Charliepants: "Mama, can you put on your talking show?".
Mama,smiling and thinking: See, all the NPR will pay off. Screw Paulie and his Arthur and his singalongs and his knowing all the names on Paw Patrol. Little kids DO like the things I like. I AM a fun mom.
"Oh honey, do you like mama's talking show?"
Charliepants: "No, YOU do."
When I give him food that is hot, with the predictable parental warning—“wait for it to cool down honey”, Charlie says “Warm, Mama, warm. I’m going to wait for it to get WARM.”
Happy Birthday Charlie.
You adorable little shit.
A little tidbit to share in honor of my kids papa whom I could not have done a better job selecting. (Yes, I turned that accolade right back to myself. Sorry not sorry I’m really proud of that accomplishment; ie: powering through my fertile thirties solo and happy).
Me: “Thanks for picking up greek food, that’s just what I needed, I’m so tired from work tonight.”
Charming Husband: “Not all gyros wear capes!”
I just found out that what the kids call “Night Cat”, the creature I assumed was an imaginary figure of bedtime story imaginations and toddler conversations, is in fact, real. And now I have to move.
”Whatcha doing?”
”Just hanging out.”
”No Mama! We are hanging IN. We are IN the house”.
A millennial recently asked me what it’s like to have kids and be married. In summary:
”Hey, look how cute these undies I got at Costco are!”
I’m stuck. I’m mentally obsessing with work things I can’t control, that don’t really matter in the big picture, and in general my big picture is currently very hard to see. Now that the house is (mostly) done and the local election is over, I don’t have anything new to put my rushing brain to. I’m feeling a bit like a gerbil on a wheel. Lots of energy, no direction.
This isn’t unusual for me, it comes with the spring daylight (SAD likes to fuck with you coming and going). It too shall pass.
In the meantime, maybe I can try my kids approach to living in the moment and going with the flow.
On the other hand, maybe I should just teach them how to use a damn slide.
The ruckus was terrible. Stomping feet up the stairs, the sound of the high pressure shower setting splashing water everywhere, the unmistakable whine of a resisting toddler.
What on earth is going on?
After some intervention, my best soothing voice and a little triage—it was poop.
“Honey, poop is not an emergency”.
”It is when it happens during qualifying!!”
Point taken.
We’re on hour two of Easter basket amusement. Who says kids don’t like post it notes and twist ties? Also, Paulie is barfing downstairs. In the bathroom that has plastic garbage bags taped up on the walls where we ripped out the shower tile. {Sips coffee}
Me: “You said ‘Aldi’s’ little while ago, now there’s an Aldi ad in my feed. I’ve never had an Aldi ad before.”
Mom: “So what?”
Me: “It’s listening, I swear the devices are listening”
Mom: “What? Ooh, that’s spooky....”
Also Mom: holds up iPad, “SEX!”
Sunday is baking day at home.
”I like cookies when they are warm because they are soft. Soft cookies are better for sneaking up on people, because you can still have a snack while you are doing your sneaking, but because they aren’t crunchy, they can’t hear you.”
We are moved back in to the house, the temporary apartment has been emptied and cleaned. I still have boxes and boxes to go through in the basement, as well as furniture to move upstairs and art to rehang. Paulie is chipping away at painting ceilings, touching up walls, reinstalling blinds and installing light fixtures. But overall, it’s done. The kitchen, done. The mud room, done. The back family room, done. The floors, done. The Book Shower, done.
When I captured this moment, I thought, “Worth every penny”. And then I noticed it was Captain Underpants, and I thought, well, can’t win em all.
Some moments with toddlers are unforgettable, some are unbelievable, and some are one hundred percent the legacy of Pat Mikkelsen’s child rearing.
Me: “Oh Charlie, you are so fucking beautiful!”
Charlie: “Mama, you’re fucking beautiful every day!”
I’m standing in a contraption that stretches my calf and foot to relieve the pain of my plantar fasciitis, stretching my arms up along the wall, wishing for help to pull the ache out.
Me: ”Remember when they used to put people on the rack? Wouldn’t that feel good now?”
Paulie: “And throw a little heat underneath it”
Just when I feel overwhelmed by risk and debt and responsibilities, a little voice reminds me of how good we’ve got it.
Me, scooping up apple cores, baby wipes and Culver's bags: “Man, this car is a mess”.
Viv: ”At least it doesn't smell like old cheese anymore”.
In an effort to make a temporary, rather bleak one bedroom apartment more tolerable for the family, especially over the holiday, I’ve been thinking we will have some fun and try to make it a little adventure.
Mama: ”Honey, let’s make the little apartment fun, we can decorate it anyway we want. How about a theme from one of your books?”
Viv: “Can it be Oliver Twist?
I have a sheet of stickers. Charlie comes over, asks for a sticker, gets a sticker and waddles in to the next room. In that room, he folds the sticker. A minute later, he is back, waving his hand around with the half folded sticker stuck to it and proclaiming that the sticker is broken. He asks for another sticker; I oblige.
We have passed an hour this way. And it is just about the right speed of activity and responsibility I can handle right now. The house construction starts on Tuesday. I am not ready. My brain is broken. Can I have another?
Viv: “Are you going to do my scary face?”
Mama: “Yes, I’ll do it.”
“Are you sure you can?”
“Yes, I’m pretty sure I can make you look like Frankenstein.”
“Hmm, well, I recommend watching some youtube videos first.”
I’ve literally created a monster.
Tonight is Charliepant’s first night in his big kid bed. While I was doing laundry or Facebooking or reading or something, Paulie made him his very own cardboard version of Bert & Ernie’s headboards.
Because, as Charlie says: ERNIEBERT! ERNIEBERT! ERNIEBERT!
(Also, as I write this, Viv is sitting next to his new bed reading him a night night story because she “likes spending time with him”).
It’s been an exhausting few weeks.
My community is in an uproar over the highschool production of To Kill A Mockingbird, which exposed the school’s ugly power dynamic, ineffective school board governance, and of course, very loud obnoxious white lady style racism.
We spent a week vacationing with family up north, with all the emotional weight, good and bad, that entails. Note: vacationing with a six year old and a two year old is not vacationing; it’s a trip away, yes, but not a vacation.The school district’s survey to gain support for a $55m to $120m referendum came out (I’m part of a small group trying to get the financial facts and consequences out to the public). I somehow got myself on the Beautification committee of the PTO. There are fliers to hand out, doors to knock on and troops to rally. And parent teacher conferences were on Thursday.
Oh, and while we’re were at it we refinanced the house, with all the paperwork and worry that involves. On Wednesday, after five years of doing everything else ourselves in this fixer upper, we finally signed the construction contract for the complete gutting renovation of the kitchen and first floor. Good grief. Also, I guess I really live here now.
I’ve spent a lot of time these past two weeks thinking about what I want my kids to be exposed to, what kind of community I want them to grow up in, how my values aren’t always reflected in this village.
I’ve also been caught out a few times on my own internal village, how we don’t always live our values right here in this house. Teacher conferences gave me a glimpse of Viv’s world (all week she’s been telling her class stories of the wonderful time she had at the cottage!). I’m freshly aware of how we talk to each other as Charlie explores the boundaries of being a bossy two year old, tests out “No!”, and imitiates Mama and Papa with his dollies. I’m not always proud of what is reflected.
But, I learn. And I grow. And when ashamed, I try really hard to step forward with new approaches instead of retreating into old habits.
In the end, when they are grown and reflect on their upbringing, I hope their view of their family is like Viv’s clandestine photo portrait of us. There we are, tired and resigned. But together, and with faint smiles on our faces. At the table with each other and not too much yelling.
You are six years old today, and right now you are a humid little lump sleeping next to me in Mama’s bed. “Mama Time” you call it.
It’s been six years, but I still don’t know exactly what I’m doing. Each time I get confident, each time I get the routine down, you go and change on me. In the proverbial leaps and bounds you make your way through stages of childhood, often leaving me behind in the cliche dust.
But I do know these things:
Your first best friend was named Julian and you greeted each other with a hug every day and cried when you had to part.
You say Gwanma. And Nonna. And have never confused the two.
You want to be a monkey when you grow up. And also a teacher. And a race car driver.
You are 100% right when you say pants with pockets only in the back are stupid.
Charlie will never have a better guide than you.
You own your Papa’s heart, and almost more importantly, his growth from a pretty darn good person to an amazing person.
You bite your nails, out of nervousness, and I worry about that. But you also are trying to quit, of your own choice, and quitting a habit is the hardest thing a human brain can do. So if you can’t, I got you. That goes for every thing. Every single thing.
Every time you say "Aside from the sexual assault allegations, he's also unqualified because xyz"...What you're saying is that credible sexual assault allegations aren't enough to disqualify someone from a position of power and influence. And I can't hear that shit anymore. CREDIBLE SEXUAL ASSAULT ALLEGATIONS ARE ENOUGH TO DISQUALIFY ANYONE FROM A JOB. When will we be heard? Every single time someone says "Why didn't they say anything?", this is the perfect example. BECAUSE IT DOESN'T MATTER. ALSO WE DID SAY SOMETHING AND YOU DISMISSED IT IN THIS AND A HUNDRED OTHER WAYS. Well-meaning men have been doing this kind of thing all week, and even my favorite well-meaning male allies can just eat it right now on that. Thank you and that is all.
“I want a baby but I don’t want to make one so I will go out and buy one because I’ll be be rich because I’ll work at night too. I don’t want to make a baby because I don’t want to feel the pain when it comes out or when the baby kicks me. And I know it’s not really buying, there’s an orphanage or something like Oliver. Does it have to be a newborn?”
“I want to be Frankenstein for Halloween. Or maybe the Hulk. Can I get the jacket with the edges? I’d wear it with no shirt. Or if I’m the Hulk I only need short pants with the edges.”
“So, basically you want to be green in torn clothing.”
“Actually, I want to be green, and strong, and mostly naked”.
Actually.
I got called out this week for suggesting that the monarch butterflies that survived, survived because of my care. Nope, they did not. I had, in fact, very little to do with it. For the record:
Our neighbor friend gave us a chrysalis earlier this summer, from her butterfly garden. We watched it hatch and released a huge female monarch, very exciting. I thanked the friend, and mentioned that I planned to plant milkweed so we could maybe have some monarchs of our own next year.
Sure enough, a few days later she dropped off a milkweed plant for us to have! It was in a temporary pot, so I plunked it on the shelf and mentally scheduled its planting for “later, after I do all the other things like getting the toddler to stop yelling ERNIEBERT ERNIEBERT ERNIEBERT at the top of his lungs”).
I was working at my sunroom desk one day, when a huge fuzzy caterpillar suddenly appeared on my keyboard and scooted his way across my work. What the?! Turns out the plant had eggs, and now a few warm interior weeks later, we have four caterpillars!
I put the plant outside, complete with it’s four new tenants and called Mom. I had no idea what to do, or frankly if there was anything required to do except put them outside. I’m a naturalist. I naturally think all living things belong outside, you know, with the nature. Don’t they figure it out themselves?
Turns out, there’s more to it. In order to get caterpillars from fuzzy worm to chrysalis to butterfly in large numbers, they need some protection. The next day, when I got home from work, I saw that Mom had brought over a monarch box and put the caterpillars and milkweed stems inside their new safe little habitat. Mom MADE the monarch box, with the monarch group at the senior center because you know, she’s lived here half as long as me but knows everyone and does everything and is the queen of the village.
All is good. Until the hungry little buggers eat all the leaves, stripping the milkweed to nothing but stalks. Mom knew this would happen and had already rallied the troops. Her darling friend Julie brought over some of her own milkweed leaves, taking the time to deliver them to mom before she went to her own family outing (!).
Cool, crisis averted. So in the evening, I put the box up on the table on the porch to better view the creatures and see when they attach themselves to the top and start their metamorphosis. And I go to bed, and to work and to bed and to work again and think nothing of it.
Mom scolds me after she moves the box from the exposed table top to the floor, and puts a plastic cover on the top to protect it and its delicate inhabitants from the howling storm and three days of rain. Oops.
Now safely sheltered, they do their acrobatic cocooning thing, and dangle for another ten days in the corner. We count only three chrysalis, the fourth probably lost to the weather. As Viv nonchalantly said “it’s probably dead”.
Fortunately for us, the monarchs appeared over Labor Day weekend, so we could enjoy the sight as they unfolded their glorious wings. And during the only bit of sunshine we’d had all weekend, even better.
So, there’s the whole story. I take no credit for the successful hatching of these monarch butterflies. As I said, it’s a miracle they survived me.
What a lucky bunch of bugs we are.
Two-year old Charlie is talking, waddling, and goofing his way through toddlerhood.
“I love you Charlie”
“I love you too, Mama”
“Charlie, where does love come from?” (This is reference to a favorite bedtime book, I expected a hand gesture over his heart).
“Right here, from my butt”. (as he pat pats on the front of his diaper)
Viv and Charlie are becoming a unit. Now that Charlie is two and finally walking as much as he is talking, they are interacting more than ever before. Viv has always enjoyed being a big sister to babies both real and imagined, but now she also has a playmate. A cohort. A co-conspirator. And another analytical mind to meld with.
Mama: “You are so cute Charlie.”
“No, I’m not cute, I’m Charlie”.
Mama: “What’s that (stuffed) puppy’s name?”
“Puppy”.
Mama: “Oh, and what about that puppy, what’s its name?”
“Other Puppy”
This topic of this article is really important. I’m only beginning to understand.
https://www.vox.com/2018/8/3/17644704/sarah-jeong-new-york-times-tweets-backlash-racism
Fuck whales, save context. This article and others I’ve read related to the story (with a variety of views) of Sarah Jeong and others makes me hope that I learn fast enough how to educate my kids on context, internet literacy, consent, research, and critical thinking. Also, art critique skills could be useful, it’s the same questions: Who is the audience? What is the intent? How successfully was it executed? How else could it be interpreted?
The internet is scary. It’s also amazing. It’s all the things, and it’s embedded in my life.
I’ve been blogging since 2002 and posting photos of my babies and life on Facebook since 2009. Two things have given me pause lately. One, I sent a link of an old 2012 blog post to a friend and I noticed that in the post before it I had used the word “ghetto” in the title. That made me cringe. I was tempted even to change or delete it. But I didn’t; a reminder that language and understanding changes, that I learn and grow is a good thing.
Second, I was recently enjoying a fluff story trail of “Where Are They Now?” about memes and I noticed a majority of the images were of young people or children who are now—zip—adults. First, wow that was fast, kids grow up in seconds. And second, crap, what would Viv think at age 13 of some of the photos and captions out there of her at age three? Do I have a right to do that? Does she have a right to privacy before junior high?
Oh god, she’s going to have to go to junior high. Delete delete delete
We ran out of toilet paper. Like out out. No Kleenex, nothing hidden in the back of the cupboard, even a search of Paulie's car for the emergency travel roll came up empty. Paulie stashed a few paper towels nearby and we got on with our morning mayhem routine, noting “tp” on the never ending to-do list.
A few minutes later, I noticed this. Viv had rolled the paper towels around the holder. Folded in half, then rolled. Thank you, Viv, for the civility.
At the beach this evening, resting my sore feet in the cool sand, I could see this scene to my right and to my left. Families, friends, kids, grandparents, daters and skaters and aunties and babies. On the walk down the bluff, I heard three languages. I spotted interracial couples and families, more than one hijab, differently abled folks, seniors, lgbtq folks, and even a lone hold out cigarette smoker. Clumps of families in every conceivable configuration dotted the beach. Hand holders, shouters and strollers shared the boardwalk.
When the world seems upside down, when the newsfeed is unbearable, when the political divisions feel like looming civil war, remind me to go to the beach. To the beach where everyone is bonded, where the array of humanity is beautifully broad, where everyone is there to capture the same thing—good selfie light.
Each article, each radio interview, every profile featuring women running for office, women winning elections, women leading boards, and women leadership in general right now is stoking my rage. Why? Because the popular angle is “women are good for business”, “women do things differently so they are better” and all that lean in crap. Even if the studies aren’t flawed, even if the premise isn’t condescending, why the fuck should it matter?
Why do we need to prove our worth? Our capabilities? Our profitability? Why must we apologize for taking our seat at the table? Why do I need to convince you that my female presence is not only harmless, but beneficial to you? What if it isn’t beneficial? What if women are just as fallible and human as men? What if we get greedy, can be corrupt, can be inept, can be wrong; do we then get expelled?
Women are half the population, women are human beings, women are engines of the economy, makers of humans. WOMEN EXIST. That is reason enough to demand representation at every level in the government that rules us, the institutions that affect us and the corporations that profit from our labor.
Period. Ditto everyone that isn’t a straight white man.
“Nice Hawaiian shirt Mom”
“Thanks, I wore it so if we’re on the news, you know, I can stand out and spot myself”.
Um, kinda not the point of being here at this march for immigrant families Mom, but ok. I thought that was the end of the topic when Paulie, beloved but daring son-in-law, chimed in:
“An old lady in a flowered shirt at a protest, yeah, that’ll really stand out!”
Paulie and Viv are at the races all day, I already have two loads of laundry done and the sun is shining. Time to go to the farmers market, just Charlie and me. Or, because he has a boppie and is totally ignorable four feet ahead of me in the double stroller, mentally just me. Ahhh.
The Shorewood Farmers Market is packed. Packed with strollers, coffee drinkers, shoppers, a band. A band? A full honest god electric set up band. And there's the Shasta trailer selling waffles, the other trailer selling egg breakfasts, and new this year a vintage Ford truck retrofitted with taps to serve small batch brews. It is, of course, clad with horizontal reclaimed wood boards. A Tommy Haverford lookalike inspects the boulangerie's mobile wood fired oven, at least four booths have locally roasted coffee. Is someone roasting beans right here? There's Kambucha, empanadas, gluten-free ready to bake dough...it's endless, and not much of it is produce. There are more vehicles than veggie vendors, you wouldn't be crazy for thinking it's a food truck lot. If I didn't have the experience to know where to find the egg lady, and that a cartoon of her fresh brown eggs was worth elbowing through all that overpriced spandex for, I would have turned around.
Don't get me wrong, I thoroughly enjoy this outing, especially the chocolate croissants. But let's call this what it really is: Portland 2005.
Time in the car with my girls, Mom and Viv, is my favorite. I certainly miss the days of road tripping alone, the window rolled down, sun on the windshield, rolling through the green summer countryside blasting NPR. But I have embraced my passengers. I always learn something.
Driving back from Patsy and Charlie's lovely family wedding in Door County--
Me: "It was so great to meet that woman whose sister babysat me back in Columbia, that's amazing that they remember! Awww, they said to say hi to Pumpkin, I always loved that I'm your Pumpkin mom." (Warm fuzzy memory of little kid me being held close to my mom, her calling me Pumpkin when I needed a cuddle)
"God, were you orange."
What?
What?
"Wait, wasn't I called Pumpkin because I was cute, it wasn't a cutesie loving nickname like honey bunny? Wait, WHY was I called Pumpkin?"
"You had jaundice! You were orange as a pumpkin!"
Settling in to our room: "The hotel TV might not cooperate, and your iPad is fragile, so I'll watch cartoons on your phone."
Cooperate.
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