Thanksgiving at the Osthoff, 2019.
This is the first weekend away that we forgot to pack the stroller...and turns out we don’t need it. Another parenting milestone. Paulie has also reached a new level...a new level of Dadness.
We treated ourselves to a couples massage.
Me: “This will be fun, we’ve never done a “couple” thing before!”
Paulie: “Sure we have, we have a “couple” of kids!”
ba dum bum
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."
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’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”
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.
In a stunning reversal, I like my house and hate my husband. Ok, so that's too strong, but I'm cranky this morning. And we're not seeing eye to eye. But, like all our marital storms, this one will pass.
What will stay, I hope, is my new satisfaction with the house. The painting continues, one room at time, through the first floor. We literally have just one painter working in the house each day, the painting company is fitting us in between other jobs. Which wouldn't be that unusual except that typically they run a crew for this amount of work---walls, ceiling, then sanding, priming and two-coating all that trim. The playroom ceiling had to be stripped of falling ancient wallpaper and practically replastered. Davis, whom I have yet to meet in person, arrives after we leave for work and leaves before we return. Our very own magical painter elf. This is very our style of working with the trades---not needing a schedule or having a deadlin has its cost benefits. And makes the drive home from work more exciting; oh the anticipation!
Adding to the feeling of CLEAN the paint has given the house, the three new light fixtures have changed my outlook on everything. Literally. I can now see just exactly how filthy, grungy, and dark the house was. Why did we wait so long? Oh right, because we needed a shower, and garage doors, and our own bedroom.
Paulie did put up all three lights. And installed dimmers. Ok, truce.
When my freshman (high school) roommate came over to my bed while I was sleeping, woke me up and made me pretend to give her finger a blow job in front of her gaggle of friends to humiliate me.
Every single time someone said "but you have such a pretty face".
When the doctor, during my very first pelvic exam, slapped my thigh and said "What are we going to do about these saddle bags?"
When the school president asked "Which one is the smart one and which one is the pretty one?"
The time the guy started to go anal without asking.
The time the guy creeped his hand over to caress my thigh while his other hand was holding the hand of his girlfriend on my couch.
The time the two male business partners started talking about a female vendor: "How could someone that good looking smell so bad" as we waited for the meeting to begin. When the next party arrived, who was male and not their employee, they stopped talking.
The time a grown man pinned a sixteen year old me against the pole on a crowded train car and rubbed himself against my backside until he was yelled at and ran off at the next stop.
Every single time someone assumed that fat is an insulator from assault and a barrier to love.
"I'm disappointed, Charlie's eyes are turning dark.They were so light for so long, I had hopes they would be green like mine. Looks like they are going to be brown instead, I'm so bummed".
"Why so bummed?"
"I don't know, don't you wish a little bit that your kids look like yourself?"
"They do look like me, they have brown eyes."
That time we were standing waiting for the Max train in Portland and it began raining and you asked if I wanted your umbrella and I said no (because I used to live there and I know better) and then you said, with admiration, "You're so durable."
That was the most romantic thing you ever said to me, because it's how I think of myself. You nailed it. And you daily nail this marriage and kids (and mother in law) thing. Thank god, because sometimes, on the tough days, I'd rather be out walking in the rain. Happy Anniversary Paulie!
Parenting is a nocturnal experience. We four are still in one bedroom, in our separate sections, but still all in together. Each night is a campsite of mysterious thumps and hums; something is always vibrating. Previous silence is filled with sniffles, snores and baby wheezes. We are awakened by coughs, hunger cries, dead batteries. I am awakened by my own worry, restless until I check the crib. In turns, and as often both at once, we tend to the little ones through dusk and midnight and early dawn.
When the adult bedroom is at last habitable, it may take me many nights to get used to the quiet. Or not.
Yes, those are birthday candles in corn muffins. October is a month of milestones. Paulie turned 47, Vivi turned 4, and Charlie grew into his 4th month. Celebrations would be nice, but an organized gathering, an organized anything (!), seems out of our reach these days.
Who can bake a cake and make dinner and wrap presents and what presents? who picks up the kids and we're out of diapers and Viv needs a haircut and am I still nursing and I have to work in Chicago tomorrow and go get milk again at Walgreens.....Mostly, we are keeping our heads above water.
But in a quiet Sunday morning, at last, I can reflect. And all three of my people are asleep. Thank god.
"Parenting is one small indignity after another; from my robe falling open at inopportune times, to the goldfish I just snacked on that I'm pretty sure had been on the floor". -Paulie
Add to that:
-Changing a diaper on a public restroom floor.
-An Uncle asking "Is the baby under here?" as he lifts the nursing scarf away.
-Wishing I had more of those mesh underwear from the hospital.
-Closing the bathroom door for those five sweet minutes alone.
-Shaving the left leg on Tuesday, the right leg on Wednesday.
-Seriously discussing the merits of Nurse Holly's (of Doc McStuffins cartoon fame) record keeping (the Big Book of Boo Boos) with the three year old.
-Assembling any stroller, swing, bouncy chair, or car seat together without divorcing.
-Milk in the cabinet, coffee beans in the fridge, toothpaste in the kitchen, crackers in the bathroom.
-Asking "Is this poop?" more than once a day.
Charlie is five weeks old tomorrow. I have aged five years. Some highlights:
-"Am I wearing pants? Not 'should I wear pants', but can you tell me at this moment do I have my pants on?"
-"They are so cute so that you won't kill them" (thanks Grandma)
-"The sheets were always so scratchy" (birth story from another era)
-"Your boob looks like a weapon"
-"Uh oh mama, he fell off your boob!"
-The third sling is the charm. Or the fourth...
-"What are you going to do for three whole months?" (Apparently maternity leave is a vacation)
-We have enough baby blankets. What we need is a Walgreens platinum card. That's a thing, right?
-"It goes up his butt til the stopper then you listen for the whistle"
And of course, a shout out to this guy, for doing everything else that makes a bathroom a bathroom (and a house a home):
The second baby is both easier and more difficult. I knew what was coming, so I dreaded labor and delivery. My experience with Viv was so tough, I feared a repeat. And no, "getting a healthy baby at the end" does not erase a bad birth experience. It certainly helps over the alternative, but a crummy time is a crummy time.
The birth plan this time around was certainly more flexible (and less lengthy--"Take it as it comes") but still focused on as natural as possible. When baby was breech at 36 weeks and my conservative OB/GYN firmly announced it would be a c-section if he didn't flip by 38 weeks, I was in a panic. I saw the chiropractor every other day, did accupressure and stood on my head for twenty minutes each night. A surgeon's daughter avoids surgery like the proverbial plague.
Lucky me, it worked!
I was so relieved to avoid a scheduled c-section that I didn't see the preeclampsia coming. A few spiked blood pressure readings didn't alarm me, but sharply declining platelets and scary liver function readings did. A scientist's daughter also knows when to trust the numbers. It's a good thing I'm so organized and had wrapped up work a week before my due date, because it was time to get that baby out!
-When faced with an unknown, Paulie goes to his comfort zone. As we were scrambling out the door Saturday morning for the emergency induction, he vacuumed the cars. Both cars.
-When your childcare plan (i.e. Grandma) says they are going on a winery tour the weekend before your due date, be sure to ask WHERE. Do not assume it's local. It's more likely, inexplicably, in Appleton. By charter bus.
-Intravenous Magnesium is the devil. The devil that saves your life, but the devil.
-I've never been so happy to get a catheter. Or had such a deep, meditative exchange with an anesthesiologist.
-Doctors tell, and you think you understand and nod your head like you understand. But after the doctor is out the door moments later, the nurses interpret. And then you truly DO understand. You understand that the nurses do everything. And then they also clean up your food tray.
-"Why does the window hurt so fucking much?!?" I asked Paulie over and over during transition. I had an area in my abdomen, near my hip that the epidural didn't take effect on. It happens sometimes. The nurse explained it to me, calling it an epidural "window", while Paulie was in the bathroom. As he leaned over the bed to comfort me, he was so perplexed when I grunted "No, godfuckingdamnit it's not about the blinds".
-Pushing when I felt like it, as I felt like it without the sitcom "push push push" count down was so much better. Pulling on a towel like a rope, with both Paulie and the doula pulling in the other direction was brilliant. That baby popped out in thirty minutes!
-A doc who saves your stuff (as one observer noted "She worked the hell out of it") is forgiven for all else.
-My hair looked amazing.
Viv: "Look Papa, that airplane is making a line in the sky"
Paulie: "That's because the turbine engine makes water and it's cold up there so it makes a vapor trail".
Viv: "Oh, it's like a magic princess!"
While Mom, Viv and I were road tripping, Paulie was home working away on the bedroom. Out came the groovy orange closet, fluorescent lights, acoustic tile ceiling and dark faux wood wall paneling.
Underneath the 70's vintage cladding were remnants of a 70's teenage graffiti conversation, complete with sketches of guitars and booze bottles. This house has history. If the previous owners kids ever pop by, I want to ask about "taking Mary to Nino's". No need to ask about the window screen missing a neatly cut 2" square of mesh. I think I can guess.
Getting ready for Baby #2's arrival has included lots of preparatory conversations with Viv. We cover sharing, gentleness, jealousy...all the expected topics for a soon-to-be-sibling. Turns out, as I listen to our household with my mind on adding a new baby to the mix, it may be Paulie that needs the prep talk.
He has a hard time seeing Viv as the toddler she is; he is emotionally about one year behind in her development. He is frequently stunned at her ability to do things herself. Tasks I've had her do on her own for months he routinely does for her. Come baby time, he's not going to have the time or energy for all that dotage, as I remind him often. Viv reminds him too:
Paulie, behind her on the way down the stairs: "Careful Vivi, hold the railing".
Vivi: "Papa, I know what I'm doing!"
We get the set! Number two is a boy. I didn't know Paulie wanted a boy until the most recent doctors appointment. When I asked him why he hadn't mentioned his wish to me, he said "I didn't want to be 'that guy'". He was totally "that guy" when he threw his arms up in the air touchdown style in the ultrasound room.
We both agree, it's not about having a boy, it's the thrill of having the set and never again having to field the question: "So, are you going to try for another?"
Viv is a world. She is a toddler. She has dollies and friends and likes and dislikes. She has opinions. She sings to herself. She sings to us. (We call it Toddler Opera). She is curious, she is cautious. She is simultaneously infuriating and fascinating. She is three years old.
Me, at the end of a long day: "I'm pooped".
Viv, from the back seat: "Oh Mama, in your pants?"
Believe it or not, I'm glad to have this goofball back home.
After at last convincing Paulie that hiring another man to work on the house is not the same as having another man sleep with me, we have bathroom progress!
The crew got the shower walls framed in, the new subfloor completed medicine cabinet roughed in, and the walls prepped for tile...in one day.
We started the bathroom one year ago next week, planning at the time to complete it in only one week. I said "we will not be defeated". We were totally defeated. We surrender.
Old house, we give up on doing it ourselves. We promise from now on just to throw wads of cash at you dear Kenmore Place. Please return the favor some day.
It only took six months...and 1 day and $33.18 but we finally got a mirror in the bathroom.
I've been doing my face in a hand mirror hanging off the latch on the cabinet door. In our only bathroom. A bathroom with no threshold, no door trim, chunks of plaster on the floor and a fan that sounds like an airplane landing overhead. I get ready each morning in this 4' x 5' tile palace while someone else showers and a little someone else peaks in because that's where everyone is and isn't this fun?!
The next time Paulie says he'll do some thing when he can afford it, I'm going to clarify what "afford" means!
Me:"Did you enjoy your alone time today?"
Paulie, gesturing down enthusiastically :"I did! Did you see my floors?!?!"
Viv, with her pants off and a scarf on her head, carrying Papas belt, singing:
"Jingle bells, jingle bells..."
Papa: "Viv, that's my belt."
"Jingle belt, jingle belt...."
Before: nice retro globe, but out of place. After: Arroyo Craftsman handmade copper Craiglist find!
Paul finally had the chance to work on the house as planned today! His big renovation plans for his two weeks off (holidays and unused vacation days) were sidelined by a packed holiday party schedule and feverishly sick child.
Sicky-poo Viv finally rallied enough for daycare today; Paulie wasted no time. Three light fixtures have been replaced, curtain rods hung, and more, all in one day. It seems he is so much more productive when the kid is not around. Ditto me.
Following family tradition, Viv has developed a cold and fever on Christmas Eve. Nothing serious, just enough to dampen her spirits a bit. On second thought, maybe a fever-mellowed toddler is a Christmas blessing!
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