The first night Luca was home from the hospital, I thought I would lose my mind. Sleep deprived. Sore. Curled into a recliner with pillows and blankets and pacifiers and a baby whose red faced shrieked to me in rage, "You are fucking this up!"
She wouldn't latch. Hadn't nursed fully as far as I knew since the one time some strange nurse turned a bright light on over my hospital bed at some unearthly hour and man-handled my breast to get her attached. Here I was at home with no nurse and no bright light and no one who knew what to do and my baby would only cry. She cried and cried and her face was red and her arms were so skinny, my little bird, and I sobbed in that uncontrollable heaving way so many sleep-deprived and hormone-flooded new moms have experienced.
Through fat tears, my husband's face grew closer. His hands lifted and repositioned our new baby. He helped me latch her and gently rubbed at her chin to get her to suck and before I knew it my baby was eating. Eating, which meant she was not crying. Eating, which meant no more shriek to remind me I was clueless and a brief respite from feeling like a caged wild mama bear whose cub is on the other side of the gate begging me for help.
That moment where my husband stepped in and took control and knew just what to do to help didn't solve all our problems. Breastfeeding my daughter was one of the hardest things I ever did. And the big lesson it taught me that night is that sometimes, in parenting, my husband really is right.
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There's a trend in the world of moms, to paint the men in our lives as less than us. Less capable. Less instinctual. Less smart. Less nurturing. Less skilled. Less of a parent.
We break them down into traits and characters. We tell ourselves and others that we're right and they are wrong. We tell them. We tell them in tears and in words, in passive aggressive behavior and in vitriolic words. We overstep them. We parent them because we seem to think they need it. As though we know better. As though by the virtue of being the mother we know; by virtue of being a man they can't possibly.
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We forget the power of those hopeless moments of desperation, a crying baby with fat tears and strained lungs from crying. Those moments when we're lost in our primal mama bear moments and through tears we see the same hands that helped guide our baby here, into our arms, guiding us together. Rubbing a newborn baby chin and silencing the desperation with calm.
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Out of the bath, wrapped in a warm blanket with wet hair and skin the color of apricots. Sitting on the bed, smoothing lotion over legs that keep growing, over toes with chipped polish and hands that now hold a pencil and expertly write her name and all the letters of the alphabet. We have these talks a lot, a routine we started when she was old enough to understand. This is yours, this body. This sacred land of soft skin and long eyelashes and feet that dance circles across my bedspread. Who is allowed to touch you? No one but me. Me and mommy and daddy, and only if you have to. Never if I say no. Who do you talk to if someone hurts you? Mommy. Or daddy. Grandma. A teacher. A police officer or a fireman.
"I have a scratch," she says, pointing. This body. This perfect little body folded into leggings and skirts and boots. Folded right now into a towel. This perfect little body over which I am smoothing lotion, lifting her wet hair to run my hands across her shoulders and down her arms. I freeze inside, but on the outside I am the calm in the storm.
A boy in her class. Lunchtime. A hand under the table and she moved away reflexively. A scratch and my brain feels on fire. She is five. He is too, or maybe six. I know enough. I know it's normal. I know that kids do these things and curiosity is the elixir of childhood. I know, also, of mugshots and headlines. Of children who are curious and grow to be men who steal innocence. Men who hurt. Who take childhood and twist it like an ugly nightmare. And this body. The same body that once unfolded from me like a lotus flower and slept on my chest heartbeat to heartbeat. My brain is on fire and it buzzes.
It's normal. It's probably harmless.
I will move her to another school. I will never let her leave my sight.
Instead: "Tell me what happened?"
A boy who touched her at lunch, from whom she pulled away. Told him not to do that. Told the teacher.
She did everything right, and sweet relief floods me, soaking through my veins. She did it right. She remembered our talks and she did it all the way we taught her.
We talk as the minutes pile up in the corner, going over what happened. Who he is. Does she sit by him in class? No. Did he get sent to the office? Yes. Is she ok? Yes.
She did everything right. We did everything right. He's five maybe. Maybe six. It's normal and it's still not ok.
Not to mama bear.
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Before I tuck her into her bed, wrap her in a Tinkerbell blanket with another pink blanket on top, I ask her if she wants to tell her daddy. She does.
She tells her daddy. A window of rage in his eyes, which he shutters quickly. His hand, again, under her chin. This time he looks in her eyes, holding her face, and he says, "You did everything right. And if that (fucking son of a bitch no-good kid) boy touches you again, you don't just tell him no."
My brain. On fire again. Is he for real?
"If he does that again, you grab the back of his head, push it down toward your leg, and land your knee square against his nose."
He's for real.
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She sleeps soundly. Her dreams, no doubt, of unicorns and fairies. She is safe. She is loved. She did everything right.
Downstairs, I approach the subject. I suggest calling her teacher. Making sure the boy isn't near her ever again in his natural-born life. Maybe he can be moved to another class? Maybe he can wear a straight jacket to keep his 'normal, curious' hands to his goddamned self? Maybe he's been expelled? I plan what to say next. What to do. How to be at work all day while simultaneously serving as her personal bodyguard and never leaving her alone with another boy ever again.
"She remembered," he tells me, "so you have to let it go. She did everything right, and if he touches her again she can knee him in the nose."
But I want to keep talking. I want to be sure she knows she did it right. It's not her fault. It's probably normal and probably benign and yet she can always say no. I wonder aloud at a meeting with the teacher. I wonder aloud at what more we need to talk about, to be sure she won't suffer some body-dysmorphic asexual side effect to the perv in kindergarten's actions. I wonder aloud and he stops me.
"You have to let it go. She's fine. She did it right and she will probably never bring it up again. If she does, you talk to her. You show her the best way to knee a guy in the nose. But until then, stop. Stop talking. Because it makes you feel better and you want to keep talking, but you talk and it makes it bigger and it grows until it's a Thing instead of just something that happened at school once and then she did everything right. Don't bring it up with her again. She talked to you now. She'll talk again if she needs to. Don't beat the subject to death to ease your own mind. For her sake, let it go."
And I listen. I listen because of the times I've wanted to be the nurterer and he knew the kids needed a "That sucks, but get over it" approach. I listen for the time I tried to talk to the kids about stranger danger and safety words and he interrupted and said, "If a stranger approaches, run. Yell and run and if you have to kick and punch. But first, you run." I listen because when the mama bear is in her cage and pacing and growling and wants to pull her cubs close but she can't because they are on the other side of the gate - - - those are the times papa bear teaches them how to climb the fence.
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I am a flawed mother. A flawed wife. But I love them fiercely and so does he. And I am so thankful for a husband who changed diapers and helped his wife breastfeed and smooths lotion over those same limbs that used to be exclusively ours but are now exclusively theirs. Sometimes my heart loses to his instinct, and in those times I'm so grateful for the instinct of a loving dad to guide them.
Showing posts with label Darrick. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Darrick. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Monday, November 28, 2011
What We Teach Our Kids.
We met my family for 'brunch' on Sunday at a cute little restaurant in Gilbert. Over delicious food, we wished my oldest brother a happy birthday and talked about the upcoming holidays. Driving home, I skipped the freeway in favor of streets that take us by big houses and huge green yards dotted with horses and herding dogs.
Soon enough, the suburban splendor gives way to a pocket of town between the meal and home where you're more likely to see big families pushing a stroller and dragging 3 little ones down the road, each of them clutching a few bags from the grocery store. Doing their part to get the food home without a car. People hanging around outside convenience stores in a way that's completely benign but instills a small flutter of caution in my belly if the store they are haunting is one where I need to stop for gas.
We sat at a red light talking about our plans for the rest of the day, when suddenly my husband asked why I thought that big white car was stopped at such a funny angle, halfway in the center lane used for left turns, one turn signal appearing to blink but showing them turning the opposite direction from that which the car's nose was pointed. My gut kicked in and I answered, "Who knows." and looked up at the red light, waiting for it to change.
"I think they need help," my husband answered. And so, as the light turned I flipped on my blinker to get over to the right lane and turn onto the road behind the car, but someone was in my way. Instead I decided at the last minute to go straight and make a right into the convenience store's parking lot. My husband was compelled to go see why the car was stopped where it was, hastily blocking half a lane of traffic. I'm not as good a citizen as he is and would have driven on, but the truth of my husband is this: you never doubt that you're safe when he's around. It's not just the fact he's bigger than most other men. It's not even his street smarts from growing up in one of the worst parts of the Valley. It's just that I always assume that his knack for talking to people and making them feel instantly safe with him around will transfer to strangers. Even strangers in dodgy cars in dodgy neighborhoods.
Just as I parked the car, a big guy - bigger than my husband - stepped out of its driver side door and went around back to begin leaning his body against the rear fender. Not thinking twice, my husband had his door open before our car was in park and was darting across 2 empty lanes to help. I watched him as he leaned into the trunk as well and his whole lower body hunkered down to move the car forward slowly on sleepy wheels. Within a few seconds, they were crossing the road and the big man was jumping in the front seat to steer the car into the lot where we were parked.
"What's daddy doin', mama?" asked Rohan in back.
"Don't worry, buddy," Luca answered before I could, "he's helping that man with the big car. It's the right thing to do, you know."
A lump sat in my throat as I smiled and caught her eyes in my rearview mirror. I nodded in agreement.
Seconds later, Darrick was pulling open the passenger door. "He ran out of gas," he told me. "Oh," I stupidly answered. My brain wasn't connecting what he was saying, so he did the work for me. "Right over there, on that corner...that station has gas and this one doesn't."
We turned out and made our way to the convenience store across the street. He grabbed a fistful of dollar bills and went inside. I watched him in my car's side mirror as he disappeared through sliding doors and reappeared with a gallon jug of water. Stopping by some plants, he emptied the whole thing and then came to the pump. Three dollars later, the gallon jug was nearly full and we left the parking lot to go back over to the man with the big white car.
I pulled intot he spot right next to him, all 4 of our windows down because the kids were curious and wanted to hear what was happening. "You came back." said the man, astonished and grateful.
I reached behind my seat and pulled out an empty water bottle. With a pocket knife, the man cut out the base of the bottle and used it as a funnel to pour a gallon of gas into his car. Darrick talked to him as he did so, in a voice I couldn't really hear. And anyhow, even if I'd been able to properly listen in, The Grinch was on the radio and the kids were demanding that I turn up the volume.
Getting back into the car, Darrick told me the man had thanked him. He worked just down the street at a restaurant as a chef and had worked an unusual early morning shift to make some extra holiday cash. He thought he had enough gas to make it the three miles home, but obviously he'd been wrong. He turned toward the convenience store to get gas, forgetting that it was the one across the street that had gas pumps. He had offered Darrick money as a thank you. Darrick turned it down. He offered us a free dinner the next night at his restaurant, and Darrick said we'd try to make it.
He thanked us profusely. I put my hand on my husband's arm as we drove away, told him he did a good thing.
"Nah. He needed help. We've all been there. It's the right thing to do, you know," he replied, as Luca caught my eye in the mirror and smiled.
Soon enough, the suburban splendor gives way to a pocket of town between the meal and home where you're more likely to see big families pushing a stroller and dragging 3 little ones down the road, each of them clutching a few bags from the grocery store. Doing their part to get the food home without a car. People hanging around outside convenience stores in a way that's completely benign but instills a small flutter of caution in my belly if the store they are haunting is one where I need to stop for gas.
We sat at a red light talking about our plans for the rest of the day, when suddenly my husband asked why I thought that big white car was stopped at such a funny angle, halfway in the center lane used for left turns, one turn signal appearing to blink but showing them turning the opposite direction from that which the car's nose was pointed. My gut kicked in and I answered, "Who knows." and looked up at the red light, waiting for it to change.
"I think they need help," my husband answered. And so, as the light turned I flipped on my blinker to get over to the right lane and turn onto the road behind the car, but someone was in my way. Instead I decided at the last minute to go straight and make a right into the convenience store's parking lot. My husband was compelled to go see why the car was stopped where it was, hastily blocking half a lane of traffic. I'm not as good a citizen as he is and would have driven on, but the truth of my husband is this: you never doubt that you're safe when he's around. It's not just the fact he's bigger than most other men. It's not even his street smarts from growing up in one of the worst parts of the Valley. It's just that I always assume that his knack for talking to people and making them feel instantly safe with him around will transfer to strangers. Even strangers in dodgy cars in dodgy neighborhoods.
Just as I parked the car, a big guy - bigger than my husband - stepped out of its driver side door and went around back to begin leaning his body against the rear fender. Not thinking twice, my husband had his door open before our car was in park and was darting across 2 empty lanes to help. I watched him as he leaned into the trunk as well and his whole lower body hunkered down to move the car forward slowly on sleepy wheels. Within a few seconds, they were crossing the road and the big man was jumping in the front seat to steer the car into the lot where we were parked.
"What's daddy doin', mama?" asked Rohan in back.
"Don't worry, buddy," Luca answered before I could, "he's helping that man with the big car. It's the right thing to do, you know."
A lump sat in my throat as I smiled and caught her eyes in my rearview mirror. I nodded in agreement.
Seconds later, Darrick was pulling open the passenger door. "He ran out of gas," he told me. "Oh," I stupidly answered. My brain wasn't connecting what he was saying, so he did the work for me. "Right over there, on that corner...that station has gas and this one doesn't."
We turned out and made our way to the convenience store across the street. He grabbed a fistful of dollar bills and went inside. I watched him in my car's side mirror as he disappeared through sliding doors and reappeared with a gallon jug of water. Stopping by some plants, he emptied the whole thing and then came to the pump. Three dollars later, the gallon jug was nearly full and we left the parking lot to go back over to the man with the big white car.
I pulled intot he spot right next to him, all 4 of our windows down because the kids were curious and wanted to hear what was happening. "You came back." said the man, astonished and grateful.
I reached behind my seat and pulled out an empty water bottle. With a pocket knife, the man cut out the base of the bottle and used it as a funnel to pour a gallon of gas into his car. Darrick talked to him as he did so, in a voice I couldn't really hear. And anyhow, even if I'd been able to properly listen in, The Grinch was on the radio and the kids were demanding that I turn up the volume.
Getting back into the car, Darrick told me the man had thanked him. He worked just down the street at a restaurant as a chef and had worked an unusual early morning shift to make some extra holiday cash. He thought he had enough gas to make it the three miles home, but obviously he'd been wrong. He turned toward the convenience store to get gas, forgetting that it was the one across the street that had gas pumps. He had offered Darrick money as a thank you. Darrick turned it down. He offered us a free dinner the next night at his restaurant, and Darrick said we'd try to make it.
He thanked us profusely. I put my hand on my husband's arm as we drove away, told him he did a good thing.
"Nah. He needed help. We've all been there. It's the right thing to do, you know," he replied, as Luca caught my eye in the mirror and smiled.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Reasons I Love My Husband.
We went to the mall today with the sole mission of spending a gift card I have on some new work clothes. Our mission was partially successful, and after we were done the kids were hungry and thirsty. They wanted pretzels and cheese, so we obliged, and in an odd turn of events we got 1 for free.
We went to sit on some couches to eat, and spied a woman by herself. Her clothes were a touch wacky and she was rocking back and forth on the couch opposite us. I smiled at her, but she didn't seem to see me.
My husband followed me over and saw the woman. Without a second thought, he said to her, "Hey, would you like a pretzel? We have an extra." To my surprise, she said yes.
When we left the mall, I told him I thought that was nice of him, offering this woman all alone a pretzel. And I told him I was surprised she said yes. Though she was clearly dancing to music only she could hear, she had a pile of bags beside her, so I assumed she had money.
"Those were Wal-Mart bags, honey. I just saw her and figured maybe she deserved to have someone give her something without her begging for it or having to work her butt off to get it."
"That was awesome of you, babe. That's why I married you."
"Well, thanks. But I didn't do it for the recognition. I just thought she might need someone to be nice to her."
We went to sit on some couches to eat, and spied a woman by herself. Her clothes were a touch wacky and she was rocking back and forth on the couch opposite us. I smiled at her, but she didn't seem to see me.
My husband followed me over and saw the woman. Without a second thought, he said to her, "Hey, would you like a pretzel? We have an extra." To my surprise, she said yes.
When we left the mall, I told him I thought that was nice of him, offering this woman all alone a pretzel. And I told him I was surprised she said yes. Though she was clearly dancing to music only she could hear, she had a pile of bags beside her, so I assumed she had money.
"Those were Wal-Mart bags, honey. I just saw her and figured maybe she deserved to have someone give her something without her begging for it or having to work her butt off to get it."
"That was awesome of you, babe. That's why I married you."
"Well, thanks. But I didn't do it for the recognition. I just thought she might need someone to be nice to her."
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Back Burner.
My husband was roped into coaching football this year. It's the Freshman "B" team...a group of guys who couldn't quite make the cut for the Freshman "A" team. And now they are relying on him to coach them into better skills and hopefully a slot on the JV Team next year. You know...the REAL JV team, not the "B" team where they only get the games the "A" team can't/doesn't take.
If you don't really know my husband, you think he knows a lot about football. You probably even wonder how many years he played in high school. You assume he's got Sunday Ticket and is a rabid fan. Being 6'5" and broad shouldered, it comes with the territory.
His knowledge of football is really sort of paltry. He knows enough to yell at the ref while he drinks a beer and watches a game. And then we beg him to turn off the TV so we can go/see/do and next thing you know it's spring training for baseball and we've only watched pieces of a few games.
So coaching is a challenge for him. He feels bad that he doesn't know drills and plays. Crap, he feels bad that he doesn't know what a Cornerback does. But he'll learn, and I know he will. My husband is amazing in many ways, but his dedication to his students is one of his most amazing qualities. For those nervous and falsely pompous freshmen all fighting to be a hero, he'll do anything. Including dragging his family to the Wednesday night game of the Freshman "A" squad on a day that hit 116.
So there we were, watching him stand on the field and try to soak up football through osmosis, when we ran into the wife of the "A" squad's head coach. Her eldest daughter is in Luca's preschool class this year. Her other daughter is a year younger than Rohan. And she's pregnant with Baby #3.
We made small talk which quickly turned to kid talk which then switched to baby talk. First, about the son she is expecting and how excited they are. Next, to how nervous they are to have 3 under 4. That's 3 kids in daycare/preschool at the same time on 2 teachers' salaries in case you were counting. Which she was.
And then she asked me that fateful question, "Just 2 for you guys?" and I stumbled over my response.
If you'd asked me in those hormone-laden days and weeks after Rohan's birth, when I was flying high on my amazing little family and feeling like SuperWoman, I'd have insisted there was another baby in our future. Truth be told, I still feel pretty strongly that we're not done. It's almost like there's another little baby waiting in the wings, and on those days when Darrick and I both talk wistfully about sweet newborn peach cheeks and baby fuzz I can see it like it's a foregone conclusion. We joke about how maybe this next one will look like me rather than being another little Daddy Clone. We talk about how much easier it will be to afford the baby when Luca's in kindergarten, or even better when she's in 1st grade and Rohan is 1 year away from Kinder (i.e. one year away from us not having to PAY for his schooling). We let Luca muse over possible baby names (She wants a girl, who will be named Flower, of course.).
But on other days? Our life as a family of 4 is pretty sweet. We have a rhythm. We have balance. We have dreams of a future that involves long road trips and a 10 year anniversary trip somewhere exotic. We don't miss diapers, especially now that we're down to only using a few Pull Ups a week since most mornings at least 1 kid wakes dry. We have faith that just about the time we're done paying for daycare/preschool we'll also have paid off our car and all our credit cards and we'll be able to live without worrying about money for 4 days before every payday. We have a small car that we hope will last for many years and doesn't really have room for a 3rd carseat.
But then: pretty soon Luca will be in a booster seat, which takes less space than a carseat. And soon enough our daycare/preschool costs will go down dramatically. And....and....and....and.....
It's a stalemate. And I don't know what should be our next move. I don't think Darrick does either, so most days we don't talk about the subject at all. On a date night recently, when conversation was flowing and I looked at my best friend across the table from me, I had the courage to lay it all out. I asked him if he thought he'd ever want to have another baby, even though I was sure I knew his answer. I guess I was feeling brave enough to hear him say no; he was done.
He didn't say that at all. He also didn't say he wants another baby someday for sure. In fact, it turns out that if we're perfectly attuned in any way at all, it's in uncertainty. Neither of us knows what the future will hold, and we're not ready to permanently close the door on babies in the future. So for now, we're moving it to the back burner. We're committed to reaching some other goals together first, from paying off the car and other debts to some home improvements. And we're talking careers long-term and a possible career shift for one of us. I guess time will tell whether or not another baby will fit into our life, and I'm finally ok with the decision not to make any decision at all.
If you don't really know my husband, you think he knows a lot about football. You probably even wonder how many years he played in high school. You assume he's got Sunday Ticket and is a rabid fan. Being 6'5" and broad shouldered, it comes with the territory.
His knowledge of football is really sort of paltry. He knows enough to yell at the ref while he drinks a beer and watches a game. And then we beg him to turn off the TV so we can go/see/do and next thing you know it's spring training for baseball and we've only watched pieces of a few games.
So coaching is a challenge for him. He feels bad that he doesn't know drills and plays. Crap, he feels bad that he doesn't know what a Cornerback does. But he'll learn, and I know he will. My husband is amazing in many ways, but his dedication to his students is one of his most amazing qualities. For those nervous and falsely pompous freshmen all fighting to be a hero, he'll do anything. Including dragging his family to the Wednesday night game of the Freshman "A" squad on a day that hit 116.
So there we were, watching him stand on the field and try to soak up football through osmosis, when we ran into the wife of the "A" squad's head coach. Her eldest daughter is in Luca's preschool class this year. Her other daughter is a year younger than Rohan. And she's pregnant with Baby #3.
We made small talk which quickly turned to kid talk which then switched to baby talk. First, about the son she is expecting and how excited they are. Next, to how nervous they are to have 3 under 4. That's 3 kids in daycare/preschool at the same time on 2 teachers' salaries in case you were counting. Which she was.
And then she asked me that fateful question, "Just 2 for you guys?" and I stumbled over my response.
If you'd asked me in those hormone-laden days and weeks after Rohan's birth, when I was flying high on my amazing little family and feeling like SuperWoman, I'd have insisted there was another baby in our future. Truth be told, I still feel pretty strongly that we're not done. It's almost like there's another little baby waiting in the wings, and on those days when Darrick and I both talk wistfully about sweet newborn peach cheeks and baby fuzz I can see it like it's a foregone conclusion. We joke about how maybe this next one will look like me rather than being another little Daddy Clone. We talk about how much easier it will be to afford the baby when Luca's in kindergarten, or even better when she's in 1st grade and Rohan is 1 year away from Kinder (i.e. one year away from us not having to PAY for his schooling). We let Luca muse over possible baby names (She wants a girl, who will be named Flower, of course.).
But on other days? Our life as a family of 4 is pretty sweet. We have a rhythm. We have balance. We have dreams of a future that involves long road trips and a 10 year anniversary trip somewhere exotic. We don't miss diapers, especially now that we're down to only using a few Pull Ups a week since most mornings at least 1 kid wakes dry. We have faith that just about the time we're done paying for daycare/preschool we'll also have paid off our car and all our credit cards and we'll be able to live without worrying about money for 4 days before every payday. We have a small car that we hope will last for many years and doesn't really have room for a 3rd carseat.
But then: pretty soon Luca will be in a booster seat, which takes less space than a carseat. And soon enough our daycare/preschool costs will go down dramatically. And....and....and....and.....
It's a stalemate. And I don't know what should be our next move. I don't think Darrick does either, so most days we don't talk about the subject at all. On a date night recently, when conversation was flowing and I looked at my best friend across the table from me, I had the courage to lay it all out. I asked him if he thought he'd ever want to have another baby, even though I was sure I knew his answer. I guess I was feeling brave enough to hear him say no; he was done.
He didn't say that at all. He also didn't say he wants another baby someday for sure. In fact, it turns out that if we're perfectly attuned in any way at all, it's in uncertainty. Neither of us knows what the future will hold, and we're not ready to permanently close the door on babies in the future. So for now, we're moving it to the back burner. We're committed to reaching some other goals together first, from paying off the car and other debts to some home improvements. And we're talking careers long-term and a possible career shift for one of us. I guess time will tell whether or not another baby will fit into our life, and I'm finally ok with the decision not to make any decision at all.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Unplanned Benefits.
Our floors aren't done. We're on hiatus during the work week, but hope to finish the floors and put in our new door this weekend. But that's won't stop Luca from embracing the change. Her new love is changing into dance clothes in the morning because, in her words, "It's like ballet class in here!"
Every little girl needs a tutu, sparkly shoes, and a daddy who can help her spin.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Seeing Green.
I had yesterday off for Rohan's birthday. Since Darrick and Luca are on spring break, I took today off as well. My mom offered to watch the kids, so we headed out to lunch then had a few drinks at our old watering hole. This place used to be walking distance from our old house, so we would go there with neighbors and have a few drinks, then walk safely home. I love living where we live now, but man do I miss this little piece of pre-kid life.
This year is Lucky Number 7 for us, and just these few hours alone together, having a slow lunch and playing a fun game of darts, reminded me why I love my life so much.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
The Only Girl In The Room.
My husband is a Leo.
Our daughter is a Taurus.
You could call it a coincidence, but then I could call it a case of them both being a bit stubborn and a bit intense sometimes. Now, don't get me wrong: I love them both to pieces. And it's a good thing I do because if I didn't they would be convinced it was because of something wrong with me, since clearly they are perfect just as they are.
So what we get sometimes is a bit of butting heads, and it's interesting to me that we live in a house divided: on one side is the pair of them, a bit impetuous and boastful but at the same time so generous and loving it can make your heart burst with joy. On the other side is us: the son with the silly personality and carefree ways and flashing temper, and his momma who loves laughter and peacefulness but wants things done her way.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On any typical night, I get home from work and Husband is mildly grumpy and pretty hungry, sitting on the floor with the aftermath of 2 wild kids circling him and dropping toys in their wake. As soon as I turn off my car, she's running out to greet me, sometimes with little brother following dutifully. Their faces are bright with smiles at first, and then: she starts to talk and he bursts into manic panic of some variety because I Have Not Picked Him Up Yet and Why Haven't I Picked Him UP??!!?!. I swoop his warm body up in my arms, kiss her like it's been weeks and not 9 hours since I saw her last, and go inside to put down my bag. And then we eat and we play and we barter over bites of food and potential desserts and she talks through the whole thing, interrupting stories we're telling to give us her version. And, in her version, everything happened 'last summer' or 'on Sunderday' and her voice sounds how I imagine a little squirrel would sound if a little squirrel could talk. And then sometimes he begs to be held or he WILL CRY, but when you hold him you'd better stand up and rock or he WILL CRY and then he needs kisses or he WILL CRY but when he's ready to get down and tells you, "All Done!" and you let him down it will offend him that he's no longer being held even though He Wanted Down and he WILL CRY. And then he'll be distracted by something and tear across the room with his head thrown back and crash into the couch with a boom and laughter.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tonight, we went out to dinner. We fancied it up at Olive Garden, mostly because they have endless salad and endless pasta and my husband is still on that wing quest I mentioned before. It was a fun dinner, actually, with Rohan eating possibly more food than I did, and Luca barely eating unless I concentrated on reminding her to eat (flighty, too...she's a bit of that but it's so endearing, you know?) and the waiter misinterpreting my husband asking him for a to-go box for my leftovers as a sign that I wanted him to pack my dinner up as I sat there, fork mid-air between plate and mouth with angel hair pasta hanging from it.
And then, CRASH went the bliss when we walked outside, me with a big boy in my left arm and leftovers in my right, and her daddy offered her his hand to cross the parking lot. This was met with tears which were soon a full-blown meltdown of epic and heart-wrenching proportions. Why? Because, you know, she wanted to hold my hand. Naturally. Since both his hands were free and neither of mine were.
We both acted cool as we crossed the parking lot, acutely aware of the old folks watching the stormy sky light up in shades of pink and violet and most likely preparing themselves to judge our every parenting mis-step. Smile, keep your humor, don't let her rattle you with the scene she's attempting to create.
But when we got to the car and I leaned to buckle her in, it's entirely possible I lost all cool and semi-growled, "You WILL stop that right now." in the Scary Mom voice.
Once everyone was buckled in and some semblance of calm had stopped her tears, I asked her what That had been about. And at first it was, "I wanted YOU to hold my hand." but then I dug a bit more because even though I said before that he and she are so alike (this = the root behind the head-butting they do), it means I sometimes best know when to call her on her...bullshit? Can you call a 3 year old on their bullshit? Because, frankly, I do. And it works. Sometimes. Usually.
"At school," she whimpered, "when daddy gets me? He doesn't give me a cuddle."
There it was. Simple. Surprising in that he hadn't even thought of it and who expects a 3 year old to remember and fret over these sorts of things anyhow? And of course he brushed it off at first, because (a) he's a dude and (b) he's a dude, but when I pressed a bit he said to me, "Well, I don't run in and coo over her, if that's what she means." And then, to her directly, "But sweetie, does Daddy come in and talk to your teachers and all your friends?"
Her: "Yes."
Him: "Well, see? Lots of kids don't have Daddies who do tha-"
Me (cutting him off): "She doesn't care what other Daddies don't do, babe. She cares what her Daddy DOES."
Him: "Oh? But..."
Me: "Sometimes, even when she's only 3, a girl wants to feel like she's the only girl in the room."
::silence::
Him: "Oh."
When we got home, I gave Rohan some milk and got him in nighttime gear and carried his sleepy body up to bed. We had smooches and cuddles, and then I put him in his crib with his Bop-Bop and blankie and left the room. When I came back down, they were there, together in the playroom, peas in a pod teasing each other and building houses and shapes with blocks. She would erupt in giggles every time he'd knock her building down and then he'd tickle her feet and suddenly that magic between Daddy and daughter was back and, in his eyes I could see this: She was the only girl in the room.
Our daughter is a Taurus.
You could call it a coincidence, but then I could call it a case of them both being a bit stubborn and a bit intense sometimes. Now, don't get me wrong: I love them both to pieces. And it's a good thing I do because if I didn't they would be convinced it was because of something wrong with me, since clearly they are perfect just as they are.
So what we get sometimes is a bit of butting heads, and it's interesting to me that we live in a house divided: on one side is the pair of them, a bit impetuous and boastful but at the same time so generous and loving it can make your heart burst with joy. On the other side is us: the son with the silly personality and carefree ways and flashing temper, and his momma who loves laughter and peacefulness but wants things done her way.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On any typical night, I get home from work and Husband is mildly grumpy and pretty hungry, sitting on the floor with the aftermath of 2 wild kids circling him and dropping toys in their wake. As soon as I turn off my car, she's running out to greet me, sometimes with little brother following dutifully. Their faces are bright with smiles at first, and then: she starts to talk and he bursts into manic panic of some variety because I Have Not Picked Him Up Yet and Why Haven't I Picked Him UP??!!?!. I swoop his warm body up in my arms, kiss her like it's been weeks and not 9 hours since I saw her last, and go inside to put down my bag. And then we eat and we play and we barter over bites of food and potential desserts and she talks through the whole thing, interrupting stories we're telling to give us her version. And, in her version, everything happened 'last summer' or 'on Sunderday' and her voice sounds how I imagine a little squirrel would sound if a little squirrel could talk. And then sometimes he begs to be held or he WILL CRY, but when you hold him you'd better stand up and rock or he WILL CRY and then he needs kisses or he WILL CRY but when he's ready to get down and tells you, "All Done!" and you let him down it will offend him that he's no longer being held even though He Wanted Down and he WILL CRY. And then he'll be distracted by something and tear across the room with his head thrown back and crash into the couch with a boom and laughter.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tonight, we went out to dinner. We fancied it up at Olive Garden, mostly because they have endless salad and endless pasta and my husband is still on that wing quest I mentioned before. It was a fun dinner, actually, with Rohan eating possibly more food than I did, and Luca barely eating unless I concentrated on reminding her to eat (flighty, too...she's a bit of that but it's so endearing, you know?) and the waiter misinterpreting my husband asking him for a to-go box for my leftovers as a sign that I wanted him to pack my dinner up as I sat there, fork mid-air between plate and mouth with angel hair pasta hanging from it.
And then, CRASH went the bliss when we walked outside, me with a big boy in my left arm and leftovers in my right, and her daddy offered her his hand to cross the parking lot. This was met with tears which were soon a full-blown meltdown of epic and heart-wrenching proportions. Why? Because, you know, she wanted to hold my hand. Naturally. Since both his hands were free and neither of mine were.
We both acted cool as we crossed the parking lot, acutely aware of the old folks watching the stormy sky light up in shades of pink and violet and most likely preparing themselves to judge our every parenting mis-step. Smile, keep your humor, don't let her rattle you with the scene she's attempting to create.
But when we got to the car and I leaned to buckle her in, it's entirely possible I lost all cool and semi-growled, "You WILL stop that right now." in the Scary Mom voice.
Once everyone was buckled in and some semblance of calm had stopped her tears, I asked her what That had been about. And at first it was, "I wanted YOU to hold my hand." but then I dug a bit more because even though I said before that he and she are so alike (this = the root behind the head-butting they do), it means I sometimes best know when to call her on her...bullshit? Can you call a 3 year old on their bullshit? Because, frankly, I do. And it works. Sometimes. Usually.
"At school," she whimpered, "when daddy gets me? He doesn't give me a cuddle."
There it was. Simple. Surprising in that he hadn't even thought of it and who expects a 3 year old to remember and fret over these sorts of things anyhow? And of course he brushed it off at first, because (a) he's a dude and (b) he's a dude, but when I pressed a bit he said to me, "Well, I don't run in and coo over her, if that's what she means." And then, to her directly, "But sweetie, does Daddy come in and talk to your teachers and all your friends?"
Her: "Yes."
Him: "Well, see? Lots of kids don't have Daddies who do tha-"
Me (cutting him off): "She doesn't care what other Daddies don't do, babe. She cares what her Daddy DOES."
Him: "Oh? But..."
Me: "Sometimes, even when she's only 3, a girl wants to feel like she's the only girl in the room."
::silence::
Him: "Oh."
When we got home, I gave Rohan some milk and got him in nighttime gear and carried his sleepy body up to bed. We had smooches and cuddles, and then I put him in his crib with his Bop-Bop and blankie and left the room. When I came back down, they were there, together in the playroom, peas in a pod teasing each other and building houses and shapes with blocks. She would erupt in giggles every time he'd knock her building down and then he'd tickle her feet and suddenly that magic between Daddy and daughter was back and, in his eyes I could see this: She was the only girl in the room.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Cabbage.
Next weekend, my husband is competing in a wing-eating championship. If you read my blog regularly, you may remember that he won the local wing contest on a total whim several months back, which qualified him for the finals in August. Well, that finale is next Saturday, so we've been prepping him for a few weeks now.
At first, 'prepping' meant he ate a lot of dinner and drank a half gallon of water in the morning and another half with dinner. But then, we did a practice run at Chompie's with their slider challenge and he was less than impressed with his results. He started his half hour with 12 sliders and a pile of onion strings. He called it quits 18 minutes into it with 4.5 sliders and most of the strings left. Not too shabby, right? But is it enough to be able to win the wing contest next weekend? He wasn't convinced.
Which was when he decided to suggest the unthinkable to me: cabbage. Yes, it seems in the ametuer eating contest arena, eating a head of boiled cabbage a day is well-recognized as a low-calorie way to get your stomach used to being stretched with a large quantity of food.
Being the awesome and perfect wife I am (ha ha ha) I went to the store the next day and bought him 3 heads of cabbage. And boiled them. Because, remember when I said I am awesome? I am also apparently stupid enough to ignore what I know was going to happen as a result of all that cabbage.
At first, 'prepping' meant he ate a lot of dinner and drank a half gallon of water in the morning and another half with dinner. But then, we did a practice run at Chompie's with their slider challenge and he was less than impressed with his results. He started his half hour with 12 sliders and a pile of onion strings. He called it quits 18 minutes into it with 4.5 sliders and most of the strings left. Not too shabby, right? But is it enough to be able to win the wing contest next weekend? He wasn't convinced.
Which was when he decided to suggest the unthinkable to me: cabbage. Yes, it seems in the ametuer eating contest arena, eating a head of boiled cabbage a day is well-recognized as a low-calorie way to get your stomach used to being stretched with a large quantity of food.
Being the awesome and perfect wife I am (ha ha ha) I went to the store the next day and bought him 3 heads of cabbage. And boiled them. Because, remember when I said I am awesome? I am also apparently stupid enough to ignore what I know was going to happen as a result of all that cabbage.
In summary, here's how you know I love my husband even when I might be inclined to tease him or complain about his socks on the floor or even ask him in my very-own semi-annoyed/semi-teasing way if he has somewhere he needs to go so I can have the house to myself for a bit: I boiled him a head of cabbage in order to assist his quest for wing greatness.
Post-Script: It smelled worse 12 hours later. Believe me.
Post-Script Two: I can also admit that I am spurred to Wifely Greatness just a bit by the prizes up for grabs.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Summer of Dad
Next week, Darrick returns to work to prep for the start of another school year. We made the calls to our daycare provider to let her know what the schedules will be. We're all set for Luca to start preschool, something she is very excited over and I want to cry about. She has to have a BACKPACK. What in the hell is a 3 year old putting in a backpack anyhow? I guess we will find out.
This morning we were all in the kitchen, Luca and Rohan sitting together on the floor eating ice chips from a pink IKEA bowl, Darrick scrambling eggs, and me pouring coffee. I told Luca that Laura (our DCP) was very excited to see her next week. She smiled at me, and said, "But I'm going to SCHOOL, Mama." Like, duh Mom. Darrick replied to her, "You are, but not next week. Next week Daddy has to go back to work and you and Mo are going to play at Laura's." I noticed she looked a little sad which, frankly, was surprising. This is the kid who visited Laura once this summer so Daddy could have a day to relax, and threw such a fit when she had to leave that he refused to let her go back until summer was over. She love, love, loveS Laura and her friends there.
Suddenly, it clicked. The Summer of Dad was about to be over and bygolly she was sad about it! She confirmed that was the case when I asked. Turns out, a summer full of naps together, coloring, crafts, playing at Grammas and the Other Grammas, the ocassional MickeyD's breakfast fun....all coming to a close. I know it's not conventional. I know there are probably people who look down on us for me working all year and my husband staying home with the kids on school breaks. I know it wouldn't work for everyone and heaps upon heaps of dads would rather have a vasectomy with no anesthetic than stay home for even 1 week with their kids. But damn if my husband isn't awesome with it. My kids have fun and learn new things and get lots of quality time with their Daddy. I don't have to stress about daycare costs and transportation, he does much of the grocery shopping and cooking, and it works out so well for us that I look forward with great anticipation to the summer break and the Daddy/Kid time.
I'm not saying it's perfect. He definitely still calls me at 3 pm somedays to start pressuring me to 'sneak out early' because he Has Had Enough of the shenanigans. Some days, I leave to a baby crying and clinging to my leg and come home to a baby, crying and clinging to my leg. Other days, I get home and can't walk through the door without being assaulted by toys littering the expanse of the floor, their little plastic and wooden parts digging into my feet and almost sending me flying. And on most days, I am just plain jealous that my husband gets to sleep later, nap in the big bed with both kids if he likes, snack on raisins and apple slices, and never once maniacally search a huge pile of washed-but-never-hung clothing trying to find something that fits to wear to work while simultaneously wondering how many days in a row he can get away with sandals instead of heels before someone asks him if he needs to either go on Jenny Craig or Paxil.
But this is the first summer since Luca was born that I feel like we have this thing 'down'. We have a routine that works, we have loose expectations of each other (me: will make the coffee in the morning, put the kids to bed at night, and take off a few days here and there. him: will make an honest effort to keep the house from looking like Hiroshima and will grill several times a week) and we have a happy family. So, in honor of the Summer of Dad, a recap of all the things our little sprinkle-butts have done/learned this summer:
- Rohan learned how to jump into the kiddie pool and splash
- Luca learned how to convince her Daddy she needs donuts
- Rohan dropped his morning nap because morning naptime was cramping their 'get out of the house every day or we'll all go crazy' style
- Luca learned how to safely (ish?) jump from the third step down to the floor
- Rohan expanded his vocabulary to include the ever-vital words: "poo poo", "pee pee", "bum", and "BOOBIES!"
- Luca visited Grandpa enough times to discover that soda (!) and jelly beans (!) go well together as a snack
- Rohan found out how to climb onto the couch, then onto the back of the couch, then up the outside of the stairs while holding onto the railing
- Luca learned how to become a Scorpion Hunter, and the joy of doing so with no shirt on just like her Daddy
I laugh about these things now, thinking 'Only under Daddy's watch...' but truth be told, I am so full of pride and awe over my husband and the dad he is to our kids.
This morning we were all in the kitchen, Luca and Rohan sitting together on the floor eating ice chips from a pink IKEA bowl, Darrick scrambling eggs, and me pouring coffee. I told Luca that Laura (our DCP) was very excited to see her next week. She smiled at me, and said, "But I'm going to SCHOOL, Mama." Like, duh Mom. Darrick replied to her, "You are, but not next week. Next week Daddy has to go back to work and you and Mo are going to play at Laura's." I noticed she looked a little sad which, frankly, was surprising. This is the kid who visited Laura once this summer so Daddy could have a day to relax, and threw such a fit when she had to leave that he refused to let her go back until summer was over. She love, love, loveS Laura and her friends there.
Suddenly, it clicked. The Summer of Dad was about to be over and bygolly she was sad about it! She confirmed that was the case when I asked. Turns out, a summer full of naps together, coloring, crafts, playing at Grammas and the Other Grammas, the ocassional MickeyD's breakfast fun....all coming to a close. I know it's not conventional. I know there are probably people who look down on us for me working all year and my husband staying home with the kids on school breaks. I know it wouldn't work for everyone and heaps upon heaps of dads would rather have a vasectomy with no anesthetic than stay home for even 1 week with their kids. But damn if my husband isn't awesome with it. My kids have fun and learn new things and get lots of quality time with their Daddy. I don't have to stress about daycare costs and transportation, he does much of the grocery shopping and cooking, and it works out so well for us that I look forward with great anticipation to the summer break and the Daddy/Kid time.
I'm not saying it's perfect. He definitely still calls me at 3 pm somedays to start pressuring me to 'sneak out early' because he Has Had Enough of the shenanigans. Some days, I leave to a baby crying and clinging to my leg and come home to a baby, crying and clinging to my leg. Other days, I get home and can't walk through the door without being assaulted by toys littering the expanse of the floor, their little plastic and wooden parts digging into my feet and almost sending me flying. And on most days, I am just plain jealous that my husband gets to sleep later, nap in the big bed with both kids if he likes, snack on raisins and apple slices, and never once maniacally search a huge pile of washed-but-never-hung clothing trying to find something that fits to wear to work while simultaneously wondering how many days in a row he can get away with sandals instead of heels before someone asks him if he needs to either go on Jenny Craig or Paxil.
But this is the first summer since Luca was born that I feel like we have this thing 'down'. We have a routine that works, we have loose expectations of each other (me: will make the coffee in the morning, put the kids to bed at night, and take off a few days here and there. him: will make an honest effort to keep the house from looking like Hiroshima and will grill several times a week) and we have a happy family. So, in honor of the Summer of Dad, a recap of all the things our little sprinkle-butts have done/learned this summer:
- Rohan learned how to jump into the kiddie pool and splash
- Luca learned how to convince her Daddy she needs donuts
- Rohan dropped his morning nap because morning naptime was cramping their 'get out of the house every day or we'll all go crazy' style
- Luca learned how to safely (ish?) jump from the third step down to the floor
- Rohan expanded his vocabulary to include the ever-vital words: "poo poo", "pee pee", "bum", and "BOOBIES!"
- Luca visited Grandpa enough times to discover that soda (!) and jelly beans (!) go well together as a snack
- Rohan found out how to climb onto the couch, then onto the back of the couch, then up the outside of the stairs while holding onto the railing
- Luca learned how to become a Scorpion Hunter, and the joy of doing so with no shirt on just like her Daddy
I laugh about these things now, thinking 'Only under Daddy's watch...' but truth be told, I am so full of pride and awe over my husband and the dad he is to our kids.
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