Continued crock pot adventures/Valentine's lament

Since adding the second boy to our clan, I've been the lame-o bringing Costco chips and hummus to every single potluck playdate we attend. It's all I can possibly manage, and it almost throws me over the edge to even get that together. My humble offering always pales in comparison to the beautiful and creative homemade treats filling the smorgasbord table. 

But not today. For our Valentine's themed playdate I got to proudly use my new "Little Dipper" mini-crock pot warmer that came with the big kahuna I purchased at Costco last week. Damn have I turned into a cheeseball. But I was so excited to use it. Consulting the handy dandy user's guide and cookbook, I threw together a mean little bean dip that could stand proudly next to the homemade quiches, biscuits and banana cakes. 

After grazing and gabbing, I got to make Valentines for my mother and my husband. One of our fantastic mommies brought all of her sumptuous card-making/scrapbooking supplies for us to use. I quickly crafted a valentine for my mother, then hesitated on one for my husband, flashing back to his underwhelmed response to last year's handmade card. I stalled staring at the gorgeous glittery papers wondering if I should even bother making him a card again this year...

(((sigh))) How sad am I? ... being in a new-baby-challenged marriage with Valentine's Day approaching - trying to pretend I don't care Valentine's Day is coming? Trying to talk myself out of caring whether husbandman does anything for me. And if he does it will probably just be a hasty, duty-driven stop at Vons for a token mylar balloon that's been looming overhead for weeks anyway. And I can't eat sugar so you don't have to bother with a last minute box of chocolates. And I know you don't really want to have to do anything anyway, so really don't bother and let's just pretend this whole damn holiday isn't approaching.

At this point, poor husbandman can't win for losing. 

But of course I really do want Valentine's day to come. And I of course want him to be premeditating some incredible escape for two in which he whisks me off to a beautiful place where we sip Pinot Grigio and nibble smoked gouda while holding hands lazing on big cushioned outdoor couches under the stars next to a fireplace while listening to a live flamenco quartet. (The place is called La Estancia, and it is to die for in my opinion.) Oh to feel his big strong hand want to hold mine would be heaven. And for a long time. Not just the half-minute before the next baby duty demanded two-handed handling. But to intentionally be holding my hand without anything else to do but hold  my hand in his... this simple pleasure would be a Valentine treat beyond balloons, chocolates and flowers.

A friend (you know who you are) relayed to me that none of this matters to a man - all the "romance" is for women only. I believe that. I really do. But this is not me as a single woman fantasizing about how to lead into the perfect fantasy sex with the perfect fantasy man. Rather this is me as a whole woman, a whole wife, a whole mother needing to feel beauty between us. Needing a small magical moment of re-bonding, a re-affirmation of our commitment to one another outside of our all-consuming parental duties. And I don't need this to happen on a regular bi-weekly date night just yet. (I can just hear our marriage counselor reiterating this marriage-saving must.) Just one sweet Valentine date could get a lot of mileage for now. And of course I know that Vday is a totally commercially driven fabrication - but it is my culture and it is real... 

So I made him the card. And I packed up the boys and the almost-empty Little Dipper and drove home through the wind and rain remembering a mere 4 Valentine's Days ago when I was lonely as hell driving through the pouring rain in LA to attend a singles mixer in a cheesy hotel ballroom. Then I snapped back to my husbands' words this morning, "Drive carefully Mommy. It's dangerous out there." And I felt his love for me fill me all the way up again. At least for today. 

But come Saturday... 

anxiety dreams

Last night I dreamt I lost my diaper bag and wallet and was searching desperately for them when I realized it'd been hours since I'd left G home alone in front of a dreaded DVD, and left N alone with Daddy at work without any food or bottle and I'd missed his last nursing and he missed his last nap while sitting on Daddy's lap in a dire re-org meeting. And to top it all off, when I finally found my wallet: a) N was falling asleep lying on the shore of a beach with waves dangerously lapping up around his head, b) I realized it was G's 3rd birthday and we'd entirely forgotten it, and c) Husbandman was pissed as hell thumbing away at his crackberry telling me he needed to go out of town. Immediately. Gee, could you pile some more anxiety on top of that anxiety? Fuck, man. All this over my perturbation about N not napping yesterday afternoon.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaack. When will I ever be normal again? Actually, upon closer inspection, I think this is actually relatively normal for me. I've always been a type A stress monger. It's just that the things I stress about have changed drastically. Within 3 years they went from how the hell to make a living and pay rent in L.A. to how the hell to be a mother and survive so many diaper changes in S.D.

A friend once asked me to post more pictures with my blogs. The problem is that a cute snapshot of the boys would be entirely irrelevant to most of what I've got to say. Only varied depictions of my tormentia would do for most posts. And I think I tried to capture that in the title picture of me screaming in a halo of diapers. But I do fantasize about various post-able photos of me pulling my hair out watching G & N smear food all over their faces and clothes, me holding my hand over my heart while N screams and refuses to nap, me gasping in disgust while pulling N's hand out of G's poop-exploding diaper, and me reeling in horror as G sticks his finger into his anus telling me it's itchy.

Okay guys, take this all with a grain of salt. I love my life and I love my family. I really, really do. It's just that I'm also a drama queen at heart, and live for disgusting and alarmingly true stories to tell. So if nothing's really all that horrible in reality, I'll dream it and then write about it. How's that for dysfunction? Hey, at least I'm writing. And guess when I'm writing this? You got it: from 5:25am-6:03am, that wonderful slot of alone time N has so generously carved out for me by waking at 5:02am screaming. 

everything happens for a reason.... it is what it is.... all of this is for my spiritual growth.... I am becoming a better person.... how can I go with the flow.... make lemonade out of lemons.... acceptance is the answer to all of my problems.... accept all people, places, things and situations.... it's all good.... just rel...a....x..... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Now imagine this post topped off with a photo of me smirking, and you've got the entire picture.

Why did God make it this way?/ Semi-spiritual blog

Why did God make babies be born so unready to be people yet? 

I'm serious. I want to know.

Why does a baby come out so unable to just be okay for a goddamn minute? Why don't they just go to sleep if they're tired? Why can't they just eat without puking? Why can't they just spit out the words if they want us to know something so bad? 

I'm so incredibly irked right now. N is throwing a cataclysmic fit about taking a nap that he knows he wants. He is so tired he just can't seem to get himself to sleep. How does that make any sense God? I'm serious. I want to know.  He's so tired that after being rocked and sung to and put in his crib the same way he has complacently submitted to for the last 6 months now - he just can't bring himself to go to sleep. Instead he must scream bloody murder and ruin any chance I have at a decent blogging break.  (((sigh)))

Come on N. I nursed you, I loved on you, I fed you blueberries and cheese and goldfish, I took you to play at Kidsville, I held you, I shushed you. It's your turn to pitch in. Just go to sleep, dammit! (((sigh))) 

***

Okay, it's tomorrow ~ Well really today. But yesterday is when I wrote the above beginning to this complaint. After 30 minutes of screaming, N did eventually go down for his nap, only to wake screaming 30 minutes later. I nursed him and he fell asleep for another 40 minutes. If he was so damn tired, why couldn't he have just kept sleeping? I'm serious. I want to know. Wouldn't putting the 30 + 40 minutes together have made for such a much more satisfying and restorative sleep for his little brain cells? So why wake screaming in the middle? I don't understand. 

Speaking of not understanding... He woke up screaming this morning at 5:45, I nursed him and now he's back down again. Why couldn't he just stay asleep, dammit? He's done it many times before. I know he's not hungry. I'm serious. I want to know.

But just in time to save me from myself comes this message in my inbox from my bestest daily spiritual source: "Nothing is what it seems. Everything is always happening to assist us in our spiritual growth. How can you enjoy the ride today?"

Fine, just fine. Make me look on the bright side. Make me realize that this time between N's pre-morning and real-morning wakings is exactly when I've constructed the vast amount of my blogs. Make me practice my unused wisdom preened from my toppling piles of spiritual self-help books by simply accepting what is. 

Yes, it is what it is. N's wakings are what they are. His nonsensical change-ups simply exist, like my couch does, or a potato does. I don't wring my hands wondering why one of the potatoes in the bag went rotten while the others didn't. It just did. So move on sister and pick out another one. I don't question the couch pillow's decision to flatten on one corner due to uneven user use - it just did, so sit on the other end sister.

So N just does what he does because he does what he does. And I'm just going along for his ride. Okay, fine, that'll work for now. But why does it work this way? I'm serious. I want to know.

It's a crock pot life / Carrie Bradshaw detour

Lately I've been far more obsessed with my new crock pot than inspired by this empty posting screen. Meat. Falling apart, tender and juicy. Better than new-parents-of-two sex . Speaking of sex... really what stole me away from my blogging for the past two afternoons is the Sex in the City Movie DVD that arrived 2 days ago from Netflix. What glorious diversion. Such complete abandon: two consecutive afternoon naptimes spent in Carrie Bradshaw's chick-flick-to-the-hilt world. This is the best excuse on record for being M.I.A. Their ridiculous opulence & mandatory midlife drama were the perfect escape for a thank-god-no-longer-single newly married and mommied 40-year-old. Needless to say, I've been intoxicated by their travails.

And also needless to say, I'm once again jealous of Carrie Bradshaw. Not her extreme wardrobe and  not her retarded drama with "Big." Just jealous as hell that she has such a cool writing gig and I don't. My first jealousy of her occurred in the SITC episode detailing her book release gala. It was grand. It was artsy. It was chic. The day my book released, I sat at home alone staring quietly at my blank computer screen thinking, "Is this it?" (((sigh)))

But me and Carrie Bradshaw have a LOT in common. My wardrobe was always eccentric, although not label heavy. And my pursuit of love life in LA was retarded enough to warrant my own manuscript bi-lined: A comic travelogue of breeding misadventures in LA ~ which unfortunately was rejected by 10 quarried literary agents. (((sigh))) And I also ultimately got married to the love of my life at City Hall for 100 bucks.

On a brighter note, the Caribbean Pork Chops over beets, sweet potatoes and carrots I crock potted yesterday were super tasty. And the lime-roasted chicken I've got on deck this morning promises to be just as delicious. And I do have to admit that the pork chops made the man happy last night ~ happy enough to do the you-know-what in the 30-minute window of opportunity between G down and mommy down. 

So Carrie Bradshaw, eat your heart out. At least I don't have to don 4 inch stiletto heels and faux furs to grab a decent bite to eat in NYC. I can simply pad into the kitchen of my suburban San Diegan apartment in my husband's Costco mid-calf white plush socks, nursing bra strap hanging out of my long underwear top, and scoop me out a scrumpdillyiscious plate of meat n' potatoes from my crock pot.

nagging uninspiration

I'm feeling uninspired to write anything post-worthy. I've started a couple of cute, lackluster titles like "Okay, fine, I'm starting to have fun," and "What took me so long to get a crock pot?" But they've just kinda sat there in draft limbo land, unstimulating enough to warrant any further fleshing out. But wait a minute ...  there was something funny that flew through my brain this morning to write about. It's gone now... maybe it'll come back. Oh wait, here comes something... i'm picking up a faint signal of this morning's inspiration... could it be...? maybe it was...? I'm thinking I remember something interesting about...? ... the therapeutic value of vacuuming? Yes, that's it! 

Yesterday morning I was Evilena embodied. I don't know exactly why. Maybe I was in a funk because my husband is imprisoned to his work during tax season. Or maybe I was warped because I had bad dreams last night. Or maybe I was pissy because N woke up too early. Or maybe I was the Wicked Witch because G dropped another disgusting bomb in his diaper instead of into the toilet where we sat reading potty books for 20 minutes. Who knows. But anyway, I thought to myself, "Something's gotta snap me out of this cesspool, and fast." That's when the brilliant inspiration happened. The skies opened up from above, a pulse of pure white light came beaming down on my snarling head and a heavenly voice said, "Vacuum." What more convincing did I need? It suddenly clicked. That's exactly what I need. I need to vacuum.  There is nothing like that satisfying sound of dirt sucking up the vacuum hose to soothe a woman's nerves, calm her mind and boost her mood. It's euphoric, isn't it? 

Because of our nap trap - the frustrating bermuda triangle of nap times demanding constant quietude - vacuuming has become challenging and infrequent. Plus G, who used to adore the vacuum, has decided to become petrified of it. He hides under his couch like a terrified cat and screams bloody murder the entire time, while N gets curious enough to come close and then starts dragging on my leg screaming. Needless to say, there are probably microscopic germ galaxies fermenting and multiplying within the thick pile hideaway of our carpeting. So to ensure our entire family doesn't get eaten alive by carpet varments, I pushed though the boyz noize and vacuumed that sucker up and down and all around... and felt much, much better... yesterday that is.

Now it's today and I'm still waiting for inspiration to hit me. But alas, the dryer has just turned itself off and a voice from above has benevolently whispered, "laundry."....

trash, bottom-feeding, and "freeganism"

I loved the scene in the movie Sex, Lies & Videotape where Andy McDowell, playing an unhappy and obsessive housewife, sits on a therapy couch with her lap dog staring vacantly out the window lamenting that she can't stop thinking about where all the trash goes. "I mean really, how can we be happy when we don't know where all the trash goes?" or something like that. 

I was almost not going to have babies because I didn't want to pollute or populate any further.

When I was first pregnant with G and all bohemian-earth-crunch-granola girl, I planned on using cloth diapers. I'd received packs of beautiful white organic ones from my optimistic baby registry and was all ready to save the earth one less disposable diaper at a time. That is, until the baby came out. There was that first thick sludgy muconium poo that stuck like taffy between the teeny newborn diaper and his little wrinkled butt that had me waivering. Then there were the split-pea-breast-milk-diarrhea poos that leaked all over, sealing the deal. I was having nothing to do with a cloth diaper that would need to be rinsed and further dealt with. I'd unwittingly joined the billions of us polluting the landfills with disposables and just figured an apology to god with each trip to the dumpster would have to suffice. 

And I still do apologize to god with each Diaper Genie emptying, 2 1/2 years and another added pooping butt later. Damn do babies make a lotta doo doo. And damn is that stuff heavy and hefty. It composes the bulk of our trash output. But then there's also so much more child-oriented junk to throw out that increases my guilt: loads of wipes and napkins and paper towels and half-empty juice and milk boxes, and snack wrappers, and tons of uneaten food. Lord do I feel guilty about the wasted food. Which unfortunately segues into my new achievement in world class bottom feeding. 

Does every other mother feel the compulsion I do to lick banana and avocado off the faces and hands of her children? And simplify clean-up by popping rejected cheese chunks into her mouth? Sometimes even going as far as the floor for spewn turkey scraps? Shamelessly drinking out of sippy cups? Letting her diet degenerate to fallen goldfish, thrown cereal puffs, spilled mac n' cheese and the applesauce remains in the little plastic containers? 

I guess some of this can be seen as my attempt to keep the landfills just a little emptier by doing my part. But bottom feeding is not an ideal solution to the problem. And the taste of our cheerio/goldfish medley hastily thrown in my mouth instead of walking all the way to the trash will be burned in my palette forever. Perhaps ceasing to view trash as a problem is the solution. Becoming one with trash. Embracing trash. Which unfortunately segues into another trash related rant...

Oprah once did a show on "freegans," people who dumpster dive to stock their fridges and decorate their pads. Lisa Ling reported as she followed people around NYC at night picking through trash bags on the curb for produce as well as suburban professionals mulling through department store dumpsters for furniture and fixtures. 

This was supposed to be shocking and unbelievable. Whatever. Dumpster diving was so the 90's for me. Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt. I learned with the pros where to find the freshest bagel and bakery dumpsters. And yes, I also got into the bad habit of nabbing fresh cookies out of grocery store bins, which I am not proud of - but it was sort of an extension of "freeganism," don't you think?

Anyway, now that I have kids, my version of freeganism has morphed into a much more benign How-To-Turn-Ordinary-Situations-Into-Free-Kiddie-Entertainment. Although we are fortunate enough to have passes to San Diego's awesome family destinations - Sea World, Legoland, the Zoo and Wild Animal Park - why get in the car when you have a Vons 100 yards from your front door? The double-seater fire engine shopping cart does the trick for us. We roll that thing in and out of Vons where we swipe as many free packs of oyster crackers and bakery samples as my diaper bag will hold. Then with G & N steering their little black wheels and honking their squeaky horns, we turn it out on the open parking lot, eventually ending up at the fountain where we have a wildlife encounter of our own feeding our leftovers to the birds. 

Since it's all about killing time with kids, we get some good mileage out our complex's fitness center. Every kid loves water dispensers, TV, and running amok. So I let G raid the Sparklett's tank and have taught him to use the treadmill. He does his toddler version of circuit training by prancing uphill, coasting backwards and hopping off the end of the treadmill, skipping to his cup of water, taking a swig, glancing up and laughing at The Simpsons on the overhead flatscreen - and then starting the cycle all over again. Meanwhile Noah and I play with the exercise ball while I snicker under my breath at all the people toiling on the machines, remembering my gym rat days and sighing in relief I instead lift babies all day. Priceless toddler exercise and mommy therapy. Cost: $0.

We often stumble upon some invaluable morning "unexpected entertainment," as my friend so succinctly phrased the phenomenon. (Other forms are watching the mailman and the garbage truck) The gardeners have become big fun for us. They let G help with piling and tarping leaves and branches. G relishes the opportunity to go where he's not supposed to: deep into the heart of the bushes. His inner banshee is unleashed. This can kill an entire 45 minutes if I'm lucky. Enriching toddler exploration in the wild and mommy slack time. Cost: $0.

Then there's the Thomas the Train table at our local kiddie hair cut place. Too bad G's hair is far too adorably curly to officially cut, or I'd actually give the place my business. Instead we go there, I chat it up with the saleslady while G & N meddle with Thomas and Friends, and then we sneak out when she's assisting the stylist to shut up a crying kid in the chair. Motor coordination enhancing train play and shameless mommy "freeganism" thrills. Cost $0.

"You have your period, Mommy?"

I preface this post with the obvious: I have my period. Always something to celebrate when you're as done having babies as I am, and unfortunately not as fixed as I wanted to be by this point in my life. 

Since G is my right hand man, he knows about my period too.  How is he not going to know when he's hovering around the toilet every time I sit on it?  I've only had 3 since N's birth, so it's a new concept G is catching onto. But he wants to be an intimate part of this ritual, so I've assigned him the job of peeling the sticky backing off my pads. (Get your mind out of the gutter if you envisioned tampon insertion.) But then he also insists on placing them in my undies, which pushes my comfort zone just a bit. OMG, how totally almost completely inappropriate is this?! I mean, how too-much-information could I possibly get? This is the stuff that absolutely gets me off: truth in its raw form. Just tellin' it like it is.

Listen. I figure my husband has stared straight into my expansive cooch birthing two of his sons and still not only loves me, but wants me. Why not start his son early in the loving acceptance of and stomaching of Woman's lot in life. Every time 2 1/2 year-old G curiously peers into the toidy during my period, I internally cringe and want to banish him immediately from the bathroom. But then I think, "Hey, maybe I'm helping to spawn a new generation of men who can deal with this shit. Maybe I'm helping him become a supportive and non-squeamish partner to one lucky future woman. He'll be a rad boyfriend, that's for sure."

If you've read the book The Red Tent, you may know that there was a time when women would anticipate the privilege of bleeding together under the same roof. They sat on nests of hay and listened to stories passed down by the elders, were fed by the non-bleeding women, and obviously didn't lift a damn finger the whole time. Man, wouldn't that be great? It feels so unfair to not only birth two children and be menstruating within 3 months of their deliveries, but to also have to breastfeed while on the rag too?  What the hell, man? Aren't I losing enough fluids and draining enough energy? Then add in two pooping butts to tend to and my period is so far on the backburner it isn't funny. I'm just lucky to slip into the shower and give her a soak down once a day. That, and wearing red, are about the best I can do to honor my menses right now.

But both G & N are honoring my period today in the most valuable way a mommy could ever wish to be gifted: with extra long, simultaneous afternoon naps. :)