Forties are looking bright despite my looming mortality

I’m officially 40! My Cape Cod and Alaska celebrations are in the rearview and middle age is stretching out ahead of me.

Wikipedia defines middle age as 45 – 65, so maybe I can delude myself for another few years.

All of a sudden I’m thinking about menopause, but wikipedia also mentions that I will now be beginning my cognitive decline, so maybe I’ll forget about it.

I’ve always had irritable mood swings with my period. I’m happy to warn Captain about them ahead of time, but beware the person who asks about it mid-PMS.

As much as my irritableness is unjustified, it is very hard to come to terms with that in the moment. That is what alarms me about menopause. How much of an emotional roller coaster will I be on and how long will it be until I feel like myself?

I understand that I might have another eight years before I need to worry about this, but it makes me even more nervous that no one is talking about it.

I feel like I was blindsided when I had my first baby and I don’t intend to be blindsided again if I can help it.

I’ve taken to crowdsourcing the topic at the beach. I’ve heard some interesting takes on it, including some people with no irritableness. Must be nice.

I jut my finger into Captain,

“What’s coming for him?”

Several beach buddies pipe up:

“Nothing.”

“A belly.”

Nothing or maybe nothing with a belly. Grrrumph.

The talk turns to how popular botox has become. If I had some extra money to throw around, the first thing I’d do is get some hair lasered. Maybe that’s next year’s birthday present.

As I contemplate my inevitable decline, I wake up with my right eye swollen shut. A stye one day before my birthday. One day before I’m trying to look forty and fabulous at a fancy dinner. I’m beside myself.

Every spare moment I had was spent hanging over the sink with a warm washcloth pressed against my eyeball. And every spare thought willing it to go away.

Sunglasses and a tiara did wonders to disguise it at the beach.

By dinner time it was much better and makeup took care of the rest. I’ve never been happier to return to my status quo.

Bring it on middle age. I’ll take what I’ve got, minus the mood swings, stye and chin hair.

Yes I really wore my tiara to the beach.

Do three showers a day now make up for no showers in February?

To bathe or not to bathe? This celebrity topic has me considering my family’s habits. I’ve determined they’re seasonal.

Back in February, there was very little bathing. Water conservation had nothing to do with it.

It got to the point where no one in the family was sure of the last time they took a bath or shower. Which often led me to issue a warning that we would all need to bathe soon. Although I never went as far as to say it had to be that day.

This didn’t come from a place of being anti-bathing, but from the same place of wearing sweatpants for a year.

Now we’re at the beach. I deem sand and indoor living very incompatible. We’re doing a minimum of 2 showers a day, maybe 3.

Awhile ago I learned about a friend who only showers her kids, no tubbies. I didn’t think that could be me. How could I take away the joy of playing in the tub?

Now I’m in there with the shower running, saying,

“Stand up!”

Didn’t they just spend the day playing in the ocean?

The advantage of the tubby is that it keeps RB contained for a minute until she decides to jump out. The disadvantage is that she really likes to poop in there. BB is still thrilled to have a tub with her. Maybe there is some love there.

It’s at least 2 showers a day because there is no way these kids can come in the house for lunch without a shower.

BB returns home with more sand covering her body than even seems possible. Gobs fall out when she takes off her swimsuit.

She’s the type of person who likes to go swimming and then makes sand angels. We’re talking wet hair, wet body, rolling and rolling in the dry sand. I can’t think of a better way to make sure you’re sandy for the rest of your life.

RB sits in the tub drinking as much bath water as she can, while BB picks seaweed out of her vagina and puts it on the side of the tub. She would prefer to hand it to me.

BB informs me,

“You know they sell special seaweed and you can take a seaweed bath to soften your skin?”

She’s learned about spa treatments from a neighbor. I gesture to the seaweed lined up on the side of the tub,

“What about this seaweed?”

She looks at me like I’m an idiot,

“NOOO. That was in my vagina.”

I get them out and send them on their way. I’m feeling efficient. If there’s ever a Ninja Warrior style competition that features drinking a beer, collecting beach gear, dragging it home, corralling 2 kiddos, bathing them, diapering, clothing, feeding and putting them to bed, I really think I’ve reached peak speed.

At 1:00am I jolt awake to,

“Mama… Mama!!! My vagina is itchy!”

Somewhat irrelevant, but this is what beach chairs are for, right?

Beach birthday bonanza rain or shine

My baby is 5! I’m 39. And the class fish is still alive. However old he may be.

I’ve never met anyone happier to turn 5. BB canvased the beach, proclaiming her birthday far and wide. She was magnanimous enough to mention mine was coming up as well.

While I didn’t shout 39 to the world, no one would’ve heard me over tropical storm Elsa. I did tell quite a few people about my glorious birthday dinner with Captain, WITHOUT our children.

I may have mentioned my plans for a throw-down party next year. Mark your calendars.

I’m very happy to cling to my thirties for one more year. It’s got me comparing to 29. I’m much more content, big dreams have come true, I’ve lost some muscle tone and a lot of sleep.

I feel like more dreams can come true, but the sleep and muscle tone may be gone forever.

The summer beach plan is in effect and aside from enough rainy days for the entire season, so far so good. If anyone is going to test my resolve to be here all summer it’s RB. But then she’d test my resolve wherever we are, so I might as well be where I want to be.

It comes down to chasing RB around the suburbs or chasing RB around the beach.

I may be glorifying BB’s toddlerhood, but I don’t remember 21-month-old BB testing EVERY SINGLE LIMIT. ALL THE TIME.

The minute I turn away, there’s a very good chance RB will be standing on the kitchen table or scaling a bureau in an attempt to get the fish. As long as he may live.

The good news is that there are no tables at the beach, just rain.

RB’s attention span seems to be about as long as it takes her to yell the word,

“DONE!”

So no attention span.

We went out for BB’s birthday dinner. RB wouldn’t even let us put her in the highchair at all.

“DONE DONE DONE!”

BB said,

“This is the best birthday! Bester than last year.”

She doesn’t mind if RB’s not at the table.

BB wanted a fancy birthday drink. Last year she didn’t like her Shirley Temple. I was at a loss, but then it came to me. I ordered it for her.

She took a big sip, smiled and sighed,

“What IS this drink?”

“Sprite.”

“Sprite.” Said with so much reverence. As if she’s ready to worship whoever created soda. Kind of like I’m ready to worship anyone who manages to sustain RB’s attention for more than a minute.

As of Saturday, Captain and BB went sailing with my in-laws for nine days. Amazing for her and a very mixed bag for me.

It’s a little quieter and calmer here, but RB does not know what to do with herself. I almost miss the sibling fights. Everyone has 2 feet on or near the ground and are somewhat occupied.

BB has been begging to share a room with RB. This is good news because there are limited options at the Cape. And bad news because whoever wakes up first makes sure they wake up the other one. Refer to previous mentions of lost sleep.

I’m also missing Captain, in large part for his sandcastle acumen. It’s impressive, occupies many children not just our own and is enjoyable to watch from my beach chair.

It turns out deck building is a transferable skill. He’s also amazing with playdough. His current creation is drying on the counter.

So while everyone’s gone, I have not taken up the sandcastle mantle and we may or may not be catching up on sleep. But I have managed to write a very overdue blog post.

As far as the bad beach weather goes. It better be DONE.

The vantage point from my beach chair.
Dining out.
Play-Doh creations by Captain

Storing up sun and thigh rolls to see us through the lonely months ahead

At the Cape savoring my last 2 weeks of denial before we’re home for a long winter.

RB is 10 months old and within 12 pounds of 4-year-old BB. BB tries to push her around. I warned BB her days for this are numbered.

BB declares,

“I had a tall growth spurt and RB had a wide one.”

RB is STRONG. Given a large stationary toy intended to stay put RB is most likely to heave it over her head and toss it across the room. She has accumulated many nicknames including Bam Bam and Destructo.

We had a well visit with the pediatrician. She goes through her standard list of questions:

“How’s she eating?”

I grab a chunk of baby thigh rolls, “These don’t happen by magic.”

“How’s she sleeping?”

“As to be expected.” Meaning she’s up multiple times a night.

The doctor reminds me,

“She’s old enough to cry it out if you want.”

“Yes.” I’ve avoided mentioning we’re bed-sharing. I may someday when our pediatrician has kids of her own.

“Does she transfer toys from hand to hand?”

“Yes.” And from feet to hand and from hand to as far as she can fling it.

I left BB in the middle of our playroom, formerly known as our living room, and headed to the car to load up for the Cape. I hear an immense crash and rush back in. RB is sitting there smiling, launching large toys across the rug onto the hardwood floor.

I’m continuing to enforce the hard truth that some of BB’s toys are for RB too. BB expresses concern for their welfare. I chalked this up to not wanting to share, but now I must agree BB has a valid point.

At the Cape my mom shared some of my brother’s old toys with BB. RB also got something to play with. BB was not thrilled,

“That’s MINE.”

“No it’s not. It’s Uncle J’s.”

My mom adds,

“Yes, and he wants both of you to play with it.”

BB who had been on the verge of a fit, sighs,

“Well that answers that.”

And there was peace. For 5 minutes.

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I love me some ruffly butts.

Our overburdened dishwasher just quit

We’re home and our dishwasher is broken. This may be what sends me back to therapy.

Like many of us, I’m totally fine and about to lose it. I just didn’t know the dishwasher would be the tipping point.

The Cape doesn’t even have a dishwasher. Maybe that’s in its favor. It makes no pretense of anything washing the dishes besides a person.

As the dishwasher-detergent subscriptions pile up, Captain is on the case. He’s fixed the fridge, the washing machine and the clothes dryer so I have faith even if we did call some repair people.

They’re backed up. Everyone’s dishwashers are breaking. Should’ve know. It’s another symptom of this pandemic, just like the backorder on exercise bikes, puppies and sweatpants.

I made that up. They better never run out of sweatpants.

We’re headed back to the Cape as soon as possible, but being there without Captain has brought BB’s lingering jealousy into relief.

At 6 am I’m jolted awake. BB’s little face is peering at me over the side of the bed. She whispers,

“I’m your first baby.”

“Yes! Of course!”

GOOD GRIEF and with that RB startles awake and starts wailing.

Never thought I’d get to the beach by 8am, but this is my year.

With Captain around to play Barbies and otherwise dote on BB, she couldn’t care less that RB is in bed with me. Without him around, she’s inclined to snatch every single toy away from her sister regardless of whether the toy is something she truly wants to play with.

She grabs a pot and pan lid from RB. RB screams. I mention,

“RB was playing with that.”

“But I NEED it.”

“You need it?”

“I don’t have any cymbals.”

And for many reasons this is about when we leave for the beach.

BB asks,

“Who do you love more?”

I have answered this question several ways. This time I try a new tactic,

“You love Frozen right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you love Frozen I or Frozen II?”

“Can I watch Frozen II?”

Sigh.

I pop into my obgyn office to get a mysterious spot checked out. No kids allowed. Yes I really had a spot. All is well. The doctor asks,

“Any postpartum depression?”

“No.” But can I tell you about my dishwasher?

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Taking my corona to the beach

Running along in my hamster wheel. Preschool zoom is over. The 10am-10:30am slot of my day has returned to the other indistinguishable slots of the day.

BB is a little befuddled.

“There’s no more morning meeting?”

“Not until the fall.”

BB hangs her head. For someone who sat in front of zoom picking her nose, putting her dress over her head or leaving the video frame, she is more upset about this than I expected.

I explain that it’s normal to have no school in the summer and that if all goes well she’ll go back in the fall. But will she? Or if she does, will it be for long?

Who knows? But we’re going to the Cape for almost three weeks. I might as well take my hamster wheel to the beach.

Two weeks ago I considered the baby swing which is too big to take with us. At first I thought to myself, “Good. We need to break this habit.” Then yesterday I panicked and googled travel swings.

RB is already too heavy for them. She’s been pandemic snacking on the reg. She’s wearing BB’s size 24-month summer clothes and the diapers that almost 4-year-old BB stopped wearing this year. RB is 8 months old. This made me check the weight limit on our current swing. We’re about to max out.

Ok so no swing for the Cape. Maybe what I need is a rocking chair for the beach. I wonder if something like that exists? I google it. It does! And it has a cup holder. Sold.

I can see it now. Drinking a beer on the beach. RB having whatever of that makes it into my breastmilk and both of us rocking away.

The other night I pop open a corona. BB jokes,

“Oh no! Not coronavirus.”

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Both kids contained. My work here is done.