A Daily Dose of Zen Sarcasm!

Maternal Evolution

Face-off, originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

This little cute chunky monkey face, a.k.a. Don Meow, likes to keep me up nights.

Oh sleep, how I miss thee.

He also likes to pinch and chomp on limbs; he likes to make cute random talky noises and the most darling high-pitched squeals for no reason; he enjoys being talked to, especially in Spanish; he does not particularly enjoy smiling for pictures; and he positively adores covering the world with his drool so much that his brother, Herr Meow, has decided to start calling him "The Slug."

(Proud Mama notes: Srsly? He came up with a nickname all on his own! A correctly applied nickname!)

_______

When people tell you that every baby is different and that you simply cannot and must not compare, they are usually trying to soothe ruffled tempers because someone's kid is going through a milestone faster than another's, or because someone's kid is filling out (and in) their diaper much better than another's child.

It's only when you become the parent of more than one child that you get to realize that, indeed, comparisons are pointless. Or at least comparisons amongst your offspring are pointless and potentially hurtful.

Don't get me wrong: the comparison monster likes to rear its ugly head all the time. Did Herr Meow get to be as chunky? Is Don Meow more drooly? Was the first-born more camera-friendly? Is the second-born blessed with more expressive eyebrows?

Who communicated better? Who will be taller? Who is the better eater? Who slept less or more or better or longer or more often?

And yet, for all the inner monologue that sometimes keeps me up and plagues me and makes me wonder if the Good Mothers of the World ever do this, when I actually focus on the children and stop questioning for a few seconds, I find that I can just let go and enjoy.

I can enjoy the soft, chubby, ripply deliciousness that the little baby basks in with his whole self. And I can do so while I also enjoy the lean, low-body-fat, creamy, austere landscape that barely holds babylike features within my little preschooler hellion.

I can nuzzle into the buttery chin and sniff Don Meow's milky babyness, while also snuggling against Herr Meow's lanky, mini-dynamo frame.

And I can laugh at Herr Meow's budding sense of humor and comedic timing, such as when he, embarrassingly correctly, admonished one of his little friends to "stop being such a douchebag" (reason #8375 why I would be going to Hell, if such a place existed); while I also laugh at Don Meow, who blew the tiniest of raspberries today and then cracked up at his own sound (fart sounds NEVER get old).

And I can marvel that these two children were once an actual part of my body, while now they are a part of my very existence and a very real pain in my behind (or "butt-hoooooole" as Herr Meow might gleefully declare-- this being reason #8376, by the way).

And really, when you're talking about something being a part of yourself, how can you compare? I mean, objectively i suppose you can compare your spleen to your eye, but it's all a part of the same whole. And so it is with children.

If only I could get them to sleep when I sleep, we'd really be in business.

Swimmingly, And Not So Much

The lifeguard warns us parents, "Some of your children may scream at first when coming into the water."

The orange-haired, tramp-stamped, flabby-bellied-whilst-in-a-bikini woman off to my left waves a fishbelly-white arm and points theatrically toward the sullen-looking baby she's holding with her other arm.

"THIS ONE HERE!  OH YEAH!  THIS ONE!  SHE'S GONNA SCREAM!"

You don't say.

___________

Swimming lessons are among those things that either you had --formally or informally, does not matter-- or you didn't as a child; but if you did, they marked you for life.  How can they not?  Even if they left a favorable impression, it was the first time for most of us that our parents willingly lead us to a place where we could die.

The chlorine smell and that particular pool smell, they all remind me of good times and vacations and summer, and of heartbreak and ear infections, but they also bring back vividly those first times I had to blindly trust and let go and attempt to float or hold my breath.  That salty sting in the eyes reminds me of trying to learn to do handstands and pretending to be a synchronized swimmer.

And getting an accidental gulp of pool water always brings that little bit of tinny dread to the forefront of my mind, like a lash of lightning to my conscious mind.

So now that Herr Meow is starting to take swimming lessons, I am keenly aware of my own misgivings and likes; and I realize that as much as we may project our own fears onto our children, some things are truly and universally scary for all, even if there is much enjoyment to be derived and an innate ability in some.

And so, when the young boy dressed in red and white reminds us all parents that being in a pool will be scary enough for some to scream out loud, I remember and I hold on to my kid as tightly as he wants me to, and then some.

_________

Herr Meow is a little scared of the water, but he is also excited.  He refuses to try to ride the floating board that the boy lifeguard offers him; however, when the pretty girl lifeguard offers, he gets over his fears and goes on ahead, telling me and whoever will listen afterward how fun it was and how he rode the board and how BRAVE he was.

Because he's a brave boy, right mommy?

Mommy nods.

As I hug my brave boy, I look at the shallow end of the kids' pool.  Orange-hair is there with her mother, both of them laughing uproariously as, right on cue, her child is wailing.

The swimming lesson started twenty minutes ago, and the child is still sobbing and screaming.  And her mother is dunking her periodically in the two-foot-deep water, happily dragging her child in and out of the pool.

The little girl flails her arms all around and keeps on shouting, reaching out to her grandmother who seems delighted to continue this torture and swirling her granddaughter's tense body in and out of the pool.

Both women have separated from the main swimming lesson and are taking turns dredging the unfortunate kid in the water.  As the forty-minute lesson wraps up and we leave the pool, I can still hear the screams.

_________

I'm not sure what else to say here, except that if in about forty years' time Orange-hair is wondering why her daughter won't trust in her and won't confide in her, or perhaps why she won't talk to her, I am willing to bet she won't remember that June day where she let her daughter scream for forty minutes straight and laughed in her face at her fear of drowning.

All Hail, The MissTache

There have been some very turmoil-y days in the Meowhold.

For one, we are finally the owners of some sweet solar panels upon our roof. We will be living a little more off the grid and this is immensely exciting, especially to Monsieur Meow.  For me, to be perfectly honest, the most exciting part is not to have the incredibly nice guys who installed the solar panels going up and down the stairs a million times a day. 

Priorities, I suppose.

Herr Meow has finished his first year of slightly more serious school, and this was exciting too.  He celebrated by deciding he needed to walk home to a local restaurant... on his own.  We found him almost three blocks away from home, with his pail and shovel, determined to make it to the Argonaut.  I don't think I've ever been more scared of the unknown in my life.

Don Meow is now working on sprouting teeth --he is a consummate drooler-- and he's mastered rolling from back to tummy over the past two weeks.  He is a chuckler, too-- just tickle him a little bit and watch as he does that little stuck-clutch laugh that is so endearing in babies.  He's also managed to almost roll off the bed a couple of times: I give him a month.

Mademoiselle Gracie is a fit feline.  She is exceptionally tartar-free and she could stand to lose a few ounces-- but I think most females always feel that way.  I wish I could lose some more of that post-baby chunk myself.

I find it hard to write these days.

I sometimes fire up Ye Olde Typepad and stare at the blank screen for ages, not even feeling the faintest stirring to commit anything to paper.  I have been reading more, and my life feels like it's lived so intensely that I can hardly remember it; and yet, the blog remains sadly mute.

And it's not for a lack of things to write, either. 

For instance, the other day I saw a woman with an it-would-make-Burt-Reynolds-envious mustache.  It took me a few seconds to realize what the fuzzy worm that decorated her upper lip like a festive Christmas garland would a mantelpiece really was, since she was otherwise well-dressed and made-up, you see.  She even had panty hose on in the sticky southern heat of a few days ago.

Maybe that is a nasty statement: why should a well-dressed woman --or any woman, for that matter-- forego the pleasures of having an accessory that for some reason (androgens, perhaps?) has been viewed as exclusively male?

So I started to think that perhaps discriminating on the basis of mustache should be the next crusade for women.  Why should we be denied, if The Powers that Be gave us the wherewithal, to grow and properly maintain thick, luxuriant mustaches?  It wouldn't have to be something that produces a visceral, knee-jerk disgust reaction, you know.  It could be something beautiful and elaborate; something to coat with glittery mascara and to weave beads into.

Something to behold: a woman's beautiful lip fur.

Certainly, it's something to be grateful for: it seems to have been a remedy of sorts for this dull, low-hanging writer's block.

From the Mouths of Meowies

The man is walking my way.  He asked for some plant-related product, and the chirpy helper at the local hardware store directed him to aisle nine with insouciant pertness.

I am currently blocking aisle nine.  As a matter of fact, I am blocking aisles nine and part of ten and the main aisle that connects the garden center with the rest of the store.  I am awkwardly trying to pull the stroller out of the way for him, as well as trying to rein in Herr Meow, who wants every single dinosaur in the impulse buy tray the hardware folks have thoughtfully placed at child level.

"This one is my favorite," he coos.  "And this one!  And this one too."  "They are all my favorites.  Can they all come home with me?  Please, mommy?"  Pause.  "I said 'please'."

"No," comes my default-irritated response.  I wish I were the patient kind of mommy, but I am not.  I attempt to place a dinosaur back in the cardboard crate while maneuvering the stroller, too. 

But suddenly, he looks up with a face filled with glee.  Surely the Easter bunny hasn't been let loose around the hardware store again?

(Aside: I haven't had as much fun in an Easter egg hunt as I did looking for eggs amid the nuts, bolts, electrical, and the plants for sale.  Hardware store egg hunt, for the win indeed.)

"HI, PIRATE!  HI!  HI, PIRATE!"

The man, who came into my view a split second after he did into Herr Meow's, is wearing an eye patch over his right eye.

"PIRATE!  HI!"  Herr Meow waves and hams it up and acts as if he's female and twelve (or twelve-and-twenty) and Britney Spears is walking by. 

Pirate-man nods in his direction and gingerly makes it to aisle nine.

I am beyond embarrassment.

________

Monsieur Meow takes Herr Meow to the ballgame.

Into view comes a double amputee wheeling himself around.

Herr Meow ascertains to the person in question that he must have had "a pretty big boo-boo."

_______

I realize children do this.  Part of me is touched and amused at the ways in which small children absorb and assess their world and that which is contained in it; I mean, pirate?  Classic, right?

But a part of me is not ready for the dangerous candor that comes out of my son's mouth.

I fear it, and I fear the reactions of people.  Most of all, I fear my own reactions to his reactions: do I apologize to the one-eyed man and to the amputee for their respective injuries, even if they are obviously living full lives despite, or perhaps because of them?  Do I laugh?  Do I beg pardons?  Do I remain neutral?  Do I ignore him?

What am I to do, apart from cherishing his charming remarks?

I suppose I can always blog about it.

Other People's Children

This is, perhaps, the biggie.

The taboo subject.

That Which Will Not Be Named, as far as mothers' circles are concerned.

For, you see, there is much to be learned from other people's children.  And most of it is none too flattering.

_______

I, as usual, get way ahead of myself.  Call it my shameless attempt to get your attention with a couple of what I hope will be inflammatory sentences, just so you'll stay and read and pause and perhaps go, "OMG girlfriend is wack."

Because I know you speak in 80s-slang-cum-urban-platitudes, that's why.

But seriously, I have been mulling writing about this for a while.  Because, you see, people do not have children in a bubble.  When you have a child, or more than one child, you are also exposed to the world with children.  Some of these people happen to be pretty cool people --the kind with which you may get caught up in a picket-fenced fantasy in your mind or perhaps some glossy photo shoot of what life with children --yours and those of others-- might be like in UtopiaLand. 

Children with wide smiles, blurs of action in gorgeous clothing that isn't marred by primeval goop, none of which would be coming out of their nose or mouth, or worse.

Parents who are well-coiffed and well-rested and in gorgeous clothing, none of which would be marred by the aforementioned goop, having adult conversations that are not subjected to Spelling-Bee-like parsing.

A pristine swath of land, free of mosquitoes or treacherous parasites or viruses, in glowingly Photoshopped colors.

You know that it could happen for a nanosecond, that you may know one set of parents and child(ren) with whom a tenth of a second of idyllic circumstances may be possible.

But then there are the others.  Those "other" parents, to whom you are an other yourself.

The ones that ruin the teachable moment when their little mongrel(s) do exactly what you've spent the last half an hour telling your kid NOT TO DO, FOR THE LAST TIME AND FOR THE LOVE OF  SOMETHING SACRED, PLEASE. 

And when said little mongrel gets to do it, and keep on doing it, without getting an earful, or glares of reproach, and your kid eyes you with a mix of hurt and resentment that makes you feel old.

The kind of action that at the time is so very unfair that you're left scrambling for the right words to tell your kid that, basically, some people are total assholes who are raising their kids to be absolute troglodytes and that while right now it's your mother who looks like the tight-sphinctered harridan who is not letting you bash people over the head with the funnoodle that is NOT YOURS (is it?  No, right?  THE TOY IS NOT YOURS), well, that you might just look back on this incident twenty years from now with a little less seething rage and be able to appreciate your mother and her tough love.

Or perhaps they are the parents who are buying their kid the loud and obnoxious toy that you swore you would never get your kid, who is staring at you with what could pass as a poster face for the UNICEF.

Or perhaps they are the parents who don't tell their children how to behave; what is expected of them in social situations; why it's not appropriate to push or punch or cut in line or shove an adult, even if it's a stranger; why it's important to say please and thank you; and why it's a good idea to avoid stepping on other people's toes, shoes, hands, feet, and babies.

Or perhaps it's none of those things.  Maybe they are just the parents who seem to have their own utopia moment unfolding with their cool parent friends right before your very eyes, while you sit there and struggle with your own children and your own issues and your own oh-so-high-school issues, still feeling awkward and gawky and like the only one who got "does not play well with others" written on her permanent file and was never able to live it down.

________

Now that I have this load off my chest, I frankly don't know what else to say.  I've spent so much time thinking about the little things I thought I wanted to say, such as,

• most people suck as parents most of the time (but then again so do I),
• hanging out with others' children is like a birth control opera, but with more snot,
•  your children are all ugly, except for the cute one and the one with good manners who just smiled at me,
• how can you do that/not do that to your child?
• who the hell dressed your kid?
• why don't you get off the phone when you're handling your kid?

that I am suddenly rendered mute.

And I am rendered mute mostly because it is a truth universally acknowledged that the more vitriol you spew --even if rightly deserved-- at the world (especially in a semi-public forum), the higher the odds that any or all the things you itemized during that vitriol will come back to haunt you.  Also, because while other people's children reveal truths about their parenting or lack thereof, I fully realize my own children are revealing my own fears and mistakes and announcing them to the world, for it to take it all apart and analyze it.  And while I love to analyze others, I don't like to be picked apart that much by strangers, myself.

Also, Herr Meow is slowly turning into Dennis Mitchell.  I find myself living in a glass house these days.

One Thousand Ninety-Seven Days

Oh boy-- here goes another quasi-monosyllabic entry, with the possible exception that "monosyllabic" is quite the oxymoron, at apparently five syllables in length.

But, Herr Meow is now three.  And I still cannot believe that it's been that long since he was first this cute little pink bundle of flesh and strange noises and soft wrinkly skin, doing strange and confounding things and filling our home with love and chaos.  I guess that, much like VH1's bizarre-cum-lame take on the not-yet-completed new millennium "I Love the New Millennium", it's one of those truncated things upon which you cannot have enough perspective.

I mean.... in the same way that one cannot possibly comprehend the meaning, repercussions, and enduring icons of a decade that hasn't even finished, how can one possibly do the same and more with a little person that is both the most important and the most exhausting, demanding, ass-kicking and irritating little person in one's universe?

But anyway-- he is three, and I could not be prouder.  And there is no way that I could capture his essence, not even by noting his cute sayings and quirks, or the way he says "hopstital" or "Captitol" or "frigidator" or "punkman" or when he used to beckon us to "you stay me?" when he was smaller.  And his laugh just makes my heart flutter. 

Okay-- no more gushing.  But incidentally, "Shanna Moakler, actor"??  Next thing you know, we'll be seeing "Paris Hilton, entrepreneur".

(oh wait...)

Now Pooping

Herr Meow has been in the bathroom for a while.  Sometimes he simply forgets that after cleaning up, he should dismount the toilet, pull up his pants and join society again; therefore this minor absence is nothing new.

However, there is suddenly a dramatic pause in his rhythmic kicking of feet and singing.  And he says, with an ominous voice in the lowest register he can muster,

"In a WORLD..."

_________

Yeah.  No kidding.

(WHOO!  *fans the air*)

You are already in the Weltanshauung of a two-year old, Don LaFontaine.  You will be missed and may you rest in peace.

From the Great Lakes of the Butterland

Today as I was making a little something for lunch for Herr Meow and for myself, he became transfixed with the Land O'Lakes indian maiden. 

"What is she?" he demanded.

(We don't have the who/what subtlety down just yet.)

"She's an indian princess," I triumphantly cooed, and then hesitated.

Holy crap.  So many years of buying Land O'Lakes butter (Land O'Lakes PR, please take note: I like your unsalted butter and your spreadable butter), and it took having a two-year old asking for me to take notice of this girl in depth.

"Pincess," he mouths, processing this new information.  "What is she?"

Blank.  I stare at her jet-black braids and her Caucasian features and her pretty dress.  Beaded dress, feathers.  So very stereotypical, and yet I couldn't tell you anything else about her.

I turn to Google for answers.  One of the first hits?  How to make the "Land O'Lakes indian trick."  Are you familiar with this?  I wasn't.

Apparently, you must dismantle a1 lb. box of Land O'Lakes and make a precision cut around the box of butter the indian maiden is proffering and place the knees of another maiden you can find on said box so it can be seen when you lift the flap you've just carved out. And then you giggle nervously over and over as you lift the flap and the lovely maiden shows you her "beadwork". 

Maybe it's better if you click here and see for yourself.

I am endlessly amazed at the resourcefulness of the teenage boy.

Back to the Land O'Lakes girl:  if you go to the butter people website, you can read how she --with some "minor alterations" they say, which I take to mean that they've made her whiter, thinner, and prettier over the years-- comes from a 1928 painting inspired by the Longfellow poem "The Song of Hiawatha" .
Specifically, it was inspired by the hero and by his (most likely Sioux, possibly Dakota) lady love, Minnehaha, who were said to have lived in the Minnesota/Wisconsin area.  So one can infer from the information that perhaps the fair Minnehaha took some time from her busy schedule of being a romantic heroine to pose with some butter and inadvertently sparked small fires in the loins of future generations of pimply kids with X-acto knives.

Thank you, darling Herr Meow, for posing the question in the first place.  Because now, we know.

And now I won't fret when I find you've taken my box of butter some ten years in the future, either.

_________

By the by, I am guest blogging over at my pal Gunfighter's blog-- so please go visit!
Happy Monday, all!

For He's a Lean, Mean, Cuteness Machine

Today we went out to dinner with some friends.  Their kids, being a little older, need no real prompting at the dinner table other than the occasional call to manners.

Herr Meow has always needed more than a little entreaty to eat, specifically.  So lately I find it's a strange and delightful new territory to have to worry less and less about it.

But worry I do, still.

___________

Herr Meow is an average child, born to underwhelmingly average parents.  We're both of average weight and average height, and both of us wear average sizes across the board.  Maybe it's a little boring, but at least you know you'll always find your size at a store, right?

And so when little Meow-boos was born, he was a non-non-plussing 50th percentile child.  And all through his well visits, he's never really gone beyond the 65th percentile for anything. I was reassured that there was nothing to worry about, and yet it seemed that I was subliminally encouraged to introduce more solids and make sure he ate more often or consider that he might be anemic somehow, or, you know, regard that percentile as a starting-off point for negotiations.  It was never anything outright: I was never actively told that he was nothing if not healthy, which thankfully he has been.  But there was always that nagging and solicitous "helpful suggestion" tacked on to the end of a conversation that would make me paranoid even if there was nothing to worry about.

Because, after all, 50th percentile is right in the middle.  There is a whole other set of percentage points to get to on the top (Awesome! Healthy! Corn-fed! All-American! Strapping! Built like a linebacker! All boy! BIG BOY!), and only 49 other percentage points separating you from the perceived "losers" --i.e. those kids who happen to be even smaller than mine for their age (God forbid, right?  You mean there are kids in the twenty-fifth?  Not skin and bones??).

___________

Conversations with mothers never help.  You think they might, and well... okay, some do.  The conversations with mothers who've been there before or can identify with you usually work, because you don't feel as alone and there is a feeling of alliance-- that if her kid isn't eating his or her food, that maybe you're not doing something wrong or there is nothing wrong with your own kid. 

But even the most well-meaning of mothers whose child is a regular Hoover, clawing at her arm to eat some more, can rub you the wrong way when you're trying desperately to entice your own child with a delicious Cheerio-- the only food he seems willing to eat, but only every other day of an odd-numbered month wherein a blue moon will occur.

Understanding my child and his needs took time, and it still is not an easy road.

Preferring drinking to eating was the thing about Herr Meow that I couldn't grasp right away-- for him the allure of breast milk was superior to any meal he could ever have or want, and this made solids a second-best source of nourishment.  When he was introduced to water, milk and diluted juices, that brought along some hope and advancement. 

However, in all fairness, the one thing that made a difference was not just the understanding but the acceptance that this average mother and father produced an average child of average weight who prefers liquids to solids.  An average child who'll never be corpulent, hefty, husky, off-the-charts, or possibly obese.  A child who's on the skinny side just like his dad, and who is incredibly active, and who weighs the same as an 18-month old we met a few weeks back (we're still scratching our heads over that one).
A healthy, average child, nothing more and nothing less.

Somehow acceptance, while being the most logical outcome, is a last resort kind of alternative to life's perceived problems.

___________

Nowadays, Herr Meow eats, and well.  It happened slowly, as he developed his own tastes and opinions and little toddler pseudophobias.  But he is slowly finding his way and recognizing that food is a wonderful thing to have and share, as well as a great social experiment.  And I couldn't be more pleased or relieved, because my baby eats.

Maybe I don't worry about it as much, even if I still do prompt and nag.

Maybe I'll find something else to worry about.  For now.

Kids Like the Darnedest Things

Proud to be an American (but possibly made in China)
Originally uploaded by Madame Meow

Today Herr Meow and a little friend went to the Oxon Hill farm just outside the DC diamond.

Before I go any farther, I would like to point out the fact that this farm, which once and not too long ago was a vibrant and useful part of the everyday life, is one of those strange luxuries where farm-shy dudettes like me get to pretend that we know our way around farm animals and equipment. It's like, "Oh wow, people! A Farm! How quaint and.... different!"

Anyway, when in the farm we did as the farmers do and both boys went crazy for the tractors.

Walk ten feet. "Tactor!"

Walk a little longer. "Tactor!"

Go inside a building. "Tactor"
(It was actually a phaeton, but hey)

Break for lunch. "Canky cwane , mommy!"

Drive back. "Look mommy! Backhoe loader bucket!"

Yes. Herr Meow likes heavy machinery. And let me tell you: it is NOT easy to photograph those suckers! They have very hard lines and take up too much space and are angular and reflect the light and they MOVE!

And they DIG! And they TEAR UP THE ROAD!

BACKHOE!!!!!!!! 

_________

Let's just say I enjoy being the mother of a boy.