There’s been a lull in exciting questions. But not a lull in questions. RB has entered the Land of the Reflexive Why.
“What are we doing today?”
“Going to the grocery store.”
“Why?”
…
“Where’s BB?”
“School.”
“Why?”
…
“Where’s Dad?”
“At the office.”
“Why?”
Good question!
BB never went through a “why” phase. Instead she had two pandemic years of: “What do you mean?” It went like this:
“Time for breakfast.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s go for a walk.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m losing my mind.”
“What do you mean?”
“I MEANT WHAT I SAID!”
And I’m not the only one who felt that way. I heard another 5-year-old tell her the exact same thing. It was validating.
The other day I was trying to get us all out of the house for some kid activity. The process is two steps forward, one step back.
RB bugs to go before it’s time. She has her shoes on, her bag over her shoulder and the baby doll of the day tucked under her arm. I can’t seem to round up BB. The momentum is lost. RB decides to put everything down and throw off her shoes.
BB asks what feels like the millionth question in the last fifteen minutes. I tell her,
“It’s hard for my brain to get us ready to go and answer all these questions. Please hold off unless it’s really important.”
BB hovers nearby. The quiet sounds like a ticking time bomb. She ponders the tiles.
“Why is there a crack in the floor?”
“Is that an important question?”
“Yes!”
I’m doomed.
I head for the car. RB starts crying,
“Where’s my baby? Where are my shoes?”
Several days later, with no sequitur, BB informs me,
“I really was wondering about that crack in the floor.”
“What were you wondering?”
“How did it happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“Has it always been there?”
“Ever since we moved in.”
Moral of the story: the only thing accomplished by trying to minimize questions is more questions.
Yesterday BB sat enjoying a ginormous rainbow swirl lollipop. It was the kind of lollipop that looks so beautiful that I want one despite not really wanting one.
RB asks,
“Can I have a lick?”
Two years ago, if RB had so much as looked at BB’s candy, BB would’ve been ready to throw it away. A year ago, RB’s light touch of a finger, never mind a bite, would make BB gag. A year ago BB would’ve rather licked a Disney World handrail, then risked getting a single one of her sister’s germs.
I watch in stupefied awe as BB extends her lollipop to RB. RB takes a big lick and BB puts the lollipop back in her own mouth. RB declares,
“BB is the best sister! Can we keep her?”
Best question yet!
And if you thought inane questions were for the youth…
Yesterday BB returned from a field trip with her sweatshirt tied around her waist. I had recommended leaving it behind so she wouldn’t lose it. She tells me,
Content warning: this post contains no further mention of birds and bees, it’s all penises and vaginas.
It was a calm, sunny night and we were enjoying a standard-issue, family dinner: BB spitting unwanted food out on the floor, RB dabbing a minuscule bit of peanut butter off her upper lip, everyone more or less trying to fill their stomachs.
BB asks,
“How does the sperm get to the egg?”
BB has known for many years that you need a sperm and an egg to make a baby. She has know for at least two years that the sperm comes from a man and the egg from a woman. She knows that two women or two men can have babies, they just need to outsource parts of the equation.
She has known for a year that sperm comes from the testicles and the egg comes from the ovaries into the uterus.
Six months ago she asked,
“What do sperm look like?”
“They’re microscopic but they look like tadpoles.”
“Dad’s body is full of tadpoles swimming around?!”
“They’re just in his testicles.”
Every year questions have been asked and answers given. So here we are: the sperm’s journey to the egg. I take a bite of tortellini and tell BB,
“The penis goes in the vagina. The sperm comes out of the penis and finds the egg in the uterus.”
“The penis goes in the vagina?!?” BB’s jaw is on the table.
“Yes. This is something for grownups only. Both grownups need to agree to it.”
BB looks at Captain. She looks at me. She asks,
“Dad put his penis in your vagina?!”
“Yes.”
Captain pipes up,
“All mammals do this to make babies.”
THANK YOU. I jump on this train,
“It’s called sex or reproduction. If we lived on a farm, this would be old news.”
BB still appears to be in a state of disbelief. She shakes her head,
“I thought babies were made at a doctor’s office.”
“That’s one way, but that’s not how Dad and I did it.”
Family dinner returns to its previously scheduled conversation about everyone’s day. BB interrupts the mundanity to ask,
“Where did you do it? In the bathroom?”
Oh good lord.
“Really anywhere there’s privacy.”
BB studies RB. She seems to have remembered about her for the first time since we went down this rabbit hole. BB points and asks,
“So Dad put his penis in your vagina a second time to make HER?”
“Yes.” I will refrain from reminding her about the third time for the baby between the two of them.
Captain is almost 50-years-old and refuses to accept anything other than his parents having sex twice to make him and his brother. Proof that BB can live the rest of her life with this story intact.
And that was that. Until toothbrushing that night. BB garbles,
“I’m still thinking about that penis in the vagina thing.”
“Sex. Yeah.”
She shakes her head. I feel it’s a necessity to add,
“It can also be two men or two women.”
BB’s eyes go wide. She exclaims,
“A vagina can go inside a vagina?!”
“No. There are other ways grownups have sex.”
And that’s where things stand. For now.
BB scorched away any sensitivity I may have had about these conversations, when in a busy public restroom, for the millionth time, she screamed,
“WHY DO YOU HAVE A HAIRY VAGINA?!”
I hope my millionth, public, puberty discussion did the trick. Either that or my newfangled, laser, hair remover will. Just in case Captain and I want to have sex a fourth time.
Homestretch to summer! My children are already running around outside in their swimsuits. I don’t know why, but really whatever keeps them out of the house.
We’re recovering from our sugar high over the weekend, or not, given the amount of crying there was Monday.
I left a post-meltdown RB asleep in the living room and I went outside to get the deck furniture out.
I passed by the kids’ set-up from Sunday. They had raced in the house and demanded,
“We need birdseed!”
“I don’t have any, but I’ll put it on my list.”
There are any number of requested items on my list. The girls hang their heads.
“But what will we feed the birds with? We’re setting up a nest.”
And the next day there it is, an offering to the birds: gummies and nerds.
How do you know your kids have way too much candy? They’re willing to sprinkle it around the yard.
Passover and Easter were a success. BB read from the Haggadah for the first time, which was amazing. RB, not to be outdone, “read” from the Haggadah, but only while someone else was also reading. So that was special.
When RB got tired of “reading,” she moved on to caressing my face and pressing her cheek against mine. It was very sweet, until it got aggressive. Note to self: try sitting farther away from children next year.
The afikomen was found quickly and neither kid managed to bargain at all. RB accepted the $3 I proffered without a second thought. When I offered BB $6, she wavered, but RB held out BB’s hand for her. Deal.
BB regrets not asking for more money and is going to try harder next year. They’ll learn to bargain yet.
Elijah came and drank wine and maybe some year I’ll remember to get a special cup for Miriam.
The second night, we went to the community seder at our synagogue. In the morning RB asks,
“What’s today?”
“Tonight is the seder.”
“Again?”
Yes. I had my doubts about putting us through it again. But at the very least, dinner was provided and I was surrounded by fellow gefilte-fish lovers, Captain and my children aside.
Then the Easter Bunny came. BB and RB are some sort of egg-finding match made in heaven. The minute RB got to her basket, she sat down and started eating. BB has never really cared for eating and she dashed around finding eggs.
BB dropped the eggs in RB’s lap. Thrilled, RB continued to stuff her face. At one point RB stood up, found an egg, and returned to her roost to continue her candy buffet.
BB ate nothing and continued to find all the eggs. BB stared at chocolate coated RB and declared,
“I feel nauseous.”
Both kids were thrilled. This is what happened last year, but I thought it was because RB didn’t understand. RB understands. Why would she work for candy if it’s being dumped in her lap?
BB ponders the loot,
“I wonder why the Easter Bunny brought us so much candy. The other year she just brought us a lot of bathing suits.”
“Yeah.”
Consistency might have been a good tactic. Too late now.
Next up: school vacation. Captain is in the office all week, proof miracles do happen. Meanwhile we’ll be running from room to room screaming at the top of our lungs. Or outside in our swimsuits, putting Cadbury eggs in nests and waiting for more chocolate.
Doesn’t everyone’s seder plate have a Calico Critter sheep?
To Tremblant and back again. That’s a seven hour car ride one way and when we stopped fifteen minutes in to empty BB’s vomit bucket, the road ahead looked very long.
We made it. It was worth it. I skied. BB skied. RB skied. And Captain snowboarded. We did that for five days straight. As our last morning dawned and my weather app warned me it was -1°F, RB asked,
“What are we doing today?”
“Skiing!”
“Again?!”
I wavered. But not for long. This is why I brought layers: three sets of long underwear to be worn all at once. Captain asked,
“What about their mobility?”
“Mobility? They just need to hold a wedge.”
I never used a ski app before this week. I marveled at my stats. I tell Captain,
“My top speed was 47mph!”
Captain looks incredulous,
“Is that correct?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going with it.”
We ended our last day going much slower as BB led us down her favorite greens. Aside from a hit and run, I didn’t fall all vacation, but my luck ran out.
I spent a fair amount of time pushing BB up a little jump she wanted to do, so when I saw her approaching another one without enough speed I had the bright idea to ski up behind her and give her a push on my way.
Somehow she didn’t move and somehow I managed to ski over her. She went between my legs. Her head caught my crotch and I did a massive face plant on the flat traverse.
It may have been worth it considering BB’s loud cackle, but middle age is taking its toll. It took far too long to figure out how to get myself unface down. I didn’t pull anything falling, but I did pull something getting up.
That’s the last time I go 5mph and try to do anything fancy.
RB seems to have the whole thing figured out. She told me,
“You can get going, but it’s hard to stop.”
I watched her get on the magic carpet all by herself. I exclaimed to Captain,
“Look! She’s so capable!”
She proceeded to notice a pile of snow, swing a ski out to touch it and collapsed. The magic carpet stopped. An instructor walked along next to her for the remainder of the ride.
We did this trip with my dear friend and her family, including two, very cool, big kids. A miracle happened. RB was embarrassed to do her nightly poop in her diaper. Halfway through the vacation she pooped in the potty.
One time. Captain and I weren’t counting any chickens.
Two times. Gotta say things look promising.
Three times. Well this just might do it!
On our last day, after ten hours of travel, we were thirty minutes from home, RB said,
“My tummy hurts.”
“Do you need the potty?”
“Yes.”
We’re so close to home.
“Can you wait until we get home?”
“I need the potty.”
We stop. She settles in to the gas station bathroom. She looks up at me,
“I need a book.”
Fourth poop in the potty. Done deal. Bye bye diapers.
The next night at home, she gets up from the dinner table and declares,
“I need a diaper to poop!”
“OH NO NO. If you can poop in a gas station bathroom, you can poop in the potty ANYWHERE.”
Captain adds,
“Even I don’t like to poop in a gas station bathroom.”
Nor I. Even if I do have a book.
P.S. For anyone going from Canada to the US, you’re not allowed to bring citrus with you, but if you put it in the luggage carrier on the car roof, the border patrol agent will give you a pained, annoyed look and wave you through.
Such a small sentence to encompass SO MUCH EFFORT. Any activity that involves the words: “kids” and “gear,” is bound to be work.
This weekend was our warm-up run… It was our first go of what will be all four of us on the slopes for February vacation.
This weekend was our chance to iron out the kinks. Or at least identify the kinks and adjust my expectations. Some things are resistant to ironing.
We lucked out and got to stay with amazing friends. Our last ski trip was February 2020, weeks before the world shut down. BB was 3.5 years old and RB was 4 months old.
So the last time BB and I skied was 3 years ago. The last time Captain telemarked was 9 years ago. The last time he snowboarded was so long ago he never came up with a timeline, maybe 15 years ago.
Captain decided he’d snowboard. Telemarking tore his ACL and he does NOT want to go through that again. NOR DO I. There may be nothing more mind numbing than hearing two people compare ACL surgery notes.
It was Captain’s favorite conversation starter for awhile, and there are a surprising number of people out there with ACL stories. I’m sure it’s only getting worse as we descend deep into middle-age.
For February vacation, I reserved ski school for both kids, but this past weekend the ski school started at age four. RB’s options were childcare, private lessons or somehow convincing her she’s four, but still poops in a diaper.
RB has something of a Napoleon complex. After every meal, she stands up and checks to see if she’s grown. Her goal is to be big enough to go in BB’s art room.
RB finished her breakfast the other day and hopped out of her seat. She looked up to see where she stood in relation to the kitchen counter. Her eyes welled up and she hung her head in a huge mope,
“I’m still little!”
I knew deep in my soul that I would break her if she went into daycare while BB skied. I also knew deep in my soul that I would break if I tried to teach her myself. Private lesson booked for Saturday.
As it was, I didn’t book a private lesson for her on Sunday, just daycare and she was MAD. As we left the condo she kept yelling at us,
“I need my ski boots! I need my helmet! I need my mittens!”
“No. You’re not going skiing.”
Cue full-on guttural wail.
She finally calmed down to the tune of me telling her over and over again,
“You’ll be skiing all week in Canada.”
Saturday apres-ski, the adults slipped into the hot tub, while the kids watched a movie. I had warned BB ahead of time about this situation, but was silly enough to think RB wouldn’t notice. After a glorious soak, I floated back into the condo. RB’s head swiveled around,
“You went in the hot pool?”
“Yes.”
“I want to go in the hot pool!”
“Adults only.”
“I WANT TO GO IN THE HOT POOL!!!”
“In Canada.”
Canada has become my safe word.
Captain and I were reunited on the mountain. Skiing is how we met and to be together again made every tantrum more than worth it. Also stopping midday and realizing, that between ski school and daycare, we had bought ourselves a lunch date, was miraculous.
When we picked BB up from ski school Saturday she melted down. She thought she was going to ski with us. We promised to pick her up early Sunday and make it happen.
Sunday her ski instructor told me,
“She’s made a lot of progress and is turning well.”
Great news! We head for the lift. I can’t believe I’m on a lift with my kiddo! She tells us she wants to lead.
She heads straight off the lift and straight down the mountain. Power pizza all the way.
On the next run, I suggest,
“Lets do some turns.”
BB starts to sob,
“I don’t want to turn!”
And I wanted this to be fun. I back off my grand idea of turning and follow behind BB’s wedge as she plows the snow straight to the bottom.
We pick up RB from childcare. She yells,
“Is it Canada time?!!”
You don’t need me to tell you how this ended.
Circa 1997. They say Tremblant is cold, so I may need to wear this onesie again. Never mind that it looks like onesies are back in fashion? RB loves hersHow we got into this mess.
BB is on a quest to quantify my love for her. How much is it? And how does it compare to other people and things I love? The fine and not so fine print being: ‘please tell me you love me more than my sister.’
She asks,
“How much do you love me?”
“It’s infinite.”
“Do you love Dad more than me?”
“No way.”
“RB?”
“Nope.”
“Do you love me more than RB?”
“No. I love you both so much I could burst. I would die for you.”
“Would you die for Dad?”
“No.”
I don’t want to say that there couldn’t be some situation that would make me reconsider. But in the depths of my soul I know I would do anything for BB and RB and as much as I love Captain, there appear to be some conditions.
BB presses,
“Do you love me the most?”
“I don’t love anyone more.”
“Do you love Blankety more?”
“I do not love Blankety more.” It gives me anxiety to think about sleeping without my 40-year-old blanket, but I can do hard things.
BB contemplates her security bunny. Bunzy is a bunny head with arms, and with what BB calls “blanket feet.”
These animal heads on small blankets have taken over the lovey market and they’re a little creepy if you give them too much thought. They’re a bunch of bodiless animal heads.
Thanks to having arms, Bunzy is able to wear an assortment of doll clothes, so sometimes it’s possible to forget she has no torso or whatever bunny bodies are called.
BB buries her face in Bunzy and tells me,
“No offense, but I love Bunzy more than I love you.”
“That’s ok.” I can only aspire to be 75% blanket and a dull, mottled gray color from never being washed.
Bunzy next to backup Bunzy. Circa 2017. Fresh out of the wash. BB’s love for Bunzy is not infinite when Bunzy smells like vomit.Back to her usual shade of mysterious dirtinessPresent day. I’d rather not disclose how many minutes I spent on this photoshoot.
Happy New Year!!! I was waiting to stop coughing and then I’d write a blog post, but I may never stop coughing.
I know I’m in the good company of many, many other sick people. There were over a hundred kids absent from BB’s school two weeks ago, so we didn’t stand a chance.
Or maybe we did, but our chances weren’t good and we did NOT luck out.
We’re three weeks out from whatever mucus-laden virus this is. BB went down first and recovered quickly. Although she’s still coughing.
RB went next. Then me. Then our house guest.
Our house guest had a simple choice: Hanukkah with the kids and a lot of snot, or a kid and mucus-free Hanukkah. She picked snot.
RB has wiped her nose so aggressively, for so long, that her upper lip is bleeding and there are smears of blood appearing everywhere she likes to wipe her nose: clothes, lovies, furniture, the wall.
On the 23rd, at RB’s school’s Hanukkah party, someone told me,
“Just a warning, Strep is going around.”
I said a small prayer. And if proximity has anything to do with that working, I WAS in the synagogue. I didn’t say much else considering whatever virus we had, had caused me to lose my voice.
Christmas eve, my throat started to feel worse. The last night of Hanukkah/Christmas day, my throat felt even worse, but going to the doctor was low on my to-do list.
The day after Christmas, I couldn’t get there fast enough. Strep. The test came back positive, but the doctor was so confident just by looking at the state of my throat that I walked out of there with a prescription and ran straight into a fellow school family at CVS. Instead of hello, I offer,
“Strep?”
“How’d you know?!? Is it that obvious?”
“No, it’s going around school. RB says hi!”
I say another small prayer: ‘Please don’t let my children get this.’ I can’t get RB to take Tylenol. A 10-day course of antibiotics would be a curse.
As four of us round the corner on week three of being ill, Captain has never been healthier. This is wonderful. No kiddo bedtimes for me, but also I couldn’t be more envious.
For years I have been happy to lord over him my strong immune system. It seems he falls prey to whatever virus might be wafting by.
I spent a month in India eating whatever street food I stumbled upon and enjoyed myself with a very manageable amount of diarrhea.
I spent four years behind the bar, eating strangers’ leftovers, with no more than a few sniffles.
I spent the last ten years with Captain, feeling bad for his stuffed up nose, but not so bad that I didn’t enjoy every ounce of my congestion free life.
I am now in week three of the most mucus I’ve ever produced in my life. There feels like there’s some lesson to be learned here.
Maybe it’s to avoid small children. I’ll let you know how that goes.
Ariel may be creepy, but you can count on her immune system.Mom life. Struggling to talk/breath/exist, but both kiddos thought they might not make it if I didn’t hold them at the same time. Somehow managed to keep the strep for myself. I think. A Hanukkah miracle?
This morning I sat down to write and WordPress, (my site host), put an unrequested content prompt in my personal writing space:
“What are your favorite physical activities or exercises?”
What’s that? How is that helpful? Are these tailored prompts or are the gazillion WordPress users of all stripes being asked to weigh in on their physical movement?
I’m stationary, on the couch, with my coffee.
Captain is recovering from a pulled back muscle. He’s moving even less than I am.
Hard to say how it happened. Leaning down to the side from his over-sized lawn tractor, to haul 35-pound RB up onto the seat, couldn’t have done anything good.
After weeks of intermittent pain and one long morning of trying to get to the shower from the bed. He agreed to go to the doctor.
I called to make the appointment. The nurse told me,
“We can’t share any of his medical information with you.”
I have all the information I need. “I just want to schedule an appointment.”
He went to the doctor and I went out for lunch with my dear friend who’s a doctor. She told me,
“Everyone comes in with back pain. It’s the number one reason people go to the doctor.”
Another top reason middle-aged people go to the doctor is for skin related issues, like my eye dermatitis. We’re just another stereotypical middle-aged couple.
Captain came home with muscle relaxers, anti-inflammatory meds and sheets of exercises. Based on my friend’s generous off-the-clock advise, I came home with CBD oil.
Captain was skittish. He said,
“Isn’t that what Brittney Griner got arrested for?”
“I bought it over the counter at CVS. Just don’t take it to Russia.”
A week later and Captain is feeling like a new man. He may still be channeling his inner rock star from Halloween.
Based on his doctor’s advice, he’s intent on installing a chin-up bar to hang from and stretch his back. He eyeballs one of the doorways to the library/office.
When you walk in our house, my library, his office, is to the left of our front door. It shares a wall with the front entry, the kitchen and the living room. I’ve covered this before in this blog, but it is a TERRIBLE location if you’re trying to have a zoom meeting.
The only noisier place to sit would be five feet over in the kitchen itself.
The library/office has two doorways, one opens into the kitchen. The other is next to the front door that we use ALL THE TIME and across from the stairs to the girls’ bedrooms.
Captain and I have debated the location ad nauseam. We have debated it since about the third day of the pandemic. He has decided to stay put and I have decided that if the kids need to scream from upstairs down to the kitchen, past his OPEN office door, because there’s no door on one of the doorways, then so be it.
So this open doorway is the one he’s considering for his chin up bar. The doorway is blocked with the tallest baby gate I’ve ever seen. I’m the only one in the family capable of stepping over it.
Captain considers the situation. He says,
“I’ll need to take the gate down if I’m going to put the chin-up bar here.”
“How do you intend to keep the kids out of the office?”
“Policy?”
“Policy?!”
Children, please refer to your HR documents, which state that you may not go through this open doorway weekdays between the hours of 8am – 5pm. We appreciate your understanding.
The next day the door between the office and the kitchen was open. Both kids wandered in to join Captain at work. When he came out to the kitchen I couldn’t help but ask,
That makes it sound like a speedy, whirlwind of a time. It may have been a whirlwind of bodily fluids, but it was more of a meandering pace.
Over a week ago, RB got sick in the car. It had been a long ride: thirty minutes to the trampoline park in Plymouth.
I thought, ‘maybe car sick?’ Although she’s never been carsick in her life.
We leave BB to jump her heart out and I drive thirty minutes straight back home. I put RB in the tub and down for a nap. An hour later she throws up in the crib, wipes her face with her lovey, rolls over and goes back to sleep.
NEXT LEVEL GROSS. But considering I was already going to have to wash everything, why rush in there if she wasn’t asking for me?
An hour later she’s awake and I’ve got her back in the tub. She’s dry heaving in the tub. I get her in front of the TV with towels covering every surface around her.
She refuses any sort of vomit receptacle and will only let it come out wherever it may.
By bedtime she’s done throwing up and sleeps straight through the night. The next day she is her happy, energetic self. Everyone else in the family feels fine.
Seems like it might be a fluke. The next day RB is worse again. Her dinner from the night before returns. She spends the rest of the day in front of the TV and never throws up again.
That night Captain and I eat a hearty dinner. A couple hours later it is clear that that was a mistake. We spend the night separately. Each of us with our own toilet.
Twenty-four hours later we’re on the mend. Forty-eight hours later we’re at a party drinking beers, eating tacos and realizing maybe we’re not as well as we had hoped.
We return home and I ask BB, as I’ve been asking for a week,
“How are you feeling?”
“Good!”
Two hours later, not so good. BB spent the rest of the weekend cradling a trash can. Monday morning she felt all better. I kept her home from school just in case. Tuesday morning I sent her on her way.
Hours later the nurse calls. BB was sick at school. I am beyond sorry about that, to her and to anyone nearby.
Wednesday, yesterday, she spent the day a free woman. No school, no vomit and no mom.
There are real perks to Captain working from home.
Today is the first day everything seems to be back to normal. RB declares,
BB’s school photo came home in an envelope inscribed with: “Every school picture tells a story.“
I’m not taking artistic license. The “tells a story” part was highlighted.
That sounds like a diplomatic disclaimer to me. I.e. if your kid’s photo came out odd, it’s the memory that counts.
Then I saw this post on one of our town’s social media pages:
“… I am jealous of my friends from the surrounding towns. Their kids photos seem to be taken with more care. Their kids are making good w expressions. They have great backgrounds and it appears they have slight fan moving hair. I’m not sure why our expensive town has such low expectations and chooses a vendor with limited output. Every year they seem to get worse.”
I watched baffled as everyone seemed to get on board.
Great backgrounds? You want lasers? I’ve got 1989 and 1990 for you. You want a photo with a floating head? See 1987. Hand on cheek? 1994.
Lasers 2 years in a row for the win!Could’ve used a slight fan here or something, anything.Shave the back of my head I said.Hello curly hair.Same shirt 2 years in a row. Why mess with a good thing?Pretty sure there’s a pair of penny loafers to match this sweaterFinishing strong.
School photos aren’t getting worse every year. They’ve always been terrible. The vendor knows this or they wouldn’t be pushing the “story” side of the photo.
If you’re really serious about getting good photos, you go independent. Then you can have gems like these:
Parasol optional.
Maybe I should get off my soap box, because BB’s photo came out ok. But rainbow cheetah print isn’t always going to be in fashion. If it even is now? She had her heart set on this outfit, high pony included.
I agreed precisely because it’s NOT going to age well and someday when she does a blog post with a collage of her school photos, this will be a winner. Although she really could have used a fan to get that one piece of hair back.
First thing in the morning is my favorite time of day.
I pad out to the kitchen. I get first dibs on the huge, fresh, coffee pot. As I should, considering past Jessica was kind enough to make it for future Jessica.
The only thing I like almost as much as drinking coffee, is writing about drinking coffee or reading about someone else making and drinking coffee. Maybe this is the novel I was born to write: COFFEE.
I take several gulps and top it up before I settle in to my snuggy corner on the couch. If you’re wondering what this might look like, BB recreated it:
I feel very seen.
I’m warmed by the thought of my dear family: Captain, BB and RB, all still peacefully asleep or imprisoned in a crib. Their existence all the sweeter because of their absence.
No family member should be seen before 7am. If so, something has gone very wrong and it is unclear who it will end worse for.
In an ideal world, I use this time to write. Otherwise I use this time to drink my coffee. Stare out the window. Check the weather. Email. Text. Browse the news. Review the calendar. Refill my coffee. Will RB to go back to sleep.
I survey my work. The home reorg is well underway. Every day that both kids are at school I’ve been on a tear: donating, storing, returning, consolidating.
RB undoes some of my work. I can count on her to move things back to their original spot, but for the most part I’m winning.
BB has fourteen UNOPENED presents from her birthday almost three months ago. They are in plain sight, unwrapped, but unplayed with.
If they’re still brand-new in December they’re at risk for getting wrapped up again.
I may or may not get around steaming off the wallpaper in BB’s art room, formerly known as the dining room.
When the previous owners’ realtor recommended they remove the dining-room wallpaper, they balked and said they had removed enough already.
I should be thankful the whole house didn’t look like the dining room. A more spiffed up house might’ve invited better offers than ours and then who knows where I’d be now.
I’d be in a home that was featured on the Hoarders reality show if Captain had had his way. Although that house DID come with a school bus in the yard.
So here I am. The giant well-loved Little Tikes slide from 1982 is no longer in my living room. It is waiting in our garage to return to Worcester.
Captain is on board with my clearing out and oblivious to it.
I have a giant, stuffed panda from my childhood. It lived in Worcester until we moved here. All of a sudden we had room for her. She drove down in Captain’s car:
She lived in BB’s room until two weeks ago. I ask BB,
“Do you want the panda in your room?”
“I need her because I stand on her head to reach my books.”
“What if you had a stool there instead?”
“That’s good!”
I moved the panda to the rocking chair in my bedroom. Both waiting for their return to Worcester.
After several days of sleeping in the same room as the panda, I review with Captain everything I’ve accumulated. I mention the giant stuffie. He asks,
“Where is it?”
This is what I mean by oblivious. The panda has been watching us sleep. Captain has been putting on his underwear right in front of it and it registered zero.
I point to the rocking chair. He exclaims,
“You can’t send Pandy back!”
PANDY?!?
“Pandy and I drove here together.”
MY giant stuffed panda, who I’ve had for 30 years and feel ready to part with, spent one quality car ride with Captain and now they’re best buds.
She never even had a name before.
The question is does Pandy also need her rocking chair? Send help.
Two years ago, mid-pandemic, mid-new baby, this seemed so out of reach I didn’t even dare daydream about it.
Now Captain is required to go to the office three days a month, but somehow he’s only doing two days this month. BB started first grade today and RB starts preschool tomorrow!
Tomorrow is the perfect storm. I will be home alone and it won’t happen again for another month.
It feels like one of those celestial events that the news mentions: THIS WON’T HAPPEN AGAIN IN OUR LIFETIMES. Or for several years. Or it’ll happen every 30 days give or take a recalcitrant employee.
The stars have aligned in my favor. I would usually go to zumba Wednesday morning, but part of me feels like I should just stay home and marvel at my aloneness.
I’ve been on a tear reorganizing the house. RB, the most OCD organized two-year-old I’ve ever met, surveys what I’ve done to the playroom/livingroom. She demands,
“Who put the toys away?”
“I did.”
She walks off.
That was easy.
“She seems easy going” says no one who knows RB. But so said her future preschool teacher.
I wasn’t about to throw RB under the bus. I’ll see how long it takes her teacher to change her assumption.
RB is outgoing, has a disarming smile and a flirtatious shoulder shrug, which could lead anyone to think she goes with the flow. SHE DOES NOT.
And if you’re thinking flirtatious is not an adjective to be applied to a 2.11 year old, maybe it’s charm or personality, but whatever it is, it is enough for me to understand how some people are born con artists.
Her adorableness may be keeping her alive as her OCD challenges my ability to not scream right along with her.
Over the summer, she insisted that her beach towel be spread out on the sand for her. I obliged. If there was one corner folded over, she screamed,
“It’s not right!”
When BB left her dress-up shoes on the front mat with the regular shoes, RB yelled,
“This is not good!”
When there was seaweed stuck to the wheel of my beach cart that I didn’t even notice. Who would? RB badgers me,
“It’s dirty.”
“It’s ok.”
“It’s dirty!”
“What’s dirty?”
“The wheel!”
“It’s okay for the wheel to be dirty.”
She looks doubtful. I ask a fellow adult for backup,
“Are you worried about the seaweed on the wheel of my beach cart?” Wink. Wink.
“Not at all!!!”
RB sways. She seems unconvinced. I ask her,
“Do you want to go play with the kids?”
“Oh yeah!”
If I can get RB in weather appropriate clothing tomorrow, that will be a win. We’ve been landlocked for over a week and RB is still insisting on wearing her bathing suit every morning.
I walk in her room and I’m greeted with,
“Is it a beach day?!”
Today she agreed to wear clothing, but added flippers:
A few weeks ago I gave BB the internet’s worth of sneaker options. She zeroed in on the rainbow animal prints. She drew a picture of herself and declared,
“Cheetah power!!”
I had my misgivings and did some online sleuthing. I delivered the potential death blow to this shoe choice,
“I think those might be leopard spots.”
“Oh. That’s ok!”
This morning BB channelled her cheetah power all the same.
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.
Back to a time when I didn’t have bathing-suit padding, but I did have a sunscreen attendant
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…
How writing was going 13 years ago.Training in things to do when not writing
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?!?!?!?!?”
“No?”
“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.”
“WHAT?!”
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?”
Burning s’mores? No problem. I’m professionally trained to fight fires. For real.
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,
“Mommy milkies.”
“After we snuggle a little bit.”
“Mommy milkies!”
“After….”
“MOMMY MILKIES!!!”
“Ask nicely!”
“PLEASE!!!”
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,
“What’s that?”
“My shirt.”
“Mommy milkies!”
“Yes.”
“I want some.”
“No, they’re all gone.”
“Yummy in my tummy!”
“I know.”
“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,
“Snow?!”
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?”
“A what?!”
“A machine!”
“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.
Both kids in the crib for the win.5-point harnessThis is what happens when you don’t have a 5-point harness.
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?
She says,
“I only have a second floor room, but I don’t like to put kids up there.”
“Why not?”
“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.
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!”
Happy Passover!
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 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?”
“Yeah.”
“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.”
“What happened?!”
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.”
“On purpose?”
“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.
Good Times with Jess 