out of Kadesh

Good gosh a’mighty. The Bubbs is still babbling to himself in there, and it’s almost 10pm. But it doesn’t matter, because he’ll still be awake at 12, 2, 4, 6, and then for the day at 8. And that is how my life goes.

Lance and I were considering curling up on the couch together and watching Arsenic and Old Lace, because there’s this other part of my life called marriage where ideally my husband and I would spend quality time together, but that was like three hours ago and now it’s so late that instead I have to go bury my face in my pillow for my first two hour nap of the night.

A couple of weekends ago I was at an event for the theatre and I ended up talking to some people who have older kids. Once the subject of my son’s abysmal sleep habits came up, these nice parents all had sage advice that I’ve NEVER heard before, no not once not ever: “You just have to let him cry.” Their success stories followed of course, starting with the part where they cried along with their children those first few nights and concluding with the joyous part where they now enjoy 12 hour nights of silent, blissful sleep. Lance and I politely nodded and smiled, saying “Aw,” and “Wow!” in all the right places, but it inevitably ended with the usual shrug and glance at one another, like we were just now considering it for the first time IN 17 MONTHS, and we said something about it not being something we could stomach and we just weren’t into it. And that was that.

No, wait, first I was told with a sad smile and a condescending tone that sometimes I have to do what’s best for the baby and not what’s easiest for me, but then that was that. By the way dude, in case I forgot to tell you, THANKS FOR THAT.

I wonder what it is about parenting that makes us such judgmental dickwads. It must have something to do with how hard it is to raise a child, how frightening and lonely and frustrating and emotional and beautiful it is. You’ve poured everything you have and everything you are into what you believe is the absolute best for your little one, and if someone else is doing it differently then their way HAS to be wrong, by default. Because if their way is right or better than yours, then everything you are doing is only second best at most. So you decide you’re only going to feed your child organic foods that you painstakingly pick out, pay for, and prepare, and when you see someone feeding their toddler McDonald’s you can’t help but look down your nose because you HAVE to believe that what you’re doing is better than that. But the McDonald’s mom is just looking down her nose at you because you’ve been breastfeeding your baby for far too long and what if you give him some kind of weird repressed boobie memories later in life? And she has to believe that stopping breastfeeding at 6 months was best for her baby, because otherwise she DIDN’T do what was best for him, and as a mother she can’t live with that knowledge.

And while we’re on the subject, I think the same might be true for people and their religion.

I don’t know what to do about it, but maybe just acknowledging what it is when it happens, an insecurity within myself and not a problem with another person, is a good first step.

OR maybe the next time someone tells me the best thing I can do for my son is to let him scream himself hoarse with fear, in a dark room, all alone, while I sit on my ass eating bon-bons and not worrying my pretty little head with what my son wants or needs, I should tell them to MIND THEIR OWN FUCKING BUSINESS. And then I’ll turn my wasted brain’s musings into a complaint-ridden blog post for you, dear Reader.

Aren’t you glad you know me?

Dear Noah,

“Bonga.” “Bah.” “Bong.” “Eh!” “Nanana.” “Bucka-bung!” “Mah.” “Buh.” “Zee.” “Ah!” “Ah-bee.” “Dah!” “Boo-boo-boof.” “Eh.” “Eh-eh-eh.” “Voo.” “Ghee!” “Bahng.” “Obah.” “Eh-belelelel.” “Bither-bither.” “Diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle!” “Owww.” “Dither-dither.” “Mong!” That was you for the last 30 seconds or so. I have no idea what you’re saying, but you say it with such authority. These are just a few of the sounds you’ve been making over the last month. Your vocabulary, although incomprehensible to anyone besides the writers of Look Who’s Talking, could fill up its own dictionary. Every day you make a new word, and your Daddy and I just send each other eyebrow messages across the dinner table. Sometimes you demand a response, so we say things to you like, “I couldn’t agree more,” or “I don’t know if I’d go that far,” or “We don’t use words like that in this house young man.” (Yes, we do.) These answers seem to satisfy you. (Later in life, if you notice my shoulders are unusually high, don’t stare. It’s just a deformity that happened when you were a toddler because of all the shrugging I did.)

It is utterly amazing to watch your language skills develop. The other day we were sitting at the coffee shop together and looking at a book of pictures. As usual, you were pointing to each picture and I was labeling everything. And then we turned the page, and I said, “Where’s the strawberry?” Just for kicks. And you pointed right to it! I couldn’t believe it, because I didn’t know you knew that word. So I kept playing: “Where’s the bread? Where’s the orange? Where’s the milk?” You pointed to (almost) everything. Then I said, “Where’s the banana?” Because I knew you’d know that one. You even know how to say it (“balalalala”). To my surprise, however, you turned away from the book and picked up… a plastic banana that was close by on the table. You held it close to your mouth and grinned, and said “Balalala?” Oh man, it was funny. You are such a smart, funny little guy already, and I think you know it.

You always know how to make Mommy and Daddy laugh. You’re such a ham; you do anything for a laugh out of us. And when we laugh, you throw your head back and laugh too. I can’t believe how much personality you have for a 17-month-old. More than your Uncle Jeremy’s last three girlfriends combined. (HEY-OHH!). Your Daddy and I were talking the other day about what a joy it is to take you out in public, because you always have a smile for everyone. Sometimes I’ll play a game with myself: I’ll watch you smiling away at someone who is ignoring you, and I’ll call it whether or not they’ll look over and smile back in spite of themselves. You win almost every time. Even the hardcorest of Mac users, total hipsters sipping espresso and frowning, catch your eye and can’t help but smile back at you. I’ve even seen grown men break down and wave. Some guy even walked over to us and told us you were awesome, and he did NOT look the part let me tell you. We think you probably brighten even the darkest of days.

This month you had your first-ever Easter egg hunt, which you totally owned. And even though we “hid” approximately 500 eggs, you found them all and threw them into the basket with gusto (and a crunching sound), grinning up at us while we clapped and cheered you on. Later we took you to see the Trains exhibit at Cheekwood, and you were completely enraptured. It was there that a stranger first noticed what your Daddy and I already knew about you: you really focus so well for someone your age. You don’t want the 10 other presents under the tree; you’re fine with the ONE you are playing with already, thank you. Give you an hour or so and you’ll be ready for another one. And you want to figure out how those trains go before we see anything else. I’m fairly certain you are going to be an engineer. It runs in your blood, you see.

I guess this goes along with that, but there’s kind of a down side to your ability to focus, and it’s how you notice EVERYTHING. A microscopic spec on the rug right after I vacuum? You’ll find it and bring it to me, and if I don’t immediately take it from you (even though I can’t even see it), you get very annoyed. You’ll find the crumb on your shirt during lunch and whine and point until I put down my sandwich, find it, and pick it off you. You’ll find the zit I thought I’d artfully covered with makeup and point at it questioningly, like, that shouldn’t be there, should it? Eh? Eh? Eh? (By the way, THANKS. Girls LOVE this. Please do that to your date at the prom so I won’t have to worry about having a safe-sex talk with you.)

You’re still so much fun, and you’re still learning things at an alarming rate, like how to mimic me. I am appalled at what a boring life I lead as I watch you pretend to vacuum, pretend to put on chapstick, put laundry away in your drawers, stir legos with a wooden spoon, and talk loudly and obnoxiously with anything remotely resembling a phone pressed to your ear. On the other hand, it’s nice to get some help around here. You help me unload the dishwasher, you help me stir the sauce, you help me put your diapers away, you help me in the garden, and you help me put your toys back in your basket. It doesn’t count as slave labor because you WANT to do all these things. And I figure I should take advantage of it while I can before you are a teenager and I’m begging you to peel your smelly socks off the heater because the house is starting to smell like dead rodents.

And speaking of rodents. I’ll bet everyone else reading this didn’t know it, but it’s true: all animals AND vehicles of any kind make a “Vvv” sound. Before I even finish asking you what something says you have started saying “Vvvv!” and you’re flashing me a proud smile. But lately, when we ask what the elephant says, you go “Vvv!” and raise your arm up like a trunk, without even seeing a picture of an elephant! And that’s when I faint because of the CUTENESS. Sometimes you revive me with kisses, and sometimes you revive me by sitting on my stomach and bouncing.

Mommy and Daddy are so proud of you, Love Bug. You’re smart, funny, sweet, and so cute it hurts. In other words: I’m sure you’ll be an engineer, but I’m equally sure you’ll be taking some drama classes on the side. You’re the best part of both of us, and you’re the best thing that ever happened to us.

Love,

Mommy

1. I fucking hate summer. Mosquitoes. Mugginess. Melting. MURDER. (Just kidding.) If I ruled the universe, we’d have one month of 85 degree weather where you could swim if you were hard core. Then there would be five months of fall and three of spring, and three of winter. (Does that even equal 12?) Seriously. Didn’t we just have snow on the ground like, a week ago? What is with all this weather? If it’s not a blizzard, it’s hotter than hell or there’s a tsunami or a tornado tearing through my hometown. Or an earthquake and a radiation leak. You know. (Oh, man, first paragraph is about weather. This blog post might be doomed.)

2. I think I have gallstones. Yesterday, for the second time, I felt like I was going to die shortly after eating dinner. I laid down, sat up, took four antacids, tried gagging myself, tried pooping… nothing made me feel any better. It was such a weird pain too, like a constant crampy heartburn only in my stomach/intestine area. So I did what every smart person with internet access does in my situation: I WebMD’d that shit. Word to the wise: if you are feeling sick, look online to see what you could have, because self-diagnosis is the best thing to do. NO WAY was what I had gas. IT WAS GALLSTONES I TELL YOU. And I’ll be lucky if it isn’t cancer. If it happens again, I’m going to the ER. No, seriously.

3. Today, my son ate almost half a box of cheese crackers. I took him to the supermarket with me and he ate them the whole time I pushed him around in the cart. I couldn’t believe how easy my shopping trip was. Then when we came home he kept asking for more (“MAH! MAH!”), and I was feeling so lazy so I just gave him the box. It’s just that I hate snacks, for serious. 90% of the time, I’ll give Noah a banana (which he walks around eating with one hand), blueberries (which he can eat out of a bowl on the floor), a mozzarella stick (see banana), cereal shaped like an “o” (see blueberries), or cheese crackers. Because those snacks are easy. Is that terrible? 10% of the time I take time to peel some other piece of fruit or give him some yogurt and a spoon or do something fancy/healthy, and it ALWAYS ends up on the floor. But I did feel pretty bad when I looked up to see him walking around the house carrying a box of sodium-laden non-nutrition around with him all day.

4. I spent the evening at a board meeting for Street Theatre Company. I feel so empowered to be doing what I love. Not the meeting part. The being part of a theatre part. It was a “working meeting,” so we brought our computers and the President of the Board gave us all a task to do. Mine was finding contacts for a sexual abuse prevention play we put on for children, called No More Secrets. So I googled “Nashville TN child abuse support.” And then I looked at websites devoted to support for children who have been abused. (You could have told me that’s what I’d find, right?) And I cried a little in my heart. I just. can’t. understand. how anyone could abuse their own child. Or any child, for that matter, but especially their own. I hugged my buddy really tightly when I came home, which he TOTALLY appreciated and he didn’t try to squirm his way out of my arms AT ALL. Then I hugged my hubby, and told him “I’m so glad I married such a good man, who I know will never hurt our children.” And he said, “Me, too.” And I said, “Except for the man part, right?” And he said yes.

5. Yesterday was my second Mother’s Day. To celebrate, Lance and Noah took me out to Marché for brunch, which is my favorite restaurant in East Nashville. It’s really expensive, so we have to save it for special occasions. Like Mother’s Day. And my birthday. And Groundhog’s Day. And Trash-Pickup day. And I-Just-Got-A-Bed-Bath-N-Beyond-Coupon-in-the-Mail-Again Day. And Noah-Pointed-at-His-Dumptruck-When-I-Said-Dumptruck Day. And hey, Noah turned 17 months old today! I almost forgot. I guess we’ll have to go celebrate tomorrow. But Marché was only the semi-best part of my second Mother’s Day. The best part is getting to be a mother to my little boy. It’s so easy and wonderful. I have the best job ever because I have the best Bubbs ever.

6. I am about to eat as many oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies as I can before I make myself sick. Which reminds me of a time in college when I was eating dinner with a friend of mine who was in Pre-Med. We had eaten so much food that we were miserable, but we were still eating, because it was dessert, and it was delicious. (My sources can neither confirm nor deny that I’m talking about a freakin Chili’s right now.) And I go, “At what point do you think your stomach would just explode? I mean, how much could I technically eat before my stomach bursts inside my body and kills me?” And my doctor friend said matter-of-factly, “I think you would throw up before that happened.” And I was all, “Oh. Well, that’s a relief.” And really this story is about my stupidity, no doubt brought on by the intense surge in my caloric intake at the time, and how funny it is. But the story is also about what a disgustingly first-world problem that is, that I would ever actually wonder how much I can eat before I explode. AMERICA, FUCK YEAH! Now, where are those cookies?

7. My computer is out of batteries.