My New Invention

For those who are still committed to the idea that breasts are for aesthetics only, please stop reading. We'll see you in another post, though I can't imagine you'll really like anything I write, so maybe not.

I've decided that we should have moldable breasts which can be changed to fit any situation we might find ourselves in. This thought comes to me, of course, in the midst of nursing days and finding things wanting to visit the southern hemisphere. Check this commercial out:

The all-new mooooooldable adjustable breast! Now available in a bra near you. Child crying in a carseat in the back while you're driving? No problem! Your new breasts can stretch to a length of five feet so you can comfortably nurse while stuck in rush hour traffic. Have a hot date tonight? No worries! Your breasts can be molded and lifted to look just right in that new dress. Feeding a hungry baby in your lap while trying to send an email? The National Geographic setting is the one for you. And for bathing suit season, you choose the size and shape that makes you look best.

I'd buy it. Wouldn't you?

Talk Nicely!

Yesterday, I was awful in the wee hours of the morning. Poor Superbaby needed to poop and couldn't, so she woke up more often than usual and thought she should be up for good by 5:30. I don't rise at things that start with 5; I know that's spoiled, but that's the way I roll. I spoke harshly to poor Superbaby! I didn't yell, but I didn't talk nicely either. For all the talking we do about "ask me nicely" and "talk nicely" with Supertoddler, we sure slip up sometimes too. "Why are you awaaaaaaaaake?!?! Why won't you sleeeeeeeeeep?!?!" She answered me by pooping out of her diaper cover, through her pajamas, and onto my pajama pants.

I deserved that.

Then she (and finally I) fell into a much-needed deep sleep.

Fast forward a couple hours where Mas needed a bath for the no-need-to-mention-it-by-name-anymore reason. After I apologized to her for not talking nicely or being sympathetic, Shaifali said she was sorry for pooping on me and keeping me up and that she'd like to make it up to me. I told her to start here:

Suddenly struck by early onset teenageritis, she said, "I'm not so sure about this":

Procrastination ensued:

She finally got it done:

The rest of the day went smoothly. Here's to quick recoveries from all of the blunders that make us human and sometimes feel like speed bumps on the road to raising good humans.

Survival of the Fittest

Mas has a new two-part trick. Part one is waking himself up fully whenever he even stirs. So even if he is super sleep-deprived and shouldn't be up, he will wake up. Part two adds the elements of excitement and surprise to the mix: he comes out of his room whenever he wakes up. Put these together and you get last night: a little weirdo walking into our room at 3:30 in the morning. Or you get this afternoon: a little weirdo walking into our room while Shaifali and I were sleeping during said weirdo's supposed nap. Sometimes he doesn't go to sleep when he's supposed to and makes random noises and plays in his room. Then he comes out and announces, "Mas wake up." I've tried to tell him that announcing you've woken up presupposes that you were ever asleep, but he's not buying it.

Here are pictures of how I found him "napping" after I sent him back for more sleep:

Today was filled with screaming and hitting and devilish grins and timeouts. And Shaifali, labeled the Good One for her developmental stage, was unusually hard to put down to sleep.

I called my sister and parents to offer them a free toddler. I told them it was a one-day special, though it could be extended. Shaifali has the price tag of $50,000 today. I only put a price tag on her as an investment for two years down the road. They're thinking over the freebie option and said they'd call me back. I've been waiting by the phone, but it hasn't been ringing. Hmmm.

Survival of the Fittest. If surviving is all it takes, then count me among the fittest. It was a survival mode kind of day today. Not the usual chaotic kind of day that kicks me into survival mode. Just the, "if he screams in my ear one more time . . ." kind. To be honest, I can't even remember what had me so ticked off. Selective memory coming through for me once again. (I do remember battling him to get back the chair I had been sitting in to eat some food. I only got up to change the radio station.)

Upon Superdad's return, we made ourselves feel better about my bad/mad/annoyed day by becoming toddlers ourselves and mocking poor Supertoddler. He has made up a song which consists of the lyrics: doing, doing, doing, doing, doing, doing. He says "doing" to mean "what are you doing." Future copyright freak that he is, he doesn't like other people singing his song. So we tormented the poor child by singing it to him. I even did it again to get a video to share with you:

Pathetically, my antics worked to make me feel better. I stop short of recommending that you all stoop to a toddler's level for comfort.

On to the goodness! All day, I kept thinking about my friend who had gotten to go to Happy Hour at this nice restaurant in town a few weeks ago. I love going on a date with myself, and I daydreamed of that today. I am a lucky lady and feel very fortunate. Superdad granted my wish! I jokingly said that that's what I wanted (swear I wasn't dropping a hint), and he said, "do it!" So I did.

We don't have a lot of extra money for such extravagances, so you better believe I relished every beautiful part of it. I made sure to chew slowly to enjoy every flavor and maximize all the nutrients. I sipped my Lemon Drop (first alcoholic drink I've had in a year and probably second alcoholic drink I've had in three--oh my!) throughout my meal. I did a minimal amount of people watching/eavesdropping and a maximum amount of reading my O(prah) magazine. And I ordered well. Calamari with spicy aioli. Bosc pear and Roquefort salad with endive and lemon. And the best darn butterscotch pudding with whipped cream and sugar cookies I've ever had. I brought half of that home for Superdad.

Rest assured that I didn't leave all my Supermomness behind. I skipped over to the drycleaners mid-meal to pick up Superdad's pants for him. I like to think I'm cool for being able to hop out of relaxation mode for four minutes, then hop right back in. The jury is still out.

I'd like to say that I'll never complain again and that I'll be able to keep this feeling with me forever, but I'm not that unrealistic. But I will continue to appreciate my partner for all he is, give myself time away from the kids so that my deep appreciation for them is renewed (even if it's just for a free nighttime walk), be thankful for this pretty lavish experience, and count the blessings that are my family and friends. In this time of life--where it's a fantastic weekend day where Superdad takes a shower by 1:00 and I get the whole house to myself for a few hours so I can clean (true story), it's all about seeing the good through the poop- and screaming-filled haze.

Superbaby earns her name

Bad Mama; Good Story

And now an interlude from the usual theme of poop. Though there are stories to tell about that, as always, you must have a break from it in order to appreciate it. Today's story involves beer.

The beginning: yesterday, I got sick. Perhaps another case of food poisoning, as Mas seems to be going through something too. Superdad had to come home from work early to take care of the kids, and I was down for the count until about 10 pm. The wee ones, of course, couldn't go easy on him. Though Superdad got Mas to bed at 7:30, Mas didn't go to sleep until 9:30, coming out of his room every 20 minutes to use the potty . . . and use is a very loose term that really means pretend to use. Between the potty breaks, there was unwanted musical entertainment coming from his room. And, of course, Shaifali stirred and cried every time Mas got up, causing Superdad to run from room to room trying to calm the masses.

We barely keep the house together when there is a 1:1 ratio, so I should have realized our house was going to be ridiculous when I saw it today.

Me to myself: "Why is there a half an avocado that has been left on the counter to rot?"

Me to myself 10 seconds later: "Oh. Because poor Superdad was by himself last night."

Me to myself: "Why are Mas's pants and plastic diaper covers on the floor in the bathroom?"

Me to myself 10 seconds later: "Oh. Because poor Superdad was by himself last night."

Me to myself: "Why is there a half-eaten can of turkey chili that has been left on the counter to rot?"

Me to myself 10 seconds later: "Oh. Because poor Superdad was by himself last night."

I could go on.

I was sitting on the bed in the guest room, where the remains of Superdad's night lay on the bedside table, when I see out of the corner of my eye a child with a bottle:

When I saw him, he actually had the bottle to his mouth. At first I said, "no, no, no." Then I changed my mind and said, "go show Daddy." He did. Superdad lodged a complaint that our child smelled like beer a minute later. Child lodged a complaint a minute later with a slightly sour look on his face that his mouth hurt/didn't taste good. Bad mama; good story.

Disclaimer: I posed him for this picture after the fact, putting the bottle in hand yet again.

Editor's note request by Superdad: He had consumed the whole beer; the beer smell was just from the bottle. No minor consumption of alcohol.

Avocados and What Matters Most

It ended with throw-up. Ok, apparently I like a dramatic first line. My stock line is, "it started with poop," which today it did, mind you. But I'm talking about three nights ago, so I'll back up to the beginning, which is the imperfect part. We had visitors this past week, who, thankfully, are like family, so there's no pressure. Mas is in love with the two boys (at times hugging them while gazing at them and repeating their names over and over), who are 3 and 6 years old. There was a whole troupe of us going to the awesome community center pool--which has a waterslide fit for both adults and kids, a current channel, a vortex, and a wading pool. It seemed I had planned a really fun activity for my boy.

We were to be four adults, three kids, and one baby. But I was alone in the morning. My challenge is always getting out the door. I may have mentioned before that I would have a dozen kids (not really) if I could remove poop/toileting and getting ready from the equation. It took me an hour and a half to get ready. 30 minutes of that were mediocre, 30 minutes of that were great (child happily reading books to himself), and 30 minutes were awful (avocado on the walls). So there I am absolutely losing it, again finding myself yelling: "and I planned this for you and I'm sick and don't even want to go and you don't even care and . . .."

Well of course he doesn't care! He's two! I can't figure out why I don't get that yet. Darn you, thick skull!

I knew it would be fine once we got there, and it was. He had SO much fun, as did I. Shaifali fell asleep in the loving arms of her Amber, riding around in the current channel. Mas went down each slide once and declined to go again, instead giggling and laughing as he explored the other areas. He was just plain adorable and joyful. I wish I had pictures of them--Shaifali in her orange and white striped, size 12 months (she's now two months old) bathing suit, and Mas in his orange surf shirt and swimming trunks with sharks. Water and cameras don't tend to mix well. It really was lovely.

Fast forward to the evening when we had a lot of people over for the last dinner with our friends. We had 15 people here, including babies, and Mas had about four helpings of homemade tacos and apparently the equivalent of 1.5-2 mangoes (pictured left). This kid always eats a lot and can pack down some serious fruit with no consequences. Usually. The mangoes didn't take. At 1:00 am, we peeked at him (as we often do), and he was all snuggled at the edge of his bed, butt in air. I moved him up to the top. Two minutes later there was screaming and crying. The mangoes made a return visit . . . an extremely unwelcome return visit. Poor guy threw up twice, the second time directly on me while I rocked him.

I comforted him and read to him and sang to him and bathed him and gave him tons of love. The smeared avocado was forgotten, as was my yelling at him about it. I was there for him when he needed me, and that's where I am still--and will always be--a Supermom.

Author's note: I, at least for the time being, seem to have learned something. Some years from now, I won't care about smeared avocado; if we have to retouch paint to sell the house, that will be ok. It won't matter that it took 20 minutes to leave the house all the time; someday, our kids will run out the door with their friends in .20 seconds. I'll forget about the screaming; our parents seem to have. What matters is that we have relationships with our kids where they remember: how often we told them we love them more than they remember how often we yelled at them, how many times we hugged them more than how many times we ran away to our rooms to hide, how we supported them through thick and thin, how we did our best to make them happy, how we tried to give them the best of us even if they sometimes got the worst. With this in mind, I was able to have patience until 4:00 pm today! That's a Monday record!

Lessons from a Just-Shy-of-Perfect Superdad

He really is almost a perfect Superdad. He also has his moments of going crazy sometimes, and he walks into doors in the middle of the night, and he once wrapped Mas in his diaper (leaving the areas that needed to be covered exposed) in the middle of the night, but he's pretty darn cool. And sometimes, he's way cooler than I am.

He helped Mas dye eggs for the altar. (Even the Konko church likes colored eggs).

He dressed Mas up for the big ceremony at church in little slacks and a vest.

He packed the diaper bags. He put the eggs in the bowls that Mas and his big friend Emily would walk the eggs up to the altar in. He showered, dressed himself, ironed his pants (though that was my suggestion), and dressed Shaifali in her cute outfit.

He fed himself and Mas. I'm sure he made coffee for himself. And that was all on the usual six hours of sleep! He did not, I repeat, did NOT, find himself with nothing to wear (that didn't create about five muffintops worth of roll, that wasn't unintentionally midriff-baring, that wasn't a pajama shirt, or that wasn't too low-cut for milk breasts). He did not commence sobbing. And he did not work himself into a tizzy over the fact that the eggs were going to be late and that we could let everyone down.

His only fault was that he wouldn't leave me at home, insisting that we should all go together. I, however, ran away crying to my sister's house and couldn't even show my face. If only I had known that the eggs made it in time for Mas and Emily to offer them.

Hopefully I will learn the lesson of calm, cool, and collected from the Superdad, who also happens to be a Superpartner and an all-around Superperson.