me

Long week, tired, grumpy after my 2-year-old declares all-out war on sleep and wakes up 8 times in one night. Then, two tiny but happy things turn it around. No parking downtown this afternoon, but free parking at the library gives me time to check out some good summer reading and surreptitiously sneak across the street for a sandwich to go. Then, just now when 3 p.m. snack time hit, the vending machine blessed me with a double serving of Jolly Ranchers. Yes! I’ll take it. Call me pathetic, but I’ll take it. The universe smiles on me.

It’s miraculous and rare when help arrives just in time. That happened at my house on Tuesday afternoon, when my mom flew in for an incredibly short but action-packed visit, during which she cleaned my house, cooked, stocked my fridge with delicious food, took care of my son then vanished by sunrise Thursday morning, long before we’d even managed to have a single mother-daughter fight. Honestly, I really wished she stuck around longer, although she’s probably so tired that she’s passed out on the plane as I write.

We really needed the help. Amos was sick all last week with one of those mysterious stomach bugs that won’t go away. It was scary and exhausting, you know how it sometimes goes. And Amos really wore me out, demanding round-the-clock attention. So needy was he that he’d wake up if I tried to sneak out of the room during his nap times. Nope, not allowed. I was desperate for a break but at the same time didn’t want to be anywhere else, which I think is the secret dilemma of all moms of sick children.

By the time mom arrived, the house was disgusting and the cupboards were bare. (Oh my god y’all, it just took me about 5 minutes to remember how to spell cupboard. I looked it up in the dictionary under “cubbard” and “kubberd” and couldn’t figure out what the deal was. I need more sleep.) The trip was planned a while ago, and normally we would have been prepared. I like to at least run the vacuum for house guests, but she got nothing. Worse than nothing, she got a request to please clean anything she felt like cleaning. And she did it!

She also squeezed in lots of QT with Amos, who delighted in squirting her with the hose and being scared out of his mind when she popped out of closets and behind doors to shriek at him. Sounds terrifying, I know, but Amos is kind of an adrenaline junkie like that. Here’s a shot of them during one of the quieter moments, playing with some magical stickers she brought that don’t stick to the furniture.

Stickers are addictive.

Her plane left at 7:20 this morning, headed to sunny San Diego. Good for her, she deserves it. We’re in good shape now. Thanks for the help. Come back soon!

Amos and I share a love of firemen. Amos likes anyone who rides around on a shiny red truck. I’m partial to the New York variety, who rescue puppies from burning buildings, then resuscitate them using CPR. Hot stuff.

I’m sure a lot of you have seen this already. It’s an article in New York magazine about how having children doesn’t make us happier, and in fact, parents report being less happy than people who choose to skip out on that whole breeding scene. This story seems to be getting a lot of press, as have other stories like it. Sociologists found this lack of glee among parents to be true pretty much across the board, except, of course, in Scandinavian countries where new moms get a year of paid maternity leave, plus subsidized childcare and free health care. Call me a commie, I think that sounds great. But for the rest of us, parenting is a miserable lot, they said. I can’t say I agree about the misery, but I have definitely been surprised by how hard parenting is because there’s just so much to do all the time, especially with this pesky day job they expect me to show up to Monday through Friday when I should be home washing clothes, reading Richard Scarry books and picking bubble wands up out of the grass. I get tired and grumpy and mad that my house is so dirty. So yeah, I’m not always in a great mood.

There are all kinds of theories getting batted around to why this is the case. Some say we’re trying to be superheroes, holding down jobs and trying to be the best parents ever and generally wearing ourselves out.  Another theory is that we all have unrealistic expectations of happiness, and that maybe we shouldn’t expect to walk around all aglow 24/7, tickling our babies’ tummies and giggling. I think that’s more like it.

I also think that this lack of bliss for parents of young and teenage kids (apparently there’s a bubble of happiness during the elementary years) is just a temporary state that can be chalked up to exhaustion and stress. The key point that’s sort of buried in the story is that if sociologists check back in later, once the teething has stopped or the teenage hormones have calmed, they’ll most likely find those parents are plenty happy, very fulfilled and pleased as punch about their life choices. A no regrets sort of scenario. So hang in there.

All this week I worked on getting Amos prepared for me being away to Africa for a week. He seemed pretty excited that I’d be flying in an airplane, and for some reason he was convinced I’d be returning on a choo-choo train. Whatever, we ran with it. But he didn’t think my trip would be successful. “Mama airplane, CRASH!” is what he said, actually. When I told him no, no way was that going to happen, he said, “Mama car, CRASH!” Luckily he didn’t seem bothered by either prospect.

Rodney and Amos dropped me off at the airport a bit early today to accommodate for nap time, so I’m hanging out in the terminal, waiting and hoping that the fact that I don’t have a seat assignment doesn’t mean disaster is inevitable. Saying our goodbyes was fine until we were at the curb, then Amos lost his cool. I was good, though. I waited until they pulled away. Rodney called about 5 minutes later to report that Amos was having a great time watching the planes take off, and that they could see a train, too. I could hear Amos shouting and having a grand time in the background, which made me feel much better. Rodney called back 2 minutes later to say a fire truck just passed. It was huge. Planes, trains and fire trucks at once has to be a great omen.

It’s swell that the LR airport has free wireless now, but what’s up with the frozen yogurt situation? There is none to be had, which ruined my plan to chow down on one of those $17 giant waffle cones for lunch.

Anyway, off I go. Wish me luck.

Surely the drive-through windows at liquor stores are custom-made for mothers. The one at Sullivant’s was a godsend for me yesterday when I needed a fifth of whiskey in a hurry but didn’t want to set my 2-year-old loose in a store packed with precarious pyramids of glass bottles. The best part was that the beer teller even had treats for kids, just like at the bank! I love liquor.

I want this:

Those stupid tornadoes didn’t keep us away from the lovely Rachael Saturday. It was her birthday and there would be cake, so we were willing to risk it. Amos+Rachael=BFF. See proof below.

The Dora cake was really yummy, and there was ice cream to go with it. Without ice cream, cake is no good in my opinion. My birthday is creeping up, so make a note of it.

It was also fun to pester the other mamas about potty training, which is creeping up on us fast. Amos peed in the general direction of the toilet the other day, eliciting hoots and herkies from his proud parents. Of course, there’s been no action in that arena since. He refuses to use the baby potty and teeters precipitously on the edge of the toilet, refusing to let anyone hold him so he won’t fall in. Disaster is certain. Think good thoughts for us.

So it’s 9:15 a.m. and I just polished off the salad my husband packed me for lunch. It was delicious: fancy baby greens with goat cheese, pecans, craisins and balsamic vinaigrette. Mmmm. Score for Rodney! But was it really so enticing that I had to dive in before McDonald’s stopped serving breakfast?

I tried to hold out, but I’ve been on that silly mommy breakfast plan where I forgo any food in the morning except what’s leftover on Amos’ breakfast plate. Today it was a few bites of scrambled egg and a soggy crust of raisin toast. When I got to work there was a box of biscotti in the break room, but it was empty. Bummer! And picking it up and shaking it made me feel foolish, like I’d reached down to pick up a quarter only to find that it was glued to the floor.

When the real lunchtime rolls around I’ll be foraging for any mini goldfish packages and cereal bars hiding under the seats in the car. It’s kind of gross, but I know you’ve done it, too. Right?

It’s irrational, I know, but last night was the first time I’ve ever braved a sizzling frying pan bubbling with oil. There are certainly more menacing dangers out there, but popping grease always registers high on my list of phobias. This is probably because I remember my mom standing at the stove sideways while she deep-fried crinkle fries, bobbing and weaving to dodge the unpredictable spatters of peanut oil that threatened blindness or disfigurement. Who needs the stress?

But last night I finally admitted that baked felafels taste pretty terrible, whereas fried ones are delicious. So I gave it a whirl. The husband and baby were safely out of the house, so there was no risk there. It turns out that frying things, although terrible for your heart and sewage pipes, is not as hard or treacherous as I feared as long as you wear an apron and sunglasses. Amos loved his fried felafels, which he dipped in ketchup like he does everything. I am a domestic diva! Our Mediterranean feast prompted Amos to speak a sentence beautiful to his mama’s ears: “I like couscous,” he said. Isn’t he sophisticated?