It's the end of my vanity as I know it, and I feel fine

I've proudly invented a new extreme sport called Speed Grooming. It takes place only in the homes of the pressed-for-alone-time mother who prioritizes a damn shower before eating, reading, watching TV, surfing the net, talking on the phone, and laundry, dishes, and vacuuming. Speed Grooming entails wetting, scrubbing and drying as many surfaces of your body as possible in the blink of an eye while still on mommy detail, but between mommy duties. When I get the >5 minute slot appear in my schedule - that heavenly flicker of peace when I've successfully gotten Noah down for his morning nap and Gabriel is still semi-content watching Cars or Chicken Run or monster trucks on youtube - I run straight to the bathroom. This window of opportunity for Speed Grooming is brief, because Gabriel will soon become discontent with what he's watching and signal his need for immediate assistance by letting out a demanding yell just loud enough to possibly wake the baby. (((!)))

So, fast and furious to the bathroom I run where first things are first: I offer myself a solo go at the toilet while I'm of course warming up the shower. Multi-tasking is even more imperative now than ever. Into the shower. Priorities in case of premature shower sabotage: underarms and crotch. Next is a quick facial scrub, then an even quicker shampoo and if I still have unencumbered shower time I go all the way and indulge in a full body once over with the scrubby gloves. Ahhhh... sweet indulgence. But no time to waste. Out of the shower. A slap of facial SPF, quick slather of body lotion, a quicker comb through the hair, drag the undies and bra over still-damp skin, race to the dresser drawers for a hopefully matching outfit and out to the living room to abate Gabriel's now non-ignorable calls for attention.

Gone are the days of perusing through my variety of mac lipstick tubes or running some yummy smelling product through my hair. Forget it. Ain't even worth the effort at this point. I've got hats, hair bands and cheap Goodie hair clips to deal with my non-styled do. If you see these on me, it's strictly business. I end up drinking from my son's sippy cup all day, so I surely don't want lipstick stains added to my already overloaded dish duty.

I distinctly remember a lively pre-marriage dinner conversation with all my super y single friends. We were out at our favorite mexican restaurant celebrating my move from singledom in LA to shacking up in San Diego with my soon-to-be-husband. They were all grilling me as to whether I'd be having children. But the subtext of the question was, "Are you really going to leave us and turn in your cuteness to become an unkempt, unstylish, unsexy mommy?" Every time I now leave the house without so much as having seen my reflection in the mirror, I think of one of my friend's face as she snarled her lip and raised her eyebrow and said she never wants to have kids because she never wants to be that mother who wears formless sweats and keeps her hair in a ponytail. Well let me tell you, I now understand why mommies do so. If I'm going to have my every shirt and pant immediately smeared in snot and food, am I really going to pull out all the stops and wear my y bright red salsa dancing dress to the playground? And if my hair and ears are going to be pulled, am I really going to bother scrunching, styling and adorning with jewels? So, yes, I've pretty much adopted the mommy uniform. One day I was feeling kinda feisty and decided to wear an outfit from my other life (eons ago) and that was the day Noah decided to spit up 7, count them seven times, on my green velvet low-riders and Cirque du Soliel frock. So now I'm super happy with a monochromatic Costco or Marika parking lot sale outfit. Pants: $8. Shirt $8. Why shop anywhere else?

But obviously I am still totally vein (why else even try with hats and goody clips?) , just not as vein as I used to be. And thank god because seeing my boys thrive is so much more fulfilling than being really cute. Well, at least as fulfilling as being really cute. :))

org and re-org

This having babies business really meets my need for the feeling of accomplishment that comes with endlessly organizing miscellaneous things that can never ever be fully organized and are perpetually in a state of needing reorganized. Having two baby boys means I get the nonstop opportunity to hone my mess-moving skills. Here's me in deep thought with scrunched brow, eyeing the kitchen or bedroom or laundry room or bathroom situation : "Okay, what would happen if I moved this mess over there, and move that mess over there so I can clear a space for a new mess to be made right here." Add into the situation our family's weekly expedition to Costco and mama's got a full-time job stocking, restocking,  inventorying stock, subbing back-up stock, and managing overstock mayhem. 

A large part of this org/re-org cycle is cleaning. Endless cleaning. The amount of poop, pee, spit up, drool, cementified pasty cereal sludge, smashed-into-the-carpet oatmeal and avocados, shredded chicken and fish, and liquified crackers and applesauce I deal in is astounding. You'd think with the daily demand to do piles of dishes, swab up messy floors, and wipe down disgusting surfaces I'd have become a spic n' span expert by now.  But no. My cleaning remains pathetic at best. It's really just another case of push-the-mess-somewhere-else-for-later so that I can stop my toddler from teetering on his step stool to pull a knife from the counter while my infant crawls with vigor under the table to eat some who-knows-how-old, unidentifiable crusty lump. 

Reorganizing kids' clothing drawers is an exercise in futility second only to trying to keep sand out of a baby's mouth at the beach. Both my little guys find pulling clothing out of drawers supremely entertaining, mine included. I've found extraneous pairs of my panties floating around in their pajama drawers, and everywhere else in the house for that matter. Plus, I'm always in such a mad frenzy to get clothing on to one child while the other is either screaming bloody murder or about to endanger his life somehow, that I've no time to keep sorted drawer piles in tact. They're both growing out of sizes at light speed anyway - making an eventual reorg overhaul imminent -  so what's the use in attempting drawer tidiness now?

But when it comes down to it, the truth of the matter is that I've become addicted to this reorganization cycle. I find it annoyingly satisfying. When I'm exhausted and burnt out from one mess I find myself looking around expectantly to see if there is more to do. It feels exhilarating to have it all momentarily "done" - as if that exists.  A not-so-tiny part of me thrives on the accomplishment of a reorg well done. So in this light, I guess I've never had it so good. My reorg addict is permanently in  business at least for the next 17 years or so. Good news for this junkie.

Never poop alone again

I was reading the title of an article on the cover of a La Leche League magazine promoting the family bed (co-sleeping) called "Who wants to sleep alone?" I thought very loudly to myself, "I do! That's who! I want my very own entire night's uninterrupted sleep, thank you very much."

Now a much more pertinent question in my world is, "Who wants to ever have to poop alone again?" Why ...  when you can have two brilliant little boyz buzzing around the toidy bowl while you plop away? And if you do want to poop alone again, don't be going around having babies because you will soon experience the non-optional family toilet, as opposed to choosing the family bed or not. And grotesquely enough, I like it this way. I honestly don't mind my infant yanking the toilet paper roll while my toddler hovers next to the flusher waiting for my cue:

"Okay Gabriel, wait until I'm finished. Wait, wait WAIT!!! Don't flush until I'm all done! I'm still pooping. ... Okay... all done. You can flush now."

Just thought I'd share a little slice of our morning routine.

ban boring baby books, dammit!

OMG, if I have to read another round of "meeska mooska mickey mouse let's go to my clubhouse," I am going to end up crouched in the corner of a mental ward vacantly babbling "cheers we've got ears!" and "hot dog!" as I rock myself and stare off into space.

Why do so many children's board books bore me to tears? I'm supposed to use that enthusiastic mommy reading voice that intonates up at the end of each sentence when reading about such stimulating things as farm animals, front end loaders, and potties. Actually I don't mind the potty stuff due to my underground interest in all things poop.

Speaking of farm animals... Last Christmas I went to a free Santa photo shoot at our local public library where they generously gave out beautiful brand new books as gifts to the kiddies. They handed us a wonderful thick edition of  Golden Tales' Farm Tales - something like 20 stories in one. What a gold mine, I erroneously thought. A year-and-a-half later I find myself neighing, baaing, honking, mooing, quacking, woofing, meowing and cockadoodledooing about a thousand times too many every single morning as we take our obligatory tour through Farmer Jones' & Farmer Brown's farmyards over and over again. Oy fuckin' vey! 

I've flat out refused to re-read Smudge anymore, the on-the-edge-of-your-seat thriller about a dog who notices it's raining outside so he goes inside. And then it stops raining, so he goes outside again. Enticing story line. How does this shit get published? Every time I had to read Smudge I thought to myself, "Man, who the hell writes this crap anyway? Anything can get published as a kids book. I spent a year-and-a-half of blood, sweat, and tears and went into a grave amount of debt getting my brilliant book inspiring women to love their bodies published only to have it fail... while some simpleton writes a couple of  paragraphs about a dog going inside and outside and it actually winds up on my shelf."

Oh, and Curious George? Don't even get me started. Catatonia. Pure catatonia. 

Okay, so ending on a gracious note, I do love reading to my sons and there are actually two totally cool books I like reading the most:  Zen Shorts and The Three Questions. Both ironically deal with the eternal virtues of simply being present and of service to the one you're with. Which in my case boils down to getting real happy re-reading Smudge, Curious George and The Animals of Farmer Jones, 'cuz all that really matters is that my beautiful sons are in my lap, soft hands resting on my forearms, sweet eyes fixed on the page, ears tuned in to mommy... and I feel warm and whole and loved.

mean blog

This is a mean blog. I apologize in advance to the weak at heart. If you feel up to the task, hear me out anyway. It's all in good fun, for my own guilty under my breath snarfy chuckles.

Unless I know and love you, I don't care how old your child is.

Just because I had babies doesn't mean I'm automatically interested in other people's kids. Giving birth did not magically turn me from a self-involved exhibitionist into a baby and/or child lover. Except for mine of course -I love them to death and am infinitely fascinated by their every mundane development. But that interest does not unfortunately carry over to every other miscellaneous child I encounter daily. And let me tell you, I encounter tons of them since that's what I do all day every day- be with my kids where other all-day-every-day-with-their-kids-mommies are. You know, the usual suspects: the grocery store, the park, the zoo, the library... the grocery store, the park, the zoo, the library.

It's the retarded default question that every catatonically bored parent pushing their kid on the swing next to mine or waiting in line at Vons always asks me: How old is he? I know it is a politehood, and I always answer back politely. But the fact is that I never re-gift the question because quite frankly I just don't care how old their child is. It doesn't interest me in the slightest. I'm sorry. I apologize for this socially incorrect truth, this blasphemy of motherhood, this overtly rude confession. But motherhood has not instantaneously transformed me into a child-o-phile. I don't coo at every passing baby and child. (okay, some of them...the teeny tiny itty bitty newborns do interest me a little, just because of the sheer tininess of them) I don't wonder what developmental milestones every random child in my path has hit. I don't suffer any burning curiosity to know what foods your child likes and dislikes, what stage or non-stage of potty training they're at, what you'll do or not do for your child's next birthday or when they nap or don't nap. And I certainly don't think every baby and kid is cute. Not even close.

So please, unless you really do care and are genuinely curious... you don't have to ask me my child's age just to make small talk in a boring situation. I'm fine with just glancing at each other's kids with an obligatory (perhaps forced) weak grin - without comment - and moving on to our next parental task like wiping down a gushing snotty nose or finding a thrown off shoe or ripping away the stolen snickers bar from my cleptomanic-in-training's greedy little paws in the grocery line.

Tantrumming toddler asked for a hug

Wow, I feel like I might possibly be able to begin thinking of myself as sort of a good mommy. Is this not the single biggest insecurity of every parent alive: Am I a bad parent? Am I doing this right or failing miserably?

A few dozen tantrums ago I asked Gabriel if he needed a hug during the height of his insanity. This generous action was inspired by a suggestion from a babycenter.com article on toddler discipline I was desperately reading in response to my current job description. He said "yes," I gave him one, and voila, tantrum aborted. I was shocked and amazed. So I asked him to please tell me if he needed a hug again. A few dozen un-aborted garden variety tantrums transpired over the next couple of weeks... until today. He didn't want to leave Vons for some unknown reason and was throwing a good ole' hizzy as I relatively calmly guided us towards home.

And then he did it.

"Hug," he asked quietly, stopping himself in his mighty crazy tracks.

"You want a hug?" I asked in beautiful disbelief.

"Yes," he answered.

"I would love to give you a hug," I graciously replied as I kneeled down in a rare and  crystallized moment of parental satisfaction and bear-hugged the crap out of him. We then walked the rest of the way home peacefully and quietly.

Love oozed out of  my every pore. Love for him for being able to recognize and articulate a need and get it met . And most importantly some much needed self love for witnessing a mommy job well done. A loving pat on my back for maybe, just maybe, being an effective parent. 

(((sigh)))

Now,  if he could just abort his impulse to dump his loads in his diapers and instead actually say "potty" before he lies and says "I'm pooping." Which translates to "I already pooped in my diaper and am now going to terrorize you by running away zig-zaggedly as fast as possible so that you feel like a total idiot chasing me and my poopy ass." :)

new year...new poop?

Okay, I really don't have much to say about the new year except that the pooping situation in this household has got to change. Let's see...where to start? Hmmm... I guess life becomes a little bit unmanageable when your husband feels he must go down to the apartment complex pool bathrooms to take a dump, mommi has had to squat outside in the highly manicured bushes to unload in the dark at 5am, toddler G has so outgrown his maximally sized 6 diapers with his un-potty trained, maximally sized pee and poo that the soiled clothing, blankets & sheets overload the laundry basket on a daily basis...add into that lil' baby noah's contribution and i just can't even get the dirty diapers out of the house fast enough to prevent severe stinky trash build up. 

whew, feels good to just tell it like it is.

you see, the placement of noah's crib in our 2-bedroom-apartment kitchen-to-bathroom hallway laundry nook (as opposed to  in gabriel's room where they will wake each other up at this point in teething/time-changing/cold & flu time) has rendered both of our potties off-limits during sleeping hours. which quite frankly, sucks the big one. momma's gotta do her pooping when she's gotta do it. which most often comes between 5 & 6 am ( i know: obscenely early), which also coincides with noah's overly-awake too-early-in-the-morning wakings --- and since the toidy literally borders the door next to the head of his crib --- i either have to hamper any sound coming from my end (impossible...and pun intended), hold it for a long time (not a comfortable option), or find an alternate dumping ground.

(((sigh))) lord.

daddy won't even do this juggle. he gets his keys & his crackberry & heads straight for the pool bathrooms. it's his new sanctuary. his home away from home.

gabriel on the other hand has no problem dropping a load right in front of us in his diaper --- fully aware he's  doing it, alerting us in proper english "i'm pooping", yet entirely unwilling to sit his ass down on the super cool baby bjorn potty seat with mommy in tow reading his favorite mind-numbingly boring mickey mouse book.

(((sigh))) lordy.

anyway, other than poop issues, the new year sees our family healthy, growing & looking forward to ever-increasing love between each other.