What the heck is up with removable bathing suit padding?!? I have no idea if I stand with the majority on this or not, but I can’t abide it.
I always want padding. I never want to remove it. I don’t want my nipples poking through. Maybe this is a middle-age issue.
For years I refused to buy any suits with removable padding. Fixed padding made for a successful summer.
I’m down to my final week at the beach. I have lived in my bathing suit for two months and this year I succumbed to style over function. Both of my 2022 bikinis have removable padding. And boy is it removable.
It mushes, it bends, it inverts, it ALWAYS comes out in the wash. I ALWAYS spend a lifetime figuring out which side is which and reinserting. Then removing and reinserting on the other side. Then vowing to never wash my bathing suit again.
If I spend five minutes juggling nipple pads, several times a week, then that adds up to two hours of summer WASTED.
TWO HOURS. So many other things I’d rather do: read, drink, chat, swim, reapply sunscreen, reapply sunscreen on my kids.
Never mind. Reapplying sunscreen on my kids may be worse than reinserting bathing-suit padding.
It would be fine if they didn’t act like I’m KILLING them every time.
When do they successfully apply their own lotion? And while we’re talking self-care: when do they cut their own nails? Or even just go to the bathroom without an attendant?
After going potty, RB came wandering through the house asking me to rip her off a piece of toilet paper. There was a full roll of paper within arms reach, but she decided she’d come look for me to get it for her.
At which point the purpose of the toilet paper is called into question. Do you really need to wipe if you’ve air dried or dripped off through the house?
I’d rather stand in as toilet-paper valet than reinsert bathing-suit padding.
Obviously I like the finished product or I wouldn’t have kept the bathing suits and I wouldn’t have worn them all summer. Tell me if I’m missing something, besides a thin, asymmetrical, padded triangle.
I want to write more than a biweekly blog post. I’ve thought or said something similar since I graduated college.
Putting my desire down in writing may be helpful. Or it may not. If I can procrastinate for 20 years, anything is possible.
Yes I have valid demands on my time. Refer to children mentioned in previous posts.
Somehow I find enough time to do post-grad level research on how to treat whatever the heck allergic reaction is happening around my eyes.
There’s time to search and give up on what jeans I want to be wearing. There’s always time for a news doom scroll. And if in doubt, I just refresh social media, the weather, my photos, my calendar, my email, my period app.
Sounds like a phone issue. I’ve tried disconnecting from my phone. I’ve hidden it away in a kitchen cabinet. Which was more helpful than I thought it would be, considering I knew where it was.
It’s also an internet issue, because I LOVE to write on my computer, but it’s very easy to switch from google docs to TripAdvisor.
So no phone and no internet, then no excuses? Nope. Cause then I resort to the very last thing in the world I want to do: cleaning.
It starts to sound like I don’t want to write if I’d rather scour toilets. Writing is harder than scrubbing, scrolling or basic minding of RB so she stays alive.
I’ll be handing that over soon. Partially. My baby is starting school this fall! Three days a week. My excuses keep dwindling.
Three days a week will go quick. I could write or I could go grocery shopping BY MYSELF. I already have a feeling which one it’ll be.
I’m going to sign up for some generative writing classes. It may be helpful to be held accountable. By them and maybe you.
I could write more about this or I could go to the beach…
Some foods speak to me. In the summer it’s s’mores. It may be because I was deprived for the first ten years of my life. I was told it was longer than that. Either way, we found each other and it’s been 30 ish years of true love.
As a kid, our Cape neighbors invited me over for dinner. Or I invited myself, but somehow I was there. They asked me if I wanted s’mores. I’d never even HEARD of s’mores.
It was a split second decision. Do I claim I know what it’s all about or admit the truth? I eyeball the accoutrement. This doesn’t look like a fake it til you make it situation. I relent,
“I’ve never had them.”
The kids swarm around me,
“YOU’VE NEVER HAD S’MORES?!?!?!?!?”
“You’re going to LOVE them!”
I’m not even sure if I’d ever roasted marshmallows before. Maybe I had and on their own they were unremarkable.
I don’t remember the exact ratio of marshmallows to chocolate to graham cracker that I had, but it was FANTASTIC!
I rushed home to inform my family of the food group they’d been missing.
“They’re called s’mores!!!”
“Never liked them.”
I overcame my family’s failing and have eaten them ever since.
I’ll make them over a fire, the grill, the stovetop, a hand-held lighter and in a desperate pinch I’ve tried the microwave, which is by far the poorest option.
Imagine my joy when a few book clubs ago the host put out a spread including s’mores. My least favorite part of the process is fishing all the ingredients out of the cupboard. She’d done the dirty work for us.
I settled in for some roasting. All of sudden everyone is screaming and yelling at me,
“They’re burning! Your marshmallows are burning!”
I’m confused. Of course they’re burning. That’s how it’s done.
Everyone is appalled. They’re appalled I’m obliterating my marshmallows and I’m appalled this is a thing. I had no idea I was in the minority of s’mores makers.
Then I was at a party and the adults handed out s’mores to the kids. How does this end well?
BB is a lot of different things, but careful and clean are not two of them. She and s’mores will end in a house fire or with marshmallow in her hair.
I step back. I’m the last person who should come between her and this experience.
They hand her one marshmallow and a couple squares of chocolate. It dawns on me that my ratios are not the only way to do it either.
I prefer 6 squares of Hershey’s milk chocolate. I tried dark chocolate once. It’s a no go. And I like 3 marshmallows. It sounds like a lot and it IS messy, but extra delicious.
If I’m going to go to the trouble of digging all that stuff out of the pantry, might as well make the most of it.
BB had success and loves them too. She did not want to burn her marshmallows. I’ll give her the freedom to live with that for now. It’s probably safer.
And this answers the life question I’ve been pondering:
“Do I have enough to say about s’mores to fill a whole blog post?”
I’m officially 40! My Cape Cod and Alaska celebrations are in the rearview and middle age is stretching out ahead of me.
Wikipedia defines middle age as 45 – 65, so maybe I can delude myself for another few years.
All of a sudden I’m thinking about menopause, but wikipedia also mentions that I will now be beginning my cognitive decline, so maybe I’ll forget about it.
I’ve always had irritable mood swings with my period. I’m happy to warn Captain about them ahead of time, but beware the person who asks about it mid-PMS.
As much as my irritableness is unjustified, it is very hard to come to terms with that in the moment. That is what alarms me about menopause. How much of an emotional roller coaster will I be on and how long will it be until I feel like myself?
I understand that I might have another eight years before I need to worry about this, but it makes me even more nervous that no one is talking about it.
I feel like I was blindsided when I had my first baby and I don’t intend to be blindsided again if I can help it.
I’ve taken to crowdsourcing the topic at the beach. I’ve heard some interesting takes on it, including some people with no irritableness. Must be nice.
I jut my finger into Captain,
“What’s coming for him?”
Several beach buddies pipe up:
Nothing or maybe nothing with a belly. Grrrumph.
The talk turns to how popular botox has become. If I had some extra money to throw around, the first thing I’d do is get some hair lasered. Maybe that’s next year’s birthday present.
As I contemplate my inevitable decline, I wake up with my right eye swollen shut. A stye one day before my birthday. One day before I’m trying to look forty and fabulous at a fancy dinner. I’m beside myself.
Every spare moment I had was spent hanging over the sink with a warm washcloth pressed against my eyeball. And every spare thought willing it to go away.
Sunglasses and a tiara did wonders to disguise it at the beach.
By dinner time it was much better and makeup took care of the rest. I’ve never been happier to return to my status quo.
Bring it on middle age. I’ll take what I’ve got, minus the mood swings, stye and chin hair.
My babies are growing up! Aside from the one I was lucky enough to have a choice about.
BB finished kindergarten and after MONTHS of weaning RB is officially done breastfeeding.
Back in December we were down to nursing 1-2 times a day. In Disney it ramped back up. Anything to stop a tantrum.
After Disney we got down to once a day. Then the couple months before Alaska, it was a strange situation of latch for a few seconds, pop off and go to sleep happy versus no latch and sob brokenheartedly for a LONG time. I opted for the 5 second latch.
At home she was insistent,
“After we snuggle a little bit.”
Then we went to Alaska. I planned to avoid a repeat of Disney. I didn’t offer and RB NEVER asked.
We returned home and she still didn’t ask. A couple weeks went by. I thought that was that. Then one day we were snuggling, she patted my shirt and chest,
“I want some.”
“No, they’re all gone.”
“Yummy in my tummy!”
“I WANT MOMMY MILKIES!!!”
“No, your choice is to snuggle or go in your crib.”
“I don’t want choices. I’m getting my water.”
I can still hand express a few drops. I’m not sure what I’m trying to prove. I’m happy she’s done even if it has left my breasts shells of their former selves.
As I’m getting ready in the morning, BB lets herself into my bathroom to poop,
“Why are your mommy milkies hanging down?”
Why does privacy mean nothing?
So we’re rolling this into summer and potty training for RB. And by potty training I mean if she figures it out at the beach while she’s peeing on herself, great.
She’s been sitting on the toilet for months now. RB’s life goals are whatever BB is doing.
She wants nothing to do with the little potty and she wants nothing to do with a step stool, despite falling into the toilet several times.
She’s cut off from toilet paper until she actually pees in the toilet. This is an ongoing discussion.
RB is weaned, maybe potty training and staying in a crib forever. BB is a rising first grader who just got her ears pierced for her 6th birthday.
We agreed that if she’s old enough to get her ears pierced, she’s old enough to wipe her own butt. Even if she’s in my bathroom.
We’re home! We traveled around Alaska for 2 weeks, changing towns every couple days. We vacationed by plane, train, bus, boat, bike, zipline, raft, tram, hike, helicopter, dog sled, truck, van and some of us in a backpack carrier.
It was a dream come true. In part thanks to RB’s brand-new iPad. I understand people traveled with children before there were personal devices, but thanks to the iPad, I never felt compelled to dose her with my stash of drowsy drugs.
It all felt a little miraculous. RB is a notorious screamer, clinger, avoider of dogs. One of my biggest pre-trip fears was that she would ruin our dog-sled ride. I bought all the dog-sled books. I thought about buying the helicopter books too, but she likes her vehicles.
There were smiles on the helicopter. No desire to pet the dogs, but no complaining. Then she sat on the very front of the dog sled, snow slamming into her face and not a peep.
I swear she wasn’t drugged.
Also BB and I were on a different dog sled than her, so either way we were guaranteed a good time.
I planned a bunch of “summer activities.” Hikes that in the summer would not require snow gear. May is considered the shoulder season for summer tourism in Alaska. I knew that, but didn’t understand that that meant a week before we arrived in Denali National Park they still had 7 feet of snow.
Now if you say the word “hike,” RB responds,
It didn’t stop us, just slowed Captain down. That and 33 pounds of toddler on his back.
The rafting trip was touted as a ride gentle enough for babies and 100 year olds. It was. There was very little white water and when there was white water, RB shouted,
“Again! Again!” Then both kids went back to general complaining. BB wanted to stand like RB, refusing to admit that her center of gravity was way higher and that falling overboard into the 40 degree water was a surefire way to ruin my trip.
Next time we need class III rapids or an iPad on the raft.
After the iPad, my second most favorite trip purchase was Cosco’s Scenera NEXT 7 pound, $60 carseat. I’m not being paid anything for this post and I paid full price for the car seat. Although if anyone is tempted to pay me, I’d be happy to dedicate a whole post to the Scenera.
It fits on top of a rolling carry-on suitcase. At first we tied it down with a bungee cord, but it actually just stays there with nothing.
You might be thinking, ‘Jess, did you really need a carseat?’
Aside from one week with a rental truck, we didn’t really need one. BUT I cannot say enough good things about having a 5-point harness.
BB is the type of kid who at 18 months wouldn’t get out of her toddler bed until an adult came in the room and told her she could.
RB is the type of kid who will be in a crib until further notice. The 5-point harness was made for her.
We used the car seat EVERYWHERE. She slept in it and I carried her in it into restaurants, hotels, national parks. It probably made her less safe on the train, but it made me more sane, so it’s a delicate balance.
It contained her, but it made her feet reach the airplane seat in front of her during our red-eye flight home. Yes I booked a red-eye. No I’m not totally insane. We saved a lot of money on those tickets. Hopefully enough money to book another red-eye someday.
At 1:00am, RB was happy, awake, watching her iPad and operating the in-seat airplane entertainment screen with her bare feet. Much to the detriment of the man in front of her.
So as far as I can tell, that’s the only downside of a carseat on a plane.
As we slogged through airport security, the suitcase with the girls’ stuff was flagged. TSA demands,
“Is there a machine in here?”
“Oh. There’s a baby music player.”
“All machines need to come out. We told you that.”
Maybe there needs to be some fine print about what qualifies as a machine.
Going back through security to return home, the “machine” did not come out and wasn’t flagged for extra screening. Although our to-go salad was. Maybe there was a questionable amount of salad dressing.
Last but not least I need to give a huge shout-out to vanilla ice cream.
iPad, carseat and vanilla ice cream. They saw us through. BB managed a somewhat varied diet of everything you can imagine on a kid’s menu. RB existed on ice cream, some fries, some chips, some crackers, some granola bars, some cookies, a fair amount of juice, but mainly vanilla ice cream.
And we never saw nighttime. The sun set around midnight and rose around 3am. Our rooms were dark enough and we were tired enough it didn’t stop us from sleeping, but any sense of what time it was was lost.
That feeling that it might be dinner time or bedtime didn’t hit us until 9pm. Then it was way too late to care about anything besides getting everyone in bed or their crib. The travel crib is the fourth MVP of the trip.
Last night BB asked me,
“Why didn’t we floss in Alaska?”
“We’re lucky we brushed our teeth.”
At 10pm, on the evening of our return, I sat in Seattle’s airport playroom, entrenched in the smell of old feet. I studied a sign instructing children to remove their shoes. BIG MISTAKE.
On our way TO Alaska we spent 3 hours in Minneapolis’ airport playground. It’s a winner. It’s well-ventilated, has big play structures and everyone is encouraged to keep their shoes on.
As my children ran around like lunatics, crashing into several other Boston bound lunatics, I overheard the parents discussing what drugs to give them on the plane. Foot smell aside, contentment washed over me. What a fabulous trip it was and great to be headed home with like-minded people.
My moment of truth is almost here. We leave for Alaska in 4 days and I’ve been trying to come to peace with the packing for months now.
I traveled around the world carry-on only. I’m very happy to wear the same shirt everyday until the weather changes or it wears out. Yes I washed it. Things can dry overnight, or when it was hot enough, things dried right on my body.
Turns out when I returned home a couple years later, I didn’t smell great, but that was news to me.
Now we’re headed to Alaska and in addition to our carry-on allotment we have a giant checked bag and a carseat.
I’ve been whittling away at our packing. BB was desperate to take a skort. I nixed that. That’s two items of clothing functioning as one and it might not even be warm enough to wear it.
Then there are the non-negotiable items: the giant, crib-music player that RB turns on multiple times a night. It’s a necessity. Anything related to sleep takes top priority. But it gives me the heebie jeebies. I’m devoting suitcase space to a 3d lullaby machine, that could’ve been used for a gazillion skorts or just less stuff.
BB has 2 security bunnies and her large fleece security blanket. Who gets attached to a large fleece blanket? Another non-travel friendly, sleep necessity.
We’re moving towns every few nights, so the less we have, the easier it’ll be. In theory.
Our biggest item is the travel crib. I’ve gone in circles about this. A few of the places I really want to stay don’t provide cribs. So there were several options: stay somewhere else, RB sleeps in a bed or on the floor or take a crib.
If we’re doing this, I’m staying at my top places. I contemplate a free-range RB and a sun setting at 11pm. It sounds disastrous.
They sell black-out shades that cover an entire pack ‘n play, like you’d cover a bird in a cage. GOODNIGHT!
I’m sold. The travel crib fits in our biggest roller, with room for snacks.
I got the last room at one of my top picks, a place that hangs out over Seward Harbour. The woman who runs the place and I are on a texting basis. That’s how small some of these places are I guess?
“I only have a second floor room, but I don’t like to put kids up there.”
“I was sitting in my office and I saw feet dangling. A kid was hanging off of the balcony and when I went up there, the parents kind of just shrugged and said they knew.”
I assure her my children will not be hanging off of the balcony. THIS IS WHY I NEED A CRIB.
Years ago I met families backpacking with their kids and that’s always been my dream. Someday I thought, maybe I’d have a family I could do that with.
Now I have my family and we’re taking six backpacks, three rolling carry-ons, one large checked roller, one car seat and one umbrella stroller.
I started writing this several days ago, before the leak, before confirmation that our abortion rights are indeed going down the drain.
I’m rageful and heartbroken, but I don’t have a blog post for that, so I’m moving forward about my choppers.
Teeth. Can’t live without them. Or you can for awhile, just ask my dead grandfather.
My dentist has me coming in for a cleaning every three months in an attempt to keep me away from the periodontist.
I don’t know how the state of my mouth compares to other middle-aged people. It feels like it might be worse than average.
I made it through childhood without any cavities, just a massive amount of orthodontia and one oral cyst.
After college I hit the road and when I returned to the country I had cavities. I added a few more since then. My front tooth chipped and everyone offers to do something about it, but I’m not interested.
My main issue seems to be gum disease. I brush twice a day. I floss. I use mouthwash. I say a prayer to the tooth fairy.
My hygienist shakes her head,
“I don’t understand. You’re doing a good job keeping them clean.”
“Do you drink coffee?”
No one is coming for my coffee.
“Yes.” I say with a tone that implies this is the end of the conversation.
“How many cups?”
Does the number really make a difference to my teeth?
“Two or three.”
“Over the course of the day?”
“No, in the morning.”
“You might want to try an electric toothbrush.”
I might. I might not. Captain hears the same thing. We get ourselves electric toothbrushes for Christmas.
Among the electric toothbrush’s many capabilities, it times how long you brush for. The gold standard being two minutes.
So here I am, almost 40 years old and if you had asked me six months ago if I brushed for two minutes, I would’ve said.
I used my electric toothbrush for the first time and it is now safe to say I have NEVER brushed for two minutes until this past December.
Two minutes is a LONG time.
I have time to contemplate my whole life and that only takes the first minute.
The other thing my electric toothbrush has going for her, is that she has a wide range of emotions.
She smiles at me when I turn her on. She frowns if I turn her off before a minute. She gives my a half-hearted smile if I make it into the second minute. She smiles if I make it the full two minutes and if I consistently make it the full two minutes several days in a row, she gives me star eyes.
The pull of the star eyes is strong. I want my toothbrush’s approval. I want it so badly that when I’m sick of brushing and refuse to make it to the two minute mark, I’ll let her run on the side of the sink.
I’m not starting or ending my day on anything less than star eyes.
A couple months ago she prompted me to change the brush head.
That’s not a cheap proposition and she’s got a lot of nerve asking me to do it after 3 months of not brushing for two minutes.
She reminds me again. And again. She hasn’t reminded me in awhile. Maybe she’s given up.
I’m heading in for a cleaning next week. I’m sure they’ll have something to say about a tooth I broke a couple months ago. It’s not painful, so it didn’t feel urgent. I hope my dentist agrees. Or at least takes into consideration how happy my toothbrush is with me.
The good news about our deck stairs being unfinished is that there’s a baby gate blocking them at the top. It has turned our deck into a giant, outdoor playpen.
The kids went out. I locked the screen door and I’m enjoying my coffee in peace. That’s how school vacation week is going.
It started with our Passover seder. Considering 2.5-year-old RB refuses to sit through a regular family dinner, I knew we were doomed.
She sat for longer than I expected, however long it took her to drink the prescribed 4 glasses of grape juice.
At which point she slipped out of her chair. She was quiet, happy and BB didn’t make any moves to follow her. We continued to read from our picture book Haggadah, which somehow still manages to feel like it’s really long.
RB let herself out onto the deck and was doing who knows what. She reappeared, pressing her face against the screen door, shouting,
“Happy Passover guys!”
BB found the afikomen, while RB read a book and said,
“Where’s the komen?”
I gave BB a five dollar bill and gave two ones to RB. BB was crestfallen. I offered to trade her three one dollar bills for her five and she couldn’t have been happier.
Having saved two dollars, Passover was officially a success and we rolled right into Easter. RB again had zero interest in hunting for hidden things.
BB was hyper focused on finding all the eggs, but had little interest in the candy inside. RB sat in the pile of eggs BB brought her and mainlined jelly beans. They may make a good pair after all.
Now one child is napping and the other one is washing my car, or the bottom half of it.
I call the Alaska railroad. I’m hoping to upgrade our train tickets to Denali. There are two service levels: goldstar and adventure class. Adventure class was all that was available when I booked, but a couple goldstar tickets appeared yesterday.
The woman on the phone reminds me that the seats are not interchangeable. If BB is in goldstar, she can visit adventure class, but if RB is in adventure class she can’t go to goldstar.
The woman asks,
“So who are the two staying in adventure class?”
I pause long enough that she feels compelled to add,
“You can’t leave the two kids there by themselves.”
Well good to know I wasn’t the only one considering that.
Captain is facing a new requirement of 3 days a month in the office. If he’s to be believed, it may be the end of him. I’m not convinced.
The idea that there may be a time in the future when I’m home alone, feels so improbable that I can’t write any more about it.
Vacation week also seemed like a good time to test out RB’s new ipad. It was a success. She entered zombie mode.
There is hope for our trip and anyone else stuck in adventure class with my kids.
I’m enjoying our new Market Basket. If you don’t have one in your town, you could consider driving to ours. That seems to be what everyone else is doing.
I have never given my grocery-shopping strategy so much thought. I’ve never even used the words “grocery-shopping strategy” before.
The left side of the store has produce, bread, frozen foods. The right side of the store has all the refrigerated items: milk, butter, eggs, yogurt, smoked herring, hot dogs. The necessities.
So from a stacking-the-cart strategy, it would make sense to start on the right with the gallons of milk and end with the produce and bread. Although good luck with the eggs.
But there’s no moving quick in that store, so that would mean by the time I got home, my milk would be on its way to room temperature.
Starting from the left keeps the milk cold, but then I’m left rearranging the bread the whole time so it doesn’t get crushed. It can’t go in the baby seat because RB is taking up prime shopping-cart real estate.
And starting on the left means circling back for ice cream. I guess I could circle back for bread and ice cream.
The store seems designed to make people start from both sides. Is that better for traffic flow? I can’t tell. It’s constant dodge-a-cart out there.
It doesn’t help that RB’s new favorite question is,
“What are you doing?”
We’re in the car. She asks,
“What are you doing?”
“I’m driving to the grocery store.”
Two seconds later,
“What are you doing?”
Two seconds later,
“What are you doing?”
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?”
“I’m right here.”
Great. So you can imagine how helpful this line of questioning is in the store. I turn down the bread aisle,
“What are you doing?”
“Getting bread.” I get the bread.
“What are you doing?”
“Putting the bread in the cart.”
Bread falls over, risking being crushed by the frozen pizza. I try to rearrange,
“Why are you doing that?”
I don’t know. I just don’t know. Is there a better way? Please feel free to tell me your Market Basket strategies.
I head for the number one check-out lane. It is a phenomenal lane. It’s open on one side so there’s no risk of RB grabbing several candy bars and a People magazine while she’s waiting.
The new brand of beef jerky I’ve been enjoying for the last few weeks slides down the conveyor belt. The bagger asks,
“What kind of dog do you have?”
“I don’t have any dogs. I thought those were for people.”
It’s one of those brief moments that lasts forever and I’m able to question all my life choices:
‘The beef jerky is organic, so I had assumed that that puts it in the realm of people food, but in retrospect I’m sure there’s a big market for organic dog food.’
‘I’ve eaten dog and dog food before, so not the end of the world.’
‘The smell DID remind me of dog treats.’
‘But they were in the people-food aisle, not the dog-food aisle.’
I smile at the bagger and remark,
“Well either way, they’re delicious!”
Having reconvinced myself that they’re people food, I march myself home and relay the story to Captain,
I’m hoarding coffee, chocolate covered popcorn and potassium iodide. Only one of those may be useful during a nuclear winter.
So while I understand more COVID variants are on the way, my news consumption has veered toward the war.
Captain on the other hand, has been able to remain on high alert for multiple disaster scenarios.
He’s by far the most cautious member of our family. And I continue to underestimate that. I booked zip lining in Denali without even thinking he might not be up for it. After a decent campaign on my part, he’s a cautious yes.
Of the four of us, Captain has managed to stay home the most. His occasional trip to Home Depot is enough to make him swear it off for the foreseeable future. Meanwhile RB has been back in the YMCA playroom for a year now, with a runny nose every other week to prove it.
Captain went from staying home to hanging out with 100,000 of his closest friends at Disney World.
We waited in our fair share of lines and if you’re going to wait in line, Disney World is the place to do it. There’s plenty to see and if you ask BB, TOUCH! As we meandered through line after line, BB touched, caressed, tapped, rubbed, patted EVERY possible surface.
Captain looked like one of those cartoon characters whose face is getting redder and redder until smoke comes out of his ears.
He asked BB, he implored BB, he explained, he scolded, he stared, he shook his head, he brooded. To no avail. It seemed her goal was to leave no surface untouched.
Meanwhile this is the same kid who will not touch ANYTHING that has been on her sister’s plate. BB could be desperate for more chocolate. If the only chocolate left is on RB’s plate, BB will abstain. Even if RB never put a finger on it, once it’s on her plate BB deems it too foul to even contemplate.
As Captain tries to grapple with his world of limited-germ exposure imploding, I glance at BB. She’s running her slightly open mouth along a hand rail.
If we leave Disney World without COVID, it won’t be for a lack of trying to get it.
Or maybe we’d already had it? We hadn’t been testing every runny nose we got. So I thought, who knows? A month later I confirmed that we did NOT have it before.
First Captain was congested. He asked,
“Should I take a test?”
He decided not to. I didn’t push for it. See aforementioned most cautious family member.
Then I was congested and RB was congested. Still no test taking. I was leading my normal life: exercising, corralling children. Then boom, I couldn’t smell my coffee. COVID test was positive.
I lost my taste and smell for a week. That sucked a lot more than I thought it would.
Moral of the story is, if you’re tempted to lick the high-touch surfaces of Disney World. Go for it.
Now we’re “boosted” again and I’m free to direct all thoughts of impending doom into building a nuclear fall-out shelter. Hence all the chocolate covered popcorn.
Did you know you’re breathing wrong? Or at least 70% of you are. I had NO idea.
I finally got around to reading Breath by James Nestor. It’s been top of the stack since November, which is a tough time for any book to move up to the “currently reading” status.
I have strong feelings about many things and it’s not unheard of for me to read something, have strong feelings about it and then a few months later I have a hard time telling you the name of the book.
I could be wrong, but this one will be hard to forget. I’ve talked about it so much BB is walking around reminding me to close my mouth.
I even taped my mouth shut to sleep the other night. Effective in making me breathe through my nose, ineffective in that one of my security blanket’s most important qualities is how she feels on my lips.
BB asked me to close her mouth when I check on her at night. That’s what some Native American parents used to do for their babies.
I’m not going to do this topic justice. I’d recommend reading the book if you wonder what the heck the difference is.
The amount of health benefits associated with nose breathing versus mouth breathing is almost enough to make me tape my mouth shut during the day. Almost.
This week I attempted zumba with my mouth shut. I thought maybe I’ve done it with my mouth shut before and I didn’t realize it? OH NO.
I don’t know if I’ve ever exercised with my mouth shut. It was HARD. But also amazing. I had substantially increased stamina over just last week.
I was sitting in the library last weekend. I had just started reading the Breath book. A woman exclaimed,
“I LOVE that book! It changed my life! It’s amazing.”
‘Whoa. She’s coming on strong. This is what I get for reading in the children’s section where people can talk at whatever volume they want.’
I question her,
“YES! It’s all about nose breathing.”
Well I hope I see that woman again and we can exclaim together, while breathing through our noses.
I’m not trying to have any more kids, but it often feels like it would be nice to have another point of reference. Where does each random behavior my kids exhibit fall on the spectrum of what’s “normal” for a 5 or 2 year-old?
My gut instinct is that BB is on the extreme messy end, but what do I know? She’s the only 5 year-old I’m living with.
At the beginning of the pandemic I turned our dining room into BB’s art room. BB is incapable of cleaning it on her own. Sometimes we do it together. Sometimes I do it by myself. Sometimes I see Captain in there muttering under his breath.
One evening I came downstairs and Captain was staring into the abyss of layers and layers of paper, glue, scissors, crayons, paint, pipe cleaners, markers, jewels, stickers, foam, feathers, and felt pom poms spread across the expanse of the table and floor.
As I write this, it occurred to me, maybe it’s my fault for giving her so many mediums.
I press into Captain’s side. He says,
“How does this end?”
“You mean what is going to become of BB?”
“I think she’s going to be one of those people who ends up with rotting food in her bedroom and she won’t care.”
He looks at me in horror. I have missed my opportunity to make us feel better.
I don’t let the kids take food upstairs, so this future is not imminent.
BB simultaneously knows her surroundings are a mess and doesn’t care. One morning she woke up inspired. She rushed to her art room and sketched a picture of her bedroom, complete with a dresser full of half-open drawers and clothes falling out every which way.
She’s observant. She knows things are a mess.
When BB eats anything, 20% ends up on the table and floor. That’s if we remind her to hold over her plate. Without any reminders the situation deteriorates. And while she’ll acknowledge a grape, tortellini or whole cookie on the floor, the chances of her picking it up are zero.
My gut instinct tells me she’s messier than the average bear. School reassured me that that’s correct.
BB came home and told me,
“I got in trouble at lunch today.”
BB is nothing if not an extreme rule follower. Minimal baby proofing required because she just wouldn’t do what she wasn’t supposed to do. So I couldn’t begin to guess what happened at lunch. BB explains,
“I made a mess with my lunch.”
“No! But the teacher didn’t believe that it was by accident.”
And there is the proof. BB is so messy that other people can’t fathom it’s her normal state of being.
Two years ago I questioned if I could parent my way out of the mess, then RB came along and is at the opposite end of the spectrum. BB couldn’t be messier and RB couldn’t be neater. BUT that is not a clear positive. RB, in my opinion, may have severe OCD.
RB NEEDS to put things in their spot. Her lovie has had a specific spot since she was 11 months old. If she takes a book off the shelf, it goes back in the exact same spot, between the same two books.
When BB gets home from school, she strips and leaves a trail of laundry from the front door, through the kitchen into the living room. RB follows on her heels, picking everything up and muttering,
“Put away, put away.”
I will tell RB to go play and instead she’ll be under the kitchen table with the dust pan sweeping up half of BB’s snack.
If I leave something somewhere it doesn’t belong. I have a pint-size person at my feet telling me,
“Put it away!”
If I put her water bottle anywhere but in its “spot,” I’m going to hear about it.
When I pick RB up at the YMCA playroom, she’s compelled to clean up before she leaves.
Going to a playground with her is really just a trash pick-up mission.
So as impossible as it is for RB to leave a mess, I now feel how futile it is to hope for BB’s underwear to not end up on my kitchen table.
BB is desperate to share a room with RB. It has the whiff of a social experiment and I’m inclined to give it a go. But not until RB is done with her crib.
RB loves her “cribby,” as much as I love having her contained. She likes to sleep all smushed up at one end. So considering that, she’ll fit in it for another three years.
How does this all end? Will our home somehow average out and end up in the middle of the messiness spectrum?
I’m at the point where I wonder if maybe BB’s M.O. leads to a more enjoyable, go with the flow lifestyle, with or without underwear.
Our regular routine has resumed, except some crazy person signed RB and me up for two parent/child swim lessons a week.
Yes it was me. It sounded like a good idea in December.
The YMCA lowered the lesson price. Then after I signed up, they offered a 25% discount on a second class.
EVERY MORNING RB asks to go swimming. So I thought why not?
Why not: It’s freezing out. So much effort. It’s freezing. Less fun than enjoying my coffee. It’s freezing.
Why: RB wants to go. Plus I already shaved for the first lesson of the week, so might as well take advantage.
The Powers Aquatics program is incredible. I regret regret regret not signing BB up for it when I had a chance. Although I’m not convinced she has the right personality for it. RB does.
BB can swim circles around RB, but with Powers Aquatics I think she could’ve been at this level 2 years ago. BB declined a second weekly swim lesson. Solid choice.
The girls’ locker room has always been my go-to for shower and changing. It used to be empty. Now it’s packed. And now I realize that my post-swim strategy is not a popular choice.
Everyone seems to focus on their kid first. Ok, sure, we make sacrifices for our children, but this isn’t one I’m ready to make. As it is, RB is a shower hog. She wants to be held and the minute I turn to get some hot water on me she shouts,
After our shower, she gets her towel and she waits while I get dressed. She watches the freezing women and the dressed kiddos.
I’m treating this like an oxygen mask airplane emergency situation. I’m putting my clothes on first before helping others.
It’s working for me.
The dream is that come this summer both kids will be swimming circles around Captain and I’ll be reading my book.
Plus with two lessons a week, I’ll get double the underwater photos. If that doesn’t make it worth it, I don’t know what does.
I’m having a serious case of the post-vacation blues. We hemorrhaged money all week, except for the few seconds Captain found ten dollars on the ground. And I swore I wasn’t going back for ten years.
Now I’ve got Alexa playing the Disney fireworks music on repeat and I’ve got tears in my eyes. You could send me back next week.
The whole thing feels a little miraculous. We departed January 1st as thousands and thousands of flights were cancelled. Ours was on time and no one even made a peep about RB being on mask revolt.
It was our first big vacation in two years. A plane. A hotel. Gorgeous weather in the middle of winter. My best friend Goofy. A hot tub. Drinks. Being fed with a wave of my magic arm band.
And I got to hug one of my real-life, best friends who was in Magic Kingdom the same time we were. It was magical.
I couldn’t ask for anything else. Except maybe a few more hours of sleep for RB. Actually A LOT more sleep for RB. We had one too many meltdowns. They were all too many and I lost count.
Our double stroller turned out to be a nice way to hold our coffee and push our bags around. RB was determined to walk. And not just walk, but walk without holding anyone’s hand. I started eyeballing the kid leashes.
RB’s pace was so SLOW. Nevermind that we couldn’t count on her to even be going the right direction. So one morning in Animal Kingdom I forced the stroller issue. I didn’t wake up at the crack of dawn, to reserve rides, to be held back by a toddler strolling along somewhere in the vicinity of her luxurious stroller.
Well I learned my lesson. The only thing slower than a toddler walking through Disney World, is a toddler flat out on the ground refusing to go anywhere, do anything, or let anyone touch her.
So she walked. She even complained about her feet hurting at the end of the day. You can imagine about how much sympathy I had for that.
We went with Genie+, it’s a must. Then Disney wants to charge even more for individual lightening lanes. I guess it’s worth a try. We did pony up for Rise of the Resistance. A two hour wait wasn’t for us. But $9 a pop for Space Mountain?! I’ve been going on that ride since I was in utero. Not happening.
Screen time told me I was on my phone an average of 12 hours a day. And I have the blisters on my finger to prove it. I’m still reflexively opening the app and checking the ride wait times. This week looks pretty good.
BB had the time of her life and that in of itself made the trip. Turns out she loves traveling, roller coasters and the huge water slide at our hotel. If those are the only things we ever have in common, our future is bright.
Captain does not love roller coasters but he was a very good sport and tagged along. Either that or he didn’t want to be left with RB. She was really out to lunch for a good portion of the trip.
She reminded me of super drunk people who insist they’re ok to drive and then pass out two seconds later.
BB went hard and was asleep the second her head hit the pillow. RB went just as hard, but then decided to party in her pack-n-play for another couple hours while Captain and I escaped to the hot tub.
By the end of the trip, she was short about 28 hours of sleep. If she could’ve flown home next to someone else, that would’ve been nice.
It was very tempting to restock my Disney wardrobe. Aside from one new Forky shirt, I resisted. Do people wear these clothes when they’re not in Disney World? The last time I wore my Goofy shirt was when I worked there twenty years ago.
Twenty years ago. I didn’t realize how nostalgic it would be to return with my babies. And how unimpressed they’d be when I pointed out the places I had worked. Captain was the most incredulous,
“You drove the boats?!”
Which may be because he’s not super impressed with how many times I’ve crashed our car into things.
I DID drive the boats for the fireworks cruises and I didn’t always dock well. That’s why people are supposed to stay seated.
We did so much and I would do it all again. As I wallow in my 861 vacation photos and 6 videos, that’s after culling, the only thing left to do is plan my 40th birthday trip.
I’m grateful to be finishing this year off with a strong pelvic floor. If you don’t want to hear about my groin, then this post is NOT for you.
It all started during our slog of a conception effort for RB. I pulled something, bad.
It was a very sharp pain that went away, but kept coming back at random times: unloading groceries, rolling out of bed, rolling off of Captain.
I tried physical therapy while I was pregnant, but it felt a little worthless. How could I strengthen anything when every day RB was getting bigger and telling me to sit on the couch and eat ice cream?
I figured I’d go to PT after RB was born.
RB was born. Flew out. Not sure what kept her in so long. So I wasn’t in any pain and thought,
“I’ll go to PT someday.”
Then the next thing I knew I was busy hoarding toilet paper and cookies and my pelvic floor was left to fend for itself.
Then it was this September. Our health insurance deductible was maxed out and I was still getting sharp pains. I needed to sign up for PT or get off my squatty potty.
And it was not just because I needed blog material. Although that isn’t the lowest reason on the list for my return.
I don’t know how many of you have filled out an intake form for pelvic floor physical therapy before, but it’s a lot. It’s the 5 page history of my crotch the world never needed.
I wrote the truth, but then I was tempted to cross things out. I show Captain. It’s too late. Nothing screams poetic license like a second draft of a medical history.
Yes I could’ve just printed a new form, but I couldn’t be bothered. My physical therapist got the whole truth.
She was lovely. After BB was born, I needed a lot of internal work. See previous pelvic floor post here.
Five years later, I needed more strength. So for the most part I got to keep my clothes on.
The days I kept my clothes on, I went straight for a table in the main room where several other people were doing PT. My therapist would ask if I had any pain that week.
In a quiet voice I told her that I rolled off of Captain with no sharp pains. She declared,
“There’s no TMI here!”
I feel like there’s no TMI between her and me. She’s read my vagina’s biography. But it sure feels like the 80-year-olds across the room may not be interested in what my crotch has been up to.
I graduated from PT three weeks ago and so far so good. TMI or not.
I remember my disappointment when I found out the Tooth Fairy wasn’t real and that was only a couple bucks here or there. I don’t wish I’d never believed, but the transition to not believing was a downer.
How crushed will BB be?
I keep asking other people how they felt when they learned the truth and in return everyone asks if BB is starting to have doubts.
Zero. Zero doubts. If anything, she’s doubling down on believing.
We’re headed to Disney in two weeks and BB has been studying her guidebook as if there’s a midterm coming up.
She points to Mickey and Minnie on the cover, who are looking fabulous in their 50th anniversary gear by the way, and asks,
“Are they real or people in costume?”
“What do you think?
“Well considering they can walk, and with smiles like those… They’re definitely real.”
So that’s where we’re at.
Santa on the bubble barge came to our neighborhood last week.
BB tells me,
“It was the real Santa.”
“How do you know?”
“I looked at his beard. How could he be fake with a beard like that?”
How could he?
And I don’t subscribe to this naughty list. It causes BB anxiety.
Over and over I remind her that she’s getting Christmas presents whether or not she’s nice to her sister. Even if it would be really nice if she were nice to her sister or at least maintain the status quo.
BB tells me,
“I told my friends that you said there’s no naughty list for me and they said you’re wrong. There is a naughty list.”
There’s nothing I can say to prove I know more than a 5-year-old.
I’ve been playing along for a few weeks now, but reached a breaking point.
A few days ago BB came home and asked our elf-on-the-shelf Tutu to please bring her a candy cane. I meant to put out a couple candy canes, but I forgot. Tutu moved. A miracle in itself.
The next morning BB was tearing the house apart in a fit,
“There are no candy canes! I asked Tutu for candy canes. So-and-so’s elf gave them a this and So-and-so’s elf gave them a that and Tutu hasn’t given me anything.”
When did the elves start bringing presents?! Santa help me.
Maybe because it was the first conversation of my day or maybe because it was Dec 18th, but something snapped. I wanted to throw the “magic” out the window. I tell BB,
“I grew up with no elf and I didn’t believe in Santa. Many people in this world do not have an elf or Santa. And maybe your elf knows that you had 8 nights of Hanukkah and now you’re going to have Christmas.”
Unswayed, BB tells me,
“I know, but I believe in Santa.”
I know. And believe it or not, Tutu brought candy canes the next night. RB gobbled hers up before it was out of the wrapper and BB’s is still untouched on the counter.
Who knows what RB makes of all this. Her priority is candy. She’s still walking around asking,
Captain and I had an evening out, which never fails to remind me how we got ourselves into this mess in the first place.
I sported the faux, suede leggings I wore when I met him, which he loves and my new fuzzy coat which I love and he said looks like a sheep. Who doesn’t love sheep?
It was a dreamy moment without anyone bugging me for presents or more presents or when are there going to be presents. On our way out, I float into the restaurant bathroom. As I’m washing my hands, the woman next to me says something unintelligible followed by,
“…. very nice.”
In my contentedness, I made the assumption that she was saying something about me. Perhaps my sheep coat is very nice?
She stops washing her hands, turns to face me and enunciates loud and clear,
“THIS RESTAURANT is very nice.”
“Oh yes, it’s a LOVELY restaurant.”
There’s no way to recover from having assumed this was about me, but we spend a good five minutes singing the restaurant’s praises just in case.
For Hanukkah, my mom spent the week mending Blankety, my security blanket. I’ve mended her here and there over the 39 years of her existence, but it kinda breaks my heart.
No one wants to take a needle and thread to someone they love. Yes I understand she’s an inanimate object.
Blankety has never been one to wash frequently, especially as she’s gotten older and has really started to disintegrate. I washed her when I first met Captain. Her equivalent of a new pair of faux, suede leggings.
I washed her again right before BB was born. And I washed her two days ago.
Did you do the math on that? The blanket I smush against my face every night of my entire life, went 5.5 years without a wash.
A month ago as I did inventory on our winter gear, I said to Captain,
“I can’t believe the winter boots I was wearing when we met are 10 years old. They’re older than our relationship.”
Captain eyes Blankety in our bed and mutters,
“That’s the oldest thing in our relationship.”
I point at 47-year-old Captain,
“You are the oldest thing in our relationship.”
I may have won that one, but it made me take a hard look at poor Blankety.
She faded from bright pink to brown several years ago. Then her remaining innards started showing through and I couldn’t bear to put her in the wash.
Then I started to break out. Then Captain mentioned she doesn’t smell great and he steers clear of her in our bed. I think she smells fabulous and I’m not trying to share her with him, so good.
My mom promised to mend her and I promised to wash her.
I won’t say she looks like a whole new blanket, but she is a whole new color. Let’s do it again in 5 years.
I’ll be 40 this coming July. It’s got me contemplating mortality and Blankety’s life span. Will she live another 40 years? Will my faux, suede leggings still be around? I can only be so lucky to find out.
Anyone else concerned about the container ships stranded at sea?
I’m not sure what all is on them, but to be on the safe side I panic bought all of BB and RB’s Hanukkah and Christmas presents three weeks ago.
Hanukkah IS early this year, so that’s not too crazy. It still feels a little crazy, especially considering BB’s favorite color is in flux and how long can RB be obsessed with Baby Shark? Don’t answer that. Through December would be enough.
I thought I had a decent mental tally of what I had gotten each of them and it felt equivalent in my head. I put it all out the other day. Not even close.
I remove a third of BB’s presents to return to Target along with a pair of pleather leggings that didn’t fit. Those were for me.
The Easter Bunny made this same mistake, except she didn’t realize it until she put the baskets out and even then she thought it was close enough. The first words out of BB’s mouth were,
“Why did the Easter Bunny give me more than RB?”
Second thing out of her mouth was,
“Why did the Easter Bunny give us so many bathing suits?”
Maybe the Easter Bunny knew BB was going to spend the summer at the beach and couldn’t help herself.
And I will not make this mistake again. For the first time, I’m embracing duplicate gifts. Not everything can be the same. RB’s put-things-in-her-mouth phase is lingering. She still eats crayons.
This is partially my fault because I only let her color when she’s strapped in her highchair.
Which is her fault, since she’s proven that given a crayon and free range, she will color on any and all surfaces.
What about their different interests you say? Screw that. Their number one interest is having whatever the other one has.
And even so, I’m sure there’s going to be fighting. I already removed several large toys from the living room after any attempts at sharing turned into full-on screaming,
“MINE! MINE! MINE!”
I’m about to donate everything. Let them fight over the sticks in the yard. Plenty of those. And they BOTH put those in their mouths. BB tells me,
“I’m in a phase.”
“A puppy phase.”
“I see that.”
“Is that what phase means?”
Yup. I guess it does.
Home Goods has proven time and again that it surpasses any other store for the most random, Hanukkah tchotchkes.
And as I continue to complain about having too much stuff, I set off on one of several annual, Hanukkah, tchotchke expeditions.
Home Goods did not disappoint. Giant gelt stuffies. I grab two and head for checkout.
I can count on Home Goods’ cashiers for commentary. She exclaims,
“Oh wow! I’ve never seen these before!”
And before I can say anything, she adds,
“Well I’m not Jewish.”
“Well I am Jewish and I’ve never seen them before either.”
BB and I went out again yesterday. We popped into TJ Maxx. We approach the counter with a coat, jammies and 2 pairs of slippers. The cashier asks,
“Did you find what you came for?”
“No! We came for Hanukkah stuff.”
“Do we have time for the two other stores?”
“If we hustle.”
We roll through Joann Fabrics. Random I know, but they’re good for wrapping paper and I’ve exhausted the internet. Hanukkah overalls from Target are sold out.
“Are we going to the last store? We really hustled.”