April 12, 2006

it’s either a heart attack or too many malted milk balls

Yesterday I met a friend and her kids at the zoo (yes, again! we love the zoo) and at some point in the three hours of running and yelling and not looking at the animals, my chest started to hurt. Nothing too worrisome–when I took a deep breath, it hurt, when I picked Charlie up, it hurt, when I put my hands together behind my back, it hurt–you know, the usual. I figured I had pulled something. Or I was having a panic attack of some type. Or a heart attack. Whatever.

This morning, it still hurt; when I dropped Charlie at my friend Christa’s, I said, “I may be having a heart attack!”

And she said, “Terrific! Here’s Claire’s carpool number! See you at soccer!”

No, actually she didn’t say that; she just laughed at me. Because she’s my friend and she knows how crazy I am.

Specific things that have made me crazy today: speech therapy (which seems to consist entirely of the very nice therapist charging me a $25.00 co-pay to recommend that we do EXACTLY WHAT WE’RE ALREADY DOING), Charlie wetting his pants AS I WALKED IN THE DOOR of Christa’s house to pick him up, Henry spending over HALF AN HOUR in the toy aisle of SuperTarget trying to decide what piece of crap to buy with the $10.00 the NanaBunny sent him, Charlie giving himself a BLOODY NOSE as we pulled into the parking lot at the soccer field, the woman in the McDonald’s drive-thru not including my dinner in our order (okay, maybe that was for the best, what with the heart attack and all).

Plus a few other things that I’m not at liberty to talk about with the Internet. Sorry. But trust me, they’re REALLY stressful!

This afternoon, after the peeing and the toy shopping, we snuggled on the Big Bed in my room and had some quality time together. Then we got up to have our snack, and as I was pouring out cereal and filling cups of milk, I started to feel a little lightheaded. Plus my chest still hurt. And I was having some heartburn, probably from the spicy hummous I ate for lunch. Or from my heart attack. And I thought, hey, if I really AM having a heart attack, at least my kids will remember what a nice afternoon we had snuggling on the big bed!

At least I hope they would.

Dr. Google says no, no heart attack, but I am probably a little stressed and should find some way to relax. Of course! Why didn’t I think of that! Although tomorrow Henry is out of school for Passover and Friday my cleaning lady comes so we will most likely be going to the zoo AGAIN and over the weekend I have an article to write and Charlie is out of school on Monday for Easter which means I will not get a break from the kids until next THURSDAY. But yes! I should relax.

In lieu of actual relaxation, I ate nearly an entire bag of malted milk balls–no, not those cute single-serving bags, the big ones that are all over the place for Easter. I tried to share them with the boys, but Henry wouldn’t even taste them and Charlie ate one and announced, “Those are wierd. I don’t like them.” Okay! More for me!

Although now I feel a little sick. But no more chest pain! So probably no heart attack.

At lunch, Charlie said, very very sweetly to me, “I wish that sometimes Daddy could stay home with us and you could go to work.”

And I said, “So do I, buddy.”

Some good news, to balance out the heart attack and crazyness: Henry is on a new medication, Focalin, which seems to be working well (although we think it will work even better at a higher dose); my cool yellow espadrilles are in this month’s Real Simple magazine (look how hip I am! and they’re totally comfortable, too! I may have to get another pair!); my parents are coming to OKC on the 21st, to take care of me help with the boys and celebrate my birthday. So! As long as I don’t have a heart attack in the next week or so, everything is good!

But no more malted milk balls. Ever.

April 11, 2006

oxygen masks

I was flying with the boys a while back, and the flight attendant was going through the usual pre-flight routine. In the event of a change in the cabin pressure, he said, the oxygen masks will drop from the ceiling; if you are traveling with a child, put your own mask on first, and then the child’s.

“If you are traveling with two children,” he added, “decide now which one you love the most.” Everyone laughed.

Today I was talking with a friend, a mom of two, someone I respect as a parent and a person, and she asked, “Do you ever like one of your kids more than the other?”

And I said, “Absolutely.”

My friend was quick to clarify–she was not saying that she SPECIFICALLY or CONSISTENTLY preferred one of her children; it was just that on some days, at some moments, she felt a connection with one child that she didn’t feel with the other. And then, at other moments, she felt connected to the other child. But, she said, she ALWAYS loved them, both of them, with all her heart and soul.

I knew exactly what she was talking about.

Before I had children, I knew, in theory, that there was no way to love each child in the same way. I knew that there was no way to love each child equally; I knew–I KNEW– that I would have a different connection with each of my children.

But I still felt like things needed to be fair. To be equal.

Now I have these children–these people–who couldn’t be more different from each other. And I love them both, so much that I would give up everything for them. But do I like them all the time? No. Do I like one of them more than the other sometimes? Yes.

I’ve been struggling recently to balance the very different needs of my very different children, and to do it in a way that doesn’t leave either of them feeling left out or overlooked. And sometimes, it’s not possible. Sometimes what is fair, or, more often, what is necessary, has nothing to do with equality. Sometimes loving each child as an individual means doing very different things for each of them. That seems pretty straightforward to me.

But what about liking them? Do I like one more than the other? Not in general, no, but there are those moments when one is able to touch something in me, to reach out and connect with some part of me, in a way that the other does not. As a child I loved those moments with my own parents, that sense that I had some special common ground with my mother or father. As a parent, especially right now, I feel like those moments of connection are even more important–not only to my sons, but to me as well.

I spend a lot of time worrying about all the ways I am failing my sons, and very little time congratulating myself for succeeding as a parent. In some ways, this whole question of liking one child more than the other seems like another way to beat myself up for not being fair, another way to feel like I am failing someone. But the more I think about it, and remember all the ways that my parents managed to make my brother and me each feel special and unique and loved, the more I think that having that unique connection with each of my children is good for all of us.

So yes, there are moments when I like one of my children more than I like the other. And yes, I would not hesitate to put my own oxygen mask on first.

April 9, 2006

a weekend of my own

This post is part of the Crazy Hip Blog Mamas collaborative writing project. Go here to read posts from other participating blogs and here to learn more about the CHBM webring.

If I had an entire weekend to myself, I would abdicate all Mommy drudgery. Everything! I would only do the fun parts, which would probably mean getting a nanny to pick up the slack. Can you get a nanny just for the weekend?

If I had an entire weekend to myself, I wouldn’t do laundry or load the dishwasher or answer the phone. I wouldn’t make breakfast or lunch or worry about what we were going to eat for dinner. I wouldn’t wipe any bottoms or defuse any tantrums or dispense any medications. I would not pick up one single toy or fill out one single form or make one single bed. All weekend.

If I had an entire weekend to myself, I would spend it with my family but I would NOT be in charge. I would take the boys to the zoo and have someone ELSE deal with packing the water and hand wipes and membership card. I would go to Henry’s soccer game and have someone ELSE coach the team. I would come to the table at mealtime and have someone ELSE make the pb and honey sandwiches. And get the milk. And the napkins. And the raisins. And take the superhero toys off the table. And remind everyone to sit up and stop waving their sandwiches in the air. I would visit with my children while they ate and let someone ELSE clean up after.

If I had an entire weekend to myself, I would do all the fun parts of being the mommy: I would play games and snuggle and read stories (good ones, not those crappy superhero stories my kids are always wanting to read). Someone else would clean up and make plans and tie everyone’s shoes. I would never say, “Mommy needs to mix up a meatloaf now” or “Mommy needs to move the laundry to the dryer” or “Mommy has to fill out these forms for your school.” I would play with the boys until we were all too tired and hungry for even ONE more game of tag.

If I had an entire weekend to myself, I would pack up my computer and go to the coffee shop and work, without any regrets or guilt or worry about what I’m going to make for dinner or how tired my husband is or all the other Mommy things I should be doing, like the laundry and the bills and the cleaning. I would not spend an hour wondering how I am going to get everyone where they need to go this week or what I’m going to send to school with Henry for snack or where the plastic easter eggs from last year have gone. Someone else would take care of it all, and I would get caught up on my reading and writing. And then I would come home to a nice meal and happy children who have been bathed and pyjamaed and are all ready for stories and bed.

If I had an entire weekend to myself, I would spend time with my husband doing something other than sitting on a bench at the playground or watching SaveUms or strategizing ways to get Henry to stop talking about superheros or worrying about why Charlie was awake in the middle of the night. We would talk about books and music and movies and politics and NOT the kids. I would wear high heels and something dry clean only. I would wear lipstick and drink a cosmopolitan. I would congratulate myself on being smart enough to marry this man in the first place.

If I had an entire weekend to myself, I would spend it with the people I love, doing the things I love, without any of the interruptions of my everyday life. But right now I have go to start some laundry and find Henry’s shin guards and get Charlie a snack, because my nanny seems to be falling behind in her work. Oh, wait, I don’t HAVE a nanny. Which is, of course, why I need that weekend to myself.

April 7, 2006

and yet somehow I am the number one hit when you Google "margarita play date"

A margarita play date sounds like a great idea about now, particularly since I already have the second-degree sunburn that usually comes with drinking too many margaritas early in the day. Not that I would KNOW that from EXPERIENCE or anything.

What were we talking about?

So, it’s Friday! And what have I done this week? I have no idea. Every single day I have dragged my ass out of bed and thought, “TODAY I will get my act together and write SOMETHING, maybe even something FUNNY” and then the next thing I know the day is over and I’m dragging my ass to bed and thinking, “Okay, TOMORROW I will write something and maybe it will be FUNNY.” And so on and so on, every single day this week.

I have all sorts of crazy things running around in my head, like how you teach five-year-olds to be good sports and what other people must think of my parenting and why on earth grown women are so willing to wear Bermuda shorts, but I cannot for the life of me put together two sentences that have anything to do with one another, possibly because in my head, those things are all related which makes it hard to write about them. But really–what’s with the Bermuda shorts? I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that no one over the age of, oh, fourteen should wear shorts that come ALL THE WAY to the knee. Don’t you think?

Today at school, Henry’s teacher read them The True Story of the Three Little Pigs–if you are not familiar with this book, you should check it out; it is the story of the three little pigs told from the woolf’s point of view. Tonight, when Henry was telling me about the book, we had this exchange:

Henry: Jail is where you go for a couple of nights, but prison is where you go for a long time.

Me: Yep, that would pretty much be the difference between jail and prison.

Henry: In prison, all you have to eat is bread and water.

Me: That might get boring after a while.

Henry: Yes, but those ARE two of my FAVORITE things.

I swear I’m not trying to bore you to death, although that seems to be the direction we’re heading these days. But bear with me! I swear I will find SOMETHING interesting to write about! If nothing else, I’ll see what I can do about arranging a margarita play date, which is sounding better and better all the time. And I’ll post pictures! Because after enough margaritas, someone will wind up wearing the bunny ears.

April 5, 2006

in which I substitute cuteness for content

I am too tired and sunburnt to put together any sort of coherent post, but look! I have pictures! Here are Henry and Charlie in their Floppy Bunny Ears!

Charlie is a Serious Easter Bunny.

Hey! Let’s make faces!

This face involved actual yelling. At 7:40 this morning. See why I’m tired?

Henry had speech therapy today, which made me think of the zoo (imagine that) so off we went! To the zoo! We saw the elephants taking a bath; Charlie stood at the fence calling, “Hello ellie-phant! Hello!” and waving. We saw the baby rhino and the baby gorilla and Henry pointed out that the rhino’s skin looked like armor and the gorillas’ feet look JUST LIKE OURS! Go figure. We rode the tram and, best of all, we played at the fabulous playground, which is the whole reason I have a zoo membership in the first place. But of course all I have pictures of are the life-size animal statues. Oh well.



I’m exhausted from speech therapy, three hours at the zoo, and soccer practice, so this is all you’re getting. You’re welcome.

April 3, 2006

I wonder if chickens have teeth?

Hello! I survived the weekend! And I have not yet bought the eye cream, although I appreciate all the support! And also your very generous assumptions that I am not compensating for the recent craziness at my house with excessive Retail Therapy. Which I am not! At least, as far as Wade knows.

But yes, I think I have earned the fancy schmancy eye cream, if only because my firstborn has his first LOOSE TOOTH! And he’s not freaking out! Although I am, just a little! Because, you know, he’s my baby and all.

For the past few days, Henry has been telling us that one of his lower front teeth hurt. We have been alternating between blowing the whole thing off (because the boy has some sensory integrative issues and he experiences the world differently and not necessarily accurately and he’s, well, not right in the head) and worrying about it (because he does have FOUR CROWNS and TWO FILLINGS, after all and could very well have ANOTHER cavity). Look at us, the model parents! Super Nanny would be proud.

Tonight at dinner Henry announced AGAIN, “My tooth hurts. This one, right here. I think it’s loose.” And instead of saying, Whatever, Crazy Boy, I said, “Here, let me feel it.” And dammit if the boy’s tooth isn’t LOOSE! I think (although it’s been a long time since I had a loose tooth) that it will not fall out, oh, tomorrow, but soon, certainly! Because HE HAS A LOOSE TOOTH! Goodness.

When I told Wade (because of course I called his cell phone IMMEDIATELY to tell him) he said, “Is Henry okay with this?”

“Yes,” I said, “Because I was smart enough to tell him about the Tooth Fairy RIGHT AWAY. And now he’s planning what he will get with the money she will bring him. Apparently, he thinks she’s going to bring him $100.00.”

“Not in my house,” Wade said.

In completely unrelated news, my brother and sister-in-law are expecting Baby #2 in August. I am very happy about this, as I adore my brother and his wife, and I admire their parenting style very much. Tonight, the boys and I were talking about how Tess is going to have a new baby at her house this summer, and Henry asked if the baby was a boy or a girl.

“We don’t know!” I said (I personally LOVE the delivery room surprise so I am happy that they are waiting to meet the baby).

“What are they going to name the baby?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Do you have any good ideas?” And yes, they did!

Henry suggested Jenny for a girl and Ben for a boy. Very nice.

Charlie, on the other hand, suggested “Biddle and Ditz” (I don’t know which is the boy name and which is the girl name, nor do I know if it matters) and “Billion Chicken” (which seems to work for either a boy or a girl and takes care of both the first and middle name dilemma). He also wanted to know exactly how many babies Aunt J had in her tummy and what you would call it if she had FOUR babies in her tummy. And I said, “I think she would call that a NERVOUS BREAKDOWN.”

“No, REALLY,” he said. “What do you call FOUR babies?”

So I told him that four babies who grow in one mommy’s tummy all at once are called quadruplets, and he said, “You’re making that up.”

No! For once, I am not!

Anyway, I doubt that my brother and his wife will be terribly excited about any of Charlie’s baby name options, although I have e-mailed them to John just in case, so if you decide that you just LOVE any of them, let me know and they’re all yours. Really! Because I could pretty much guarantee that your little angel would be the ONLY Billion Chicken in his or her kindergarden class.

Think about it!