Belly and The Bug: February 2010

Questioning motherhood

Look. I admit that I have wanted to be a mother for as long as I can remember. There have been other goals along the way - I think in fifth grade I wanted to be a lawyer; in sixth grade I decide I wanted to be an actress and that stuck with me for, oh, ever; I did the nonprofit career thing; I've always fancied myself something of a writer (never quite figured out a job around that one) - but being a mom has always been a top priority. Here's the thing, though. I thought it would be easier than this. THIS is really freaking hard. I remind myself all the time that no one ever died of mothering two two-year-olds. I find myself screaming at them to stop screaming at each other. I count to ten 9000 times a day. There are days (today is one of them) when it's all I can do not to spank them. Sure, sure - they're cute, but that doesn't really matter when they blatantly disregard what I say to them about EVERYTHING.

I assembled two new sparkling tricycles for them this morning. They whined the whole time I did it. They argued over who got the first one. Each girl wanted BOTH bikes when the assembly was complete. They ran into each other on purpose and caused massive tears. I took them up for nap. Belly woke up after ten minutes and HOWLED for the next 40 until the music was done.

It is sunny and 60 degrees outside. I'm giving them lunch and have promised that we will ride the bikes in the driveway after lunch. BUT PEOPLE - they refuse to eat lunch. They are sitting in their seats crying about not liking it. I have threatened a second nap if they don't eat SOMETHING.

Seriously. Shoot me. Put me out of my misery. I'm filled with anger in a way very, very unbefitting a mother. Parenting books? Fuck 'em. I have read 32 of them. I'm either told to modify my behavior or to just "get through it." Get through what? The next 16 years? I. Will. Not. Make. It. And modify my behavior? Oh I have. Trust me, I have. And it doesn't do a damn thing. They are holy terrors for me. This behavior is not displayed for Daddy or others. It is reserved for me alone.

I love these girls like no other people in the world, but they are freaking killing me. I used to be a lovely person. Now I'm an evil monster inside. Maybe this is three goddamn weeks of being home with sick kids talking (tomorrow we will actually venture out in the world again), but I'm not so sure. Everyone says to treasure this time. I want to hurt those people. They are not in my shoes. I want six-year-olds who go to school.

Spanglish

I've been teaching the girls tiny bits and pieces of Spanish as we go along on this mother-daughters journey. They have a couple bilingual books that they like to read and both can solidly count to twelve in Spanish. I wish that I could just yammer away at them all the time in Spanish but I've lost so much by not speaking it on a regular basis. To think that I once debated abortion and prostitution and government controls over women (before storming out in a huff) entirely in Spanish in a college class... Anyway. They're picking it up in little dribs and drabs at a time and I'm grateful for that at the moment. I'll come up with a real language learning plan for them before too long.

I'm telling you this because Belly and Buggy are currently having a raging debate - as they sit on the kitchen floor looking at books - over whether the Bug should be counting in English or Spanish. Belly is practically chanting, "English! English! English!" and Buggy is countering with "Uno! Dos! Face!" Those little smarty pants. They're cute (when they're not being total punks).

I heart swearing

Sorry, but I do. It can't be helped. I'm 35 years old and I cannot be retrained to refrain. It's fact. Tonight the Bug said "dammit" in perfect context, with complete nonchalance at the dinner table. I tried not to laugh as I covered my face in my napkin. Dude did not approve. Dude does not approve of swearing in general, so to hear it from his tiny daughter's mouth is not cute to him. But this little episode actually reminded me of another ditty that I wanted to share from a few weeks back...

Again the scene was the dinner table. For whatever reason, Belly said, "Jesus!" I nearly sprayed Dude and all of dinner with my mouthful of beverage as I busted out in full chortle. Dude looked at me like I was his 15-year-old juvenile delinquent daughter and said, "HONEY!" See - Dude goes to church every Sunday. He's got religion, unlike yours truly. That's fine. It works for him. I'm cool with it. But my point is that saying "Jesus" or "Jesus Christ" is really, really not on his list of acceptable utterances.

Buggy was quick to her mother's defense. "Daddy, Mommy loves Baby Jesus." And I was just as quick to add, "It's true - I love babies. If Baby Jesus was here right now, I'd hold him." We all smiled sweetly at Dude. Subject dropped.

Poor Dude. He's such a nice guy.

Middle of the night post

Yep - it's almost 1am. I'm wide awake. The girls have been sick for the last week with a viral respiratory thing that has been pretty ugly - fevers, hacking coughs, snot for miles. Ugh. And today (or yesterday at this time of night), I finally couldn't take it anymore. I woke up feeling like my head was being squeezed in a door. Dude took the girls downstairs and I kept sleeping. And sleeping. And waking up every now and then to blow my nose. And sleeping some more. I took some Dayquil at 12:30p and finally got up at 4:30p. I'm still congested something fierce, but not feeling "sick" anymore.

And now I'm wiiiiide awake. It's so late that they're actually showing videos on VH1. I am going to be so messed up tomorrow.

Happy freaking Valentine's Day

Last weekend was, clearly, the big romantic gesture from Dude and I certainly did not expect anything like that again for Valentine's Day. We're usually more of the Valentine's card and a nice dinner kind of folks anyway - not buying into the giant boxes of chocolates, dozens of roses, etc. But Dude informed me earlier in the week that we were going somewhere for a "family Valentine's thing" on Saturday at 5pm. I pried for clues and was told that it was inside and I didn't need to make dinner. Hm. That could pretty much mean dinner anywhere. Fun!

So Friday late afternoon found me exceptionally tired and crabby with my throat starting to hurt. Uh oh. We ate dinner and I basically went to bed with the girls, falling asleep around 8:30pm. I awoke Saturday morning at 7am feeling fine. Fashew! Crisis averted! Because moms don't get sick. I'm just not allowed to. It doesn't work.

Needless to say, there was a no celebrating of the day of the Valentine on Friday.

Saturday morning found us with one sick little Buglet - nasty cough, thoroughly runny nose, slight fever. Poor kid. We spent the morning being pretty chill, then Dude watched them for about 3 hours in the afternoon so that I could leave the house by myself for a break (lord knows I need those as often as I can). When I came home, Buggy seemed so-so and Dude said that she would be fine for what he had planned. So, off we went to... FIVE GUYS! I love me a little bacon cheeseburger with all kinds of stuff on it. Yuuuuuummmmmm. Anyway. Bug's health proceeded to go downhill rapidly while we there, including somehow getting a diaper wedgie and peeing all over my lap just as our food was ready. No really - Happy Valentine's Day family dinner. Good times.

Both girls fell asleep as we drove home. We changed them, got 'em in jammies, and called bedtime early. Dude laid down with them, as he does every night. It took forever for Buggy to fall asleep soundly enough for him to get up, though. Finally, finally he came downstairs... and announced he didn't feel very well, had a major headache, was going to do the dishes and go to bed. Which meant that I took off the little number I had hidden under my sweats and shoved it beneath the futon. Sigh.

Today, the Bug is more sick than yesterday (including puking on the couch) and Belly's cough is getting worse. I'm not even going to allow myself to think that there might be some sort of romantic anything with my husband tonight to celebrate this day of amour.

But I sincerely hope that you and yours have done something spectacular to mark the day. I've been living vicariously through my friend on Facebook who posted pictures of her hot air balloon ride. Obviously, she does not have kids.

My most embarrassing moment evah

A comment on my last post made me remember my most embarrassing moment ever yesterday. I keep thinking about it and I may as well tell you. We're friends, right? It was so, so, so, so terrible and I'm sure hilarious beyond compare - although the retelling of it still makes me a little shaky. But here goes...

For years, my most embarrassing moment was my first date - as in, my first date with a boy in a car ever. I was trying on two different but very similar shoes when he arrived to pick me up. In my teenage fluster, I left the house with different shoes on my feet. We went to his house and I met his parents and grandmother. They kept looking at me like I was a freak and I didn't know why. Then, as we got back in the car to go to a party, I saw. Oh, I wanted to die. I asked the boy to take me home - "just for a minute!" - but he wouldn't move the car until I told him why. And then he took me home so I could change one of my shoes, but he totally laughed at me. And Erika made sure that everyone at school knew about it on Monday. It was terrible. Terrible, terrible, terrible. That all changed, though, and became a nothing story after THIS though...

I have never been one who is fond of the gym. I'll do it if I have to, but I'd rather be doing just about anything else. Unfortunately, if I don't get enough exercise and eat right, I start to look plump. I don't like looking plump so there you go. The beauty of having two 2-year-olds is that they keep me pretty active (but I'm still going to get a home elliptical machine). ANYWAY. For several years in my twenties, I took dance classes at my local community college instead of paying for a gym membership. Ballet, modern, Afro-Brazilian - I took 'em all. Each class was an hour long, four or five days a week (I usually took two back-to-back) and they were $11/credit. All dance classes were only one credit each, so do the math and you see what a bargain this was. PLUS - and this is a big plus - I was listed as a "dance major." SCORE! It was like living out some alternate world fantasy. Now, I took tons and tons of these classes but I really am not a very flexible person, so you know, I was only so good. Which is to say that I was incredibly mediocre. At best. But I didn't care. I had a lot of heart and I wasn't trying to be the best in class. I just wanted a good workout, which I surely received.

My ballet teacher, though, was not about mediocre. She wanted the best. She demanded the best. She liked me well enough because I tried my hardest to be good and she knew that she didn't have to break it to me that I wasn't a real dance major (and never would be). It was sort of our unspoken understanding. She was incredibly tough and looked a lot like Susan Powter - which is to say, yikes. Nobody messed with her. Her name was Charlotte.

Charlotte let it be known on the very first day of class that the "final" was the big recital at the end of the semester and we were going to start learning our routine after the warm up at the barre. Oh yes - we WOULD be the best dancers up there; and oh yes - we WOULD make her proud; and oh yes - there WOULD be hell to pay if we didn't. This recital was sort of a big deal. Every single dance class in every single genre performed. The audience was all of the other students and any guests they wanted to bring (which meant a lot of parents with video cameras). I didn't sweat the recital, though, because Charlotte and I had our little understanding. The class was divided into five rows and I was in the fourth one back. It was exactly where I wanted to be.

The semester waned on and every class we perfected and added on to our recital piece. Charlotte chose three soloists. She moved those who were getting better and better forward in the rows. Those of us who remained mediocre stayed in the back. Then I had a family emergency of sorts that was taking me out of town and I was going to miss the last three classes before the recital. I asked Charlotte if I could just skip it. She said no, that I had to perform in order to pass the class. I knew the routine at this point, so I wasn't really worried. Charlotte said to just remember who was next to me in my line and to be sure I was in the correct spot when entering the stage and she wasn't worried either. So good. I went out of town.

The day of the recital, I went to school and found my class in the auditorium. It was PACKED. Every seat was taken and it was standing room only in the aisles and along the back of the room. Holy smokes! I started to feel a little nervous. I found the girl who I was to follow onstage and waited until our class was called "on deck." All of a sudden, we went to the side of the stage OPPOSITE what we'd rehearsed for months. I grabbed the girl's arm and asked her what was happening. She said that Charlotte had made some last minute changes at the dress rehearsal and we were entering from the opposite side, starting in the opposite pose (turned toward the right instead of the left), but once we started moving, everything was exactly as it had always been. "Are you SUUUURE that's it?!" Yep. She was sure. Okay. I could handle that. Like I said - I knew the routine. We were called out from the wings to take our places. I followed my girl closely. Wait. What was happening? Where were we? FUUUUUUCCKKKKK!!! Apparently, my girl - whom I was always a little surprised was lumped back with the rest of us very average dancers - had been moved to the front row. And now I was there, too. And I couldn't just slip back four rows. I was stuck. There were seven dancers in the front row now - me in the middle and three on either side. I was having trouble breathing. Everyone struck their opening pose and I mentally gave myself a pep talk, "You can do this. It's 3.5 minutes of dancing. You. Can. Do. This." I was sweating under the stage lights and the music hadn't even started. "Remember - once we start moving, it's the same as it's always been." I could do it. Besides, it was really about one minute of dancing, everyone but the soloists leaving the stage for another 1.5 minutes, and then the full class for the last minute. I planned to slip into the back after the soloists. I only had to make it through one minute of front row center. I felt confident. And man, I was fooling myself something fierce.

The music started and I went toward the right just like we'd always done. Except everyone else came left, so I actually knocked into the girl to my right. I tried to recover and go left, but then everyone was going right, so I knocked into the girl to my left. Yes. That's correct. Two dance moves into the recital and I had taken out two girls. And there was Charlotte, in the front row, breathing fire as the rest of the audience roared - ROARED! - with laughter. I did what I could to finish out the other 56 seconds with some sort of dignity, but it was a total joke. I was so shaken and frazzled that I pretty much forgot the choreography and was just making shit up. I wondered if there was a trap door in the floor through which I could flee. Finally the minute ended and we exited stage right while the soloists soloed. I wasn't about to go back out there - not even in the last row. So when everyone went back out for the last minute, I stayed in the wings. I shoved part of a curtain in my mouth to keep from vomiting. Then the class took a bow and started to exit... the other side of the stage! Because of the way things were set up, the only way for me to get out of the wings, off the stage and out of the auditorium was to go with them. So I ran out after them with my arm extended like all of theirs - but about five feet behind the last dancer. When the audience saw me, they erupted in laughter again. Somehow, I got my bag and left the building before anyone could say anything to me and Charlotte could behead me and take a dump down my neck.

I got in my car and drove home, shaking my head the whole way and saying repeatedly aloud, "Disaster. Complete disaster." I went home and crawled into bed, grateful that neither Dude nor either of my two girlfriends I'd invited had been able to attend. I kept replaying it in my mind and it was like some America's Funniest Home Videos clip that seemed fake. Except that it was so very, very real.

Seriously. My heart is pounding just typing this out.

Needless to say, I didn't take ballet the next semester and told my other dance professors that I was taking the class pass/fail with the understanding that I did not have to perform in the recital. Everyone agreed (they'd all been there to witness the debacle, right?). When I saw Charlotte in the hallway, I hid. It was a full four months before I turned a corner and there she was right in front of me. She smiled at me menacingly and said, "Rachael. Hello."

"Uh, hi, Charlotte. Listen - I'm sorry. I can explain. No, I can't. Yes, I can. Just kill me now and get it over."

"I'm not going to kill you. Hundreds of people saw you make a fool of yourself. I figure you've suffered enough humiliation. I like you. You can take my classes again if you want - just no more recitals. Sign up pass/fail next semester if you want. It's fine." And she walked away.

I did take more classes from Charlotte and I rehearsed for the recital just like everyone else, but I was always a no-show on performance day. I couldn't bear to set foot in that auditorium again.

The only performance that I ever participated in after that was a parade, in full costume, with my Afro-Brazilian dance class. My two girlfriends who had missed the ballet recital were there early to get good seats and had their cameras at the ready. They were sorely disappointed when I followed the routine to a T and didn't have any wardrobe malfunctions or take out any other dancers. How boring. They thought they were there for a show...

Dude duped me

Remember how my last post ended with me saying that Dude had some sort of surprise date planned for us last night? WELL! Let me tell YOU! He really pulled a fast one on me. And booooooooy was he proud of hisself.

I got dressed to go "out" - an outfit that could be a little overdressed in a totally cazh atmosphere or a little underdressed in more refined environs. I couldn't decide between the "nicer" shoes or the "funkier" shoes, so I put on one of each and headed downstairs to get Dude's opinion (he was the one who knew where we were going, after all). He liked the funkier ones and said, "But have you decided what you're going to wear in the morning? Are your toiletries together? You really should at least get your toothbrush." I was all, "Whaaaaaaaaa......??" Seriously. What was he talking about? I have never spent the night away from the girls. Ever. And not only that, but they have never spent the night away from me. Never ever. I looked at him quizzically, "Are you serious?" Yep. He was.

I went upstairs and got a few things together, and as I was packing up my toiletries, the worry about this overnight thing set in for real. I actually started to feel a little angry that I wasn't given notice so that I could mentally prepare for the separation. And what about the girls? Dude obviously hadn't told them or I would've heard about it (they are TOTAL blabber mouths). They needed more preparation than this! I was starting to think this was most definitely not a good idea.

Dude put the girls to bed and I went downstairs to give Bri more than an earful of instructions. She assured me repeatedly that everything was going to be fine - "You really need to relax." So easy for her to say. Dude came down and said that he needed 10 minutes and he'd be ready to walk out the door. "Oh, and did you pack something to wear in the water?" I looked at him in utter disbelief. See... the other thing I should mention here is that yesterday was the worst day of my period, too. I explained to Dude that I was not about to put on a bathing suit OR get into water of any kind. I just wasn't. He told me that was fine and ran to get his stuff together. I thought I might have a panic attack.

Ten minutes later, we walked out the door and left. Oh. My. God. It was happening.

Dude had gotten us a room at the McMenamin's Edgefield and there were 9pm dinner reservations at the Black Rabbit restaurant waiting for us. I ordered a glass of wine and things started to seem a little... rosier. Dude and I had a lovely, lovely dinner (steamed mussels; roasted beet & arugula salad; trio of small plates for entrees - grilled quail with roasted potatoes and gaufrettes, Tunisian beef kabobs with sweet potato balls and spicy tagine, tea-smoked duck breast with Asian slaw and crispy wontons; cheese plate). By the end of the meal, I wasn't worried about the girls anymore. I mean really. They'd be fine. I even decided that I wasn't going to call Bri to check in until morning.

Dude's intention in all of this clearly was to be super romantic and get some quality hours for just the two of us. Part of this, naturally, was to be spent in the boudoir (we ARE husband and wife, after all). But as I mentioned before, I was in the middle of a visit from Her Majesty Mother Nature herself and that was really, uh, out of the question. So you know what happened instead? We played one hand of gin rummy, during which I started to pass out. And then Dude read his book while I snuggled up next to him and fell into a deep, deep sleep. And I slept and slept and slept and slept... until 8:09am!!! You non-kid-havin' readers will think this is no big deal, but I assure you that it is monu-fucking-mental. I slept for 8+ hours in an uninterrupted row. That hasn't happened since some point in the middle of my second trimester of pregnancy. And let me tell you that being well rested feels pretty sexy.

I called Bri at approximately 8:11am. She put me on speaker phone. The girls were all, "Hi, Mommy! Bri here!" As it turns out, there had been zero crying and everyone was perfectly perfect in every way. Who were these little angels? Surely not my trouble dolls...

Dude and I had a big ol' breakfast, walked the Edgefield grounds a little bit, then checked out and headed home at 11am. I ran in the house and Belly and Buggy greeted me with hugs, but not desperate cries. Who knew that this would be so easy? And now that we know, we shall do it again. But maybe next time Dude will do a little better with the timing of it all...

Victory will be mine

Things have been getting slowly, slowly better with the nap time wars. Today was the day that I finally felt like I'm going to win. Buggy woke up and didn't cry - just started playing quietly. Belly woke up and fussed. I shushed her over the monitor (we have a walky-talky function) and she did. She DID! She whined off and on for 20 minutes after that. Then - THEN! - they started giggling and playing together. I was right outside their door when the music stopped. They started whining, calling for me again at that point and but so what? It was time for me to be there. They had every right to bitch. So... HOORAY!! And on top of all that? I actually pulled a little trick today. It felt like their cd was going too quickly and they were still asleep, so when it was halfway over, I snuck back in their room and restarted it. So really they were in there for a nap and a half today. It was GLORIOUS!

I will reign supreme. And apparently I will use a lot of capitalized words to let you know about it.

One other fancy tidbit... Belly pooped in the potty the other day. She pees once or twice a day, but never has there been a dump from either one of them (Buggy rarely even pees). I showered that child with praise and fanfare the likes of which she'd never seen. And then I pulled out the Extra Special Treat that had been promised if that day were to ever arrive: M&Ms. I gave a couple to Belly and one to the Bug (so she could see what the big deal was all about). Belly promptly spit them out and asked for a cracker. Uh... what?? What kid doesn't like M&Ms??? Apparently, Belly. But she was perfectly happy with the cracker and Buggy was perfectly happy to scarf up Belly's unwanted treats. To each her own, I suppose.

And in non-kid news - I have a date tomorrow night. Dude informed me that the children need to be hitting the pillow by 7pm and Bri is babysitting. No other details were supplied. Fun, eh? I love a good surprise.

Belly and The Bug