Too Much Togetherness

I have a request: can everyone just please stop touching me? Stop poking me when I’m sleeping, stop head-butting me in the back of the knees when I’m making your toast, stop climbing up my leg when I’m trying to drink my coffee.

Look, I’m all for affection and togetherness. I love hugs, kisses, and snuggles. Lord knows I smooch my kids a million times a day. But enough’s enough! Sometimes I just want to sit on the couch and read a magazine without someone dive-bombing me, pinching me, or sitting pressed up so close to me that when he sneezes, we both need a tissue.

And honestly? Sometimes I don’t know if it’s storytime or a rugby scrum. Can’t we sit NEXT to each other and read a book? Does everyone really need to be on top of each other like a litter of newborn puppies? Because you guys are wiggly. And elbowy. We rarely get through an entire story without someone getting kneed in the face or another tender area.

There are some days when I feel like I’ve been probed by aliens from head to toe. From someone inspecting my nostrils when he’s squirming next to me in bed in footie PJs, to someone poking every freckle and spot while I’m getting dressed, to someone pulling on my arm to come turn on the TV, find the Spongebob toothpaste, or poke the straw into a juicebox. Today Riley was grabbing my toes to inspect my new pedicure. (It DOES look nice, but does he have to touch it?)

BTW, funny how both boys will jump on my back for a piggyback ride and fight over who gets to sit in my lap, but when it comes time to hold hands to cross the street, no one wants to come near me.

And if anyone’s tempted to leave me a comment about how someday I’ll be desperate to get eye contact from my kids, let alone a hug? Don’t. NOT THE TIME.

Right now I just want to be left alone. Keep your hands to yourself and walk away from Mommy. I love you just as much at arm’s length. Maybe more.

Happy Birthday to My Baby!

Dear Riley,

Today you are 2! Happy birthday, buddy! You’ve gotten to be such a big boy in the past few months, I can hardly believe it. You finally grew enough hair to get your first real haircut, and you sat in that barber chair like an old pro. Of course, the lollipop helped.

You talk ALL the time now, and we can even understand most of what you say. You must have excellent hearing, because you ask me about 10 times a day, “What noise, Mama?” It could be a leaf-blower, the blender, the smoke alarm, or someone crumpling a bag of chips a block away.

Which reminds me: you also have an uncanny sense for detecting food or drink. Even if you’re in the other room playing with your trains or trucks, you can hear me opening the fridge and pouring myself a glass of orange juice, or trying to sneak a cookie from the cabinet, and you will come running in demanding a bite or a sip.

This morning you were up at your usual 5:30 am, when you yell from your crib for Mommy or Daddy. Sometimes you switch off if one of us doesn’t respond fast enough. You’re not ready to get up then -– who IS at that hour?! -– you just want company. Or, you prefer the coziness of a queen-size down comforter. If we’re lucky, we can all get another hour of sleep. If we’re not, you pinch and kick us until we wake up and take you downstairs.

Daddy made you blueberry “pampakes” this morning, your favorite. Then you and Miles watched “Mee Mouse.” You know all the words to the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse theme song and love to “shake a booty” to the Hot Dog Dance.

Everyone who meets you says you’re Mr. Personality. You can be shy at first, but it doesn’t take you long to warm up and start running around like you own the place, wherever we are. Your babysitter calls you “energetic,” and you certainly are. Although I might use a different word to describe your spirited antics, which include climbing up on the toilet to reach the bathroom sink so you can turn on the faucet full blast and brush your teeth, which really means “flood the bathroom.”

Speaking of the bathroom, you have already gone pee in the potty twice! I refuse to get my hopes up too much, though, lest you follow in your brother’s very, VERY sluggish footsteps when it comes to potty training.

Your brother is your favorite person in the world, besides Mommy and Daddy. The minute you wake up from your nap you ask where Miles is. You love to wrestle with each other, tease the dog, and make each other laugh with silly knock-knock jokes or by blowing bubbles in your milk. Of course, sometimes you scream and hit and are mean to each other, too. Yesterday, you both left teeth marks on each other’s back. Ouch!

But mostly, you are a sweet, lovable, smart, funny little guy. We’ve only known you for 24 mos, but we can’t imagine our family or our lives without you.

Love, Mommy

PIC O’ THE WEEK: The Thomas cake was a family affair. I baked and decorated it, C. was the design consultant and custom-icing-color creator, and Miles presided over everything, offering his 2 cents and asking to lick the spoon.

I’d Like to Thank the Academy, and My Mom & Dad

“Modern Family” fans: remember when Eric Stonestreet, aka Cameron, won an Emmy for Best Supporting Actor last year? In his acceptance speech he said, “I am the product of supportive parents… Thank you, Mom and Dad.” You don’t hear that every day, especially from someone who aspired to be a circus clown when he grew up.

Parents often get a bad rap. Augusten Burroughs, Drew Barrymore, Oprah Winfrey, and countless others would not have the careers they have today if they hadn’t had dysfunctional parents. One could *almost* be jealous... There’s this funny New Yorker cartoon that depicts a young woman writing to her parents from college: “Dear Mom and Dad: Thanks for the happy childhood. You've destroyed any chance I had of becoming a writer.”

Happily, that’s not the case for me. I mean the part about becoming a writer! My parents have always been supportive of just about anything I wanted to do. (Including cutting my hair into an asymmetrical, bleached bob in the ’80s. What’s THAT about?!)

My mom saves all my articles and constantly sends me essays she thinks I might like. Actual paper clippings from the NYT and stuff! And they say print journalism’s dead… My dad encouraged me to keep going with my blog when my spirits were flagging after 5 years and no semblance of Dooce-like fame and fortune. (Scoff all you want. Name me a blogger who doesn’t have delusions of grandeur… or at least page views in the triple digits.) For Christmas and birthdays, they even help send me to conferences. Because that’s TOTALLY equivalent to the flannel nightgown and sweatshirt I got them from TJ Maxx. ;)

But listen: it wasn’t all a big love-fest growing up. We’re a normal family. As I’ve said, my parents NEVER tire of talking about how horrible my teenage years were. I would apologize, but in my defense my dad DID wear Birkenstocks with socks and my mom made horrible bean soups that she would force us to eat. (Take THAT, Augusten Burroughs!) And did I ever tell you about the time my mom sent me to swimming lessons topless and my dad forgot to pick me up at gymnastics?

Wait, wait. I’ve gotten off track. What I MEANT to say was, my parents are awesome. I have several friends who are jealous that I have such fun, interesting parents who like to take us out for expensive dinners when they’re in town. I’ve learned to appreciate them more the older I get and, of course, since I’ve become a parent myself. I guess that’s the best a mom or dad can hope for, right?

I read an interesting article in Reader’s Digest by Clayton M. Christensen recently, called “The Bottom Line on Happiness,” in which he discusses the importance of prioritizing family over career:

“Our careers provide the most concrete evidence that we’re moving forward. You ship a product, finish a design, close a sale... In contrast, investing time and energy in your relationships with your spouse and children typically doesn’t offer that same immediate sense of achievement. Kids misbehave every day. It’s really not until 20 years down the road that you can say, ‘I raised a good son or daughter.’”

Or, I would add, for that son or daughter to say, “I was raised by good parents.” So thanks, Mom and Dad! I am what I am today because of you. Bet you’d be a little more impressed if this was an Emmy acceptance speech, huh?

A Baby Walks into a Bar...

Riley told his first joke yesterday. It went like this:

Riley: “Knock-knock!”

Us: “Who’s there?”

Riley: “Neena.” (His word for banana.)

Us: “Neena who?”

Riley: “Peena!”

Isn’t that hysterical? What? You don’t get it? Well, it’s sophisticated humor. It’ll come to you later.

It thrills me no end that my son is funny even at the tender age of 20 mos. (And before that, he was cracking us up without words. He was like a tiny, talented, not-scary mime.)

Do you know it’s a sad fact that millions of people are born each year without a sense of humor? I know, I’ve met some of them. It’s particularly unfortunate if you happen to be on a date with one of these people or are being interviewed by one.

Humor is hugely important to me. I don’t know if you can tell, but I like to laugh. Mostly at myself and my children. (I can’t help it; we provide an endless stream of material.) I don’t know where this came from, exactly, since it’s not like my family sat around the dinner table trading quips when I was growing up.

Though my grandmother was a master of dry humor. She would pronounce a dull Scrabble game or my grandfather’s golf scores “gripping” and have us all snorting with laughter with a single look. She once said to my grandfather when they were dating, “Excuse me, but I believe you’ve mistaken my knee for the gearshift.” LOL!

If anything, my sons’ humor comes from their dad’s side of the family. My husband famously once snuck up on his sister wearing a gorilla mask while she was writing in her diary. Hilarity ensued. He still cracks up just talking about it.

It’s a well-known fact that one of the most endearing sounds in the world is a baby’s laughter. There’s a reason baby-themed entries frequently win “America’s Funniest Home Videos.” (Followed closely by pets, old people, and rednecks getting kicked in the crotch.)

We do have a lot of laughter in our house. And thank god for that. Because when they’re not cracking me up, my kids can -- and do -- drive me “neenas.”

VIDEO O’ THE WEEK: Who knew a raccoon puppet in a trash can could be so funny?

Man Hungry. Must Eat Now.

There’s just no way to approach this topic without making someone mad, so I’m just going to come right out and say it: what is UP with guys and their food?

Picture it: dinnertime, and the kids are going crazy. The baby is screaming and pulling on Mom’s leg as she wills the pasta to cook faster, FASTER, dammit!! The preschooler has collapsed in tears from low blood sugar, yet refuses any healthy snack offered to him to tide him over the approximately 7 minutes until dinner’s ready.

Into this scene walks Dad. Greeting his family briefly, Dad strides into the kitchen, fixes himself a plate, sits down, and eats his food. Oblivious to the World War III scenario going on around him. Unmoved by his children's cries. Unaware that his wife is frantically juggling chicken nuggets and sippy cups in an attempt to feed the animals before they attack. I ask you again, what is UP with this?!

Now, lest you think this is a thinly-veiled reproach of my own husband, I assure you I have conducted extensive field research on this issue. (And by that I mean I have bitched about it to all my closest mom friends.) This behavior is rampant, people. There’s a particularly high instance in households with small, needy, excessively screamy children.

My first theory is, it’s a survival instinct. Cavemen undoubtedly learned to feed themselves first, so that if a wooly mammoth attacked while they were feeding the cavebaby his strained peas (or whatever cavebabies ate), the caveman would have enough strength to protect his family. Makes sense, right?

Somehow, the 21st century suburban Dad held on to this survival instinct, and so his first thought upon entering his cave home at night is not, “How can I be most helpful to my wife?” or “Let me assist in expediting the feeding of my offspring in the hopes of quelling their discomfort.” Instead, it’s, “Me hungry. Must eat now.”

Believe it or not, I see this instinct as enviable, not (entirely) selfish. I WISH I could tune out the screaming and whining and “I want JUICE, not milk, Mama!” It would glorious if I could actually sit down and eat when I was hungry. Can you imagine?

Not choking down a handful of animal crackers or sneaking a spoonful of Nutella while I race to cool the peas and throw them onto the highchair tray. Not imitating a Jack-in-the-Box as I jump up and down to respond to every single request for another drink, an extra napkin, the Elmo fork, help cutting their food, etc., etc., while my own food congeals into a cold blob on my plate, untouched.

I wish I could put my own needs first and teach my children to wait patiently while I prepare their food. But I don’t think that’s happening anytime soon.

In the meantime, as one similarly-plagued friend put it, “Why don’t guys just eat a snack on their way home from work?” Now THERE’S an idea. Might I suggest something more fortifying than animal crackers?

RECIPE O’ THE WEEK: This is a tasty vegetarian dish that comes together fairly quickly and even my 19 m.o. will eat: “Orzo with Tomato and Fried Tofu.” Pan-fried tofu is mixed with orzo, fresh diced tomatoes, lemon and basil, then sprinkled with feta cheese.

Portrait By a Young Artist

Can we talk about this picture for a minute? My 4 y.o. came home from preschool with it the other day and it’s been adorning our kitchen wall ever since.

The boy is getting to be quite the artist, I’ll give him that. It wasn’t so long ago he was bringing home deformed blobs of Play-Doh dotted with buttons and macaroni and pronouncing it “birthday cake.”

What gets me is the level of detail in his family portrait. He’s colored himself green (his favorite shade), aptly depicted his baby brother with red hair, and even included his dad’s Adam’s apple. And yet he couldn’t even give HIS OWN MOM hair or a nose?!

Now, I do like how he drew me with blue feet. Perhaps that’s a nod to my stylish footwear. But what’s with the crazy, bendy pose at the top of the page? Is this symbolic of how I bend over backwards for my family? How I tie myself in knots to cater to my kids? Or did he (more likely) simply run out of room after drawing the rest of the family? Thanks, kid. Thanks a lot.

It’s like the time he gave me a Mother’s Day card with what I thought was a lovingly rendered portrait of his mom. Nope. He set me straight: “It’s a candy machine.”

Of course, his Father’s Day card WAS adorned with a picture of his dad … and his dad’s smelly sneakers, complete with wavy lines to illustrate how the stench was wafting out of the shoes. Very life-like.

Miles’ favorite things to draw, however, seem to be animals. There was his koala period, when every marsupial was, oddly, drawn with a belly button. Dogs and cats are popular subjects. Then he moved on to his licensed-character phase: Mickey Mouse, Kung Fu Panda, and the Pink Panther. (Or, when he can’t find a pink marker, the Purple Panther.)

At age 4, my boy is certainly a prolific artist. Now the only question is, what do I do with all this artwork? I’m running out of room on the fridge. Maybe if he’d draw a decent picture of ME sometime, I’d even get it framed.

LINK O’ THE WEEK: Minky Moo’s portrait of another young artist, aka The Boss.

You Brought a Baby Where?!

Sometimes I see people with a brand-new baby in a wildly inappropriate place -- like, say, a baseball game or a bar -- and I wonder whether those parents were so desperate to regain some semblance of their former life that they thought, "Intense sun exposure and second-hand smoke be damned, we're bringing the baby!"

Now, I'm not one to talk. My son's very first outing was to an Irish pub to celebrate my birthday. We sat on the patio and propped him up next to a pint of Guinness for a photo opp. But at some point I realized that nursing in the car and changing diapers in ridiculously inconvenient changing stations in dirty public bathrooms was not how I wanted to spend my time.

Besides, while newborns are quite portable and often quiet, babies that are a little older are not. When Miles was about 5 mos. old we took him to a museum, where he screeched and bellowed the whole time because he liked the way it echoed throughout the silent, marble-floored galleries. Shockingly, no one asked us if we were interested in a museum membership that day.

If you feel you MUST get off the couch and out of your sweatpants for an outing with a small baby, here are some suggestions:

A street fair. If it’s not too hot or too crowded, an afternoon of al-fresco people-watching is a new-parent friendly activity. Especially if you carry your baby in a sling or carrier so you don’t have to worry about running into people’s ankles with a stroller. Of course, you must accept the inherent risks of eating street food and using a Porta-potty. Tip: bring lots of hand sanitizer.

An outdoor concert. And I don’t mean a Metallica cover band in a liquor-store parking lot. I’m thinking more along the lines of smooth jazz under the stars or Mozart in the park. Around here, there’s a popular Friday-night concert series with family-friendly reggae and Jimmy Buffet-type bands. Although, again: Porta-potties.

The zoo. If your baby’s old enough to see more than a foot in front of his face, he may enjoy looking at wildlife, especially animals like elephants and giraffes that are large enough for him to actually see. Or, he may be terrified of the chimpanzees. You won’t know till you try.

The mall. So it’s not exotic or educational. At least they have refreshments and indoor bathrooms. Plus, if there’s a Nordstrom’s or another upscale department store, you may find a clean, comfortable “mother’s room” where you can feed and change your baby without gagging.

Avoid places that are quiet and frequented by lots of old people. That may be the day your precious little one gets colic. And note that some places (like the aquarium in our city) ban strollers, so you may have to haul your hefty tot around in your arms all day.

If you really want my opinion, I say stay home. There will come a time soon enough when you’ll have to take your child to such insidious places as Chuck-E-Cheese and Gymboree. Why rush things?

LINK O' THE WEEK: For club-kids who grew up and had their own kids, Baby Loves Disco is like a nightclub for tots. Only during the day. And with snacks. I like the idea, but when it came to my area it was $60+ for a family of 4. Too steep, IMO. But check out the tour dates -- in some places it's free.

Fun with Juggies and Funk

Think life with little ones is all dirty diapers, spit-up, and safety hazards? (Now who on earth could’ve given you THAT impression?! ;) Not so, my friends. Sometimes it’s more fun than you can shake a stick at. Though I wouldn’t advise it, because sticks are sharp and someone could lose an eye.

If your definition of fun involves tequila shots and shirtless frat boys, of course, you’re in for a bit of an adjustment post-kids. Though I would daresay the shirtless guys around my house are MUCH cuter than any beer-soaked dude in a backwards baseball cap. (Although did you SEE the photos of Zac Efron in People magazine recently?!)

Here’s just a small sampling of the shenanigans we get up to around here:

Making fun of each other. I’d say we laugh WITH each other rather than AT each other, but that would be a lie. Fortunately, a lot of times we’re laughing at the baby, who’s too young to realize he’s the butt of our jokes.

Speaking of butts, the Huggies jeans diapers he’s been sporting since my MIL bought him a pack are an endless source of amusement. Have you seen these? C. calls them “Juggies” (Get it? Jeans + Huggies) or Daisy Dukes.

Baby dance parties. Anyone who’s ever seen an episode of “America’s Funniest Videos” can attest to the fact that kids + music = hilarity. Kids just seem to have this natural rhythm that can’t be contained. Riley starts rocking out to any tune he hears, even the theme music of Miles’ video games.

The other day I had the XM Radio tuned to my personal favorite station, acoustic coffeehouse feminists or something like that, when the baby grabbed the remote and somehow navigated to old school funk. Get down, get down… He sure can shake his Juggies-clad booty.

Taking pictures. I’m going to reveal my advanced age with this comment, but can I just say how astounding I find it that my 4 y.o. can use a digital camera? And he actually takes really good pictures! Check out this artistic sky shot. I was twice his age before I got my first Polaroid camera. A Polaroid!! I’d have a hard time trying to even explain what film is to today’s kids. Wow, I’m old.

Other pastimes include streaking, karaoke, and Mommy & Me happy hours with the neighbors. Although I’ve sacrificed many a glass of wine to rescue someone from a tricycle collision or errant Frisbee. Maybe it’s time to get one of those hands-free beer hats. You know, like a beer-soaked frat boy.

LINK O’ THE WEEK: “Sh*t My Kids Ruined” features photos of – you guessed it – stuff kids have destroyed, defaced, or worse.

Month 27: Fear of the Family Vacation

Vacationing with a small child is a risky undertaking. You might rue the day you ever booked your flight, or you may be pleasantly surprised at just how fun and relaxing your trip turns out to be. The kicker is, you never know which way it’ll go until you’re already too far from home to bail out.

Things did not look good for us the day before departure. The lady who takes care of our dog called to say she’d broken her leg and had to cancel. We called every kennel in the metropolitan area to find that they were a) booked solid or b) charged quadruple our regular rate. No way were we taking our carsick-prone pooch with us. Thank goodness for our fabulous friends T. & T. who agreed to dog sit. We owe them a lifetime supply of adult beverages.

Then, our neighbor stole our car. Wait, that’s not entirely accurate. Because C. and I are too nice and/or total morons, we agreed to loan one of our 2 cars to a neighbor in need. However, there was a miscommunication. We thought she was borrowing the car for a 24-hour period beginning when we handed her the keys. However, she understood that to mean any 24-hour period she felt like within a week.

By the third day, we were panicked. We had last-minute errands to run and we were about to leave the state for a week. And did I mention we had no way of contacting our neighbor? She finally called the night after we thought she was returning the car to say she was just around the corner. Super. Because we’re in Delaware. Lesson learned...

So anyway, we made the 6-hour drive to my parents’ house in decent time. Since we have never, ever pulled off “the transfer” (e.g., from carseat to crib), Miles woke up when we got there, realized it was dark and he was in a strange place, and promptly freaked out. I ended up sleeping on the twin bed next to him for half the night, then going back & forth between our room and his for the rest of the night. Lucky for me, his grandmother was happy to take the morning shift.

The thing is, when my mom volunteered to take Miles when he woke up, I don’t think she realized the full ramifications of her offer. For instance, that means 6 a.m., not 7:30. And this boy doesn’t wake up slowly, quietly perusing the paper while you brush your teeth and make the coffee. No, he hits the floor at full speed and top volume, demanding milk, toys, and TV, and don’t you DARE make a bathroom stop first! Poor Gram didn’t know what hit her.

The rest of the week passed in a happy blur of beach, barbecues, croquet, mini golf, ice cream, and more ice cream. The other set of grandparents and various aunts, uncles, and cousins took over the majority of childcare duties, leaving C. and I free to nap, read, and go for bike rides. It was fabulous. Why did we ever move so far away from our families? Oh, right, the job thing.

The only glitch in the program was that Miles was having such a good time with his cousins that he couldn’t bear to tear himself away for naps and bedtime. He would sob forlornly every time, crying “Where da girls go?” as his beloved playmates bid him good night. It was heartbreaking.

And yet, we were all happy to come home to our own house at the end of the week. Miles missed his toys, I missed my bed. But I sure didn’t miss the 6 a.m. wake-up call: “Mommeeee!! I want MILK!”

READ O’ THE WEEK: I’ve got 2 this week, both fiction. My first pick is “The Zygote Chronicles,” by Suzanne Finnamore. It’s an easy-to-read, entertaining, and truthful account of a 30-something’s first pregnancy.

I also adored “Love Walked In,” by Marisa de los Santos. So many novelists seem to subscribe to the philosophy that the more serious and depressing the topic, the better the book. Happily, that’s not the case with these enjoyable reads.