The Adventures of Superblogger & the Underpants of Mystery

Little boys (and some girls) and superheroes. I've heard it can be quite a thing. 

Noah never got "into" superheroes — we've burned through Star Wars, Star Trek, Harry Potter and Ninjago pretty bright and hard, but the traditional comic book heroes have never interested him all that much. He liked The Avengers. He liked it pretty okay. 

(Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, on the other hand... Which: OMG. I already had to live through years of every boy in my elementary school talking non-stop about those stupid turtles, and now you're telling me I have to relive it all over again with my own child? Haaaa, yeah, Michaelangelo sure does love pizza. It's crazy! Great to see so much character development has occurred over the past two decades.)

Ezra has never seen The Avengers. Or any movie or TV show involving Superman, Batman, Spiderman or any of the other major or minor mans. And yet an full-blown superhero obsession has emerged, either through peer pressure or osmosis or electromagnetic waves in the atmosphere.

It started with a Superman shirt, hastily plucked from a clearance pile at Old Navy because it was blue and Ezra was going through a fairly stubborn "I ONLY WEAR BLUE SHIRTS" phase at the time. Little did I know that I was simply ushering in the "I ONLY WEAR SUPERMAN SHIRTS" phase, which is a extra-difficult, migraine-inducing phase when THERE IS ONLY ONE SUPERMAN SHIRT. 

(The best is when he insists on wearing it under his karate jacket so he can pull it open to reveal the logo, like Superman does in the movies. Though I still don't understand how he knows to do that in the first place.)

Because I know absolutely nothing about children (but like to think that I do), I recently purchased a couple packages of superhero underpants for him, in hopes that he'd let me wash the stupid shirt more often if he could wear something else superhero-related. Because, you know, that won't backfire at all. Because the child who only owns one acceptable shirt is never going to suddenly be the child who only owns one acceptable pair of underpants. 

Except: Duh. Of course he will. 

I won't go into specifics as to how many days in a row Ezra may or may not have worn the same pair of Superman underwear before I noticed. Suffice to say: Too many. 

Luckily the underwear assortment came with other options. Eventually, Batman became acceptable. I showed him some pictures online of the Green Lantern and the Flash and got those pairs into the rotation as well. But then there was another pair, covered in yellow V's, that had me kind of stumped. And thus, were going completely unworn by Ezra because I could not supply the associated character name. Superheroes aren't really my forte to begin with, but I figured a quick Google search on the Justice League would reveal this other, less-well-known member.

Instead, I stumbled upon a honest-to-God UNDERPANTS-RELATED MYSTERY.

The most obvious choice (SHE SAYS LIKE SHE KNOWS THIS SHIT OR SOMETHING) for a fifth Justice League logo would be Aquaman. But I was clearly not looking at underwear covered in A's, which is what Google told me his logo looked like. These are clearly V's! And clearly bothering me more than they should! 

(Tangentially speaking, don't you think it's kind of a bummer that you can't buy V for Vendetta underpants in size 3T? With wee Guy Fawkes masks across the butt? Awww.) 

So I kept searching, finally looking around for the exact pack of underwear I'd purchased (and foolishly threw the packaging out before realizing that I might need to CONSULT IT FOR CLUES). The characters on the package were, alas, Superman, Batman, Green Lantern and the Flash, as if even the manufacturer was like...uhhhh, no idea. Hank designed these over lunch while blitzed out of his gourd, and he doesn't have phone privileges in rehab yet. 

Amazon reviews mentioned the Mystery V pair as well, joining in my parental bafflement. A+ underwear experience. Five stars. My kid loves them; doesn't poop in them; can anyone tell me who the heck the yellow Vs are for?

GODDAMN IT NOW I'M MAD. UNDERWEAR SHOULD NOT MAKE ME THINK THIS HARD.

Finally I somehow ended up on a random comic books forum, where a member had uploaded a photo of the underwear in question and asked the group for help identifying the logo. A minor war had ensued, with most members seeming to think that it was simply a poorly-rendered, half-assed Aquaman logo, while others said no, there was once a member of the Justice League named Volt, so this could be his logo, and then everything devolved from there into ZOMG DO YOU THINK THEY'RE BRINGING VOLT BACK IN THE NEW JUSTICE LEAGUE MOVIE? NO YOU IDIOT, THAT MOVIE ISN'T HAPPENING, IT GOT SHELVED, NO IT DIDN'T, YES IT DID, RABBLE RABBLE RABBLE.

And, you know, etc.

(I am not even kidding about any of that.)

And yes, at some point it did occur to me that I was sitting there, on the Internet, reading a strange message board conversation devoted to little boys' underwear styles. Ahhrrmm.

I thought maybe I could just tell Ezra that the "V" underwear stood for "Victoryman," because seriously. He's four. It's not like he can Wikipedia this shit yet. But that would have required me to let the issue go and move on with my life and stop caring so goddamn much about this. 

And we all know that wasn't going to happen. So back to Google it was. Maybe focus on image searches this time, while leaving the word "underwear" out of it. Maybe let's not get put on an FBI watch list over this. Maybe search for some of the other Justice League lineups? The old Super Friends cartoon, perhaps, that my next-door neighbor made me sit through on Saturday mornings because boy cartoons are stupid and you know we're watching My Little Pony after this, OH YES WE ARE?

BAM: 

DOUBLE BAM:

Look at Aquaman's belt. LOOK AT IT. 

*breathes*

*puts on sunglasses*

*YEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!*

I feel better now, yes. Thanks for asking. And no, I have zero intention of EVER checking the Google search terms that lead people to this entry, oh my God. 

PS. BECAUSE RELEVANT: 

Cloth Diaper Dropout

This post is sponsored by The Honest Company. 

Deep, dark confession time, you guys. I mean, be prepared to have dozens of illusions and dreamy dreams shattered.

Right now my baby is wearing a disposable diaper. And in an hour or so, I'll probably take that one off and put another disposable diaper on him. Just cuz. And I won't feel bad about it either, so there.

DUN DUN DUUUUN.

Okay, so let's back up: Last summer, Ike developed a rash. And I mean a rash as in a R-A-S-H-H-H-H. I will spare you (and my poor kid) a description of said rash, though I am pretty sure you can Google around and find pictures of something similar and then NEVER SLEEP AGAIN. 

It was horrible. I took him to the doctor, who mostly just shrugged because she was jaded and hard and going to medical school is probably a lot like Google Images only all the time. She recommended some over-the-counter creams and a slathering of Aquafor or Triple Paste, which I obediently purchased along with a package of disposables. 

I used the creams. I used disposables that leaked poop and exploded overnight, covering poor Ike in that disturbing goopy-jelly-gel...stuff from the guts of the diaper. I disinfected my cloth diapers with bleach and tea tree oil and grapefruit seed extract, per the Internet's helpful instructions. 

The rash came back. We rinsed and repeated and tried again. I took Ike back to the doctor and got the same advice, only this time to maybe try a different...brand? Ehhhh?

The rash came back. THE RASH KEPT COMING BACK.

No matter what I did, dear Internet, I could not beat that rash. It flared up in cloth (especially in PUL) and in disposables. It flared up whether I used the creams once a day, twice a day or at every diaper change. I'd use the creams for a solid week after his skin looked better and think we were FINALLY okay and then BAM. A few days later we'd be back at square bloody one. I changed detergents, I bought NEW cloth diapers, I soaked his butt in baking soda, I let him run around naked, I used weird smelly ointments my MIL sent me, and I got the strangest, most creeped-out looks from the cashiers at the drugstore when I showed up buying every possible yeast/fungal cream and ointment they had to offer. Dang, girl. Change out of your swimsuit, or something.

Finally, I changed pediatricians. I showed up with medical records in one hand and a seriously flared-up rashy baby in the other.

The doctor listened to my tale of woe and nodded nicely but probably a little patronizingly. I could see the advice forming in her brain — obviously we didn't use the cream long enough, or change him often enough, or have you tried letting him run around naked or OH MY SWEET MERCIFUL CRAP YOUR POOR BABY.

Yeah. The instant she saw the rash she wrote us out a compound prescription for The Big Guns. (Basically the same stuff I used on mah boobs while breastfeeding. Human bodies are weird.) With double refills.

It was about a month-long regimen of cream, which meant ONCE AGAIN, we were going to have to use disposables. 

Two more things happened right around this time, though:

1) I completed Ike's application for preschool and was told in no uncertain terms that yeah, he needed to wear disposables there, too. You go be a hippie on your own time, lady. 

2) I was asked if I was interested in doing a sponsored post for The Honest Company. They sell disposable diapers but we know you cloth diaper so maybe you'd be interested in the non-toxic cleaning products or bath and body care products or OH MY SWEET MERCIFUL CRAP PLEASE SEND ME SOME DIAPERS.

Here's the thing: Despite writing approximately five hojillion blog posts about cloth diapers, I've bought and used disposables plenty of times. I mean, please. When we travel, sometimes. When our washing machine broke, ye gods. I don't think anybody deserves to get their cloth diapering gold star taken away just because they don't feel like dealing with a wet bag in an airplane lavatory, you know? Also, there's no such thing as a cloth diapering gold star, so everybody just calm down.

I've tried several times to find a good "natural" and/or biodegradable option, but have never been all that impressed. I have enough complaints about regular disposables — some of the eco-friendly diapers felt about as effective as wrapping my baby in a couple paper towels. So I admit I was...not really expecting a whole lot from the Honest Diapers, which are plant-based. But they were free and they were cute. 

So...I think you guys get the way I "usually" do sponsored posts around here, right? Blabber on for awhile about a tangentially related topic and then work the brand/product in without it being necessarily a ringing endorsement. (Though I would never, EVER do a post about a company or product I didn't at least like or respect.) But it's true that not every sponsored post is necessarily going to be about a product I can't live without and/or would rush out to buy with my own money again and again and again.

I used the package of Honest Diapers I was sent. I promptly went to the website and plunked down my credit card for two more packages. TRUTH.

One package went to preschool. The other stayed home. Those are the ones he's wearing now. They are white with little black skulls on them and they kill me. KILL ME. They also don't leak and Ike can wear them overnight. (OVERNIGHT. Overniiiiight!) Jason positively loved them, and his expectations were probably even lower than mine, since he forbade me from ever trying another "natural" brand after a very unfortunate restaurant incident with one of the older boys that he's still not over. If you're looking for a better disposable, either for full-time use (go for the subscription bundle to save money) or just as your sometimes-cuz-you-feel-like-it-backup, I really recommend them. Thumbs to the up. 

The rash? Is gone. For real and good this time, so far, fingers crossed. We've been clear for almost a month now, and Ike is back in cloth most of the time but not all the time. Because...

(These are his Tough Guy diapers, apparently.)

(By the way, our pediatrician recommended giving potty training a try, sooner rather than later, to give his poor sensitive skin a permanent break. I admit I'm not really looking forward to that, but hey, at least I'm already kind of prepared.)

(THE TRAINING PANTS HAVE ROBOTS ON THEM YOU GUYS. ROBOTS!)

This post was sponsored by The Honest Company. Sign up for a free trial (plus shipping) on a subscription bundle. Get free shipping on your first order only with code FreeShipAmalah (expires March 13, 2013). 

 

Dispatches From the Living Room of Sodor, Part Two

(Because of course when I said "tomorrow" way back on Thursday you know I actually meant "Monday" because I love to cause confusion and delay and also toy with your semi-half-interested emotions. I wish I could express that all in charm bracelet form.)

After Noah got back into the track-building action, there was a brief shining renaissance in the new and improved Sodor. Once again, getting from Point A to Point B involved crossing over an insane number of bridges and lots of going in circles, but the people liked it that way.

They also seemed fine with the fact that "Point A" and "Point B' didn't really exist either, because going specific places is not the POINT. The POINT, of course, is to chugga-chugga around in endless loppy circles for no damn reason while the nearby giants squabble over the blue train and the red train and the green train and the OTHER blue train that's mine THAT'S MINE THAT'S MIIIIIIINE MOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM.

Of course, you're going to have to take my word for it about that renaissance, because by the time I returned to take pictures everything had promptly gone to shit once again.  

Floors are the new train table. 

A war had broken out between several competing track designers, apparently. 

"Hector!" James cries. "Why did I never profess my love for you, Hector? Now we are all derailed and it is forever too late."

"KEEP AWAY," Hector blasts. "I SHALL ONLY HURT YOU, FOR MY HEART IS BLACK AS THE COAL I CARRY."

"It's happening again," says Thomas. "I can't go through this again. I'm not going back in that storage bin again, man. I'm old and chipped and faded — I won't make it this time. I'm gonna use this miniature Lego blaster gun and...and..."

"Shit," says Thomas. "I've got no arms."

Meanwhile, on the other side of the track, it's...

DEATH PROOF II: THE ZOMBIE ROTISSERIE CHICKEN MINIVAN APOCALYPSE

Not even Sir Topham Hat was spared when the picnic basket contents mutated and went on a rampage. And that's why you don't picnic too close to Ye Olde Genetics Mill.

And for what? For a little bit of money. Lego money, that isn't even to fucking scale. 

I can't even begin to think of something clever to say about this one. There's an Ove Glove, a sippy cup and a visible plastic toilet. Some things are just to randomly weird, even for me. 

I will say that "James' Tender" is totally going to be the name of my adult contemporary death metal cover band, however. 

The Isle of Sodor has been granted refugee status and is presently allowed to stay above ground in the living room, provided it is properly stowed at the end of every adventure, because at least the children are playing with all this pricey bullshit again, right? Right. 

(I predict I will step on something pointy within the next day or two and promptly hurl the entire lot back into the basement. Sorry, Thomas.)

 

Dispatches From the Living Room of Sodor, Part One

But first, a WHAT DA FUQ IS THIS FAQ:

Q. WHAT DA FUQ IS THIS?

A. Once upon a time, back in 2007, I purchased a train table and some Thomas the Tank Engine sets for Noah. And then proceeded to go on a three-day bender of obsessive track building. You know, for "my kid." For his "benefit." In order to prove that I was not losing my mind at all, not even a little bit, I posed a bunch of trains and cars around the track and wrote a little photo-essay about them. The trains all cursed a lot and Sir Topham Hat was an alcoholic. 

Q. YOU'RE WEIRD.

A. Oh, you don't even KNOW, Janet. You don't even KNOW. From there, things got even weirder. Our train table started to become a catch-all surface for toy clutter, and Noah tended to bring other non-Thomas toys into his train play, like dinosaurs. I found this innocent bit of plaything dissonance to be HILARRRR and made up another story about it all. 

Q. OKAY. AND?

A. One time I built a monorail.

Q. WOW. AND?

A. And another time school got canceled for snow and things got even more baller. Baller beyond all good sense and reason.

Q. I THINK I'VE SEEN ENOUGH.

A. Oh yeah? Well, too bad, motherfucker. The people have spoken and they have asked for more Sodor. 

Q. NOOOOOOO.

A. YESSSSSSSS.

Q. DO YOUR KIDS EVEN PLAY WITH THOSE STUPID TRAINS ANYMORE?

A. Well. No. Noah moved on to Legos and Ezra never really got into Thomas. I packed up the tracks and trains at some point with the idea that the train table could become a Lego table but that didn't really happen. But! I have this whole new fresh kid now who seems to like choo-choos and doesn't even know we have Thomas trains, soooo....

Q. OH MY GOD, PLEASE TELL ME YOU'RE NOT GOING TO BUST OUT TOYS FOR YOUR CHILDREN TO PLAY WITH SOLELY TO GIVE YOURSELF SOME GODDAMN BLOG FODDER, YOU EXPLOITATIVE MONSTER. 

A. Meanwhile, in the Isle of Sodor...

Chaos rules the land, and has for quite some time.

The trains tried to warn the Sodorites that planes weren't as safe as railway travel and that a vintage Micro Machines airport from eBay was a bad idea, but nobody listened. "Look at how perfectly the drawings of lakes line up," the people said instead. "What are the fucking odds? That's kind of weird, right?"

So many planes crashed into the lake that they don't even sink anymore. They just pile up. And that dock isn't fooling anyone. 

They know who's still under there. 

That way, there be dragons. Don't go that way.

Eventually the trains and the Sodorites and even Sir Topham Hat packed up and fled the isle for probably the last time. If you ask why they'll just ask if you've ever read that Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs book.

So I guess it was something like that, then.

But! Then!

A new class!

A new chance!

Everything old was new again! Trains are awesome! Windmills are the new Elmo!

SOMEBODY even remembered how to make a circular track, HINT NOT CEIBA THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

Things were actually going so well that Sodor's previous master civil engineer was brought back in and agreed to make everything even more awesome. 

(Though the planned track expansion out to the minivan lame-o's in the suburbs was quickly scrapped as not feasible, totally boring.)

Coming Up Tomorrow, Because This Is Long & Ridiculous Enough Already: Dispatches From the Living Room of Sodor, Part Two aka 28 Minutes Later aka Now I Remember Why I Never Brought the @#(&ing Trains Out Of the @#$&ing Basement Before

But Also:

Wut?

THAT'S WUT.

Not Coming Soon to a Bookstore Near You: The 'Don't Be a Selfish Asshole' Guide to Parenting

The Good News: Thanks to you guys (who are awesome) I now have (at least) 100 different topic suggestions. Thank you. Y'all gave me both the poke-her-brain-with-stick-ing that I knew I needed AND the nicey-nice pep talk that I didn't. (Know. That I needed. But I guess I did. Oy, this post is already not going well.) 

The Bad News: WHERE TO START WHERE TO START THIS ONE THAT ONE OMG MY BRAIN IS BUBBLING OVER WITH UNBRIDLED OPINIONS AND WORDS AND IT'S LIKE MY INTERNAL DIALOGUE IS STAMPEDING ITSELF.

I should probably export the comments into some kind of spreadsheet and treat them like Actual Real Writing Assignments or a task list that I can smugly check off once I've written something. (Smugly only because I am never NOT kind of smug when I check something off a to-do list. Take that, list, I am super awesome and productive. For this brief shining moment, anyway.)

One topic I saw mentioned sevvvvveral times was the whole "giving each member of your brood the individual attention they deserve." I especially liked how Kerry phrased it, when she said "it seems like you find a nice balance between precious individual snowflakes and teeming horde."

I'm not sure if it's balance, necessarily, as in something I consciously set out to achieve each morning (or write down a task list just to cross it the fuck off, fuck yeah). Most days I can usually carve out some one-on-one time with each child by simply following the guiding principle of Don't Be A Selfish Asshole.

Let's say Ezra approaches me and asks if we can have a play picnic, but I'm really enjoying some Internet-ish diversion or game on my phone or I just came up with something funny to say on Twitter. If I were to say, "Not right now, Mommy's busy," I think that would make me a Selfish Asshole. And kind of a liar. All of those things will be there for me to read/play/be-stupid-on later. That moment with Ezra, when Ezra was four years, four months and four days old, will be gone forever if I pass on it. Sure, we might have a play picnic the next day too, but I'd really rather Ezra remember at least one of the 3,203,056 play picnics I sat through over the one time I said "Not right now, Mommy's busy." 

And that's depressingly likely with little kids, you know? The other day I DID have to tell Ezra not right now, busy, because I was stuck on a work task that wasn't really negotiable. His entire body registered his disappointment. He dropped his picnic basket on the floor, put his chin to his chest and shuffled off to pout on the stairs. All that the moment was missing was the Vince Guaraldi Trio playing in the background. 

Family outings are good. Crazy, somewhat akin to herding cats at times, but good. Museums, zoos, community centers— kids love that shit, and it gives a family our size a nice way to keep EVERYBODY entertained while we ration out our specific attention to specific children.

Our children's favorite place in the WHOLE WIDE WORLD right now is the Port Discovery Children's Museum in Baltimore. It's hike for us, but always worth it, even just for a few hours. Noah disappears into the three-story climbing/crawling/whatever area in the center and Jason and I each get really nice time with Ezra and Ike, and then we switch. Then, if we can ever get the two younger boys interested in the same room/activity, one of use sucks up our self-consciousness and awkwardly climbs around with Noah (mom-butt ahoy!) or leads him through one of the rooms aimed at older kids. 

Then we leave and get the kids some pizza, and us some beer(s). We probably go at least once a month, because IT WORKS. We have a family membership and know exactly what we need to pack for the day (and what we don't), and I also know that Noah will probably draw at least one picture or write one short story about it at school, which makes it pretty much a Total Win, all around. 

Jason once read some parenting guru's advice that said we should aim to have 30 uninterrupted minutes of "in" time with each child. You don't necessarily have to redirect them to something new or do anything specific with that time — you just join them at whatever they are doing and give them your undivided attention for 30 minutes. Most of the time your child will notice and include you in the activity or game and by the end of the half hour you'll likely have engaged in at least one valuable conversation or connection with them.

Other parenting books I've read (okay, skimmed) (okay, read the back cover at the bookstore) say the "30 solid minutes" is less important than the bigger idea of giving your child your undivided attention several times a day in a more organic fashion, even if it's just a minute or two here and there.

That is probably closer to what we get around here, though I agree that making the conscious, deliberate decision to Not Be A Selfish Asshole, put down the phone/magazine/Twitter-fight and pay real attention to your child will always make the time you do get with each of them much more valuable.

Ezra gets the most attention from me in the block of time between Ike going down for a nap and Noah coming home from school. We try to minimize full-family errands (see: FERAL TARGET BITING), but grocery shopping solo with Ezra is an unexpected delight: He's helpful and excited and will basically eat any vegetable that he picks out "himself." (KALE. THE KID EATS KALE.) Running errands has become a special Ezra/Daddy time, and something they both really look forward to. And of course, anything involving cooking or baking is the perfect opportunity to pull Ezra in. 

Noah thrives on routine, so our one-on-one time is usually after dinner, while he does homework. It's also usually the best time for him (sensory/behaviorial speaking) to sit next to one of us and calmly talk about his day. He's a world championship cuddler, too, who loves being under the covers with one of us, so he and I have nice lazy chats on Sunday mornings. After karate, one of us takes him to a nearby coffee shop for a cookie. (This may have had something to do with Ezra's enthusiasm for karate, yes. Better parenting through bribery, woot.) If he asks us for help building Legos we try to oblige, because we know that "asking for help with Legos" is Lego Master code for "I'm feeling a bit lonely and woud like some attention."

Ike still gets the solo bath and bed times, and no lie: Even diaper changes are a really nice one-on-one moment for us. I sing, we tickle, identify body parts (best is "where's your butt?" and he tosses his naked legs up and smacks his cheeks) and we end with a giant dive-bomb of a hug off the table. 

Anytime anyone asks for a hug, they get one. Anytime anyone asks to be picked up, they are. Anytime anyone asks for help, they get it. These are pretty much the unspoken non-negotiables, no matter what we may be doing at the time. Don't Be A Selfish Asshole, go help the kid who got his pajama shirt stuck on his head because he mistook a sleeve for the neckhole. (Again.)

Bedtime is 7:30 - 8 pm, at which point Jason and I get to be just us again, sipping wine and watching wildly inappropriate television like The Walking Dead and Archer. We stay up pretty late, even though our bodies might benefit from a little more sleep, because that's just how we can give each other the most undivided attention right now. We try to have a date night as many weekends as the budget allows, because some weeks are just harder than others. 

Some weeks are definitely more Team Teeming Horde than precious snowflake memories. Some weeks involve a lot more tantrums, fighting, random destruction and us yelling/nagging/scolding and GO TO YOUR ROOOOMing. Some weeks I feel like I'm a hopeless screw-up of a mother who loses her temper too often over "normal" kid behavior, while simultaneously raising a pack of barely civilized Pixy Stix.

And that's okay, I think. You're going to be screw-up sometimes. Just Don't Be A Selfish Asshole. 

(Also don't be afraid or ashamed to embrace the warm glowing warming glow of television every once in awhile. I mean, sometimes you really do just need some down time to dick around on your phone without the threat of neverending play picnics.)

Dear Peanut Gallery:

Okay. Let's just start typing and see how this goes:

I am burnt the fuck out, you guys. 

I suspect that doesn't surprise many of you; after years of writing-writing-writing hundreds of words here five days a week about everything-anything, my output here has noticeably slowed. Whereas before I would simply stare at the blank page and force myself to write something, and was fine spending a couple hours mashing that something into submission of NOT ALTOGETHER SUCKING, lately I've been coming here and if a topic doesn't pop (fully formed, with an outline and several bullet points) into my head within 30 seconds I'm like: Nooooope. Maybe tomorrow.

And before you rush to the comments section all GIVE YOURSELF A BREAK WE UNDERSTAND, let me assure you that I am definitely 100% giving myself a damn break about it. I do not feel guilty or panicked or ZOMG MAH RELEVANCE IS FADING about it at fucking all. Dish, please.

I have three children who constantly need things or rides to things or want to talk to me about all the things. I've somehow fallen ass-over-teakettle into a consulting career that demands a lot of hours, hours that I am happy to hand over because it's all personally rewarding and challenging in a way that blabbering on about myself stopped being a long time ago. At 3 pm every afternoon I close the laptop, collect Noah at the bus and spend the rest of the day fully engaged with my children and husband without a second thought at what's going on in my email/blog/Twitter/whatever. 

And before you rush to the comments section all STFU WITH YOUR DISTRACTING PERSONAL GROWTH AND ENTERTAIN US, WHORECAKES, let me also assure you that this is not (at all, not even a little bit) some bloggy setup for announcing my retirement or shut-down or resignation from teh royal Internet. This is just me sitting down and forcing myself to write something, anything, just like I've done on an almost-daily basis since two-thousand-and-oh-fucking-three. 

It IS, however, a shameless ploy for a little crowd-sourced inspiration. What would you like me to write about? I believe I've caught requests for posts about Montessori and why we chose it, a hair tutorial for making crappy ultra-fine hair look slightly less crappy (HA!), and SOMETHING TELLS ME there have been additional questions about cloth diapers that have somehow gone unanswered in the 2430434502098765 words I've written about that topic already. Is there anything...else? Other plots I've left dangling because OOH LOOK SOMETHING SHINY or questions that aren't necessarily Advice Smackdown material but you still want to ask because nosy? Or I don't know, feel free to just start shouting random words at me like MEGGINGS or PACKING PEANUTS or DEODORANTS ON SPRING BREAK. 

Anyway, I'd super appreciate hearing from you and getting some writing prompts to help me get back into a groove. (Not to mention that EVERY. TIME. I've done this in the past something immediately interesting happens in my life as a convenient double-shock to the writing reflexes, so let's just tempt some fate up in this bitch.)

Just be your nice usual lovely non-asshole selves about it, is all I ask. If you tell me to write about why I suck we'll never get to address any other topic ever, since that would require a novel-length 20-part series and ain't nobody got time for that. 

(Plus, Ike will eat you. Grarrrr.)

My Forceful Valentine

Yesterday was the 16th Valentine's Day Jason and I have spent together. Sixteenth. 

Shortly before our first Valentine's Day together, on our very first date, this happened:

You can read the full story behind this newspaper clipping here. Highly recommended reading, especially if you've never dug that far back (2005!) into my blog archives. I would love to say oh, isn't it funny how much I relied on CAPS LOCK and run-on sentences for humor back then, but that would probably spark some kind of existential "LOOK AT YOUR LIFE. LOOK AT YOUR CHOICES."-type crisis that I've been yammering on for over nine years and have still not managed to grow as a writer in the slightest, and it's only 11 am and thus too early to start drinking and hurling glasses at walls because I CAN'T QUIT YOU CAPS-LOOOOOOOOCCCCCKKKK.

Short version, though, for anybody who ain't got time for that: On our first date (that I did not realize was a date), Jason suggested we try to see the newly re-released version of the original Star Wars, even though he knew full well it would be sold out. (Thus "forcing" us to buy tickets for the following weekend, thus ensuring a second date, because that boy was smart.) On our way out of the theater we were randomly interviewed by a reporter about the sold-out showings and Star Wars mania in general. We cracked stupid jokes that sounded even stupider when printed in the paper, but the reporter asked if we were dating and I said "no" and Jason said "bwah?" and I said "ohhhhh." Then we made out in his car and lived happily ever after.

Anyway. We used to keep that newspaper clipping in a frame, but it was starting to yellow and fade so badly that I put it away at some point. I'd completely forgotten about this little bit of ephemera until yesterday. Jason had it reprinted on a Valentine's card for me:

Sixteen Valentine's Days and counting, and that boy still knows how to do them up right. 

(This card accompanied a small assortment of vintage L.E. Smith black amethyst vases, because OBVIOUSLY. I immediately freaked out and spent 40 minutes arranging flowers in them [BECAUSE AB CHAO] and then spent another 40 minutes on Google trying to figure out what decade they were from [1930s, possibly even late 1920s; good eye, husband!]. So all-in-all a pretty romantic evening by nobody's standards except mine.)

(I made Jason a card and bought him a book that includes a map of all the whorehouses in Phuket, Thailand, because I am also awesome and way romantic.)

Playtime at the Thunderdome

Quick! Describe the sibling relationship going on in your house right now in one word:

BEATINGS.

Now describe it in five words:

SERIOUSLYBEATINGS. ALL. THE. LIVELONG. DAY. 

No, I am not beating my children. I personally engage in zero beatings or beating-type behavior with them. They beat on each other. 

And poke.

And pinch.

And punch.

And leg-wrestle, which is boy-speak for "We're really just kicking each other, but it's okay because SPORTS."

Over the weekend Ezra bit Noah in the middle of Target — bit him so hard that Noah had teeth marks on his arm through his winter coat. 

As far as I can tell, he bit Noah simply because he'd been pretending to bite Noah for awhile and that game got boring. 

(Dear Noah: HE LEARNED IT FROM WATCHING YOOOOOUUUU.)

They antagonize each other constantly. They demand that the other "leave me alonnnne" and then are up in each other's grill 10 seconds later, playing full-contact tug-of-war over a toy, a throw pillow, a goddamned broom. 

Ike only wants to play with Ezra. Ezra only wants to play with Noah. Noah only wants to play with Ike.

There is no overlap or compromise to that flowchart; only the sound of one child shrieking because an unacceptable playmate is invading his personal space, trying to get his attention, breathing on his toys, etc. 

There is always some kind of confiscated weapon on our mantel or on top of the fridge.

I DON'T KNOW WHERE THIS STUFF EVEN COMES FROM. Not that it matters, because even in the complete absence of plastic swords or lightsabers, they'll just battle with the aforementioned throw pillows and broom handles. 

Everyone gets ready for bed in shifts now, since Noah and Ezra proved to be completely incapable of going upstairs together and putting on pajamas at the same time without somebody getting hurt. Or somebody pretending to get hurt because they know Mommy's rubber-band nerves have HAD IT by 8 pm and they can get their sibling's reading-light or come-back-downstairs-for-10-minutes privileges revoked, because it is a goddamn Machiavellian Man Cave up there. 

The other night a war broke out over two empty milk containers.

I repeat: TWO. EMPTY. MILK. CONTAINERS. 

Ike "rescued" these precious items from our recycling bin and they immediately became like, THE hot toy item of the century. Forget Cabbage Patch dolls and Tickle Me Elmo: Kids today are all the unrinsed, slightly dented recyclables. Please stampede accordingly.

This is what was originally going on elsewhere. It was working out as well as you might imagine, which is to say, omg, children, there is an entire house to play in and yet you are insisting on Thunderdoming it out for the same three feet of Blanket Fort. It's like you WANT to get kicked in the face or something. 

But then: A challenger appears. EMPTY MILK CONTAINERS. HOLY SHIT.

(Forgive the random extra car seat sitting in our living room. It's now stored safely away in the basement because MY CHILDREN WOULDN'T STOP FIGHTING OVER WHO GOT TO SIT IN IT.)

Anyway, yeah. There were tears. ACTUAL TEARS.

And while I know it's probably all kinds of cruel to sit there snapping pictures while your four year old sobs hysterically, allow me to remind you that my four year old was sobbing hysterically over EMPTY MILK CONTAINERS, and one day I will need these photos to settle arguments with his teenaged self, like when he's telling me that he's mature enough to take his hovercar out to Mars for the Intergalactic Planking Championships or something.

No. You once lost your shit over stuff your brother pulled out of the trash. YOUR ARGUMENT IS INVALID. 

(Ike was all, nice try. I am also unmoved by your misery.)

Cont'd.

And etc. 

So that's what life is like approximately...all the time. We do get occasional moments of brotherly love — Ike might deign to hug Noah before running away, or at least manage to run away before Noah insists on grabbing him around the neck because I WILL MAKE YOU LOVE ME. I WILL CUDDLE YOU SO HARD AGAINST YOUR WILL. I'll hear Ezra shout "Don't you hurt my brother!" to an over-aggressive playmate, or give part of his dessert to someone who didn't get any, just because.

And sometimes Noah and Ezra will bond after getting sent to their room for fighting and I'll find them cuddled up together, reading a story and talking about how mean and awful I am. So that's nice too. 

 

Say My Name

Noah called me 'Mama' until he started preschool. That child never once sat still for circle time or completed a craft project without protest — and I'm pretty sure his only interaction with most of his classmates involved throwing things at them — but he still managed to somehow absorb the message that 'Mama' was for babies. He was calling me 'Mommy' within a couple weeks. 

Ezra never called me 'Mama.' I was 'Mommy,' right from the start.

I figured Ike would be the same, especially since he's been taking his sweet time in calling me ANYTHING. By the time he chose to acknowledge that I have a name, that I am a PERSON with FEELINGS beyond LADY WHO WHAT BRINGS ME ALL THE FOOD AND CHANGES MAH PANTS, I assumed he'd be past the 'ma-ma' pronounciation and would call me what he hears his brothers say. Christ, he calls Jason 'Dad' most of the time: He might very well just go straight to 'Mom.'

Such a small, stupid distinction, but I admit: I was bummed at the thought of never being 'Mama' again. I always wished Noah had stuck with it, like I always wish we were more Southern than we are. Not geoghraphically, but...more genteel. With bigger hair. Nicer manners, better shade-throwing skilla and less nasal-y accents. Mama. Bless y'all's hearts. Mommy is fine, but Mama is what my baby called me. And that's what made it so sweet and fleetingly special.

Tl;dr Ike calls me 'Mama."  

For now, anyway. 'Mommy' and 'Mom' are right around the corner, and that's fine.

But oh, it is so nice to hear that word again from this tiny little person. 

 

Doppy Urpdey

Below is an absolutely thrilling video, in which Ike sings "Happy Birthday." Only without any of the actual words...or the right melody...and also there's no cake.

But there is a candle and an excess of toddler confidence and ham-face, so...

 

 

Happy Friday! And no, I'm not paying royalties on that, suckers. It's a new original arrangement.