Everyday last week I was crying or on the verge of crying. My baby graduated from pre-k. We said goodbye to our beloved preschool where I’ve been taking both of our babies for six years.
All I have to do is look at a piece of art work and tears come to my eyes. And there is so much art work.
Although there’s one piece of art work that does NOT bring tears to my eyes:
Hard to say what Captain has done to edge me out for this win, but if it’s lifting up legos, I’d like to point out I’m also very capable of that. I have lifted many a lego.
The cut off for kindergarten is September 1st. RB is a fall birthday so she’s well on her way to 6. She would’ve gotten on the bus a year ago if someone had let her.
Last year the alphabet and her name were still very mysterious, so it was nice to make some progress there.
RB is ready. I’m ready. IT’S JUST SO NOSTALGIC!
After six years at this wonderful school, I feel a little beside myself. My baby is not a baby and I said goodbye to some of our favorite people.
When RB started, she was two and still in pull-ups. Now she thinks she’s ready for high school.
Meanwhile BB just finished her best year yet and got teary when she needed to say goodbye to her amazing teacher. Yes, I may have gotten a little teary too. It was A WEEK.
I don’t remember having any tears on the last day of school when I was 8. I just remember pure peace-out energy. So that’s a testament to her 3rd grade teacher!
The sweet, emotional tears are over and we’ve moved onto the banshee cries of the wronged sibling.
I’m not sure what this summer will bring. We’re functioning on a week to week basis. We’ve decamped for the Cape, but have already been back home twice. I haven’t booked any summer camps, but that doesn’t mean I won’t. We’re going sailing, but only if my kids can agree to not tear each other apart.
BB says,
“I need my alone time.”
RB follows her around for the next hour.
They both whine and complain.
I say,
“BEDTIME!”
BB says,
“Can we have a sleepover?”
“Really? You just spent the last hour trying to get away from your sister.”
“I know. I still want a sleepover with her.”
Three hours later everyone is asleep.
I’ve instituted a No-Tattling Policy. It really seems to have helped. But ask me again in August.
And as teary as I am about my babies growing up, it’ll be a beautiful thing to put both kiddos on the 8am bus in September.
Until then, Happy Summer!!!
What is going on with that leg? Is that a high-school leg?That’s my beach bag on the kitchen table. This is how I solved the never-ending conundrum of “SHE’S LOOKING AT ME!!!”Bye magical, outdoor classroom at preschool 🥹😭😭Thank you for an amazing six years!!! 💛
On the drive home from pre-k yesterday RB told me about all the wonderful things she did,
“There’s jewelry! And I wore it ALL.”
Then she stopped and whined,
“M in my class gets to go to school every day.”
“You get to go to school every day too.”
“I do?!!”
YES YOU DO!
Two weeks ago as we dug our toes into the sand for a few final beach days, RB stood next to me and said,
“I’m ready to go home.”
“Ready to go home? We just got to the beach!”
“I have schoolwork to do.”
“You do?”
“I have soccer, ballet, swimming and schoolwork!”
I don’t know what summer schoolwork she thought she had for pre-k, but she’s taking her schedule very seriously.
And these pre-k teachers mean business. RB offered,
“During circle time D asked me if my shoes were velcro, but I refused to answer him because the teachers were talking and we’re supposed to listen.”
If anyone likes a good set of rules, it’s RB. She may or may not abide by them, but she loves to hold everyone else accountable.
She’s fast approaching five years old and any visible signs of babyhood are long gone, like her delicious, oh so munchable, squeezable, to-die-for, thigh rolls. When she was a baby/toddler I’d love her up, squish her legs and say,
“Oh I love these chubby bubbies!”
It became our thing. So much so that by the time she was four, and her chubby bubbies weren’t so chubby anymore, I’d give her kisses on her cheek, a big hug and then start to walk away. She exclaimed,
“Hey!” And lifted up a leg. I had NO IDEA what she was doing. I just stared. She continued,
“Do you want a chubby bubbie?”
“I DO WANT a chubby bubbie!” At which point I squished and munched it right up. Children are delicious. (Especially when I’m home alone writing about them in peace.)
Then I started to walk away. RB shouted,
“Do you want the other one?”
“YES I DO!”
So our thing became a hug, kiss and several thigh squeezes.
Most nights I snuggle RB to sleep. I only have patience for this because I stroke her arm five times and she’s asleep. This week she stroked my upper arm back. Then she squished it. Then she murmured,
“You have chubby bubbies too!”
So I do.
The weekend before school started we squeezed in one last sailing day. There’s a radio on the boat which is used to call marinas, other boats or the yacht club. People use specific radio language. Like: over, out, roger, etc.
Roger means: I received and understood your message. My kids have been listening to this without comment for years.
After a final beautiful sail for the season, we returned to our mooring. RB was bouncing off of the rails and knew we needed to radio to get off the boat. Annoyed she yelled,
“Can someone call Roger?!”
And we did.
Now my babies are off! Third grade and pre-k. As I walked RB up to drop-off this morning, she looked annoyed she couldn’t shake me. She stopped and said,
“When you drop me off for high school you DO NOT need to walk me in.”
Another Passover is in the books. It was awhile ago now, but I started writing this awhile ago.
Thank you to PJ library for their kid friendly Haggadah. Every year we’re able to read a little bit more. And if it weren’t for the illustrations, I don’t know that we’d be able to read at all.
BB was a full-on participant this year, which felt extra special and RB was a full-on nuisance despite eating a not-kosher-for-Passover bowl of Frosted Flakes two minutes before the start of the seder.
RB was willing to pause her complaining to ask the Four Questions and bargain for money for the afikomen.
BB declared,
“Twenty dollars!”
I said,
“One dollar.”
“Fifteen dollars!”
“Two dollars.”
“Ten dollars!”
“Three dollars.”
At which point, without BB’s approval, RB shouted,
“DEAL!”
I paid ten dollars, but still felt proud of my bargaining skills.
This is the year I realized the love Captain and I have can be measured in gefilte fish.
I adore gefilte fish. I have adored gefilte fish from the minute I could eat solid food. I also adore Captain. The two of them side by side is an easy pairing for me.
Captain only met gefilte fish when he met me. Turns out he was not as enamored with the fish, but I never would’ve known.
Wikipedia says:
Gefilte fish (/ɡəˈfɪltə fɪʃ/; from Yiddish: געפֿילטע פֿיש, German: Gefüllter Fisch / Gefüllte Fische, lit. “stuffed fish”) is a dish made from a poached mixture of ground deboned fish, such as carp, whitefish, or pike. It is traditionally served as an appetizer by Ashkenazi Jewish households. Popular on Shabbat and Jewish holidays such as Passover, it may be consumed throughout the year.
Historically, gefilte fish was a stuffed whole fish consisting of minced-fish forcemeat stuffed inside the intact fish skin. By the 16th century, cooks had started omitting the labor-intensive stuffing step, and the seasoned fish was most commonly formed into patties similar to quenelles or fish balls.[1]
Ten years ago, at our first seder together, Captain ate the whole gefilte fish topped with horseradish. One of my favorite combos!
I don’t remember his exact words, but something along the lines of,
“Not bad!”
Each year Captain continued to eat the whole gefilte fish. Then about five years ago, when we were no longer in the stage of ripping each other’s clothes off, Captain ate about half of his gefilte fish.
A few more years went by and he continued to eat at least half of his gefilte fish.
Then this year.
I was so busy slurping up every last bit of my ground-up fish that I wasn’t paying Captain the least bit of attention.
I glanced over. He had taken the smallest, most imperceptible, almost microscopic taste of his gefilte fish.
I looked at him,
“You really don’t like it.”
“No I don’t.”
In that moment all I cared about was being very happy to eat his gefilte fish.
Then days later it dawned on me, we have now reached a place in our marriage where there is ZERO need for him to prove his love for me by how much ground-up, mushed-back-together fish he is capable of eating.
For better or for worse, until death or the end of Passover, he’s sticking to matzo ball soup.
One of the people I live with has a flexible relationship with the truth. RB will say whatever she wants to get what she wants. Add her darling smile, munchable cheeks, long lashes and I must continue to remind myself that she’s the most untrustworthy person in my life.
If I call her out, she’ll double down and get VERY angry. She can be an absolute lunatic. All she needs is a spray tan and she could run for president. Which is very triggering.
RB does not have stacks of confidential documents in her bathroom, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she did.
I often pick her up from school and one of her hands will be closed in a sweaty, clenched fist. I now know to ask,
“What’s in there?”
“Something I found.”
“You need to go put it back.”
“I found it.”
“Yes, and it belongs to your school.”
The first time this happened one of her teachers was so kind and said,
“Oh a rock, she can keep that!”
I knew she couldn’t. If that’s the route we took back in September she’d have brought home an entire play structure by now.
At one point, she started filling her backpack with toys from inside the classroom.
She seems to have a hoarding personality. She wants more food on her plate even though she’s not going to eat it. She wants all the animals from Noah’s Ark even though her friends want to play too. She wants our entire collection of popsicle sticks, even though she doesn’t know what she’s going to do with them and now I have no idea where they are.
BB got a magnetic marble run for Christmas. It came with 12 large marbles. There are now several missing. RB offered,
“They might be in my room.”
As if they magically rolled upstairs and she had nothing to do with it.
I was in her classroom the other day and I noticed I didn’t see the book we brought in for her birthday. RB tells me,
“I think someone put it behind the book shelf.”
Uh huh.
The other morning I took BB to the bus stop, when I came back in one of BB’s drawings had been ruined. I confronted RB about it. She said,
“You didn’t see me do it!”
The idea of a teenage RB terrifies me.
Another presidential quality of hers is that she is very happy to hold everyone else accountable for things she has no intention of applying to herself. She inspects the trash on a regular basis.
The other day she spotted a Reese’s peanut butter cup wrapper. She picked it out and waved it at me. For someone who’s so OCD about a drop of milk while she’s eating her cereal, it’s unfathomable that she continues to grab things out of the trash.
I have nothing to hide, except my favorite candies, I tell her,
“I ate a Reese’s.” And you didn’t see me do it.
RB looks forward to a bag of fruit snacks AFTER swim lessons. I haven’t eaten fruit snacks in 30 years, but somehow, now that they’re in my handbag, they’re hard to resist. I munch on them on the way TO swim. RB yells,
“How come I smell gummies?! ARE YOU EATING MY GUMMIES?!?!?!”
You are eating my gummies and not until after swim.
The first sign that she may be running for President was when she was two. Her grandmother took her to brush her teeth and asked her which toothbrush was hers. She pointed to it. Her teeth were brushed and off to bed she went.
Grandma then took BB in to brush her teeth. BB picked up the SAME toothbrush and brushed her own teeth. At which point Grandma realized she had been bamboozled and it was too late.
Don’t try to tell me RB didn’t know which toothbrush was hers. She KNOWS. She saw an opportunity to use her sister’s and she took it.
Also at two, RB’s grandma was helping her get her shoes on. She was asked to go get socks. She came back with a pair of her sister’s socks and had a whole spiel about how these are HER socks and she got them for HER birthday.
When we arrive at school, there’s a table with everyone’s name tag. The tags have a photo and their name. RB grabs hers easily. One day all the tags were turned upside down. It had their name only, no photo. RB was perplexed. She stared and stared.
Proof that what I thought was true: she doesn’t know her letters. Another presidential qualification?
She picked up a tag with a name the equivalent of Theodore. I said,
“Good try, but that’s not your name. Try again.”
Instead of going back to the table, she thrust the Theodore tag at me and hollered,
“IT IS MY NAME! It has two “Es”!”
So President Theodore she is.
Reality and the truth have never felt more subjective or imperiled. May there be mercy for our country and my home.
The self-declared fastest skier on the slopes. You don’t need me to fact check that for you
And we’re off to the races. Halloween was successful. Candy is dwindling and space has been cleared for our gazillion Hanukkah decorations plus a Christmas tree.
BB doesn’t have a full week of school until after Thanksgiving. I’m not sure what that’s about.
I cleared space, but not as much space as one would think. Our Sesame Street stuffies are still hanging around.
Captain and I have a running Bert and Ernie joke. He’s Bert and I’m Ernie. That’s the high level explanation.
Six years ago, when we bought our house with its double-sided fire place, I dreamed of a library with two leather chairs.
I accomplished the library portion immediately. Due to necessity, the library became library/office/home gym. As soon as the exercise bike and weight lifting bench moved in, it was hard to imagine where two chairs would go. Also any extra money we have, I’m loathe to spend it on chairs when it could be used for travel.
So the library/office/gym remained full and chairless. There is an office chair and a stool I use for midday one on ones, usually to confirm I can leave a kid behind while I drive the other kid EVERYWHERE.
The first Christmas we were in our house, Crate and Barrel was selling Bert and Ernie pillows at a steep discount, final sale. I’m sure they were intended for a kid’s room. I gifted them to Captain and told him final sale before he had time to voice any misgivings.
I said,
“They’re for our future library chairs!”
“Ok.”
Then they went to live in the closet for the next five years.
A year ago I was at my dear friend’s New Hampshire condo. She mentioned they might be replacing a couple chairs with a couch. At the risk of being too bold, I said,
“If you ever don’t want them, we’d love them! But totally understand if you’re going to sell them.”
Last month they replaced them with a couch and asked if we’d still like them! YES YES YES!
Captain surveyed the home gym. I surveyed the bit of space in the corner, across from the fireplace.
Our amazing friends fit them in their car and drove them to us. Turns out the library/office/gym has room for books, a desk, an office chair, a stool, an exercise bike, a weight lifting bench, a rack of weights and TWO CHAIRS.
Captain and I regard the chairs. I raise my eyebrows at him and ask,
“Bert and Ernie?!?”
“Get them out of the closet! They’ve been in there long enough.”
So they have. They’re out, proud and enjoying the library/office/gym.
Yesterday I poked my head into the library/office/gym and asked Captain,
“Is it okay to pass along the Sesame Street stuffies?”
Captain looks at the picture of Bert and Ernie on his desk. He looks at the Bert and Ernie pillows on the chairs. He says,
“I do have this picture of Bert and Ernie and we do have those pillows.”
“Right. So maybe it’s time to pass along the stuffies?”
“How many Bert and Ernies do we have?”
“Two Ernies and one Bert.”
“Maybe we keep one Bert and Ernie and pass along the rest?”
“Ok…”
“I don’t need to keep Big Bird.”
All the Sesame Street stuffies are still in my living room. I was ready to part with them, but the idea of breaking up the pack has left me immobilized. Maybe we need a third library chair for the entire cast.
BB, circa 2017 🥺
WordPress offers AI assistance for editing and generating excerpts. Here are a few AI summaries of this post:
Our ever-evolving home doubles up as a Halloween candy storage, Hanukkah decorations showroom, Sesame Street museum, and a library-office-home gym, sans the comfy library chairs. After years of aspiring to own plush library seats, our pals gifted us their old ones, finally embodying the complete vision of our applaudable multi-purpose house. A long-stowed Bert and Ernie pillow pair now proudly grace the new chairs, undergoing hard negotiations regarding the fate of their Sesame Street comrades. Surprise, we might need an extra chair!
The multi-purpose space in a family home which doubles as a library, office, and gym finally gets the long-awaited addition of two chairs. The chairs, gifts from a friend, accommodate the previously closeted Bert and Ernie pillows. The Sesame Street stuffies face an uncertain future, but Bert and Ernie remain constants in the mix.
The narrator and their partner, affectionately referred to as Captain, have slowly been transforming their home-based library/office/gym into a more comfortable space, recently adding two chairs gifted by a friend. Alongside this transformation, a recurring Bert and Ernie theme has developed, supported by long-stored pillows and multiple stuffies. Looming above it all is the question of how many Bert and Ernie items should remain, leading to a humorous consideration of needing a third chair for all the Sesame Street characters.
In a nutshell, after Halloween and before the festive season kicked into gear, a family sorted their space. They transformed their library/office/home gym by adding two chairs they received from their friends. They revived a Bert and Ernie joke with some themed pillows. However, deciding on whether to keep or part with their cherished Sesame Street plushies has them stumped. Their solution? Perhaps another chair for the entire plushie cast!
And below is what AI thought about my writing. Sounds like I’m doing great work.
The only youngest child in our family is turning 4 next week!
Captain is an oldest sibling. I’m an oldest sibling. BB is the oldest. And RB is the youngest. We don’t understand her plight.
“RB what would you like for your birthday?”
“The same things as BB.”
“The same things as BB?”
“The same Barbies BB has. The same bag.”
BB got a new swim/beach bag for her birthday with an “H” on it. I ask RB,
“You want the same bag, but with an “E” on it?”
“No an “H.””
Right.
Everything that BB does, RB better be able to do too or else she is down in the dumps. RB hasn’t missed a trip to the bus stop yet, despite the disappointment of not boarding too.
RB is very happy to pick out her own clothes, say shorts and a shirt. She’ll be on her way and then boom, BB is in a dress. RB begins to wail,
“I NEED TO CHANGE. I NEED A DRESS TOO!”
Occasionally BB may take into account something about RB and ask for the same, but that usually only applies to candy.
RB, happy and sure of herself, then sees her sister: wearing, doing, being and nothing is right until she can duplicate everything.
When BB got in the pool for her swim-team tryout this summer, RB couldn’t have been madder. She glared at me,
“I’m NOT getting in the pool?!”
“No.”
“I want to race.”
“I know you do.”
Then when BB’s five minute tryout turned into an unanticipated hour practice, I thought RB’s head might explode or that she would jump into the pool anyway. She’s convinced turning 4 is going to solve all her problems.
I’ve got a cake problem. Just like RB couldn’t nail down a color for her coveted beach bag with an “H.” She also couldn’t seem to keep her cake story straight. After many changes, there was a solid two weeks of telling me,
“Chocolate Elsa cake with strawberries. No Anna.”
You’d think she’d identify with Anna.
Yesterday I ordered a chocolate Elsa cake. After school I told RB,
“I ordered your cake.”
“What is it?”
“Chocolate Elsa cake.”
“I don’t like chocolate.”
“What?!”
“It’s ok if you got it wrong mom.”
“I didn’t get it wrong!”
“I want white cake. It’s ok you got it wrong.”
But is it really ok?
I recruit Captain. He corners her in the living room,
“So what kind of cake did you want for your birthday?”
“Mom got it wrong, but that’s ok. I don’t like chocolate.”
I didn’t get it wrong! But I sure did call Market Basket and change it.
For Hanukkah last year BB asked for a watch. I took the path of least resistance and got one for RB too. It’s analog. I’m not even sure BB knows how to use it, never mind RB.
BB slipped hers on the other morning, an impromptu fashion choice. RB hasn’t paid hers any attention since she unwrapped it nine months ago. I haven’t seen anyone find something faster. RB swaggered to the bus stop, her upside down watch swinging on her arm.
And when I dropped her off at school, it was still on her arm. I may have turned it right side up, not that it matters.
When I picked her up that afternoon, I was surprised to see she was still wearing it. She told me,
“My friends asked me why I was wearing this.”
“Why are you wearing it?”
She rolled her eyes and sighed with the attitude of her big sister,
“So I know what time it is.”
Duh.
It’s almost birthday time. I did not buy her a bag with her sister’s name on it.
At school RB wrote her whole name, not just an “E,” for the very first time. I congratulated her. She beamed from ear to ear and told me,
I’ve been obsessed leading up to the live-action Little Mermaid. A week before the release, I bought movie tickets, mermaid dresses, nightgowns, shell purses, dolls and books.
It’s a magical upgrade to the original and the perfect first movie outing for mermaid obsessed RB.
RB is convinced the mermaids are real and BB is more believing than I would’ve thought. BB remarks,
“I just don’t understand how they got Flounder to talk.”
Somehow the talking crab and seagull are a given.
Reviewers said the movie was a cash grab by Disney pandering to Millennials’ nostalgia.
Sure and I’m SOLD. I loved The Little Mermaid and I love that I can share this new diverse version with my kiddos. I’d be wearing a mermaid dress too, if the youth XXL wasn’t so short.
Yes I bought the Target girl’s size 18 to match BB and RB. The waist was up around my armpits, so I just wore my favorite Mermom tank.
It’s a gorgeous movie and LONG. RB bounced from recliner to recliner. If I have my way, I’ll be watching Barbie in a reclining seat too. I’m as excited for Barbie as I was for The Little Mermaid.
We have no shortage of Barbie dolls, BUT there’s always room in my wardrobe for more pink.
People have asked me if I’m taking the kids to Barbie. It’s PG-13. I may live to regret it, but I’m planning on it!
I thought Ursula was going to be the end of us. Before seeing the movie, RB was terrified of her. She made me hide the 3-inch-tall Ursula doll. But then somehow the ginormous Ursula who filled the entire movie screen didn’t phase either kid. Maybe by the two hour mark they were in a candy-popcorn coma.
I asked RB about it. She said,
“The mermaids are real, but Ursula is pretend.”
And the 3-inch Ursula doll is somewhere in between?
BB, who I can count on to parse every random thing that comes out of my mouth, asks me,
“Why is childhood precious?”
“What?”
“You said childhood is precious. Why?”
“Well… you have a magical brain.”
“A magical brain?”
“Your brain makes your toys come alive, talk, act things out. I remember the day my brain stopped doing that: I had a Barbie in each hand and they couldn’t talk anymore.”
“They couldn’t talk anymore?! But Dad has a magical brain. He’s great at playing Barbies!”
“Dad IS great at playing Barbies.” Who knew?
It’s one of those intangible things I didn’t know about him until we were thrown into the child-rearing trenches. Captain knows his way around Barbie’s Dream House.
Days later BB yells for me. She wants her completed lego sets down from the top of her wardrobe. The last time she played with them they fell apart and her yelling, screaming and crying is why I put them back together and out of reach.
I ask,
“Are you sure?”
BB is in a panic and starting to hyperventilate,
“I need to play with them NOW before the people stop talking!”
“What?”
“You said they’re going to stop talking when I grow up!”
I have never retrieved a toy faster.
The legos are talking. Ursula is hiding in my closet. Barbie is waiting for me to remember how to play with her and I’m shopping for a Merdad shirt for Father’s Day.
Moral of the movie: Don’t let anyone share your popcorn no matter how large the bucket is.
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,
Yesterday, I had my first mammogram. OUCH. Maybe only small-chested people over 40 will understand. It was PAINFUL.
I’ve always had small breasts. They got somewhat larger when I gained weight in college; they just about quadrupled in size when I had babies. Then poof. I really don’t know where they went.
The other night I attempted to change into my PJs by myself, BB came in my room, put her hands on my chest and remarked,
“Your breasts are very small.”
“Smaller than they’ve ever been.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s like they fed you two and now they’re saying ‘our work here is done.'”
They are completely deflated. Or maybe that’s how my 40-year-old breasts were going to look no matter what they’ve been up or down to.
BB adds,
“They’re really saggy.”
Captain pops his head in,
“No they’re not!”
I’m not sure when putting my jammies on became a family activity, but here we are.
And they may be floppy, but they’re not that saggy. There’s nothing to sag.
A month ago, my midwife mentioned a mammogram may hurt. She said,
“It can be difficult when there’s not a lot of breast tissue.”
If I was looking forward to my mammogram before, I wasn’t anymore.
Yesterday I was in the doctor’s office for something else and on my way out I ask,
“While I’m here, could I schedule my mammogram?”
“Sure. I have February or how’s right now?
“I’ll take right now.”
The woman doing my mammogram starts with the small amount of breast tissue on my left. My face is smushed against the plastic shield. I’m trying to breathe through the pain. Then she tells me not to breathe.
We move onto the right. EVEN MORE PAINFUL. The mammographer observes,
“Maybe this side is smaller?”
“It is.” I squeak.
Remind me to start with the right next time.
I felt like I just about got a rib bone on there too. I contemplate my sore chest. I stopped nursing a year ago, but I can still hand-express breastmilk. Seems odd, but I don’t mind. Nostalgia’s got me clinging to any last signs of babyhood.
RB still has fond memories. Every once in awhile, she looks at my chest, sighs and says,
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?
Gearing up for Passover and Easter. Which really just means buying a massive amount of eggs and candy and making sure I have enough small bills for the afikomen. No one wants to pay $20 for a piece of matzah.
It’s going to be all candy in the Easter basket. One year the Easter bunny brought bathing suits and BB had a lot of questions. The last thing these kids need are any more toys, whether or not they agree with me. They don’t.
Last night we read about the artist Augusta Savage. The story mentioned that she didn’t have toys, so she used the clay in her back yard to sculpt animals.
RB was beside herself,
“No toys?”
“No.”
“NO TOYS?!”
“No. You’re very lucky to have so much.”
Meanwhile the other day I recorded an eight minute video of RB playing family with all the shoes in the front entry. There were mamas and daddies and sweeties and a lot of twinsies.
On ski vacation, faced with minimal toys, RB played family with chess pieces. In the car she’ll play family with her fingers.
If you happen to be going by our house, chances are you’ve seen BB wandering around talking to thin air. All proof that despite them acting like they might keel over and die if they don’t get whatever thing just flashed before their eyes, they’ll just as easily declare any rock, acorn or stick to be so precious as to deserve shelter in my house.
I try to stand by my rule of no outside things in the house, but based on the number of rocks along any given windowsill, you can see how that’s working out for me.
Of course this is hard to apply to myself too. I need no new things, just candy. I don’t really need that either, but it turns out BB knows where my stash of chocolate is. I’m not as sneaky as I thought.
Over vacation I noticed that the zipper on my 10-year-old, beloved, pink, ski jacket was pulling away from the material. My heart sank.
I love that jacket. I’m not the most fashionable person on the slopes, but that coat matches my skis.
I emailed Obermeyer and asked them if they could send me something to fix my zippers. They wrote back and said,
“We are not able to fix your jacket, so we are offering to replace it with a new one. Please tell us a desired color so we can narrow down our search.”
What?! For a moment I considered all colors. I already have a red ski jacket from Obermeyer that used to match my old red skis. Now I have pink skis and I’m not planning to get new ones.
There’s no rule my coat has to match my skis, but why pretend I want any other color? They send me eight choices, all very standard variations of the color pink except one.
There is a beautiful, neon pink, zebra jacket with a rainbow zipper. I have never seen a neon pink zebra on the slopes. I would never spend several hundred dollars on a neon pink zebra.
I LOVE my neon pink zebra jacket and I’ve been wearing it everyday since its arrival. Yes I know it’s spring.
So I need no new clothes. My children need no new toys. But I did buy them new bathing suits and I couldn’t resist getting a matching one for myself. Unfortunately not in pink zebra.
How I feel on the inside.How I actually look. The lighting of this photo is not doing the zebra justice. I assure you it’s very neon.
Is bribery a sustainable parenting tactic? I think RB was motivated by embarrassment to poop in the potty, not the carrot of a car bed I dangled out in front of her.
When we returned home from vacation, she slept in her crib for three nights before she remembered,
“I pooped in the potty, I’m supposed to get a car bed!”
“Yes.”
SIGH. Crib, we had a good run.
Who knew when I sent Captain off to fetch a giant, plastic, toddler, car bed I found on Craigslist, that I would then have a subsequent car loving kid who has just about outgrown the car bed before she ever set eyes on it.
I was never concerned enough to end our crib days a minute sooner. And I’ve been googling full-size car beds. They exist.
The bed is a huge success as far as RB is concerned. I’m not a huge fan of two free range kiddos.
RB is on week four of no diapers. Last week she exclaims,
“I pooped in the potty! Do I get another car bed?!!”
“Nope.”
This is why I’m not so sure about bribery. Where do we go from here? Also this is how some people end up with a driveway full of vehicles. Captain.
Last night RB declares from the toilet,
“I’m not going to get a lot of car beds, just one car bed.”
“Right.”
“Could I have a lot of car beds?”
CAPTAIN!!
Two weekends ago BB begged for a sleepover in RB’s room. BB hasn’t slept in her own room since.
Both kids are thrilled with the situation. In between being thrilled, I hear RB’s bloodcurdling scream.
I’m ready to separate them. RB wipes away tears,
“BB is touching my car bed.”
“Do you want her sleeping here next to you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you need to be flexible.” And it IS a used car.
Another parenting tactic I need to let go of is assuming any behavior BB does is predictive of what RB will do.
BB will relax in the bathroom reading and daydreaming for ages. She won’t move until she gets someone to check her. She doesn’t need this. She knows she’s capable, but for whatever reason, she waits however long it takes for someone to come give her the all clear.
RB went to poop and I wandered off. I came back. No one was in the bathroom. The toilet was full of poop and no toilet paper.
It never occurred to me that RB would poop and abscond.
I turn the corner and there’s RB’s bare bum in the living room playing Barbies.
I shout,
“RB you need to wipe!”
She turns. One hand is clutching a wad of toilet paper. Annoyed, she waves it in my face,
“I DID!”
I hold my living room to a very low standard, but free of poop and poopy toilet paper is one that I will continue to aspire to.
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.
Childless Jessica would be shocked by current Jessica. I was up on some high horse about the type of parenting I would do someday. It was an aspirational list that any childless person can get behind:
no screen time
no sugar
no princesses
no barbies
no bedsharing
no change to my sex life
no change to my wardrobe
no special meals for anyone
These didn’t all fall in defeat the moment BB was born, but I could hear their death knell over BB’s sound machine next to our shared bed.
My sex life and wardrobe were the first to go, but also the first to recover. There’s no way to make my kids untaste a Reese’s.
And as a dear friend noted: once you have cinnamon sugar toast, how can you go back?
The descent into Candyland was delayed, but this morning my kids had a box of chocolates for breakfast, so that’s how that’s going.
No special meals for anyone has turned into cereal for dinner.
No screentime has turned into: You get an iPad, you get an iPad and you get an iPad.
I don’t know who the third iPad is for, but I’m sure someone needs it.
The no Barbies has turned into 70% of Hanukkah, Christmas and birthday presents being Barbies. I like to think there is some redeeming value to there being Barbies of all races, shapes and abilities.
The Barbie wheelchairs are very popular with the mermaid Barbies. When I was surprised to notice this, RB gave an irritated sigh,
“Mo-om, they don’t have legs.”
And then the princess thing. There’s nothing empowering about an old fashion princess fairytale, but I’m on board with the recent releases.
So now we have a houseful of whatever dress-up gear you’re into: crowns, swords, gowns, wings. We have enough costumes for the whole neighborhood.
BB had a friend over the other day and she was thrilled to dress up. She told me she doesn’t have any princess dresses. Without meaning to, I exclaim,
“You don’t have ANY princess dresses?”
“Nope.”
I do not know this specific mom’s reasoning, but I’m sure I’m 100% on board, even if my current choices don’t reflect that.
Part of the problem is that princess dresses are everywhere. They’re even moonlighting as nightgowns.
When the mom arrived to retrieve her daughter, she was greeted by a houseful of royalty.
There was no time to explain. No chance to say,
‘I hear you don’t have any princess dresses; you’d get along well with my former childless self.’
And with that, we’re soon headed to Canada. My kids will be on their iPads eating whatever and I’ll be in the third row of my mid-size SUV cursing childless Jessica for refusing to get a minivan.
My baby is rounding the corner on three-and-a-half. RB identifies as a big kid who sleeps in a crib and poops in a diaper.
She’s quick to tell you diapers and cribs are for babies. But like everyone, she is very willing to make an exception for herself.
She’s holding onto the diapers and I’m holding onto the crib.
Once, a couple months ago, she half-heartedly asked for a bed. She demands a bowl of cereal with more attitude than the bed ask.
I told her,
“When you poop in the potty, you’ll be a big kid ready for a big bed.”
“And I still get the bag of gummy bears?”
Many months ago I promised her a giant bag of gummy bears if she pooped in the potty. I thought for sure that would do it. Nope.
But she didn’t forget about them either.
Sure. A big kid bed and a lifetime of gummies. Whatever it takes kid.
As I wipe up a giant 3-year-old poop butt, I question all my parenting choices. How did I end up with both my kids at 3, wearing underwear all day, and then putting on their own diaper when they need to poop?
I blame Captain.
He asks me,
“What do you remember about pooping in a diaper?”
“I DON’T!”
I remember the week I potty trained. I was two-and-a-half and in Disney World. I never looked back. I have no memory of pooping in a diaper.
With a smile, Captain reminisced about his days in diapers.
He described the leather easy chair in the living room, the coffee table and lamp straight off a pirate ship. He remembered his favorite snack, cheerios and raisins, eaten from a little pumpkin cup. Best of all, he can picture the space between the chair and the pirate table where he liked to stand, eat his snack and poop.
The details folks! The details! I can’t say for sure that my in-laws had pirate furniture, but I can say for sure that if Captain can remember all that, then he was at least 3-years-old, pooping in a diaper.
I blame genetics. My kiddos didn’t stand a chance. Nor did I.
As our romantic, dinnertime poop discussion continued, new details emerged. At some point Captain started pooping in the potty. Praise be. But instead of an adult checking his wiping job, he had a magnifying makeup mirror on the floor and he bent over in front of it.
I assumed he bent over in front of it to check himself, but no, he bent over in front of it to wipe. He now regrets the bits of wet toilet paper he remembers leaving on the floor after that.
Proof that there are many strategies to clean our kids and no one seems to be winning.
So I buy another box of diapers. Bigger and bigger diapers.
Every morning I pick RB up out of her crib, snuggle her close and every part of me wants to say,
‘How’s my baby?’
Instead, after months of being screamed at, I cuddle her up and say,
“How’s my big kid?!”
“I’ve got a wiggly diaper.”
Yes. Yes you do.
At least I’ll never have to clean poop out of one of these!Flying in a diaper, 1983, before safety was a thing.My big kid bed! Vroom vroom
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,
Hanukkah Christmas is upon us. Or me. I’m under two Hanukkah blankets, in my Christmas jammies, drinking coffee from a Hanukkah mug, by the Christmas tree, with Hanukkah gnomes over my right shoulder, a menorah over my left and that elf that I love to hate staring at me from across the room.
It was a glorious week home alone. Captain asked me,
“Did you put music on and dance around?”
“Did you install cameras?” Because I did. And I was. R&B Christmas played while I finished my Hanukkah shopping.
I’ve reached a precipice. My 30-year-old strategy for shopping for Hanukkah tchotchkes is end of life.
Growing up, Hanukkah themed items were hard/impossible to come by. If one was lucky enough to find anything, snatch it up.
I’ve been snatching it up and snatching it up and snatching it up. This year I bought two more cartons to store it all in.
No one would ever walk into Home Goods and think,
‘I’m going to buy ALL the Christmas things.’
That would require buying the whole store.
Home Goods has a small table of Hanukkah items. And it’s deceiving, because it includes any number of random blue items that don’t have anything Jewish about them.
It’s easy to just keep buying ALL the Hanukkah things. BUT it’s finally starting to add up. Note previous addition of storage cartons. It’s time to be selective.
The problem with Home Goods is that they sometimes have the most random Hanukkah items and if you don’t snatch them up, you may never see them again.
Two years ago, I left Home Goods without buying my precious Hanukkah gnomes, only to rush back an hour later and claim them. Gnome post, 2020.
Now they are a beloved part of our family for five weeks out of the year. Harry, Gimel and Snow.
This week, I stood at the Home Goods Hanukkah table, surrounded by Christmas gnomes, without a Hanukkah one in sight. I dismissed the numerous Hanukkah hand towels, placemats, and random blue balls. My eyes caught on a pair of dreidels. I picked them up. Salt and pepper shakers! Into my cart they went,
The middle-aged cashier picked them up and remarked,
“Oooh salt and pepper shakers. I thought they were dreidels.”
Dreidel salt and pepper shakers, I’m tempted to add. She continued,
“There’s some song about dreidels… I learned it in school.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I can’t remember it.”
Here I’ve been, living my life, thinking it’s the one Hanukkah song everyone knows.
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,
There appears to be a max number of words I’m able to write a week. My current writing course requires 1,000-1,500 words, 3-5 pages double spaced, per week.
My blog posts average 500-600 words every two weeks ish. To say I’m struggling to do both, for a total of 2,000 words per week, more than my total previous word count for the entire month, is generous.
I’m not struggling to do it. I’m not getting it done. I would love to get it done. Just not sure which other thing to not get done.
I already stopped keeping up with the laundry and I was already doing the bare minimum food wise, so there’s no time to be saved there, unless we just live on Halloween candy for a couple weeks. That should get rid of it.
This past weekend I could’ve been writing, but I was following a shirtless Captain around.
We went to our first adult-only, Halloween party since we had kids. That’s six years of dressing up in family-friendly outfits.
So maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised that the minute we got the invite this past summer, Captain went the no clothes route.
He had his heart set on being a hairband rocker. We were going for generic 80’s rockstars. We got mistaken for Tommy and Pamela. I did NOT stuff my dress. The only way I could’ve had a smaller chest was if I had no chest, but the size of my hair made up for it.
What I didn’t realize through all the months of costume planning our trophy-winning ensemble, was that the party was outside.
That’s right. I have a trophy in my kitchen. It has made me happier than I ever thought a jack-o-lantern trophy could.
We drove the half mile to the party. It was 50 degrees and dropping and Captain was determined to make a topless entry.
He didn’t shave his arms and apply temporary tattoos for nothing.
As we walk up the driveway, music and party sounds are unmistakable.
Captain turns to me,
“Is this party outside?!?”
“Nooooo. Couldn’t be.”
It could. It was. Captain stayed committed, stayed by the fire and pounded beers.
I attribute our trophy to his cold-blooded rockstar status.
We showed up with a case of Budweiser because I was committed to drinking in character, even if the taste of that first beer was tough.
Nobody believed we were really drinking Bud. Multiple times I was accused of pouring something else in the can. Forced to choose, I’d much rather drink a Bud than a hard seltzer.
A minion pointed out that if we really wanted to be in character we would’ve finished the Bud and switched to whiskey ages ago. But I’m not sure that applies to wannabe rockstars in their forties.
We went to bed as rockstars and woke up as hung-over parents home alone. I can’t say enough good things about being home alone after a party.
Two days later, on Halloween morning, 3-year-old RB, who’s been planning her mermaid costume as long as we’ve been planning our hairband duo, decided a crown was not going to suffice. She NEEDED mermaid hair.
And if that “NEEDED” didn’t sound like a throw-down tantrum on the kitchen floor, it was. I showed her my hairband wig. She looked at me like I’d lost my mind and shouted,
“It needs green and pink and rainbow colors!!”
She went down for her nap screaming about mermaid hair, but she slept and I created a masterpiece. I delivered the rockstar turned rainbow, mermaid hair to her and she sighed,
“It’s so beautiful!”
If there’s a trophy for parenting through a crisis, I’d like to be considered.
Good Times with Jess 