Harebrained Idea(s)

Yesterday, the monotony of the week had taken its toll; I was ready for adventure.  Pat was headed downtown for a meeting and I asked if we could drive him.  I never say, "Poor Pat" - I never need to because my mother always does (she is the exact opposite of the typical definition of a mother-in-law with him in that I am pretty sure the blood line she shares with me has been obliterated by her adoration of my husband), but I will say "Poor Pat" just this once because I saw his eyes as he cancelled out the vision of a quiet ride to himself into the city and back again and replaced it with what actually happened: two kids talking and singing loudly in the back seat while he intermittently replied to emails and I drove.

I needed to see something new.  Actually, just as I sat down to write this, I started to go through my phone to see what pictures I took of our adventure yesterday.  As I scanned through, I noticed a theme: I could trace my weeks through the pictures.  The week starts with pictures of the kids inside and outside, finding fun any which way.

Then, more things like this appear.

Finally, pictures from a new location show up.

End of Week 1:
Charlie on a hike in the woods

End of Week 2:
At a farm - this place is 10 minutes from our house!

End of Week 3:
At the lake

By the end of the week, I just cannot stand to be around my wonderful, little town anymore.  I have to get out.

Yesterday, we drove Pat downtown and then headed to Hyde Park and the University of Chicago to visit my mom at work.  I love seeing different.

One of the things I really miss from my life before having young kids is being able to just go.  When I get this longing for adventure, I still go, but it's so flipping slow.  And if I rush it?  Well, then the feeling of adventure just turns into a feeling of defeat and anger at how things turn out because I never win when I rush them.  It is one of the great truths of parenthood: You will always lose if you rush them.

So we amble along where I would otherwise like to move more quickly.  I do less but I see more with them at my side.

Not really interested in the Business School, but definitely interested in his reflection.

I kissed Pat good-bye when we dropped him off at his fancy restaurant.  With our packed lunches in the car, I drove away and yelled to him: "I might live to regret this, but at least I'm living!"

Just as he shut the door after kissing Rosie on the head, I was pretty sure that the "live to regret this" part would be all that I remembered once I got home because Rose cried from North Michigan Avenue to Hyde Park because her daddy didn't take her out of the car with him (and maybe she knew that our lunch wasn't going to be as special as his).

But, once we made it there, and had lunch in the car while the three of us sat in the front seat outside of Rockfeller Chapel (we couldn't make a picnic outside because my kids were hungry... you eat wherever when your kids are hungry), I felt like I was living.  I also felt a little crazy, but definitely alive and in the moment... Guess those are the bonus feelings to being crazy.

We walked around and met my mom.  Charlie played at a new park.

And then I pretended that they would take a late afternoon nap on the car ride home.

Pat finished up working and took a cab so that he could drive home with us - a move I am sure that he regretted as we sat in traffic with two kids who didn't feel the need to nap.  Each of us, I believe, silently thought of how much better it would be to be in the coffin that is a Yakima rack on top of the car rather than riding in the looney bin that our children create in the car.  But we said nothing to each other.

Well, I spoke.

I said, "Thanks, this was fun for me."

Size 2

I run up and down our stairs at a good clip multiple times a day - up for socks, down with laundry, up for a toy that he cannot find, down with diapers that she needs.  I add weights to that routine at least 50% of the time: up with Rosie to rock her to sleep, down in a Spiderman-like fashion avoiding the creaky stair spots so that she doesn't awaken.

I eat not when my cues tell me I am hungry, but when I realize that I have morphed into a crazy mom because I am starving.  It is 11:00 in the morning and I have not had breakfast yet.  I have been up since at least 7 AM and I have fed another human being twice without any nourishment for myself.  I gobble a breakfast over the sink.  Or, I sit down to eat civilly, only to be asked by the beggars that are my children for bites of my food.  I share.  Of course, I share; I am a mother.

I walk to pick Charlie up from preschool where he tells me to "run so fast that the wind blows my hair" for the walk home.  I oblige as best as I can, panting for breath and puffing out responses to his questions in between strides.  Sometimes, I ride him home in the Burley attached to my bike; I pull the forty-plus pounds of kids like I am competing in the Strongest Woman in the World competition.  But, alas, I am not.

I am a mom.
Trying to stay fit.
Having to stay fit just to partake in my normal life.

Why I am not a Size 2 I will never understand.

Charlie and I walked to the library the other night.  He conned me into going without bringing the stroller.  He was superb with his persuasion, "Mom, I am three now.  Look at my fingers: one, two, three.  I don't need a stroller."

We made it there easily.  It was great to walk side by side, turning to look at the same things at the same time without fingers directing eyes.  But that picture above was taken on the walk home.  I walked at least five blocks with a bag of books and a not one, not two, but three-year-old on my back who provided no assistance as you can see by the fact that he is looking up at the sky.  He didn't hug my neck and support himself.  I used my core, my quads and my triceps to lug the bag of bones that my body produced all the way home.  

And I came home the same size as I have always been.

Three Years

I have a three year old.

My dear baby boy.  What all of the moms of older kids say is true - it goes so fast, though they forget to mention how slow some days with them as babies can be.  But now, now that we are out of middle of the night wakings and explosive poops, now the time is flying.  He is literally growing before my eyes.  Each night that I say good night to him, I know that I have said good night to a piece of his baby-ness, for tomorrow he will not ask what "gradually" means when I use it in a sentence.  He will not ask why the moon is not a full circle tonight.  Tomorrow, he will explain to me that the moon is full only once a month and that in the middle of the month, it is a half moon.  He will explain the word "half" using my words - "first you have a whole peanut butter and jelly, and then, when you cut it, you get two halves."

A more developed boy emerges each morning after his slumber.  Stretching, growing, learning - he, as well as me.

My first child forces me to think, to reflect, to feel, to try harder.  I grow each day he does.  I learn each day he learns.  I rejoice in his accomplishments knowing that they are his alone; he is separate from me, though it feels like our hearts beat in unison.

Probably the fifth time "Happy Birthday" was sung; hence, the half eaten cake.

He is funny.  More importantly, he has a sense of humor.  He wants in on the joke and he wants to be the one to make a joke.  When he was 19 months old, we were at Old Navy.  I was looking for some summer tee shirts to bring for him on vacation.  I made my purchase after being checked out by the cashier lady, whose name tag read "Barb", but who also introduced herself after giving me my receipt and showing me how I could go online to say that she did a good job.  As I walked out the door, the alarm started sounding.  Normally, I wouldn't care about the alarm knowing that I had paid, but I knew that if I had one of those plastic things still attached to one of the pieces of clothing, it needed to come off before I left the store.

Barb wasn't looking my way even though I kept sounding the alarm.  I was carrying a 19-month old and I wasn't about to walk all the way back with the bags and a baby in my arms.  So, I did the most mommiest of things: I yelled across the store, "Barb, I'm beeping over here.  Can you help me out?"  The reason moms do mom things is out of convenience and exhaustion.  Like, probably mom jeans started out just cheap and comfy and the only thing a mom could find, so she just started wearing them without realizing that the zipper was so damn long and the style nothing but unflattering (I am not, however, in any way condoning the wearing of mom jeans).

My 19-month old started laughing and saying "Barb, I'm beeping" as clear as any 14-year old would have taunted me.  And, he wasn't laughing with me; he was laughing at me.  Like, I started laughing with him and he kept repeating to himself "Barb, I'm beeping" while laughing and looking away from me; clearly, his first moment of "my mom is such a dork and I cannot believe the things she does."

I laughed in astonishment all the way home.  I knew then that I was in for quite a ride with this kid if I was getting ridiculed at the tender age of 19 months.  Yikes.

But, man, does it make for great companionship.  He gets jokes, nuances and irony.  That is fun with a three year old.

Yesterday, he found a stuffed dog while we were over at family's house.  He walked around with that thing - holding it, loving it - saying, "This is my dog, Toto.  He's a good little guy."  He said "my dog" like he was born and bred in New York, heavy on the vowels.

We somehow ended up outside with him in only Buzz Lightyear undies, a white undershirt, Pirate rain boots and the dog.  He wanted to take the dog for a walk and I couldn't resist.  So what that he was barely dressed.

We just walked to the corner.  I texted Pat his words because they were just so sweet:

"This is my dog [gives the dog kisses].  Oh, he is just so good and he is my friend.  This is a special walk with you mom.  You are a nice mom and this dog is my nice dog.  Well, I got this dog because I'm married.  And I asked god, 'God, could I have a really nice dog?'

"And god put him in my belly and gave him to me.  And I woke up and he was in my bed.  Oh, I love you guys."

His imagination is in full bloom.  When he is happy, there is no drug that could compete.  And when a three year old gets peeved, no disordered person could compare.  The juxtaposition of his temperaments keeps me thinking and growing.  He keeps me on my toes.

For the first time, he stayed up to watch fireworks.  All day we talked about it - would it be too loud, what would they look like, would he be scared.  He has heard their booms, but never seen their lights.  We were up at the lake and on the Fourth, we went over to my cousins' house on the lake where we could see fireworks up and down the beach.

You get moments like this as a parent - moments where you feel like you are doing it right, like you are making a happy human out of the environment you are creating.  He was in his pajamas with just socks on outside on the deck.  He carried Woody with him for the show.  And he watched and clapped when he saw a firework that he particularly liked.  I feel like he will remember that moment too, but likely it will just be for Pat and me to hold onto.

My sister came in to town for the Fourth.  I love the Fourth of July like a lot of people talk about loving Christmas.  For me, the Fourth is summer in all its glory.  Heat, sun, even a moody storm every now and then coupled with family, food, beaches and pools and no hint of guilt for it not being big enough or stress from not having the right gift.  It's just chill.

We went up to the shores of Lake Michigan, where we have gone since I was a little girl.  Since Pat and I have had kids, we have rented our own house so that our kids can sleep and we get a little more privacy.  This year, though, we didn't think we were going to be able to go.  It just wasn't working out and so we kind of just gave up.  But, on July 1st, a house came available for the next day and the following week.  We packed up in a night - with no electricity because of a bad storm, by the way - and left the next day.  Best last minute decision we've made in a long time.

I love being there.  Every one should have a place that is close enough to their home that they can get there in a day and that brings them peace and joy just in being there.  We get that here.

My sister and my mom stayed with us until Meg had to fly back to Los Angeles.  Usually, when she leaves, it's easy.  But this time, we had such a good and relaxing time that I didn't want her to go.  Neither did he.

Getting away, however you can do it, is so essential.  Your family dynamics change.  People change.  I change.  I relax.  I have more fun.  I see everyone in a different light.

We are in the heart of summer.  Every day, there seems to be a list of fun things to do - pick up produce at the farm, swim, cook, garden, beach, the park, ice cream.  This is my heaven.

The Chairs

I was going to post on Monday a lovely entry about what a fabulous weekend we had, but the weather was great and we were outside for all of the day when we weren't napping, so I never got a chance to sit down at my computer and write all of the joy we found in our moments together.  But there was a lot - good food, good walks, plenty of 2-year-old philosophical discussions like why the salt trucks don't use mustard to melt the ice instead of salt and why Mommy "is an Irish and a German, but Daddy is only an Irish"....  And there was this, of course.

It was a great weekend.  And a good start to the beginning of the week.  But the one part of child-rearing that I haven't quite gotten used to yet is how things can be going so great but then turn on a dime; out of nowhere fevers can spike, vomit can fly and boo-boos can happen before you can even say "disaster."  None of those things happened though.  Well, we kind of had a boo-boo and we kind of had vomit, but the boo-boo was to my brand new chair and the vomit was baby spit-up.

Before Rose's birth, we splurged on a new leather recliner from Room & Board.  I swore after nursing Charlie for a year that, before I had another baby, I would get the world's best chair and it wouldn't be all nursery-looking because I like things to last well after the nursery stage.  So we chose our piece carefully - leather so that baby spit-up could be wiped off of it easily.

We really like it.  It's comfy and dignified.  And it now looks like it has been attacked by a cat.

Here, I will let the accused speak for himself.

I know - he's adorable as he tells why he did what he did.  I couldn't yell.  There was no time-out given.  I couldn't because he really didn't know that what he did was wrong.  If it were crayon or marker, I would have been mad because he would have known better.  But his fingernail?  He honestly didn't know.  So all I could do upon entering and seeing the destruction was close my eyes and take the Lord's name in vain.  And then, I grabbed my Flip video so that I could remember this day.  But really how could I forget?  I sit in the thing daily.

And now, I present to you the whole reason we purchased the leather chair: to avoid baby-spit up stains.

Yep, she got me.  And she never really spits up.  Well, I can't say never anymore.  I was Skypeing with my sister and I wasn't focused and she told me.  All over my back and in my hair and on my chair.  I never really liked that chair anyway.  Even though I got out the puke, I think I can talk myself into having this be the reason we need another new chair.  Maybe one just like the leather recliner we already have to make the room symmetrical.  And then I will ask Charles Jackson Pollock to display his fingernail creativity once more to make the chairs look alike because what room doesn't need two recliners with train tracks and blueberries drawn on them.

So maybe the moral of this story is I should have posted on Monday when unicorns and rainbows were on my mind and little babies frolicked through our house and naps were taken together in our big bed and dinners were made and eaten while sitting down.  But I didn't.  Instead I get to post this video and the pictures of my ruined chairs.  Honestly though, it's still unicorns and rainbows and babies frolicking.  Now with a side of boo-boos and baby puke.