Yesterday, my husband, our girls, and I attended three (count ‘em, one-two-three) back-to-back kiddie birthday parties, all a good 30-minutes apart from one another. The latter two were costume parties. Because I knew that three birthday parties, which would certainly include three birthday cakes, three ice cream servings, three sets of rowdy birthday games, would absolutely destroy my girls’ true Halloween costumes, I had them dress up in cheerleader outfits I already had on-hand, which fit very well into the theme of the first party we were to attend.
Party One was at a large gymnastics center, 30-minutes north of us. The girls had a blast. The center assigns the party group an instructor and runs them through all kinds of activities, while the parents kick back and relax. My kind of party. I wasn’t sure my two-year-old would be able to participate, but let me tell you (unbiasedly of course) that my she kicked some serious gymnastics butt. She did everything that the bigger kids did and more. This was the first party where my husband and I were able to set them completely free on their own without having to hover over them. And it felt good. Prior to this, they were either too young or just too clingy and wouldn’t let go. This time, though, they went off on their own, so my husband and I were able to sit back and watch them enjoy the party. I tell you, I know they’re only two and four, but we felt like we had crossed through some kind of parental threshold.
The second party was at my cousin’s house in Kentucky, very south of us. We arrived an hour late and had still another party to attend following this, so it had to be cut short, which was a bummer because my cousins always have the best food at their parties. We stuffed our faces while our girls enjoyed a good 30-minute-haunted hayride around their neighborhood while munching on caramel apples and singing scary songs. And again, they did it without us! Milestones!
Then we were off to Party Three, 30-minutes east. This party was being hosted by my good friend, who was also celebrating her own (ah-hem) 35th birthday that day, although the party was for her 4-year-old. Happy Birthday, T! At this party, there were pony-rides and a real petting zoo provided by Mr. Cowpie's Party Animals. As expected, my toddler fell asleep on the way there, so she was a bit cranky when we woke her up when we arrived. My four-year-old was not digging Mr. Cowpie’s furry friends, however. She is not a big animal fan. For whatever reason, she is deathly afraid of dogs and that has carried over to all animals. As soon as she spotted them, she leapt into her dad’s arms and stayed there. My toddler was at least interested in checking all of the animals out, although she wouldn’t touch any. I think this was mostly because she was feeding off of her big sister’s fear. As expected, my four-year-old refused to ride the pony, but my toddler did. However, I feared she wasn’t big or strong enough to hold onto the saddle by herself, so I walked along side of the pony as she rode. Not a smart move, apparently, because I got my leg entangled in a thorn bush as we walked through the side yard. The sacrifices a mother will make! The party eventually moved indoors, where my four-year-old spotted a Radio Flyer spring horse. This was her kind of horse! No teeth, no weird sounds, no "animal" smells. She hopped on proudly and proclaimed, I’m a cowgirl!! Um, yeah honey. You're sooo rural.
After a short trip to a nearby cousin's house, and ultimately about 30,000 grams of sugar later, we were finally heading home. Both girls started to nod off to sleep before I even had time to buckle them in. As soon as I was sure they were out, I snatched the candy that my party girls had collected throughout the day from favor bags and piñatas and stuffed them into my work bag. I now house an impressive collection of Smarties, Candy Corn, Sweet Tarts, and various chocolates in the candy jar on my desk. That collection will be tremendously expanded after I take the bulk of their Halloween stash tomorrow night. Hey, I’m just looking out for their dental welfare.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Friday, October 20, 2006
Hiding Under the Covers
I have not always been a big fan of Halloween. The tombstones, the haunted houses, the scary movies, the gore and ghouls – it all sent me hiding under the covers when I was a kid (ok, sometimes it still does). Even the supposed “friendlier” costumes frightened me when I was little. Anything in disguise, but particularly clowns, sent me running. I suffered from what I have since learned is coulrophobia (irrational fear of clowns), and I still do not like those white-faced buffoons. In fact, I’m wearing this shirt right now.
Since I’ve had my children, however, Halloween has actually become one of my favorite holidays. I’ve learned to ignore the scarier parts and enjoy the fun of the friendlier side of the holiday: the costumery and the opportunity to be absolutely anyone you want, no matter how outrageous. Speaking of, have you seen the costumes marketed towards women and even teenage girls these days? I’m no prude, but I swear Halloween has become an excuse for girls to dress trashy. Ok, maybe I’m just jealous that I could no longer get away with wearing those costumes.
Anyway, every year my husband and I host what has come to be known as the Annual Halloween-ie Roast in our neighborhood. We grill out a few hours before the trick-or-treating begins and throughout the night, and afterwards we roast s’mores. We invite all of our neighbors, friends, and family, and everyone is encouraged to arrive in costume, adults included. It’s an absolute blast and our girls love seeing everyone all dressed up. Because, let’s face it, once the trick-or-treating begins, all they notice is the candy.
This year, at our daughters’ suggestion, my husband and I are partnering-up us Shrek and Fiona. My husband could not be happier about that selection, I think because it gives him an excuse to be gross. He has been practicing since September. Every night at the dinner table he will belch and say in his best Shrek voice, Better out than in I always say, eh Fiona?
My four-year-old originally wanted to be Jasmine this year, but she changed her mind when she remembered that Jasmine wears pants, albeit very flowy, pretty pants! No sir! She wanted a dress. She tried on the Pocahontas costume at the Disney Store and insisted that was the one. I protested mildly because I had noticed a pattern: in 2004 I was Snow White, in 2005 she was Snow White; in 2005 I was Pocahontas, now in 2006 she wanted to be Pocahontas. I was worried she was just copying Mama. Sure, imitation is the biggest compliment, but I wanted her to separate her choices from mine. Anyway, I should not have been so quick to believe she was just following in my footsteps because days later, I discovered the true reasoning behind her decision. I overheard her telling a playmate that she was going to be Pocahontas for Halloween. She proudly explained, You should feel the material of my dress. It is sooo soft. “Material”??? What four-year-old do you know says “material”??
My toddler’s costume choice was the most troubling however. She has decided to be JoJo from JoJo's Circus. That’s right. A clown. She clearly did not inherit my coulrophobia, for which I am glad, but c’mon. Does she want to torture me? As a loving mother, I of course pushed my my personal preferences aside and agreed. But what will I do if my very own daughter in her clown garb sends me back to hiding under the covers?
Since I’ve had my children, however, Halloween has actually become one of my favorite holidays. I’ve learned to ignore the scarier parts and enjoy the fun of the friendlier side of the holiday: the costumery and the opportunity to be absolutely anyone you want, no matter how outrageous. Speaking of, have you seen the costumes marketed towards women and even teenage girls these days? I’m no prude, but I swear Halloween has become an excuse for girls to dress trashy. Ok, maybe I’m just jealous that I could no longer get away with wearing those costumes.
Anyway, every year my husband and I host what has come to be known as the Annual Halloween-ie Roast in our neighborhood. We grill out a few hours before the trick-or-treating begins and throughout the night, and afterwards we roast s’mores. We invite all of our neighbors, friends, and family, and everyone is encouraged to arrive in costume, adults included. It’s an absolute blast and our girls love seeing everyone all dressed up. Because, let’s face it, once the trick-or-treating begins, all they notice is the candy.
This year, at our daughters’ suggestion, my husband and I are partnering-up us Shrek and Fiona. My husband could not be happier about that selection, I think because it gives him an excuse to be gross. He has been practicing since September. Every night at the dinner table he will belch and say in his best Shrek voice, Better out than in I always say, eh Fiona?
My four-year-old originally wanted to be Jasmine this year, but she changed her mind when she remembered that Jasmine wears pants, albeit very flowy, pretty pants! No sir! She wanted a dress. She tried on the Pocahontas costume at the Disney Store and insisted that was the one. I protested mildly because I had noticed a pattern: in 2004 I was Snow White, in 2005 she was Snow White; in 2005 I was Pocahontas, now in 2006 she wanted to be Pocahontas. I was worried she was just copying Mama. Sure, imitation is the biggest compliment, but I wanted her to separate her choices from mine. Anyway, I should not have been so quick to believe she was just following in my footsteps because days later, I discovered the true reasoning behind her decision. I overheard her telling a playmate that she was going to be Pocahontas for Halloween. She proudly explained, You should feel the material of my dress. It is sooo soft. “Material”??? What four-year-old do you know says “material”??
My toddler’s costume choice was the most troubling however. She has decided to be JoJo from JoJo's Circus. That’s right. A clown. She clearly did not inherit my coulrophobia, for which I am glad, but c’mon. Does she want to torture me? As a loving mother, I of course pushed my my personal preferences aside and agreed. But what will I do if my very own daughter in her clown garb sends me back to hiding under the covers?
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Sleepless in Cincinnati
Both of my daughters have been sick all week with a slight fever and a terrible cough. Their tolerance of the illnesses have confirmed what I’ve already known about my daughters: that they could not be more different.
They both began to get sick on Saturday night with just a minor cough. By Sunday night, they had a fever and sounded like little Kathleen Turners. I knew all of us were in for a long, sleepless week.
Their coughs have been particularly rough at night. On Monday night, I put them in bed with me and tried to keep them elevated, but they hacked away for hours. In the middle of the night, my four-year-old began having a particularly terrible coughing spell, which ultimately caused her to gag and throw up. She was wearing a two-piece pajama set (pants and top), and the top got covered in nastiness when she got sick. She started crying hysterically. My husband came in and started to take her pajama top off and told her that he would get her a new shirt. What were the very first words out of my daughter’s mouth? Make sure it matches! You would think she would be so out of it, being sick, awakened at 2am, covered in vomit, that her mind would be concerned with other things. But not my daughter. Coordinated clothing was still important.
After getting the bedding exchanged and my daughter cleaned up and in agreeable nighttime attire, both girls fell back to sleep in bed with me. I couldn’t get to sleep, so I started watching TV. Then suddenly I felt warmth. A wet warmth. Yep -my toddler peed the bed and now I was laying in it. She has been potty-trained for a good three months now, two of which she has been accident-free at night as well. She hasn’t worn a pull-up at night for a good month. I’m guessing she was so exhausted from being sick that the urge didn’t wake her. Needless to say I didn’t get much sleep that night, and my washing machine was working on overtime.
Coincidentally, my close friend who was pregnant called me in the middle of that very night to tell me that her water had just broken! Hmm, maybe my toddler has some psychokinetic connection with her baby since they both ruptured at nearly the same time!
I worked from home for a day and a half to be with my girls while they were sick and spare my parents from all of the unwanted erupting fluids. On my way to drop them off at my parents’ house yesterday, however, my two-year-old started into a coughing fit and up came the grape juice all over my car. Do you know how long it takes to get the smell of toddler puke out of a car?? It still smells like the Grape Ape exploded in my van. I guess it’s better than milk. The funny thing is my toddler barely seemed to notice. Not a cry, not a peep. She didn’t complain once that she had to sit in it for a 20-minute drive. In fact, I caught her licking her fingers. Gross, I know.
That’s my girls. One, a high-maintenance girly-girl. The other, the tough as nails boy I will never have. And in my eyes they couldn’t be more perfect.
They both began to get sick on Saturday night with just a minor cough. By Sunday night, they had a fever and sounded like little Kathleen Turners. I knew all of us were in for a long, sleepless week.
Their coughs have been particularly rough at night. On Monday night, I put them in bed with me and tried to keep them elevated, but they hacked away for hours. In the middle of the night, my four-year-old began having a particularly terrible coughing spell, which ultimately caused her to gag and throw up. She was wearing a two-piece pajama set (pants and top), and the top got covered in nastiness when she got sick. She started crying hysterically. My husband came in and started to take her pajama top off and told her that he would get her a new shirt. What were the very first words out of my daughter’s mouth? Make sure it matches! You would think she would be so out of it, being sick, awakened at 2am, covered in vomit, that her mind would be concerned with other things. But not my daughter. Coordinated clothing was still important.
After getting the bedding exchanged and my daughter cleaned up and in agreeable nighttime attire, both girls fell back to sleep in bed with me. I couldn’t get to sleep, so I started watching TV. Then suddenly I felt warmth. A wet warmth. Yep -my toddler peed the bed and now I was laying in it. She has been potty-trained for a good three months now, two of which she has been accident-free at night as well. She hasn’t worn a pull-up at night for a good month. I’m guessing she was so exhausted from being sick that the urge didn’t wake her. Needless to say I didn’t get much sleep that night, and my washing machine was working on overtime.
Coincidentally, my close friend who was pregnant called me in the middle of that very night to tell me that her water had just broken! Hmm, maybe my toddler has some psychokinetic connection with her baby since they both ruptured at nearly the same time!
I worked from home for a day and a half to be with my girls while they were sick and spare my parents from all of the unwanted erupting fluids. On my way to drop them off at my parents’ house yesterday, however, my two-year-old started into a coughing fit and up came the grape juice all over my car. Do you know how long it takes to get the smell of toddler puke out of a car?? It still smells like the Grape Ape exploded in my van. I guess it’s better than milk. The funny thing is my toddler barely seemed to notice. Not a cry, not a peep. She didn’t complain once that she had to sit in it for a 20-minute drive. In fact, I caught her licking her fingers. Gross, I know.
That’s my girls. One, a high-maintenance girly-girl. The other, the tough as nails boy I will never have. And in my eyes they couldn’t be more perfect.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Who Dey?! Me, Dat's Who!
I have to confess, I wish the Bengals had another bye today. Ever since NFL season began, I have basically become a single parent on Sunday afternoons. My husband will disagree with this, but I have tried to learn to like football. I really have. I just don’t. In fact, I kinda hate it. And that should be ok. I don’t have to like everything my husband does. But he takes it as a personal assault that the woman he loves hates something he adores; I just can’t help it.
In years past, meaning years when the Bengals sucked, missing the game had not been a major issue. Sure, he’d prefer to watch it and would watch it every chance he got, but it wasn’t the end of the world if he missed a game. But now that the Bengals are doing so well, Sundays between 12:30-5pm has become dedicated Bengals time. End of story.
The first couple of weekends of football season, the girls and I tried to be supportive and hang out during the game, eat some dip, pretend we were interested in the game. Hey, I even wore an orange shirt. But c’mon, I just don’t get the draw, and my girls are two and four. My four-year-old is a girly-girl and is probably a lost cause in trying to convert her to the game. He might have a shot in creating a football buddy in our younger one, but not yet. For now, it’s clear we are uninterested, thus invisible to my husband when the Orange and Black appear on the television screen unless, God forbid, we dare to step in front of the TV during a critical play!
A few weekends ago, friends of ours came over during the game. The wife loves football. The husband, like myself, does not. After enduring a painful two hours of the game, the husband (my friend, that is) and I decided to cut our losses and take my girls to the park. It was a beautiful day outside, so it just seemed like a waste for the non-fans to stay inside. His wife stayed and watched the rest of the game with my husband. When my neighbor saw our male friend and I loading my children into the car while our counterparts stayed inside, she joked, “That’s how rumors get started!” But it’s so not like that obviously.
Don’t get my wrong, my husband is a very involved, dedicated family-man, but these Sundays are starting to bother me. The following Sunday, another gorgeous day, I decided to take the girls to the zoo by myself (first time ever – and a brave move on my part!) while my husband watched the game. When I left for the zoo, I told him, in a rather beatchy way, “Don’t get used to this because it can’t happen every week.” This was the first time I raised a fuss about the game, but I felt I had to. Our time together, with the kids, is very limited. We both work, so we don’t get home with the kids until nearly 7pm every night. After dinner and baths, it’s basically time to go to bed and start all over again. The weekends are our only good bulk of quality time together, and I hate there is this division for the better part of one of these precious “quality time” days. I mean, I doubt he’d be happy if I were to tell him that every Saturday from 12:30-5pm I was going to watch a Project Runway Marathon and not to bother me.
I know, I should be more understanding. My husband makes so many sacrifices for me and the kids, and on any other day or time, he’s there with us - with bells on - dancing. I should not complain about the time he spends on this one outside passion. Most husbands are doing this very same, arguably harmless thing every Sunday afternoon. It’s just that it’s every Sunday. For over four hours. I miss him. A lot. I never thought I’d be jealous of a bunch of oversized men in tights, but I am. Jerks.
My friends say I should look forward to a few years from now, when while he’s watching football every Sunday, I can go shopping all day with the girls. Just hand me the wallet and enjoy the game, honey. Yeah, I bet it wouldn’t be too long before he’d be missing games to be with us, check card securely in hand.
In years past, meaning years when the Bengals sucked, missing the game had not been a major issue. Sure, he’d prefer to watch it and would watch it every chance he got, but it wasn’t the end of the world if he missed a game. But now that the Bengals are doing so well, Sundays between 12:30-5pm has become dedicated Bengals time. End of story.
The first couple of weekends of football season, the girls and I tried to be supportive and hang out during the game, eat some dip, pretend we were interested in the game. Hey, I even wore an orange shirt. But c’mon, I just don’t get the draw, and my girls are two and four. My four-year-old is a girly-girl and is probably a lost cause in trying to convert her to the game. He might have a shot in creating a football buddy in our younger one, but not yet. For now, it’s clear we are uninterested, thus invisible to my husband when the Orange and Black appear on the television screen unless, God forbid, we dare to step in front of the TV during a critical play!
A few weekends ago, friends of ours came over during the game. The wife loves football. The husband, like myself, does not. After enduring a painful two hours of the game, the husband (my friend, that is) and I decided to cut our losses and take my girls to the park. It was a beautiful day outside, so it just seemed like a waste for the non-fans to stay inside. His wife stayed and watched the rest of the game with my husband. When my neighbor saw our male friend and I loading my children into the car while our counterparts stayed inside, she joked, “That’s how rumors get started!” But it’s so not like that obviously.
Don’t get my wrong, my husband is a very involved, dedicated family-man, but these Sundays are starting to bother me. The following Sunday, another gorgeous day, I decided to take the girls to the zoo by myself (first time ever – and a brave move on my part!) while my husband watched the game. When I left for the zoo, I told him, in a rather beatchy way, “Don’t get used to this because it can’t happen every week.” This was the first time I raised a fuss about the game, but I felt I had to. Our time together, with the kids, is very limited. We both work, so we don’t get home with the kids until nearly 7pm every night. After dinner and baths, it’s basically time to go to bed and start all over again. The weekends are our only good bulk of quality time together, and I hate there is this division for the better part of one of these precious “quality time” days. I mean, I doubt he’d be happy if I were to tell him that every Saturday from 12:30-5pm I was going to watch a Project Runway Marathon and not to bother me.
I know, I should be more understanding. My husband makes so many sacrifices for me and the kids, and on any other day or time, he’s there with us - with bells on - dancing. I should not complain about the time he spends on this one outside passion. Most husbands are doing this very same, arguably harmless thing every Sunday afternoon. It’s just that it’s every Sunday. For over four hours. I miss him. A lot. I never thought I’d be jealous of a bunch of oversized men in tights, but I am. Jerks.
My friends say I should look forward to a few years from now, when while he’s watching football every Sunday, I can go shopping all day with the girls. Just hand me the wallet and enjoy the game, honey. Yeah, I bet it wouldn’t be too long before he’d be missing games to be with us, check card securely in hand.
Friday, October 06, 2006
My Aching Uterus
Close friends of ours are expecting their first child any day now. Since my husband and I are 99% sure we are done having babies, we gave them all our nursery furniture - the crib, the changing table/dresser, the glider and ottoman, the bassinet, etc. They invited us over last week to see their finished nursery. When we walked in, I literally almost lost my breath. I hadn't seen all of our nursery stuff together in quite some time, and it gave me goosebumps. I was immediately overwhelmed with vivid images of both of my girls in their earliest days, on that very changing table, in that crib. It made me so sad. And I was so not expecting that reaction.
But that's all it took and my99% certainty against having any more babies was tossed on its head and lingered somewhere around 66%. I looked at my husband and said, "Well, maybe one more..." But we both knew it wasn't that simple.
I was lucky enough to work from home for the first three years of my oldest daughter's life. Not nearly long enough, but I'm still incredible grateful. Many mothers have to go right back to work after having a baby. But I was able to continue my career and be home. Don't get me wrong, it had its challenges, but I wouldn't trade that time for anything.
My youngest, however, was only 10 months old when my department was eliminated and I had to seek on-site employment. In a flash I was back in dress shoes and dropping my daughters off with my parents every morning. It's been that way now for going on two years, and it's been tough. While I'm incredibly grateful for my parents' help, a big part of me deeply envies my parents for being able to be with my children all day long. I envy the every-dayness, the routine of dropping my daughter off at preschool, picking her up, my two-year-old's snuggly afternoon nap.
And of course I miss the big things too. When my youngest was just over one year old, I had to go on a business trip to Tampa for four days. While I was away, she learned to walk. No one told me - it was going to be a surprise. When my husband picked me up from the airport, he brought the girls, and as I came off the escalator into baggage claim, I saw them and my one-year-old walked right to me. Sure, it was a sweet gesture, but I felt like I had been punched in the gut. Like, "Look, Mommy, what you missed." It absolutely killed me.
And there have been plenty of gut-punches since. Every morning when I see them off, I feel that jab. And so goes the struggle of working parents. So while the sight of rattles and mobiles and blankies does from time to time make my uterus ache, deep down I know I will always feel a bit of that. I think every mother does. If not for wondering what (or who) else could have been, but also in missing what once was.
But that's all it took and my99% certainty against having any more babies was tossed on its head and lingered somewhere around 66%. I looked at my husband and said, "Well, maybe one more..." But we both knew it wasn't that simple.
I was lucky enough to work from home for the first three years of my oldest daughter's life. Not nearly long enough, but I'm still incredible grateful. Many mothers have to go right back to work after having a baby. But I was able to continue my career and be home. Don't get me wrong, it had its challenges, but I wouldn't trade that time for anything.
My youngest, however, was only 10 months old when my department was eliminated and I had to seek on-site employment. In a flash I was back in dress shoes and dropping my daughters off with my parents every morning. It's been that way now for going on two years, and it's been tough. While I'm incredibly grateful for my parents' help, a big part of me deeply envies my parents for being able to be with my children all day long. I envy the every-dayness, the routine of dropping my daughter off at preschool, picking her up, my two-year-old's snuggly afternoon nap.
And of course I miss the big things too. When my youngest was just over one year old, I had to go on a business trip to Tampa for four days. While I was away, she learned to walk. No one told me - it was going to be a surprise. When my husband picked me up from the airport, he brought the girls, and as I came off the escalator into baggage claim, I saw them and my one-year-old walked right to me. Sure, it was a sweet gesture, but I felt like I had been punched in the gut. Like, "Look, Mommy, what you missed." It absolutely killed me.
And there have been plenty of gut-punches since. Every morning when I see them off, I feel that jab. And so goes the struggle of working parents. So while the sight of rattles and mobiles and blankies does from time to time make my uterus ache, deep down I know I will always feel a bit of that. I think every mother does. If not for wondering what (or who) else could have been, but also in missing what once was.
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