. Come back to the table. That’s too loud. (Moves both George and his chair back to the table.)

George: (Emits a sound that bursts dog eardrums throughout the neighborhood.)

Kate: Okay – who poopied? I smell poopie.

Oliver: Candy please!

Eleanor: Caddy!

Kate: No candy. George did you poopie? Hey – Play Doh stays on the table!

[Omit approximately 30 minutes of more of the same.]

Kate: Okay – that’s it! No more Play Doh. Oliver – do you have to go potty?

Eleanor: Potty!

Oliver: No…

Kate: Let’s go try. George and Eleanor, you come too.

Eleanor: Too!

Kate: George – I said that’s enough. Stop playing with the TV. Let’s all go upstairs.

Eleanor: Dairs!

[Omit the 15 minutes that it actually takes to get everyone upstairs.]

Kate: Okay Oliver – come on, lets go potty.

Eleanor: Potty!

Kate: Pee Pee first.

George and Eleanor: Pee Pee!

Oliver: (Stands at the potty and pees.)

George and Eleanor: (Try to position heads directly under the “flow” in hopes of getting the best view.)

Kate: Hey – that’s too close! Okay Oliver, let’s go potty now.

Eleanor: Potty!

Oliver: (Sits on the potty.) Candy please!

Eleanor: Caddy!

Kate: No candy.

George: (Muffled shrieks of delight from another room.)

Kate: George! Where did you go?

[Everyone moves from bathroom to master bedroom where George is jumping on the bed.]

[Phone rings.]

Kate: (Answers the phone.) Hello? George get off the bed!

Chris (on the phone): Hi! It sounds a little crazy over there.

Kate: Oh – you know, the usual. Eleanor get down!

Eleanor: Down!

Kate: So what are you up to? Oliver? Where did you go?

Chris: I’m looking for Starbucks but it’s not here. They said I should go to…

Kate: OLIVER! Get out of the shower! Put that down! Oh my god – it’s all over the place….NO! Don’t do that – you’re going to slip…

Chris: What happ….

Kate: Oliver just spilled soap all over the shower stall and now it’s all over his legs and all over the floor and…OLIVER! Get off the bed – you’re getting soap everywhere!

Chris: Okay – it sounds like you’re busy, so I’ll let you…

Kate: Okay bye! (hangs up)

Eleanor: Bye!

Kate: Okay Oliver (back to being calm Mom) let’s get that soap off of your legs so it doesn’t get all over the bed. George and Eleanor, get down (takes George off the bed and puts him on the floor).

George: (Screams and flails – then hits a note so high that glassware can be heard shattering throughout the house.)

Kate: Eleanor (puts Eleanor on the floor), you too.

Eleanor: Too!

Kate: I smell poopie. Eleanor – did you poopie? Oliver! What did I say? No jumping on the bed – get down!

Eleanor: Down!

Kate: George! (Lunges for George as he starts to climb back up on the bed, but trips and bangs head on the corner.) Ow! Shit!

Eleanor: Sit!

Kate: (Takes a minute to recover and then looks up to see all three kids now jumping on the bed.) Okay – everyone get down NOW. I said NO JUMPING!

Eleanor: Dupping!

Kate: (Changing tactics.) Hey – who wants to watch Curious George?