Some Things You Have To Figure Out For Yourself

   So I decided, last night, that I should take a 3 hour car trip with 2 children by myself. Because.

   Not just because it would be spontanteous and I miss my relatives and friends dreadfully, but because it was my son's spring break. And last night, around eight, I realized that I could either :

   a.) keep us all home and pretend I would accomplish something with two bored kids or
   b.) pack quickly.

   My dear husband was trapped by work obligations, so I sallied forth alone this morning, armed only with a cup of coffee and a Veggie Tales 'Bob & Larry Sing the 80s' CD. And we survived with only a little scarring:

   Spiderman: "Mom? Today is Palm Sunday!"
   Me: "You're right! Well done, calendar-obsessed son!"
   Spiderman: "So... I guess... Palm Sunday means we don't go to church?"
   Me: "No. That is not how the church calendar works at all. It means that you're mother is a heathen..."



   Ah, Cary. Magical land of more-doctorates-per-capita-than-anywhere-in-the-nation, happy place where weeds are banished, glorious home of Hodges. (We are the satellite clan). I'm always so glad to see its pleasant hills of brick shopping centers and palatial subdivisions.
   I spent the afternoon baking in the sun while watching a baseball game with a dear friend. We ate quinoa and discussed education policy and both my kids were off with grandparents, so it was basically the best vacation ever.
   And there was a marvelous party on the first night in town, so Spiderman opted to ride with Grandpa and Uncle Wombat (your read that correctly), and Auntie 'Becca rode with the Princess and me. While we were wrestling - I mean, helping the little girl into her car seat, the Princess cried out, "I need water!"
   "What, now?" I replied gently. "Not while we're sitting at Grandma's table, but now that we are in the car?"
   "I need water!" she said.
   "You can have water at the church," Auntie 'Becca pointed out much more gently than Mommy. "It's all right. We'll have water in a minute."
   "I need-da-water-bottle!" Princess insisted.
   "Oh, my purple bottle," I sighed, backing out of the world's most frustrating driveway (Steepest downhill grade ever allowed by a drunken civil engineer). "Honey, there's no water in there."
   "But I thirsty," my offspring insisted.
   "It's empty," patient Auntie reminded her.
   "I need it! I thirsty!"
   "Here!" I cried, (very calmly and sweetly), handing the bottle to the outstretched fingers. "You can hold it. We're almost there-"
     "I need it."
     "Here! Keep it together!"
     Silence, as the bottle was accepted in triumph. Then, "I can't open."
     Pause at stop light. "It doesn't matter, it's empty," I said.
     "But I can't open!"
     "There isn't any water in it."
     "I need it open."
     "We're almost to the church."
     "But I need it!"
     "Here," gracious Auntie 'Becca said. "I'll open it. But remember, it's empty."
     "I got it! Is open!" Princess chuckled in glee.

     Green light. So close to the church --

     "IS EMPTY!" wailed Princess.
   

    I didn't actually bury my face in my hands, but only because I was driving. I guess she will be one of those people who must test and approve everything. I sigh, knowing that she will have to figure out everything for herself.

    What fun will the teenage years hold, I wonder?

 
    

"I Don't Need Clothes"

   Spiderman was taken to school by an obliging Daddy, so I had a few extra morning minutes to tackle the toddler. And since she is almost potty-training, I thought a bath would be a healthy way to start the morning. The Princess didn't agree until I offered to let the Baby Doll take a bath too.
    The poor "Surface Wash Only" companion seems to be recovering well from the soap, and the scrubbing, and the lotion that were applied to her flawless plastic skin. Princess insisted Baby Doll encounter every ritual before she would submit, but she didn't complain. I thought myself very clever for finding this solution.
   But after the ablutions, I told Princess that Baby Doll needed to dry out before we put her back into her outrageously pink outfit. The squishy bits were still very damp, and as the tag said that"Air Dry" was acceptable, so I figured the doll could handle being a free spirit for a few hours.
   "All right," I said to the Princess, "let's get your clothes."
   "I need toast," she said.
   "You need clothes."
   "I don't need clothes."
   "You.... don't need clothes?"
   "Yeah."
   "Yes, you do."
   "I need toast."
   "Clothes."
   She stared, uncomprehending. She wasn't turning blue, and I needed breakfast, so I admit - I caved. I made toast. I waited until the first piece had been devoured, and I tried again.
   "You want some clothes."
   "Baby says, she needs clothes."
   "She needs to dry. You need clothes."
   "I need clothes?"
   I went for the Socratic method. "Don't you think you need clothes?"
   "Mm-mm." She shook her head and went back to her toast.


   I'm sitting here, watching the naked Princess devour toast while the naked Baby Doll lounges placidly on the table. I'm not up to chasing her around with pants because I haven't had my coffee, and frankly, I still haven't decided if I this is a hill I want to die on. She's almost three, anyway, and I'd hate to squash her budding what's-it-creative-psycho-babble-thingey.
   Or I'm just a coward.
 

 

    I hope the Baby Doll dries out soon.

 

References by Innocents

Daniel: "-so the big meeting at work is shuffling the departments-"
Annie: "Daddy. Daddy-daddy. Daddy?"
Daniel: "-and they won't make a final decision until next month-"
Annie: "Daddy. Hey. Daddy."
Erin: "So you'll be working with data instead of financial products?"
Annie: "DADDY."
Daniel: "Probably. I mean, the decision -"
Annie: "Daddy? Daddy-Daddy-Daddy-"
Erin: "Annie! Do not interrupt!"
Daniel: "What is it, little girl?"

Annie: "Daddy! Excuse me! I burped!"



Not a joke. That's how it happened. It's a wonderful life.

Moving

Moving is like that riddle your teacher wrote on the board in third grade:
    You have a fox, a goose, and a sack of grain. You must transport them across the river, but there is only room for one in the boat with you. The goose cannot be left with the grain. The fox cannot be left with the goose. The river is rising, so hurry up and think of something clever or you'll all drown.

   At least, that's how I remember it.
   I'm pretty sure that my first comment to the teacher was: "The goose can swim."
   "It doesn't work that way."
   "Why not?"
   "Because. It's a riddle."
 
   Which doesn't even begin to cover the ethical issues involved in risking human life during a flash flood to offer a probably unwanted boat tour to a wild fox. Take the grain and bolt for high ground.
 
    Anyway, moving feels like that. Moving a household with two cats and two small children feels like the boat is sinking, the river is lava, the fox is allergic to wheat gluten, and the goose has a written project due on Monday.
    I mention all of this because... I hate moving.
    The silence of the past weeks has been almost entirely due to the mounds of boxes and bubble wrap that have consumed our lives. I pleaded with my husband to let me burn it all and start fresh, but he insisted I pack. So I packed, and we were blessed with loving friends, and the mountains of Shtuff were lugged from the Charlotte home to the new Davidson home.
    "That's a lot of work," you might think, "just to move twenty miles."
   But if you've never driven I-77, north or south, between the hours of - you know what? It doesn't matter what time - then you've never experienced hell. And my darling husband has commuted for three years through the corridors of Hades. I'd had enough. So here we are, moved at last, excavating our beloved belongings and all the other random detritus that falls into a box.
   And the new digs are totally worth it. My husband comes home for lunch, the new studio space is bigger, and my son informed me yesterday that, "I love our new house, Mommy. I love having a room with my sister." Melt.
   
    We're officially moved, waiting for the old place to sell, and renting out our happy days here in Davidson. You may drop by for tea if you care to,  but  you might have to step over a box. Or two. Or just duck this way, step over that, careful of - here. Sit here. And I'll make you a cup of tea when I find a clean mug.

"Because It Makes Me Happy"

D: "Son, what are you doing?"

Spiderman: "Nothing, Daddy."

D: "It doesn't sound like Nothing. Tell the truth. What are you doing?"

Spiderman: "I... was throwing blocks."

D: "Do you think that's a good idea?"

Spiderman: "Uh...."

D: "Is that what blocks are for?"

Spiderman: "Um... no."

D: "Then why are you doing it?"

Spiderman: "Because! It makes me happy."

D: "Yes. Well, I'm glad it makes you happy. But stop doing it."

Parenting: Crushing Little Dreams with Reality since 2008

Baby Jesus, the Potato

   It began with an errant ball, flung by an errant five year old, which tore through my childhood nativity set with a vengeance. (This happened during a piano lesson, of course.)
  Bits of Precious Moments porcelain scattered over the carpet, and Joseph was declared dead at the scene.   One wise man was rushed to the crazy glue, and is expected to make a full recovery.
  My mother heard the news, and said, "Oh! I know exactly which nativity scene you need!"

   That's how a collection of plastic vegetables in bathrobes came to be in our home. Veggie Tales has made a nativity set, featuring Larry as wise man, Jerry Gourd as a cow, Laura Carrot as Mary - you get the idea. I would cry blasphemy, but my children have been very pleased with it. They move the french peas dressed as sheep all around the little stable, and are happy to talk about the Christmas story.

   Which is how I found myself, at the end of a long day, being faced with the following:
   "Mommy! Look!" my son cried, pointing to the scene he had carefully created. "Look! Everyone is standing around Baby Jesus, the potato!"

   Jesus Christ, the Messiah, the King of Kings, the Idaho Russet.

   Oh, Glory.
 

Say the Crazy Out Loud

   It has been a while.


   I haven't posted in over a month. Not because we led lives of complete monotony in the interim (you must know us better than that), but because I'm a coward. Sometimes, the Tired sets in, and Life stops being funny. And I'm too afraid to admit it out loud.

   As the great philosopher Lucy says, "The mere fact that you realize you need help indicates that you are not too far gone". So here I am, back at the empty blog page, wondering what I should say to oust the demon of terror and vulnerability.

    I know! I will tell you the most embarrassing thing that's happened since the hysterectomy surgery in July.

    It started with a complication. Another doctor's appointment, another exam, another "Uh, that shouldn't happen", another "We fixed it this time. Really". SO much fun.
    But it was worse than usual, because when they scheduled the first available appointment, they scheduled me with the cute doctor. The young doctor, who is too handsome and kind for OB work. And through no fault of his very professional exam, I realized that my young life was over.
    I was old. I was having hot flashes.
   And broken. I couldn't have any more babies.
   And ugly. I couldn't seem to lose the surgery weight.
   No one would ever flirt with me again. Ever.


   I drove home thinking, "I don't want random people to flirt with me anyway. Yeah. So there."
   I went back to my chores thinking, "Besides, beauty is on the inside. That's what they say!... to ugly people. Yeah."
   And I spent a whole week in silent battle against Self-Pity, Self-Loathing, and all around Self. I fully admit that Self was the evil, and Self was the problem. It's amazing how easy it is to become Self-absorbed. But that's for another time.
    This time, I want to mention the importance of saying the crazy out loud. I want to confess that when I try to conquer the inner fears by myself, I almost always fail. I should have told my husband that I needed a kiss and a pep talk. But I didn't. Because I'm too cool, and too spiritual, and too strong to ask for help.
    So I waded about in the Slough of Despond for a bit.

    The following Friday, my dear husband took me out to dinner while the kids played at Grandma's. I put on makeup, and a dress, and painted my toenails. I was as pretty as a post operative woman can be, I suppose. But as I sat in Jason's Deli, smiling at my amazing husband, all I could think was:
   - I really hate myself. How can he stand to be seen with me?
   - Smile. That will cover some of the flaws.
   - I should just tell him how I feel. Communication is good. I should talk to him.
   - No! are you crazy? It's a date! You finally have a date! Don't ruin it!
   - But I hate myself.
   - I hate you too! But you don't want him to think you're crazy!
   - I'm not crazy.
   - You're talking to me, so you're certifiable.
   - We'll just sit here and feel old and ugly and gross, then?
   - You'd better believe it. We're fine. Now shut up. He's going to notice you're talking to yourself.

  I went back to my root beer and smiled.

  And then - I'm not kidding -  my OBGYN walked through the door of the restaurant. Straight past me at my table in the random little deli twelve miles from the doctor's office. The cute, young doctor, with his cute, young wife, and their cute, young kids. The whole family trooped right by.

    My dear husband was startled by my nearly spitting root beer out my nose, and more startled by the following whisper: "We have to talk. We have to talk right now. I don't always believe in signs from God, but this is the weirdest one I've ever gotten, so we're going to talk right now and I need you to hear me.
   "I might be going crazy, but I need you to know that sometimes - I hate myself. And I can't imagine how you could love me anymore because I had a hysterectomy and now I'm so old and ugly. And I feel useless every time I see someone with more than two babies, and I know that's crazy because I'm grateful for the two babies we have, but I'm just trying to get the crazy out in the open because... because.... uh... I... see..."

    Then I had to explain about the cute doctor, how much I never, ever, EVER wanted to see a doctor who has seen my unmentionables in public. I really didn't want to see him while I was on a date. And I really didn't understand the cosmic injustice that had brought that particular doctor to this particular deli on this particular night.

   Except that it made me say all the horrible things I'd had stuck in my head all week. It sounds simple, but it was one of the hardest things I'd ever done. In my husband's praise, I must say that he didn't flee the scene. He blinked a lot and said, "Oh," several times, which I consider the work of a very courageous man in the face of so much root-beer-spilling craziness.

   Interestingly enough, saying all the scary bits took the teeth out of the beast. When I heard all the terrors named, they started to lose their power. Not because they weren't valid, but because they weren't true. And they would never be really true unless I gave them the power to wander unchecked through my head.

   I won't lie to you, you readers who have followed so much and laughed along with me, because the plain facts are that I sometimes still fight those fears. But I'm guessing that many of you do too. Those fears will always have power while we fight them alone. So I encourage you to run to your spouse, or your best friend, or your mentor, or someone safe - and tell them the Crazy out loud.

   Because no one, I mean no one, should have to see their OBGYN in a deli.