Dirty Little Secret

I am currently sporting a Cars band-aid around my thumb. It is band-aid number 4 and I have it so tightly wound that it’s going to leave marks. In fact, I’m slightly concerned that my wound is going to need more than a band-aid.

It happened in the kitchen. Almost every injury I’ve gotten since having kids has occurred in the kitchen. I was cutting up cantaloupe while trying to block out a big kid screaming game as well as translate 20 month old gobbledy-gook. ChunkyMonkey yelled in frustration, I turned to look at him and . . .blood gushed from my thumb. I ran it under water, then returned to all the mommy duties. Soon I realized it was still bleeding.

And as I sat there at dinner, paper towels wrapped around the thumb and an inability to clearly explain to Ironflower and Lovebug what I’d done, I had an alcohol flashback.

The most fun wedding I ever went to (er, um, I’m sorry if I went to your wedding and that this wasn’t it. I’m sure I had a fabulous time at your wedding too. I swear.) was my friend Mimi’s. I was a bridesmaid in a cute dress who knew most of the guests, there was an open bar and lots of flirtatious men. What wasn’t fun about it?

Well, there was the broken glass. Dropped near me, I quickly hopped up to get a waiter or paper towels or something. But, um, I had already taken off my strappy high heels. So apparently I stepped on some glass. It didn’t hurt much, which I took to be a good sign and not a sign that I’d had more champagne than necessary. So I wrapped some paper towels around my foot and kept dancing.

When the paper towels bled through, I just asked someone to get me new ones. I was having so much fun.

It wasn’t until early Sunday morning, as I practically crawled downstairs to my bathroom, that I became concerned about my foot. It throbbed, but so did my head, so I didn’t worry until I saw the trail of blood. It went from the front door up the stairs to my room and was actually coming back down the stairs.

Yeah, my foot was still bleeding.

You know when a good time to go to the ER is? Early on a Sunday morning. Unless, of course, you can’t adequately explain why your drunk ass didn’t come into the ER the night before. The doctor actually called extra nurses in to hear my explanation of how I’d embedded the glass into my foot by continuing to dance.

Despite laughing at me, though, they gave me something that erased my hangover while they cleaned  and put seven stitches in my foot.

When I looked at my children at dinner and tried to explain how I cut my thumb, I felt exactly like I did in the ER. It was like the drunken instinct to hop right up – of course I’d keep chopping, even though I’d moved my thumb! And of course I’d just wrap some paper towels around it and keep going. Because just like I couldn’t pass up fun back in the day, I couldn’t pass up mommy duty last night.

I could totally pass up having stitches on the bottom of my foot again, though. That sucked. I hated the thought of crutches, so I spent weeks hobbling in flip flops and actually pulled a muscle in my foot as well.

Anyone else ever noticed parallels between having young kids and being drunk?

I don’t think my family is good at fun.

Last night was the “Family Fun” night at the kids’ preschool. Hot Guy had to work, so I decided that ChunkyMonkey should stay at home with my mom, 2 kids being enough for one tired woman to keep track of at a gathering filled with sugar and small children.

Of course Ironflower was drawn to the painting activity like moth to flame. . .which meant that I spent a lot of the evening cleaning blue paint off of her costume.

And Lovebug hated the noise. He ran into classmates, but they were all shy with each other (as opposed to how they’d been at the hay ride the day before) and overwhelmed by the crowd. So he pretty much wanted to leave from the moment we got there.

I spent most of my night dragging Lovebug around in search of Ironflower. Until the reptile show. Which my kids had enjoyed at a small play date last year, but this year it freaked Lovebug out. And Ironflower claimed not to like it, but I think what she didn’t like was the large number of kids between her and the animals. Meanwhile I stood with some other preschool moms, having nothing to say while I fretted over my children’s unhappiness.

Somehow I’m reminded of some of  last events I attended in school gyms – junior high dances. Before every dance, I’d have this image in my head of how it would go – the boy I liked would ask me to dance, I’d look impossibly cool while dancing, my friends would all tell me how great I looked – and it NEVER went that way.

These family events seem to go the same way for me. Before we go, I have this image in my head of the fun we’re going to have – the kids will laugh and smile, I will chat amiably with acquaintances, the kids will behave – and it never works that way. Lovebug hates something about the event and clings, they both grab food and drink like mannerless heathens, I have brief conversations that I’m too preoccupied to pay attention to and at the end,  Ironflower says it wasn’t good enough anyway.

I guess I’m just not destined to live up to the images in my head. Maybe I should stop trying.

There’s a business in a nearby town that is almost entirely devoted to personalized birthday favors. Well, I think it is. I’ve never actually been in there. But the kids have gotten adorable gift bags with personalized frisbees and whatnot in them. As well as candy. All from a store that I’ve never heard anyone refer to in any other context.

We’ve been to a birthday party that had a moonwalk, clown, hot dog cart and 4 cakes. And that was a first birthday party.Mostly, we’ve been to parties at indoor play places. But occasionally we’ve been to decked out yards, with visits from Dora and Diego. Once we went to a party that had a clown, a singer and a balloon maker.

I mention all this because Ironflower’s birthday is a scant 2 months away. And there are 19 kids in her class. So we’re looking at inviting 25 kids to the party, or thereabouts. That will pretty much double the exorbitant fee we’ll be paying for the party space in the first place.

When I relayed this to a Kansas City friend of mine, she was kind of horrified. Party spaces and personalized favors didn’t happen in her preschooler’s world.

And when I lamented to a New Jersey mom that I wished my kids had been born in the summer so I could have a party in my yard, she was horrified by the thought of the clean up and organizing involved.

All I can think is, isn’t celebrating a birthday supposed to be FUN? Why am I stressing about this 2 months ahead of time? Oh, right. Ironflower wants what all her friends have: her class at a party place where she will get to be the center of attention. And cute gift bags. And probably a new outfit for the event.

At least I’ll have  break until Lovebug’s birthday in March. And at least his class is small. And he probably won’t care about the outfit.

What about you? What are birthday parties like in your neck of the woods?

It’s not that I claim to be a parenting expert or anything. I suppose I’ve got some basics figured out – don’t smack them upside the head even when they deserve it, keep them clean and fed, don’t let them watch R-rated movies, always have extra diapers. I also thought that encouraging them to learn the basic life skills was a good idea. And it appears that I’m in the minority on this.

Yesterday at Ironflower’s dance class, I observed another four year old come in, plop down on the dressing room floor and hold her feet up. Her mother then removed her shoes for her. I nearly fell off the bench. This mom has always seemed perfectly sane to me. I subtly checked out the other girls and moms and it was all the same. Seemingly loving and normal moms removing shoes and clothes for their able-bodied kids. After class it was the same thing – Ironflower is the only one expected to dress herself and ask if she needs help. All the other moms dress their four year olds.

And yet I’m really bothered that almost three year old Lovebug can’t/won’t put on his own shoes. He also needs help removing shirts because he has such a big head. (No, seriously, it’s that big. I’m going to be helping him in that department until he’s like 8 or so, I swear.) But even he’s been taking off his own shoes forever. And he takes off everything else and we’re working on dressing himself.

At first I was all proud of my kids and their skills. But then I realized that maybe these kids CAN do all of these things, they just don’t have to. And I started to wonder if I should be doing these things for my kids too. Am I forcing them to be too independent? Should they just expect me to take their shoes off for them?

Fortunately I then remembered that martyrdom does not become me, so this is all really moot. Independent kids make a much less stressed Jerseygirl. In fact, I’ve even got Ironflower helping Lovebug with his shoes now, so frustrated have I become trying to teach him (or will him, rather) to put on his slip-on shoes. And we’re all a little happier in the morning.

But still, is this forced independence going to make them feel unloved? Or are those other kids being taught that they’re incapable? What are your thoughts?

PS – Leslie over at My Mommy’s Place is having another one of her haiku contests. Check it out!

One of the things I love about traveling is that you can learn so many things. I mean, sure I loved being in a warmer part of the country (have I mentioned that it actually got down to freezing while we were there? It did.) and having my parents to share so many child-rearing duties, but the best part was going somewhere new. Okay, all the alone time Hot Guy and I got was pretty cool too, but still, I loved exploring. Seeing new things and new for the kids things was fabulous too. But nothing beats the learning.

I learned things about my family:

Hot Guy has an odd affinity for Kool and the Gang.

Feeding Ironflower donut holes and lemonade is a very BAD idea, especially when she’s going to be riding in a car that day.

Lovebug has traindar – he can find a train no matter where he is and no matter what he is doing.

ChunkyMonkey must go to sleep at 9pm if he is to sleep through the night – any other time and he wakes up.

My Dad has amazing putting baby to sleep powers.

My mom has mastered her iPhone but is freaked out by the ATM.

I learned things about life south of the Mason-Dixon line and east of Alabama:

Apparently no one there has ever seen a triple stroller. Seriously, people stared at us wherever we went – I now have so much sympathy for those families that are “different” for some reason.

Everyone seems to have missed the highway driving section on the driving test. Also lacking: the parking skills section.

Warm Saturdays are not the day to try to park anywhere near any Smithsonian museums.

All the straight men sound like Larry the Cable Guy.

No one in Florida got the memo about tanning being bad for you.

You can find good NPR and decent country music everywhere except the New York area.

ALL senior citizens want to know “What aisle did you find that baby in?” whenever and wherever you take your infant shopping.

I learned even more about traveling with small children:

Never try it without at least one electronic entertainment device.

Museums are fine, but beaches and playgrounds are better.

And nothing beats having a TV in your vacation bedroom.

Nothing can drown out the sound of a four year old girl’s voice or a two year old boy’s tantrum, no matter how big the minivan or how loud the radio.

Construction vehicles stop being exciting after ten minutes of construction zone traffic.

Parents should have access to alcohol and/or chocolate at all times.

This morning, after telling the kids that we would be leaving for Florida tomorrow, I overheard this conversation.

Lovebug: I want to see the pyramids. I want to see them in Florida.

Ironflower: Lovebug, the pyramids are in Egypt. You can’t see them in Florida. We’ll see them when we go to Egypt.

Lovebug: I want to go to the beach in Florida!

Let’s hope they can maintain their positive attitudes and intellect while we drive down there. We weren’t going to go, but my parents have rented a rather large condo and well, we feel that we all deserve a vacation after this fall and winter.

Of course, my parents are flying down.

We’ll be driving the minivan with three kids and eighteen bottles of wine. The wine is supposed to be for after we get there.

I’m not entirely sure about that.

Ironflower got a belated birthday present. I’m sure the gift was given in good faith. I’m fairly sure this person’s child did not receive the same gift for his birthday and that this person didn’t take one look at it and decide to regift it. But even if she did, I totally understand why.

Ironflower received a game called “Lucky Ducks”. It requires batteries. Unfortunately, we actually had the batteries. So Ironflower has been playing the game since yesterday. Lovebug and I have even played with her. The game is simple enough that she can play by herself or with her brother (without fighting). It’s a bit educational. But what it mostly is, is loud. The ducks quack throughout the ENTIRE game.

Which means that while Ironflower entertains herself for an hour – which is fantastic – the ducks quack for that entire hour. Which is not fantastic. In fact, it’s so annoying that I’m kinda hoping that the game breaks. Normally I can ignore – some would say all too easily – the noises my children and their toys make. But the mechanic quacking is DRIVING ME INSANE. And it’s not just me.

This afternoon Lovebug got up and ran away during a Lucky Ducks game. The conversation that ensued was illuminating:

Ironflower: Where are you going? The game’s not over.
Lovebug: NO! NO! NO DUCKS! I PLAY TRAINS!!!!!! NO DUCKS!

And ChunkyMonkey, who normally sleeps peacefully during the screams, shouts and thuds of his siblings, woke up when the Lucky Ducks game came on.

I’m telling you, these quacks are possibly the most annoying sound on the planet.How wrong would it be if the game disappeared suddenly? Or ran out of batteries?

And what the hell should I write in the thank-you note?

I know that my children don’t have the healthiest diets. Unless a vegetable is so finely chopped that it (and its nutritional value) disappears into the sauce, my children won’t eat it. And while they do eat fruit everyday, Ironflower only deems one fruit acceptable.

But still, I didn’t think we were doing that badly. We don’t have any trans fats and most of their snack crackers don’t have high fructose corn syrup, at least. But then we had this conversation:

Ironflower: Mommy, I put peanut butter on whatever doesn’t get syrup, right?

Me: As far as breakfast goes, I guess.

Ironflower: And lunch.

Me: And lunch.

Ironflower: But Lovebug likes ketchup, even on breakfast food.

Me: Lovebug loves ketchup, but remember we weren’t going to talk about ketchup at breakfast anymore? Because mommy wants Lovebug to skip the ketchup at one meal?

Lovebug: Ketup! Ketup! Me! Ketup!

Me (muttering): I am such an idiot.

If it wasn’t for peanut butter and ketchup, I’m pretty sure my kids wouldn’t eat anything. We go through a big jar of peanut butter and a HUGE thing of ketchup every two weeks. If the kids were larger I’d be okay with that, but they are only two and three and neither one of them weighs over 30 pounds. And Hubby and I rarely touch the ketchup and never touch the peanut butter.

Is our family weird? Or do all small children have these strange condiment obsessions? And when will they grow out of them?

On Tuesday I volunteered in Ironflower’s class. I participated in circle time and then read the kids a story. It was so weird to be using my teacher voice but not be able to correct behavior and whatnot. Not that I wanted to correct very much behavior (her class really is very well-behaved), but it was very odd not having it be my job.

Still, it was a lot of fun. I thought Ironflower might show off in front of me, or shut down as some of the other moms reported their kids doing when they went in to read. But no, Ironflower handled the situation with total aplomb. She was her typical self – about four times more verbal then the other kids. Seriously, she’s a talking prodigy. During circle time, Mrs.G. asked each kid to talk about his or her Easter. Most kids replied with a few sentences, some replied in short answers to Mrs.G’s prompts. And then came Ironflower. Mrs.G. actually had to interrupt her, so detailed and lengthy was her description of Easter.

That afternoon she talked throughout her entire nap time. TWO HOURS. Sure some days, she doesn’t sleep the whole time and I hear her chattering away. But I was within ear shot the whole time and she never, ever paused. It was amazing. She was telling stories, and having conversations with her kitty AND talking to her imaginary friends the dinosaurs – sometimes all at once.

No wonder I sometimes worry about Lovebug’s language skills – he speaks like a normal child. By the time Ironflower was his age, she spoke in complete sentences ALL the time. And now she talks in paragraphs. She’s even developed a game that emphasizes talking. She describes an animal and then it’s your job to guess what it is. Then you describe an animal and she guesses what it is. Yesterday she and Hubby were playing in the car (Ironflower is adamant that this is a two person game only) and he was describing a zebra, “It’s black and white, kinda looks like a horse and stars with ‘zzz’”. Ironflower was stumped long enough for Lovebug to chime in, “Ze-Buh!”

He may not be the talking prodigy his sister is, but he sure doesn’t miss anything!

I almost forgot about Sarcastic Mom’s super Birth Story Carnival, but luckily I checked her awesome blog today. Head on over to read her fabulous story, find other stories or to add your own.

Ironflower

When I was pregnant with Ironflower, I swelled up like a balloon. Seriously. I had so much fluid that the poor child just kept floating around in there – some days she was breech, some days she wasn’t. About two weeks before my due date, my OB suggested that I would need a c-section. She was pretty sure that between the MASSIVE amount of fluid and the size of Ironflower’s head that I was going to wind up needing one no matter what – did I want to schedule one or wait and see what happened? I thought about it over night. I talked to three people who’d had emergency c-sections. I was at a point where I couldn’t fit into my own shoes, my feet were so swollen. I wanted it to be over, though Ironflower had not hinted that she was ready to come out at all. I scheduled the c-section.

All was well until the epidural kicked in. I was lying flat on the operating table, but all of the sudden it felt like I was tipping over backwards and that there was an elephant sitting on my chest. Apparently this is not uncommon, but no one had mentioned it to me. I started to panic. My blood pressure dropped and I started to fade in and out. The kind anesthesiologist gave me some kind of drug and things got better. Meanwhile, they were having a hard time pulling Ironflower out. The fluid had literally gushed out of me and soaked the floor and she was in some odd position and I don’t know, it took them awhile to get her out. So long that she got some of my happy drugs into her system and was pretty lethargic at first. It took her five minutes to cry.

FIVE LONG MINUTES. Finally, she started crying and so did we. I couldn’t see her, but Hubby made his way over to the bassinet (trying not to slip in the fluid and quickly averting his eyes from my guts) and not too long after that I FINALLY got to see her. I couldn’t believe she was really there. We all got about twenty minutes together in the recovery room, then she and Hubby went to the nursery and I sort of slept.

It felt like forever until we were all settled in our room together. I couldn’t get over how beautiful and tiny she seemed (though at 8 pounds, 10 ounces, she really wasn’t that tiny as newborns go). She was pretty mellow, too. We hardly slept for the three days we were in the hospital. I couldn’t sleep when she went off to be weighed and bathed in the middle of the night and I felt like I needed to be awake whenever she was in the room. Even though she was extremely mellow and rarely cried, I just felt like I had to be hyper-vigilant. Sometimes I dozed, but only when Hubby or my mom was there. Ironflower had trouble nursing at first, but eventually (thanks, really, to Hubby’s encouragement and support) we got there. We’ve been marveling at her beauty and trying to get her to eat ever since.

Lovebug

This time when my OB asked if I wanted to try for a vaginal birth or have another c-section, I was ready. I picked c-section. I was nervous about VBACs and since I knew what to expect with a c-section it just seemed the way to go.

This time, I was asked if I wanted a spinal or an epidural. I was told that spinals were better and since I hadn’t been all that impressed with my epidural, I went with it. Which was a mistake. Because it hurt like a son of a bitch. Now I realize that it was nothing like giving birth the natural way, but at least then you know the pain is coming. I was actually in the early stages of labor when I went in for my c-section. Even though it was 12 days before my due date. Lovebug had been banging his head against my pelvis for a few days. I was expecting a pinch and instead I got hot knife slicing my leg in half. Or so it seemed.

After that, though, things went swimmingly. I didn’t panic on the table (no upside down feeling or elephant on my chest) and Lovebug popped right out. The first thing my OB said was, “He has a HUGE head.” And that right there made me feel a whole lot better about choosing the c-section. Lovebug cried on cue and didn’t really stop until about an hour and a half later, when we first tried breastfeeding. Which he took to like a duck to water. The lactation expert dropped by my room the next day and started to tell me that I was holding him “wrong”, but when I invited her to lean over and check us out up close, she realized that we were just fine. She didn’t drop by again.

Lovebug was so vigorous and so hungry – he was his own little person right away. And while I still had a hard time when he was out of the room, I was able to sleep a bit this time. The best was watching Ironflower check him out for the first time. She was so in awe and really didn’t exhibit much jealousy. Of course, she was only 15 months old.

Lovebug’s passion still amazes us, though he seems to have lost his champion eating ability.