Genius or weirdo?

The X-Man, looking out the kitchen window this morning,

"A hummingbird is like a hornet and a half."

Do you ever have those moments when your children say something and you just want to pick them up, even if they are seven years old, and hug them and squeeze them? Of course you do. I'm wondering if that feeling ever ends, because I still have it with my ten year old. Occasionally, if it won't embarrass him too much, I even indulge.

Having children is the best thing I've ever done. Even at their worst, they're perfect. I wasn't always a kid person. In fact, I'm still not a kid person, but boy do I ever love mine*. Not too long before I found out I was pregnant (in spite of having taken extreme preventative measures), I announced to my husband that I wasn't sure if I ever wanted children. Funny how those statements will come back to bite you in the a**. Anyhow, all's well that ends well.

Our surprise pregnancy, although shocking at the time, wasn't all that big of a deal. A. and I are so uptight, we probably would have waited until I was 42 to have children. Nothing wrong with that, but I ended up with HELLP Syndrome, which can get worse with age, so having my first at 25 was probably better. And having a baby ten weeks early made me realize how badly I wanted one. Years later, we were on the fence about whether or not to have a third. Over a couple of drinks we decided it would be a great idea and got pregnant almost immediately. I had a miscarriage. That was sad, but it helped us know how much we really, really wanted a third. Baby J is the best. He is also very naughty, which makes us very sure of our decision not to have a fourth**.

And here I go on another tangent. Just a second ago, I Googled HELLP Syndrome to find a link to add to this post. I haven't done that in years, but there was a time when I wanted to read about it every day. I was obsessed, I guess. I don't think that was a bad thing. We needed to know what could happen in future pregnancies (Answer: Same thing, but usually not as bad.) and if there was anything that could be done to prevent it (Answer: Nothing. But healthy eating and controlling my blood pressure with medication seemed to help some.) There's so little information about HELLP and most people who've had it crave answers. Even though I've only met a handful of people in real life who had HELLP, the internet is filled with groupies. I still don't know what causes it, but I think Diet Coke must be the cure. In my last pregnancy, which lasted a whopping (for me) 37 weeks, I allowed myself a can or two of my cherished vice a week. Baby J was almost full term, so it must have been the Diet Coke. Or the acupuncture. Or the exercise. Or luck.

Back to picking up children and squeezing them: When O was born, he weighed 3 pounds and 6 ounces. I weighed about a thousand pounds. We were both hooked up to this and that machine in different rooms, so I didn't get to see him for a couple of days. My dad brought me pictures from the nursery and I held his little hat and smelled it. I cried a lot, because Morphine will make you moody. That is the worst drug, by the way. It doesn't mask pain, it just makes you too tired to complain. I recommend Demerol. Fun times. More than anything, I wanted to pick up O. and squeeze him. I don't remember when we were allowed to hold him, but I do remember spending hours beside his bassinet in the special care nursery, stroking his tiny body with one finger, because my hand was too big. He came home after a month, weighing about four and a half pounds. It was a while before I could really squeeze him.

I didn't see O. at the moment he was born, because I was out cold. I remember feeling really happy about waking up, because from the way everyone was freaking out before I went under, I didn't know if that was going to happen. The last thing I remembered was hearing my doctor argue with the anesthesiologist about whether to use general anesthesia or an epidural. I heard the obstetrician ask for some sort of cutting thing and thought, "Oh. My. God. They didn't finish their little anesthesia chat! This is gonna' be a b*tch." I tried to recommend that they just pick one, but the room went dark, so I guess they already had. Waking up, thrilled to be alive, I looked down at my still full belly, turned to my mother and said,

"Oh! They kept the baby in!"

My happiness was short lived. The baby, thankfully, was tiny but fine. And not in my belly. That mountain was all me. That's what happens if you gain 80 pounds. Knowing that, I did it again in my second pregnancy. Some people never learn. To make a long story short, the baby grew and I shrunk. We both reached normal size. All's well that ends well.

Anyhow, I've exceeded my daily allotment of digressions, so I'll stop. Thanks for letting me relive the memories. Now I'm off to pick up my children and squeeze them!

Namasté, y'all!

* And yours, of course. Yours are adorable, as long as they don't get up in my personal space.

** Well, pretty sure. I'm getting too old for that sh*t, yo.

Drinkin' and Bloggin' Part...Do What?

My husband and I went out to eat Friday night with some semi-new friends. They're semi-new because we've known them for a while, but we haven't actually hung out with them on purpose. We once crashed a party at their place at the beach and decided we liked them, because they didn't throw us out. Cool. Anyhow...

We met at their place for a drink and began the process of choosing a restaurant. We didn't want to drive too far so, bossy decisive as I am, I named three places I love, all within a few minutes of their house. They had their daughter, who is an excellent baby sitter, choose one. They just moved here from Portland, so she picked at random. We went to the restaurant, which shall remain nameless, because I love them and I'm about to be kind of mean. Ish.

We sat down. We had a polite conversation about wine. You know how it is with new couple friends. You have to be delicate. You don't want to make some crass announcement that you are cheap as hell, so you say something like, "I refuse to order wine that costs more than $42. Damn!" Oops. I guess that wasn't delicate. And I did say that. I never claimed to be fancy, ok? So, I had already been kind of obnoxious and I really, really planned to behave like a delicate flower for the rest of the evening. I did! But...

It was really hot in the restaurant. I wasn't the only person in our party who mentioned it (Do I sound defensive?) I'm sort of assertive, by the way. The waitress came back with our wine. As she reached for the wine key, I exhaled, "Wait!" As I mopped the sweat from my brow, I asked her if a seat somewhere else would be cooler.

"No," she responded, with bravado, "There are a lot of people in here and the air conditioning is working hard."

I don't fault her for that answer. I don't think she was trying to cover up the fact that the air conditioning was broken. I think she had been fed that line by the owner of the restaurant, like a Jedi Mind Trick. And I don't think the owner is a big fat liar, either. I think she's in that classic state of denial - the one where you talk yourself into believing the air conditioning isn't broken, that it's just really hot outside. Never mind that every other building you enter in South Carolina in the middle of the summer is freezing cold. Nope. Your air is working just fine. Because your air is working just fine, you most definitely will not have to spend thousands of dollars to fix it. Nope, not you. My advice is to go ahead and call the repair people. You'll get past your denial in a day or so, which is how long it'll take to get an appointment. If you wait until you're emotionally and financially ready to acknowledge the big, sweaty elephant in the room, you'll have to go a lot longer without air conditioning. Trust me. Been there, more than once.

The hapless waitress stood by, poised to open our bottle, which was already sweating even more than I was. Nervously, I asked our companions if they could eat in that heat. I really, really hoped they didn't think I was being obnoxious. They are either very good actors or they were as hot as I was.

We left and went to Tombo's, where we enjoyed a lovely meal in an icy cold room with an icy cold bottle of Sancerre, just like I like it. Just in case you're curious, I had the arugula salad and added tuna steak. It was flippin' fantastic. I just hope our new friends don't think I'm a high maintenance b*tch...

Namasté, y'all!

Two Going on Thirteen.

When your two year old has two older brothers who think they're thirteen (even though they're only seven and ten), you'll feel like you're living with the shortest adolescent in the world. He will copy everything they do and they'll teach him all sorts of charming behaviors. He'll have a sophisticated sense of humor, laughing at farts and burps long before other children his age get the joke. He may even learn how to beat box. At least once a day, I hear "unh-chhh...unh-chhh...unh-chhh" coming from the carseat. He actually keeps a pretty good beat. He can also sing along with Alicia Keys, Lupe Fiasco and Chris Brown.

He doesn't always know how to use the pre-adolescent tricks he learns, though. I'll ask if he wants a popsicle and he'll respond, in an exasperated tone, "Okay, fine!" He hasn't quite mastered the eye roll, but he will. Probably by next week. Probably just in time to offend some nice old lady at the grocery store. Yay.

Sometimes, he gets the pre-teen act disturbingly right. After lunch today, I somehow managed to almost doze off. My eyelids were heavy, but snapped open, as only a mother's eyelids will do, in response to a small sound in the kitchen. It wasn't more than a rustle, really, preceded by a few soft taps and a barely audible click. Most people wouldn't recognize it, much less be startled awake by it. I knew it was the sound of a stool sliding four inches towards the counter, a toddler climbing onto the stool and pressing the keys on the laptop and a digital camera lens opening. Much like his mother, the human toddler has a super human ability to hear the sound of his plans being thwarted. As I walked toward the kitchen, silent as a mouse, I heard him slide off the stool. I found him standing by the stool, pilfered camera in hand. The laptop, interestingly enough, was moved to the very edge of the counter and closed. He looked at me, defiantly, I swear. With big eyes, he claimed,

"I din't do any-fing, Mo-om!"

Total lie. But who am I to argue with a two year old? I've tried it before. You never win. Seriously, never, because they're playing by totally different rules. They can always claim short term memory loss...or total cuteness.

I'm beginning to think it's time that Baby J got a new blog handle. Perhaps "The Flying J" as an homage to his insane desire to jump off of, into or over stuff on a daily basis. But that might be a self-fulfilling prophecy. I'm open to suggestions, by the way. I might just call him Baby J forever, though, because he'll always be my baby. And so will O and the X-Man. So there.

Namasté, y'all!

I'm sure there's an official name for this...

I took exactly one socio-linguistics class in college (which I attended approximately 46.5% of the time) and I vaguely recall there was a name for that thing toddlers do where they get confused about the meaning of a word or phrase and use it in an overly general way. Does anyone know that word? It's going to drive me crazy. Anyhow...

When the big boys are nowhere to be found, Baby J makes a regular announcement.

"I go wake up X-Man!"

He alternates that with,

"I go wake up O!"

He seems to think waking someone up is the same as going upstairs to irritate the living daylight out of them. Shortly after the announcement, he climbs the stairs. After that, there are several possibilities:

• If the announcement is preceded by the familiar sound of a hand dragging through Legos, Baby J will be greeted by someone yelling,"Unhh! NO, Baby J! You can't play with Legos!" He does not, in fact, agree with that assessment, as he finds himself to be perfectly capable of playing with them, although not, perhaps, in the way his brothers would prefer.
• If the announcement is made while the boys aren't home, nothing much happens. Baby J climbs the stairs and, finding no one to stop him, plays with Legos in peace, destroying anything in his path. That's what you get for leaving your damn Legos out, I say. In his mind, he has mad Lego skills.
• If the announcement is made while the boys are actually sleeping, there are two options. The first is kind of sweet. He's greeted with offers of snuggling. The second is not sweet, and involves screaming. It all depends on how early it is. Baby J will take either reaction. He just likes attention. And Legos.
  
• Once in a blue moon, the announcement is followed by the sounds of a big brother or two playing with a grateful toddler. Offers of payment increase the likelihood of that outcome.

In retrospect, I think Baby J means exactly what he says, but in a more figurative sense. As in, "I am coming up there to wake you up to the absolute power of my tyranny." Good thing he's cute.

Namasté, y'all!

In which the boy almost got the long board.

"So, X-Man, what's the best part of your summer so far?"

"Can it be something that hasn't happened yet?"

"Sure."

"Pottery Camp!"

He was so excited about it. He started taking orders from friends and family weeks in advance, planning all sorts of projects. My children have confidence that I never had. It makes me feel like I might have done something right. He started camp Monday.

Oddly, he didn't have much to say about it that night. Usually, he has something to say about everything. He follows me around the house telling me about his day, his favorite book, his Lego project, whatever. The next morning, he told me in a tiny voice that he didn't want to go back to Pottery Camp. When I asked him why, the dam broke and he wept.

"I can't do the wheel. Everybody else could. I'm awful!"

Seven year olds are big boys, or so they think. He tried to control himself, but he was too sad. My heart broke. I explained the obvious, that other beginners were probably having trouble, too, and he would be able to do it soon. He sobbed.

"Everyone could do it...even L...he's a beginner and he's younger than me!"

My sweet seven year old, who almost never sits in my lap any more, curled up in my lap. The top of his head still smells like the toddler he just was. After a while, he trudged upstairs to talk to his older brother.

"Well, you think I'm really stupid," I heard him say.

He and his brother talked while I sat at the top of the stairs in my pajamas and tried to listen. I couldn't hear much, but I did hear this.

"I used to suck at Level 2, but I got better."

I figured this wasn't the time to explain that we don't say "suck" and that video games are not worthy of that much effort, because O. was too busy talking his brother off the ledge. It was working and I didn't want to interrupt. Also, I get kind of emotional when I hear my kids being that sweet to each other, when I haven't even threatened them.

He sounded like he was doing better, so I abandoned my hiding place and went upstairs, so grateful to his big brother, who doesn't really think the X-Man is stupid after all. He looked so tiny, lying face down on the sofa in the Kids' Lounge. I could see my older son, years from now, as a father, trying to comfort his own son. I told the X-Man I thought he should give it another shot and, if it didn't work, he didn't have to go back.

"Well..." he sighed, "The worst part is I ruined my shoes!"

No big deal, I promise, I can wash them.

"Well, I can't even find them!"

Well, a ruined pair of shoes we can't find isn't really ruined, it's just lost. And I happen to know he left them at his cousins' house. And that I can wash them. And that they're a pair of ridiculously worn flip-flops, so the fact that they're lost, ruined or both is no big deal.

It's funny how one disappointment can turn into a dark cloud that makes everything worse. How many times have I done that? I finish an assignment a day late, so I'm a loser. Which means I'm also ugly, have no friends and can't cook. I don't get invited to a party, so no one likes me, I'm still ugly and I'll never accomplish anything. And my ankles are really, really fat. Huh.

I know you won't be surprised to hear it all worked out in the end. He went, promising to try for one more day. My sister in law picked him up and sent me this text:

"X-Man is very happy. He made 4 pots on the wheel. He says he didn't realize it would be so hard, but now he can do it."

You probably also won't be surprised to hear that I got a little bit weepy over that text and forwarded it to my husband, who was also relieved. I just want my children to be happy. And it destroys my soul when they're that sad about something. It's almost more than I can take. I totally get why parents spoil their children. They want them to be happy and they don't know how else to do it.

I came closer than I'd like to admit to buying the long board while he was at pottery camp, so he could have it when he got home. The long board would make him forget all about his inability to do pottery, right? And he would be happy. Until he had trouble riding the long board and abandoned it for something else, which he might also have trouble doing. And on it would go... I didn't buy it, of course. Even if he hadn't enjoyed the second day of Pottery Camp, I wouldn't have bought it. Happy things don't cancel sad things. At best, they might work as a distraction. I did the right thing...and I saved a hundred and nine bucks! Hooray!

But I think I am going to let him buy it this weekend, with his own money. My sister in law talked me into it, because she said you can't do tricks on them and it's very hard to fall off. And I can't stand for my kids to be sad or get hurt. Bet he'll manage one or twice though.

Namasté, y'all!

And he's the smart one.

Conversation between me and the X-Man.

"Mom, I need ten dollars. No, nine."

"Why?" I knew why, because he's been talking about it for days.

"Because I have a hundred dollars and a long board is a hundred and nine dollars."

"What about tax?"

"I have that in my wallet."

"Do you know what tax is?"

"No, but I think it's something good and I'm broke in my wallet."

Not sure where he got that idea, considering we don't even get tax returns.We just have to pay and pay...and pay. I always remind my husband that we should be happy to pay taxes, because it means he made more money. But I still hate to pay them. But I digress.

"I don't know about letting you spend that much money on something. Maybe it should be a Christmas present," I babbled.

He gave me a puppy dog look. Argh! This was getting tough. That kid is seriously cute. And he really, really wants a long board. Real bad. And it's his money. And I shouldn't be controlling. But I should teach him to make responsible choices, shouldn't I? This was my final answer:

"I'm not sure about this. It's a parenting issue. I need to ask my friends."

And he totally accepted that answer. So...it's up to you. Should I let him get it? From his perception of tax, it's obvious he's clueless about money. But he really wants the thing, and he does have money in the bank, even if he is "broke in his wallet." If I do let him get it, do I give him the nine dollars (and tax) or do I make him pay me back? Does the fact that I forgot to get him a present while I was in DC make a difference? My husband seems to have little to no opinion. Help!

Namasté, y'all!

Things I have learned on my vacation so far.

I'm in Washington D.C. this weekend, to get some sleep, visit my sister and see my son sing with his choir at the National Cathedral*, not necessarily in that order. These are some things I have learned:

• Not everyone has coffee at their house.
• If you eat a turkey wrap from Subway on the road, rather than a big chicken biscuit and fries, you don't get horrifying gas a tummy ache.
• It's very easy to embarrass married dudes who are staring at you. And also very funny.
  
• With few exceptions, men in Washington are (1) gay or (2) creepy and married. And there are exceptions. If you know of any, email me. My sister is currently more or less single and open to suggestions (and pretty hot, I think!) She would like someone handsome, preferably with a job and a good personality (i.e. laughs at her jokes. And mine.)
• Women in Washington aren't necessarily as mean assertive as I am. I, for example, would make fun of my husband mercilessly if he stared at other women when he was with me. I wouldn't pout about it, either. Those simpering ladies need a blog. If you have a blog, your husband knows he's only one ogle away from total humiliation.
  
• Christian Louboutins really are more comfortable than mortal shoes.
• I think it's really pretentious for a restaurant in the United States, in the middle of the summer, to serve water at room temperature. Give me a break. And some effing ice, while you're at it.
  
• I think about my family a lot when I'm out of town, especially my husband.

That's it for now.

Namasté, y'all!

* Ahem. Not to brag, but did you know HE SINGS LIKE AN ANGEL? And LOOKS LIKE ONE, TOO? I love him so much!