Just like old times. Sort of. June 24, 2009

Making your way as a mother is a little bit like that line from Pulp Fiction, where John Travolta is talking about life in France, and says “It’s the little differences. I mean, they got the same shit over there that they got here, but it’s just – it’s just there it’s a little different.” Often, you do the same things you used to do, but it’s the little things that make it seems a lot different.

A couple of weeks ago, a bunch of friends got together to go to Blues Fest. With our children. I have to admit (sorry Sara) that on the el ride there, I was grumbling. I have never been a big fan of crowds, and crowds with a very short person who has inherited my sense of direction and Joe’s sense of adventure seemed especially torturous. Not to mention the PREPARATION! Do we have sunblock? Do we have extra diapers? Do we have snacks? Do we have a change of clothes? Do we have money for beer? (Incidentally, we actually had none of those things, except the diapers and money for beer. That’s the genius of meeting friends who also have kids — SOMEONE has a bag of grapes, has made snickerdoodles, and has diapers in your kid’s size). Once we got there, though, it was great. Of course, little Dash Dartley Kim did his thing — within the first 15 minutes, he had “made friends” with the family on the blanket next to ours, getting a piece of cheese (and one for Joe), as well as a ball to play with. This was, of course, before he ran headlong into the steady stream of people walking by along the path, with strollers or lawnchairs or looking straight up at a particularly interesting cloud. And before he made a beeline for every puddle he could see.

It did feel good to be out and about, doing the things we used to do, and feeling like one can still have a life, even when one has procreated. Although I do have to admit that when Darwin strayed a bit farther, and ended up in a circle of 20-somethings with their surreptitious red plastic cups of cheap beer and their cigarettes, I wanted to take each one of them by the shoulders and say “please, please enjoy yourself. Someday, you may be me.” I did say, as I was whisking Darwin away from one PTY with her smokes and her cup, “No, no, honey. This USED to be mommy. Then we had you. Now we’re over on the green tarp with the stroller.” So, back we went. When we all looked back at the young-uns, we realized that they had not brought a tarp, or a blanket, or extra snacks, or books, toy cars, or even a change of clothes. The only thing important enough to remember was a cooler and those red plastic cups. Somehow, the only person in our group who remembered to smuggle in alcohol to Blues Fest was grandmother to two of the toddlers (which gives me hope that someday your brain reverts to normal).

Then, Joe was superdad and took Darwin home to put him to bed, and I went out with a couple of the other moms for a drink or three. I felt very footloose and fancy free, and felt even better when I actually ran into someone at the bar that I knew. I know people! People who go out on a Saturday! And they acknowledge me! But again, it’s the little differences. Like the fact that I can barely keep my eyes open past 10pm, and can’t seem to make conversation that doesn’t involve bodily functions or “milestones.” Luckily, we had met up with some friends who are childless, and could keep us endlessly amused with their witty, very much awake stories while we just enjoyed being out past sunset.

After that weekend, I then had a much less interesting weekend this past weekend. I spent my Friday in front of the TV, and “I Love Lucy” was on. It was an episode right after they had Little Ricky, and the premise was that he wouldn’t go to sleep, and Lucy was tired, and the neighbors were complaining, and then finally when he went to sleep, Big Ricky came home from the Club and woke everyone up. I honestly had to turn it off because I couldn’t watch. Lucy looked so tired, Ricky gave so many “helpful” suggestions, and there was so much crying that it just hit a little close to home. So, I then spent my Friday evening watching the Square Pegs marathon. We really need to get cable again.

This weekend we’ll be attending a birthday party — for an adult — and leaving Darwin with the grandparents. It will be interesting to note the little differences once again, as we have a life, but one that’s through the Looking Glass.

I’ve turned June 2, 2009

Somehow, toddler giggles and Darwin smiles are making me less tempted by alcohol, late nights and holding grudges. Who is this nice, motherly, non-psycho person I am becoming?? It’s very strange. On Saturday, we had a BBQ at our house, and afterwards, Joe went to Mayfest with some friends. That was at 6:30. At midnight, he came home, pretty much incoherent. Things like “Who did you see at Mayfest?” Were met with responses like “Yes.” When I explained I said “Who,” which usually involves an answer of a name, I got “Don’t pretend that way with me,” or something like that. (I tried several times to re-create the “conversations” I tried to have, but could not fully capture the non-sequitur-ness of the night accurately.)  Then, Joe stumbled off to bed, holding tightly onto the wall (and still almost taking a digger in the 10 feet from living room to bedroom). When I came to bed a bit later, I was surprised to find that, contrary to tradition, Joe had not spread out all over the bed and then passed out immovable, so I only had 3 square inches in which to sleep. But, I then realized it was because he had passed out on the floor, fully clothed, next to his side of the bed. Sigh.  I was magnanimous and threw a blanket and pillow over the side of the bed around 3am.

But, the point is that the next day, Darwin and I went to church, where Darwin clapped after every choir song, pointed at all the lectors and said “ooooh!” when they got up to read, tried to share his sippy cup with all around us, and was generally super duper cute (one woman actually sought us out after the service and said “I want to babysit him.  Tell me when you want to go out to dinner sometime and I’ll come over.”  Score!). Then I planted geraniums in the front yard. Then, at 3pm, when Joe was still passed out sleeping off Mayfest, Darwin and I went to the zoo (where he was much more excited about the squirrel and the empty pigpen that was being hosed down than about gnus, kangaroos or gorillas). And you know what? I didn’t even care that Joe was in bed all day, and that I was solo parenting. I didn’t care that Joe was out late whooping it up while I was watching MeTV (no cable. Sigh). I had such a great day with Darwin, and he was so happy and smiling and endearing to strangers, that I was just glad to have the day. Weird, huh?

A part of me is kind of sad about that. I mean, I am really good at drinking and holding grudges, and society tells me that those things are FUN. Desperate Housewives is a lot more fun to watch than Seventh Heaven. And if 5 years ago, someone else would have told me the same story, and said “But I don’t care, because I had such a great day with my son, and am just so thankful for it,” I would have: a) not believed them one whit, and b) felt sorry for their boring life. And had another drink.

But a part of me is really happy about it, too. I really DID have a great day. It was beautiful out, and we live in an awesome city, and Darwin was just a peach the whole day. I had a lot of fun enjoying the city, enjoying the sunshine, and enjoying being a mom, and really feel like Joe missed out, and that’s punishment enough.

I am still making him wash diapers today, though.

Meeting of the minds May 12, 2009

We took Darwin to his new daycare for the first time today (we can walk to it! It’s in the city! Hooray!). There is a kid in his class whose name is — I’m not kidding — Voltaire. It’s a very learned group over there in the toddler room, apparently.

Good news and Bad news May 6, 2009

Well, as you may have divined from the subject of this post (sorry it’s been so long, by the way — a fundraiser, a program a week, and a toddler apparently take up some time), I have the proverbial good news and bad news.

The good news: we’re moving home this weekend! I cannot wait. Tonight is my last ride to Hinsdale on the train, and I am planning a celebratory tallboy beer for my ride already, and it’s only 8am. I can’t wait to get back to our own house, with free-range kitties who are not locked in the basement, and no guilt if I spill something on the floor. What a relief!

The bad news: Not one blessed thing has been done for renovation, and we’re moving home because Joe got laid off and renovation is on hold. We were so close! We had bids from 3 separate contractors, and were ready to select one, and then this. We’ll probably still select a contractor and get a permit, and see what happens. The permit is good for a year, so you never know. It’s just a bummer, for so many reasons. Joe is such a smart guy, with good qualifications, that I know he’ll be fine, and the fact that we didn’t start the renovations works in our favor, because we have a year’s salary saved up (and when I say “we,” I mean “Joe,” as I just bounced several checks. Oopsie.), so we should be fine.

And I have to admit that I’m a little jealous of Joe — in the same way I’m jealous of people in traction: “Oh, I know it must suck to have bedsores and not be able to move, but still — you DO get to lie down all day….” I know that Joe feels terrible about losing his job, especially because he has that whole manly guy provider thing, but when I find the Oprah magazines in an unmade bed, and the wine glass on the counter, I have to admit there is a twinge of jealousy. His trip to the unemployment office yesterday, his numerous calls to aggressive and somewhat berating recruiters, and his constant resume revision do not inspire any such envy in me, however. Not to mention the self-doubt. I have more than enough as it is, thank you very much.

But, back to the good news. we are moving home! We found a daycare 2 blocks from our house — the hours that it’s open may be a little tricky, but it’s doable. We still have to figure out how to make sure the cats can get to the litter box but Darwin will not fall to his death down the basement stairs. We’ll have to mow our own lawn, and I’m sure we’ll miss the dishwasher. But, I just can’t wait to be back in the city, taking the el, walking to parks, just in time for summer. That tallboy on the train tonight is going to taste mighty fine.

Deep breaths March 29, 2009

I was on the bus on Thursday, and there was a woman with her son on the bus, too. He was maybe like 8 or 9 (or something. I have no idea how you tell these things). And it was rush hour, and it was crowded, and he was looking out the window and asking her about things, and she would respond, and I had a total mini panic attack. I realized Oh My God — someday, I will have to have REAL CONVERSATIONS with my son. I will have to answer questions. I will have to TALK to him. Now, it’s so easy — there is soooper cute incoherent babbling, and I pretend it something profound, and I respond. However, someday, I will have to really converse with him — and I don’t mean the 1,000 question phase of ages 3-5 or so, where you have to answer “why is the sky blue” (Thank you, Adler Planetarium, for preparing me with the answer!), and a million other “whys” after that, where I will probably eventually become more religious than I usually am and say “Because God said so.” And give him a cookie to distract him. I mean the part later, where he’s like a real person and I have to talk to him like a real person. Not just the hard questions like “What’s that guy doing with a sleeping bag and a bottle near the bus stop?” but just the day to day banter and chatter. OK, friends, I am now in training. Consider yourself warned. When next you see me, I will be all up in there with the chatter conversation-keeping-upping, instead of my usual grunts and glazed expression. Look out!

It’s not the liquor I miss….well, maybe it is March 7, 2009

This is a great piece from the New York Times about the responsibilities of being a mother.  One responsibility in particular — the sobriety part.  It’s kind of a buzz kill.  My favorite is the last paragraph (which I will quote here, for those of you who don’t have time to follow the link on a beautiful Friday afternoon)

“So it’s not the alcohol I miss. It’s the immaturity. The selfishness. The wasted days frittered away recuperating from the wasted nights. It all turned around so quickly. I wasn’t prepared to be this person. A person who can clearly recall all the events of the night before. Who can be the designated driver. Who can go to a work party without apologizing the next day. This must be parenthood. I would toast this milestone, but I have pears to puree.”

I was actually just thinking to myself the other day that I would like to be depressed.  And then I kicked myself — what?  Why in the world would I like to be sad?  I realized that it wasn’t the being sad part that I wanted, but rather the excuse to lie in bed under the covers and pamper myself.  Once I realized that even if I were depressed, I would never be able to sit around feeling sorry for myself ever again because I have a small person to take care of, the allure of depression faded quickly.  But being hungover accomplishes the same thing, with a much more fun cause.  Plus there’s all that hangover food — Taco Bell and McDonalds that somehow doesn’t seem wrong.  I ate a Quarter Pounder with cheese yesterday on my way home from a late program, and I decided that eating at McDonald’s is like having sex with your ex-boyfriend:  you know you shouldn’t, but it feels so good.  But, then immediately afterwards, the self-loathing begins.

But, I digress.  If you have kids, read the article — I bet you’ll relate.  Unless you were a real stick in the mud beforehand, too.  If you don’t have kids, read the article — hopefully it will help you understand why I can’t make it to happy hour on a Tuesday, but you’ll understand that I really do want to.  I’ll have a very small glass over some goldfish crackers in your honor.

Seriously? I have to CLEAN, too? February 27, 2009

I just read this article in Slate.com.  The article describes a study (a small study, I must say) of kindergartners and their reading skills.  Seems like a pretty run of the mill study, right?  Probably it tells you to, say, read to your children, have books around, read yourself, etc.

Nope.  It tells you to have “an ordered home.”  I am screwed.  Or, more accurately, Darwin is screwed.

The article does make the point that “ordered” does not necessarily equate with “spotless,” which is encouraging.  However, on a morning when I couldn’t find my work ID for a while, because I didn’t put it in it’s “proper spot,” and then couldn’t find it because I couldn’t find the clothes I had just worn yesterday, “orderliness”  is a little worrisome.  The article points out that perhaps mothers (there were no fathers used in the study.  Go figure.  Even the author’s husband leaves his shoes in the front hall — a pet peeve of mine — so if your house isn’t orderly, perhaps the MEN should be getting a few questions about it!)  Anyway, perhaps mothers who have an orderly household also have better “executive functioning” — if you have the ability to keep the dirty laundry from overtaking your closet, perhaps you also have the ability to keep a set bedtime routine, even if your child does not want to brush his teeth.  Ever.  (and, sometimes, you resort to turning on the TV just so he will sit there slackjawed and you can brush away, even if it means he is watching The Family Guy.  It’s a cartoon, right??).

But, this explanation is still not very helpful, as I cannot plan my own life, let alone some other person’s.  However, I was happy to see that it may be that orderliness only becomes a factor only when kids are older, when the basics are in place with a healthy relationship with books, etc.  And, they also think that “warmth and responsiveness” can factor in, as well.  So, maybe if I just dial up the warmth and responsiveness, it can make up for the fact that I can’t find the other half of the banana that Darwin started eating last night.  It’s got to be around here somewhere…..

Why you should not ask your toddler to “just hold this apple for Mommy” in the grocery store February 25, 2009

Because he will gnaw on it in the store...

...and continue in the parking lot...

...until it looks like this, and you don't have an apple for your curry dish.

Ummm… February 12, 2009

File under “no duh”:
I heard on the news this morning that the woman who had octuplets “dreams of going back to her life before children.”

Octuplets! Good gracious.

Calgon, take me….to work? February 6, 2009

I do not have what it takes to be a stay at home mom.  Never has that been more abundantly clear than this week.  Often, on weekends, I think to myself “Ah, wouldn’t this be nice every day?  I’d take a nap.  Darwin and I would read books and count how many plums the hungry caterpillar ate on Wednesday (3, for the record), watch sign language videos that — while he didn’t absorb any actually communication tools, he would invariably laugh when the grizzly bears came on, and sit in my lap sucking his thumb and being cute.  And then I would put random things on my head and pretend to sneeze to make them fall off.  What a nice way to live.”

Those thoughts are on the good days.  Monday was not such a day.  Exhausted from our Superbowl party the night before (thank you to everyone who came!), and having just dropped off the cat to the vet to get her teeth cleaned, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with a fussy, inconsolable boy.  Maybe it was because he isn’t used to our house any more.  Maybe it was because his sleep and eating schedule was thrown off entirely by traveling hither and yon and cleaning and cooking for the party.  Maybe it was because he was getting over yet another ear infection.  Maybe he was just in a bad mood.  Who knows.  But the kid was markedly unhappy.  He raises his arms to be picked up.  I pick him up.  He cries and wants to be put down.  I give him milk and sweet potatoes, thinking he’s hungry.  Milk on the floor, mouth wide open, but not for sweet potatoes, just for crying.  I put him down to nap in his Pack and Play and take a shower.  When I turn the water off, I still hear the screaming (and, incidentally, so do the neighbors, I bet).  Sigh.

Then, it’s off to a sick child appointment at the doctor because Darwin had a fever Monday morning, so I worried it was another ear infection coming on.  Indeed, there was something going on in there, but whether it was residue from the LAST infection, or a new one beginning, was undecided, so no antibiotics.  Just another copay, and another naptime missed.

The cat, however, DOES get antibiotics.  After the pediatrician, we went to the vet to pick up said feline after her teeth cleaning.  I thought that we’d just be in and out and on the road to the ‘burbs, but no, this is a good vet, a kind vet, a vet that wants you to fully understand the procedures they have done to your beloved kitty, so there is a long talk with the vet tech about what’s been done, what you are to do from now on, and what to look for.  So for half an hour, I was in the vet exam room with a grumpy toddler who wanted to turn on and off every light switch in the place, who thought that the doorstop should have been a light switch and was highly displeased when nothing happened when he poked it, and who really wanted to play with the ceramic cat hanging on the wall which looked very breakable.  We finally compromised with turning the x-ray viewing screen on and off — all this while the vet tech is trying to explain how the cat had diseased bone that they took out, created a new gum flap, and put in “bone graft crystals.” (No one can cure the common cold, but they have bone graft crystals for my cat).  I’m to give her antibiotics twice a day, and pain meds twice a day, too.  Something tells me that she will not smack her lips and open up wide for her antibiotics like Darwin does.

While we were flipping on light switches, and I was trying to listen to the vet tech, keep Darwin entertained, and plan out how I would load both the cat and the child into the car without leaving Darwin alone in a vet’s office or alone in a car, thereby attracting the attention of DCFS, I found myself having a very strange thought:  “If I can just make it through today, tomorrow I can go to work.”  I can’t imagine I ever had that thought before childbearing.  Why would you?  Before a child, work takes you AWAY from alone time.  It INFRINGES on your schedule and REMOVES your autonomy.  But, after a child, work is the only time I get to check my email when I’m less than half asleep, or drink a cup of coffee without thinking “Can Darwin reach this and get scalded?”  I can put that cup of hot coffee ANYWHERE!  Such freedom!  And, sometimes, I even close my eyes for several moments at a time, without the expectation of opening them to a child who has somehow in those few moments managed to open up the laundry room and ingest 4 gallons of Spray N Wash.  It’s a little slice of heaven, work.

And now, I will be cutting back my hours and not working Fridays.  I know that this is a good thing.  I know that spending time with my child will be beneficial to him and to me, and will forge a stronger bond between us.  I just wish that I could have had Fridays off BEFORE I had the baby.