A Daily Dose of Zen Sarcasm!

"Y" is for YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

One of the hallmarks of motherhood is the fact that it gets tricky.  And not even when you would expect it --crying babies and sick babies and projectile vomiting notwithstanding-- but when you don't.

And here is one of those moments.

Today, Herr Meow has gone ONE ENTIRE DAY wearing nothing but his really cute lizard chones under his clothes.

Ahem.  Let me be a little more obnoxious here:

HE'S ALMOST TOTALLY POTTY-TRAINED!!!!!!

This is where I would do the obligatory-for-a-football-player-but-definitely-verboten-in-the-mother-world endzone victory dance.

Since I am not about to do it, I will let a football player do some interpretive dancing for me:

Yup.  I realize that all this celebrating might mean that tomorrow the rivers will run yellow for me, all over my new sandals.

But didn't it feel just a little good, y'all?

Thank you for celebrating with me!

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Oh, and hey!  Go to Zen Sarcasm Reviews and check out a very cool contest that can win you a trip to the London première of Mamma Mia, k?

Have a happy weekend!

"W" is for Well

Right now there is not much going on.   
But there is the warm evening glow of the sun,
soon to be asleep for another day.

Right now there is not much going on.
But there are the little daddy fireflies
handing out cigars in the little firefly nursery.

Right now there is not much going on.
But the dishwasher hums efficiently along
licking the plates clean with gusto.

Right now there is much going on:
Happy sounds and memories ebb and flow
And right now, the tide is high.

"P" is for Parenting

First off, I am going to share an excerpt of my blog post over at Zen Sarcasm Reviews, where I reviewed a book called Mama Rock's Rules: Ten Lessons for Raising a Household of Successful Children and which I think many of you with children might enjoy.

I must admit that when I first received the book I'll be reviewing for (...) , I wasn't too impressed.

The jaded part of me (96.7% at last check) was wondering what the mother of someone famous --in this case Rose Rock happens to be comedian Chris Rock's mother-- would ever teach me about parenting.  I remember rolling my eyes a little, huffing about how anyone gets a book deal these days.

But Rose Rock, if you're reading this I just want to say that I would love to sit at your kitchen table anytime.  You have created a believer here, and I thank you.  And I can't wait to try your recipes!!!

Teaser over (which I hope prompts you to go over there and read the rest, pretty please), I happen to be wiped out.

I have a two-year old who keeps calling me "mom" and only whips out the "mommy" when he is being disciplined, and in his most plaintive please-stop-killing-me voice.

He is a ball of energy who is never sated-- he jumps and whirls and twirls and runs and asks and pokes and talks to the ants and wants to be in everything and hang from everything and DO EVERYTHING.

And this is just before 9:30 am.

His vocabulary has exploded and we're regularly treated to very long sentences --so long, in fact that we can't even remember them whatsoever.  I strongly suspect this also has to do with our brains having slowly evolved into some sort of jello-ish substance that cogitates primitively for survival alone. 

________

Incidentally, I have always wanted to be the kind of person who remembers conversations so well and with such nitidity that she can recount long pieces of everyday conversation with little or no problem.  I used to be bad and then I had to get up to a toddler begging for evil Dragon Tales on a near-daily basis.
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But yes.  Being a parent is what ages people, which is why Hollywood stars who want to defy aging hire nannies.  And then there is Madonna, who is just freaky and cannot be avoided as she smiles weirdly from the covers of both Vanity Fair and Elle magazine.  *shudder*
_______

What was I saying?
_______

Oh yes.  Parenting: it's a bear.

Celebrating by Blogging Under the Cotton Sheets (Made in China?)

So I've been wondering how to properly reflect on the fact that we've been living here for two years now, and the only way I could really put it into any kind of tangible concept for myself was thusly:

I don't feature Herr Meow on here very often (bit paranoid, go figure), but today's pictures are here to illustrate a point:

March 25th, 2008-- Herr Meow by a sunny window, with a friend.

March 25th, 2006-- Herr Meow by a sunny window, with a carseat.

The picture above was taken the morning after we arrived in DC, after surviving the scariest cab ride ever and a long, long pilgrimage to our future home.

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Two years don't seem like much until you see what it all means to a little baby: someone who really has known nothing other than DC in his little (semi) conscious lifetime.

Two years in DC-- and it's been good.

Chips Falling Where They Ought (In The Potty)

I hope Poop Week's done.
Bowel contents= My Viet-Nam.
I am jejune (um).
______

Please enjoy my, er, jejune, offering to Haiku Friday. 

When people talk about potty training, they just don't tell you, do they?

They don't tell you that the world as you knew it-- secretion-free, precise, persnickety and devoid of staring into others' anuses-- would seem like nothing but a distant memory.

They also don't tell you that suddenly it's cool to brag about poop and potties.

And furthermost (if there is such a word) they do not tell you the sense of accomplishment that comes when you are shepherding a little independent monster through the valley of Poop.  If you do it right --and I hope I'm doing it right-- they will hopefully fear no evil.

_________

Happy weekend, Internets!

Two (Insert Adjective Here) Years

I've been hemming and hawing all day about what I'll write today, but for once I don't get to blame our beloved NaBloPoMo on my hesitation.

Today is a a special day here in the Meowhold because two years ago today we got the most important addition to our family since Mademoiselle Gracie.   That's right-- two years ago, around this time of night, I was screaming my ass off and trying to keep the focus on the little person of unknown gender who was trying to meet us for the first time.

There are many details about that day that have become a blur --I don't remember what underwear I was wearing, or the room number, or the average high temperature of the day.  But I do remember enough to be both exhilarated and terrified at the prospect of possibly getting pregnant and giving birth once again: I remember the excitement and the anticipation with the wait, and I also remember the pain and the discomfort of giving birth (even though I will take my pain and discomfort ANY DAY over some of the stories I have heard).

Herr Meow has come such a long way from being a tiny little sleepy thing, bundled up and smelling sweet in his tiny clothes.  He can speak in five word sentences sometimes, and he understands both English and Spanish, for instance.  He can also sing quite a few songs and he loves to dance and jump.  And he can make his needs known-- something that would have been so welcome during those first frustrating days trying to adjust to a little life in our midst.

Right now he's got a bit of a fever, so our day has been very low-key and filled with cuddles-- not that I mind at all.

Honestly, I cannot believe it's really been two years.  I see him and I see a face that feels like it's been with me my whole life. 

When people tell you that you just cannot fathom how much you love your children, go ahead and roll your eyes but remember: they are totally right.

Happy birthday to my little guy, He Who Would Become Herr Meow Because German Is A Bad-Ass Language.  I love you.

I love you so much it really actually physically hurt from the very first day.

You Can Come Again Anytime

I am here to tell you two things.  One is shorter and it requires that you click a link (so please do).  The other is longer. Here we go.

________

Let us not kid ourselves.

You want a good book to read and gift, and that book is The Daring Book For Girls. So you should go read my review of it at Zen Sarcasm Reviews to know more about it.  Especially because there is much handmade goodness in there and we all now know how I'm all for handmade goodness.

_______

Ok.  I'm done with that.
The other thing I needed to tell you about?  I love the rain.

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I grew up in a place where it rains about 180 out of 365 days of the year.  That is quite literally half the year's worth of rain, so I guess something must snap inside a person after so much rain-soaked being and so many days of seeing it come down and sideways and upside down and, to quote Forrest Gump, "rain that flew in sideways. And sometimes rain even seemed to come straight up from underneath."

So I like the rain.  I don't mind driving in most kinds of rain.  I don't really mind walking in it, either --maybe at some point in time I did, but not anymore (partly because I have some shockingly-unstylish-yet-ironically-stylish wellies that keep me warm and let me skip across puddles). 

In Hawaii, where rain seems to come out of nowhere, unannounced and like a thief in the night --even in the middle of the day-- you have to get used to the rain but somehow cannot.  Or at least most of the locals cannot, and there are all manner of silly fender-benders on every rainy day.

But the rain also means a break in the mosquitoes and a day of not having to worry about keeping the windows open --even for a little while.  The rain means a cool and calm day, and what could be better than breaking out the sweaters when it hits 70?

Over here in the mainland, the rain seems to irritate most people.  But woe to us all if people don't have enough water to lawn their delicate lawns or have their water glasses filled to oblivion as they sit there, gathering condensation, right?

_______

Today's rain was wonderful; crisp, cleansing and cold, and very reminiscent of cold páramo (subpáramo?) rain. 

Herr Meow's little rain boots --even though they are on the big side for his feet (note to self: shoes labeled with S, M or L are not reliable sizewise even if they claim they'll fit two year old feet)-- kept him dry and allowed him to jump on the puddles and smile gleefully every time a little splish-splash was heard.

Sometimes that's all you need.

Better Than Stuffing And Sweet Potatoes Combined

I am pretty tired today.

I've been battling some sort of allergy attack cum friend's cold that I just realized today was actually going around.  As much as I am sure the homeopathic nose spray I sometimes use --and my God-given paranoia-- has been helping, it sometimes behooves me to accept an undeniable truth:

It is cold season, and it won't be pretty.  Is it ever?

________

So as I was racking my brain trying to figure out
1) what to make for dinner;
2) what to write about here;
3) why some people are such assholes that, when I took a pretty nasty fall yesterday evening in the full view of a well-dressed man and his wife, both pretended that nothing had happened and moved on without so much as a supercilious glance in my direction;
4) why I am so tired all of a sudden;
5) why people insist it is spelled "all of THE sudden";
6) and finally, what to write about on here, yet again.

And then in my inbox was a nice email from the author of a blog I enjoy reading, called MamaBlogga.  If you're a mother who blogs, you would do well to check out this blog --it has interesting articles about blogging and networking and it also features a monthly group writing project, which is something nice to be a part of if you would like a writing challenge and exposure for your blog.

And then, I breathed a little easier despite the dismal strains of NPR in the background.

_________

This month's group writing project is on what makes me most grateful about my children.  Or, well, child: Herr Meow, soon to be two.

Right off the bat, this is not an easy prompt.

I apologize to those of you who do not have children and therefore have (circle one) [no idea about/little interest in/a confirmed aversion to/a full-blown documented case of the hives when it comes to/a hideous dread of] the children topic. 

I used to be a little --or nay, a lot like you-- not too long ago.

I would look upon mothers and children and would shrug and go about my day.   

I would roll my eyes impolitely when people would foist unprompted little wallet-sized pictures of fat children posed awkwardly on sheepskins and letter blocks, or bawling pitifully while on Santa's lap.

I would walk into Gymboree and instead of feeling the biological clock rage out of control or hearing the banshee wail of my American Express, I would shamelessly ask the salesladies if the rain boots or the cap with the teddy bear ears came in my size (hint: next time, try GapKids).

And whenever kids behaved like kids, I'd try to block them out.  Even though I have worked with kids of many ages, I always gravitated to the older kids --"more human" I actually called them.

I guess you could say I was not a kid person.

________

I'm still not.

I still peer with mild irritation at most kids' pictures shoved in my face (especially if the kid is not cute).
I still bristle at kids I don't know.
I still try in vain to see if things will fit at GapKids --though I have been forced to acknowledge that age more than size is the true deterrent in buying girlish fashions.
And I still roll my eyes at kids being kids.

BUT.

Because, you know, this wouldn't be a heart-warming entry of gratitude and gushing feelings if this didn't have a "but", I must tell you this: having a child has been, for me, a massive emery board, filing away at the sharp, hard, judgmental aspects of my personality. 

(personality range: from acerbic to bitchy in ten seconds flat)

Having a child has been a catalyst of an empathy I thought was only reserved for doing stupid stuff like bawling my eyes out at the end of My Dog Skip.

Having a child has shown me that it is possible to love someone so much that you scare yourself with the unbridled violence of those feelings.  It's realizing that you can and will actually kill if someone were to attempt to harm your baby.

Having a child is repeating to yourself the immortal words of Uncle Ben Parker  and suddenly realizing how deep, sad, and sweet they are. 

Having a child is realizing that you can be SO VERY PISSED OFF AT HIM THAT YOU CANNOT EVEN BREATHE YOU ARE SO DAMN MAD.... and still love that little --or not so little-- person so much it hurts.  Which, you know, makes it doubly painful.

Finally, having a child is hard work, no sleep, premature aging, far too many secretions (most of which are not yours), and not enough time to carry on with your life.

Your former life, that is, which from this child-ful distance seems so oddly selfish and devoid of joy and true love.  And so you give thanks for this life, which despite the bone-tiredness that clings to you like a film, is really that good when it's good.  And even the tiniest smile can make it good.

The best?  A full-body baby laugh-- possibly the most wonderful, satisfying sound in the world.

Day Of Poo And Stinkor Looming

Today would be the day that I would earn my motherhood "Brown Wings" O Internets.

Today was the "Dies Rrhea", if you will.

You will never understand the meaning of loving a person DESPITE IT ALL unless you've had to clean up this person's poop from white carpet while reassuring them that they didn't do anything wrong -- that mommy loves them and that she is not seething with anger and disgust.

________

Herr Meow, as is common at this age, likes to explore his defecation options.

He might be upset someday when he reads that particular sentence.  I think it's imperative that he reads it, because he needs to understand what his mother did for him (i.e. clean his bowel movement while refraining from rubbing his muzzle in it) and how she cared for him.  Plus, this is nothing new: mothers (and fathers) have been cleaning up crap since the dawn of time, both literally and metaphorically.

So anyway.  He has mastered the art of removing his diaper ("dah-purr" or "pahn-hall" if he's feeling bilingual); he sits to pee about twice a day in his potty; he knows that he doesn't like to be dirty; and he is EXTREMELY communicative when he's about to poop.

This is the tricky part though: he hates to poop when people are around.

So he will start his tugging-at-diapie bit, followed by the preliminary strain-and-grunt noise and he'll start turning red and then he'll get the Look Of Intense Pleasure and Concentration going.  And when questioned about whether he's pinching a loaf he'll quickly say, "Noooooo" while turning red.

And if he's doing this over the potty with us present, he'll stop trying, get off the pot and ask for dah-purr.

And he goes off and poops in some secluded corner of the house.  Or he'll hide behind some furniture, or he'll hold a book over his face and pretend that no one can see him poop.

Or he tries to be a clever boy and spreads a disposable changing mat and then poops just one inch off from where the mat ends, so he can poop somewhere with a view.

_________

And when he's done, he comes to get his mother, the sweet little huggy boy, who proceeds to do the following:

1 .Panic and repeat to self "I KNEW he would do that today!"
2 .Try to suppress torrent of bad words anxious to spout off mouth. 
3. Tell him he did well.
4. Then tell him that next time he should try the potty because mommy isn't thrilled to clean poop off the carpet.
5. Fume inwardly and wonder if I'm going to give him a complex.
6. Get on the internet.
7. Find precious angel sent from above in the guise of Army Wife, Toddler Mom and her post on cleaning poop off carpet in three easy steps.
8. Rejoice in the fact that I aim to keep a well-stocked house and it hasn't failed me now-- golden rays shine forth from the bottle of hydrogen peroxide that lives under the bathroom sink.
9. Pick-up the poo as thoroughly as possible.
10. Gag a little.
11. Realize I've only done this with cats before.
12. Further realize that at least cats don't have the option of telling their friends and peers in the future about how their mother traumatized them when they crapped all over the carpet.
13. Dab, dab, dab, dab, repeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeat.

And voilá.  (Thank Jebus!)

_________

I can laugh now.  In fact, I love poop.  I do-- try me.

Anyone out there have any poop merriment to share?  Or, for that matter, any cleanup tips?

First Impressions

Yesterday was Herr Meow's first day of school-thingy.

Oh man.... his first day.  I am actively typing and still cannot believe he's old enough to spend part of the day away from me AND know he is doing so.  I realize that it's a little silly for me to get worked up over leaving him at a place for less than half a day and only once a week, but he's never been more than a room away from me since he was born, pretty much.  Ah yes:  except for the times we've actually gone out without him.  But I can dorkily  assert that those occasions can be tallied up with the fingers of one hand.

Hmm.... okay.  They can be tallied up with two hands. 

I counted: it's only been seven times.

I'm not sure if that is the apex of loserly parentese: admitting that you've only gone out without the kid on less than ten separate times in almost two years of life, or KNOWING exactly how many times it's been. 

Either way, I think the above statements officially qualify me to be in the Crunchy-Nervous Mother Hall Of Fame.  And that "f" in fame is actually a voiceless postalveolar fricative and not a labiodental one.  Ahem.

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I was told Herr Meow was well-behaved and had a good day, but every once in a while he would realize that I was not around and have a bit of a pout and a whimper until he was reassured that things were well despite his mommy not being around.  Then he'd go back to being his playful self.  Apparently he did this on a couple of occasions, but then would quickly snap out of it.

I'm relieved.  And a little happy that he missed me at least a tiny bit, because when I walked in he was completely absorbed in play and didn't even look up to see me or Rev. Mom.  He was playing with two other boys a game that looked suspiciously like "Short-Order Cook"-- spatula on hand, toy egg on the other, standing by the range and looking miffed while one of his cronies attempted to fry something that looked like Scoop from Bob The Builder.

What, you've never pretended to cook others' meals in a ridiculously short amount of time while other people scream at you?  Fsh.  You've not lived.

But seriously: as much as no parent wants to be the one having to deal with the bawling wreck of a child who refuses to be socialized, there is always a bit of a longing in all of us for being missed actively.  We want to be significant and we want our lack of presence to be felt.

And at the end of the day we all want the same things: hugs and kisses and reassurances that we will be okay and will not be forgotten. 

And also, I-love-yous.

And broccoli stew. 

For the bunny.  Not for you.  (Phew)