Prolly All the Time

gratuitous bragging

OK, I am pretty sure that I have the coolest kid in the world.  Sorry to the rest of you.  Game over.  Thanks for playing, we have some lovely parting gifts.

You see, my kid can do magic.  Oh, I am not talking about pulling woodland creatures out of top hats or picking a card out of a deck...  no slight of hand here (I mean, come on, the kid can barely manipulate a Cheerio into his mouth without dumping half the box in his lap...).  I mean legitimate mind-bending magic. 

Allow me to demonstrate.

Look deep into his eyes...  deeper.  Just take a few moments to take in those baby blues... don't worry, I will wait.

OK, now TELL ME that you did not just forget everything that you have to do for the rest of the day.  TELL ME that all you can think about is how incredibly cute and fun this little guy is.

It is amazing, isn't it?  I know.  I tried to warn you.

houseguests

My in-laws arrived on Wednesday and are staying with us through Monday...

I expect that following this trip I will have some interesting stories from our interactions, because they are, in fact, interesting people. Every time I have the privilege of spending time with them I feel that I am on more of a National Geographic Explorer-type mission, than spending time with family.  They are so different from me, and even quite different from N. that I spend a lot of the time just marveling at their way of approaching life and those around them.  You see, it is almost as if they are unable to read the people around them,  they are unaware of the signals and cues that people send out all the time.

For example, I will be watching a TV show.  My body language and intense focus would indicate to anyone else that I am trying to follow the story, that I am into the program.  She will pick the WORST time to start talking about nothing, just because it strikes her.  I understand that a solution to this problem for most people would just be to get up and move to another TV... but see, then I am being anti-social. I am choosing TV over family. Despite the fact that we have been talking and being social (car rides, dinner, etc) for the past three hours. She does this during movies too.  It is a HUGE pet peeve of mine.

I am an only child (yes, I know that this means I have my own set of issues)...  I grew up in a fairly quiet environment.  I am used to a certain amount of down-time in my day.  My parents are not yellers, at all.  In fact, growing up my measurement of how "in trouble" I was, was gauged by how softly my parents were speaking to me, how long the very pregnant pauses were, and the deafening silence of the house before the punishment was handed down.  We can BE loud and boisterous, but it is generally in short doses and with specific reason.  As such, N. and I keep a pretty quiet house.  Not like library quiet, but we don't scream at Bean, we try to keep the volume down when folks, particularly our child, are sleeping, etc.

My MIL is loud.  She is compulsively loud.  I don't think that she is even aware of how loud she is. It isn't just her voice volume...  she bangs things around, she slams things down.  She sighs and huffs and even fidgets loudly.  She appears unable to modulate her volume.  Even around small children.  There is a pretty famous family incident witnessed by at least 5 adults.  Our niece, baby K, was a mere 2.5 months old.  My MIL put her on the floor underneath one of those kick toys.  MIL then began banging on the floor, screaming "Kick it Baby K!  Kick IT!" as if she was cheering on her granddaughter at a soccer game from the stands (yes, that loud).  The rest of us looked at each other in a kind of stunned stupor.  Who YELLS at an infant?

Yesterday morning was the first time that Bean has seen his Gree (MIL) since his baptism (about 4 months ago).  Within 2 hours of their re-acquaintance, she had scared the living shit out of him, literally.  He was in his high chair, showing off his newly acquired pincer grasp skills with his most favored of foods, the Cheerio. This was after an impressive display of crawling, standing and "vogueing" for the cameras. With little warning, MIL started banging on the try table and yelling for Bean to pick up a Cheerio.  "COME ONE BEAN, PICK IT UP! SHOW POPPU WHAT A BIG BOY YOU ARE!  PICK IT UP!"

Bean began to SCREAM bloody murder, as if to say "OMG, why is she yelling at me, what is she doing?  WHO IS THIS CRAZY LADY????????????"  It was so bad that the nanny couldn't calm him down.  I had to pick him up, hold him for 10 minutes and it took 3 renditions of "Itsy Bitsy" to get him to settle (I was working from home).  All the while he kept one eye on MIL.  I don't think that he wanted her to sneak up on him.

Later, as she recounted the incident to N, MIL insisted that she had no idea what could have set young Bean off.  She just shrugged and hypothesized he must have been ready for his nap. 

See what I mean... interesting.

a toast

To the memories of yesterday, the laughter of today and the promise of tomorrow.

The weather was perfect, our families were reasonably well-behaved. I spied on you from the Bride's room as you got your pictures taken.  The wedding started an hour late. Galls interrupted our big entrance and got a standing ovation. Dinner started late because people were watching the bats come out. My dad made me cry and then CB got me all snotty.  Our song was "Our House" by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young.  "September" by Earth, Wind and Fire got the party dancing.  Cliffy is the BEST dancer we know. You got cake in my eye.  No matter what she claims, my mother got drunk. The last song of the night was "Last Dance" by Donna Summers (a special treat from the band). After the reception, you got drunk while I opened all of the gifts and ate more wedding cake. It was the best day of my life.

Three years ago today, I made a lifetime pact with my best friend. Each day is an adventure and I wouldn't trade this for anything.  This life together far exceeds anything I could have hoped for, and that is counting the snoring and cover-keeping.

We are each other's business, We are each other's harvest, We are each other's magnitude and bond.

- gwendolyn brooks

inter-species bonding

I already shared this over at sweet juniper, but it is worth a post. 

While I was away, it appears that some serious strides were made in doggy-baby relations.  Where previously Bean was only mildly interested in the pups there seems to have developed a very close bond between Nugget (the boxer) and Bean.

Yesterday, as I fed Bean Cheerios while he happily played with tupperware on the kitchen floor a curious thing occured.  I turned my back for 2 seconds to restock my handy supply of the curiously delicious oat Os and when I turned around Nugget and Bean were playing baby bird-mama bird with some half-chewed Cheerios.  "what could that mean?' you must be asking yourselves... "Surely, she can't mean..." GASP!

Yes.  Bean had his tongue totally extended offering the mushy bits to Nugget who was happily lapping it right off of his tongue.  And Bean was just laughing away. Like it was the most fun he had had all year, french-kissing the dog.

That is some sick and dirty shit. The best thing that I could figure to do was to yell at the dog and brush Bean's mouth for like 15 minutes with that baby finger brush thing.  Now, Nugget and bean are attached at the hip... or lip. 

I am suddenly glad that the "experts" don't read this blog or TX CPS might be showing up on my door for indecency or something. Although, there are no pictures so, where's the proof.  I don't think that you can make up stuff like this. 

SHHH, lets just keep this one quiet. 

relaxamacation redux

Ok, so I am back.  Back from the spa and back to work. All in all the "weekend of me" was a success... I feel relaxed, refreshed, and ready to roll with the whole mommy-thing again.  I have decided rather than provide a blow-by-blow of the weekend, I will hit you with the high points.

• I consider it a personal insult to go to a spa and NOT get a hot stone massage.  If you have never had one you need to stop what you are doing and make an appointment right now. It is, in fact, the measuring stick by which I measure all spa experiences.  I had the hot stone on day one of the "weekend of me" which could have set me up for an overall disappointing weekend...  glad to report that The Crossings in Austin receives 3.25 stars (on a scale of four...  I have never given a four, perfection is oh-so-elusive).
• 43 hours is A LOT of time to spend without a TV... or a newspaper. period.
• If your skin has not seen the sun in over 1.5 years, it is possible to burn through 45 sunblock.
• This spa is also a "Wellness" center... which means (and I apologize in advance if this offends someone, but whatever) there were a lot of bell-ringing, patchouli-stinking, unshaven, over-the-hill hippies there trying to get their organs and spirits and shit aligned.  This is not my crowd... VW and I spent the better part of the weekend doing our best to NOT get kicked out for bending someone's aura.
• The good thing about over-the-hill hippies is that they have an incredible lack of self-consciousness when it comes to their bodies.  While not easy on the eyes... after a weekend there my issues with my fat pants... no more.  Better boost to my self-confidence than 10 months of J*enny Craig and Sou*th Beach.
• A note to the staff at the Treehouse Cafe, while we certainly enjoyed the free WiFi access that you provided this weekend (as we were the only two people who seemed at all connected to the outside world by something other than a chakra) have you even listened to the words to the simpering folk crap you were playing at deafening levels this weekend.  "Goodbye sweet earth.  It was good to know you.  We should have taken better care, but our tanks were empty?" Is that really the best that you can do? Joni Mitchell would drop kick your ass for that.
• And finally, I did not realize that I was required to pass Anatomy 101 to get a freaking facial.  Apparently, by shining different color lights on my face while it is covered in an algae mask, it is possible to bring my organs in balance with the rest of my body. I just wanted by pores sucked clean. I was not aware that my organs were out of balance.  I was instructed to picture each organ being bathed in its corresponding light color...  my first color, red.  my first organ, gall bladder. Where the fuck is my gall bladder and what does it look like?  Bunk, all of it.  And now, I haven't taken a shit since I left that place and I used to be as regular as the gas bill. Perhaps, I am being punished.

On an only slightly related note... N. is the luckiest mother f'er I know.  Everything comes easily to him.  Have you seen those Staples commercials, with the "easy" button?  Yeah, well that is based on my husband's life.

When I returned home, I found everything in working order, bean was dressed and happily stuffing Cheerios in his mouth.  Although not all was as I had left it.  Apparently, N. has somehow convinced Bean that waking before 6 AM is a waste of perfectly good darkness and that 7 AM is a much more reasonable time for food and frolicking.

While this is a great development and I am certainly grateful, what the fuck?  I spend countless hours pouring over books to figure out how to get this kid to sleep, I set schedules, establish routines, beg, plead, and make deals with the devil... no dice. N. gets half of a weekend alone with him and presto! it's done.  I asked him how he did it and he just shrugged and said "i don't know... it just happened." 

I know that they are conspiring against me. I just know it.

those who do...

Did I mention that I teach Sunday School? Yeah, crazy I know.   Who in their right mind would charge me with the spiritual education of impressionable teenagers?  The Epis*copalians, that is who.  The "brand" of Christianity that boldly proclaimed to love the idea of being a Catho*lic, but not all those pesky rules.  A group that not only tolerates drinking and cursing, but often encourages it... at least the drinking part. This, of course, is a group that I can get behind.

Sunday School starts tomorrow. N. and I (along with two other adults who have no idea what they have gotten themselves into) are leading the 11/12th graders.  Most of these kids have been under my tutelage for 3-4 years, which explains a lot about their commitment and attendence. 

Do not get me wrong. We do take this responsibility very seriously...  but, we also remember what it was like to be a teenager on the verge of busting out of your parents house. It is also important to note that this is NOT (at this stage) bible education class or else we would all be screwed. Someone else covered that.  Although, not well. Episcopalians are, on the whole, notoriously bible-illiterate.  I mean, why memorize... it isn't like a bible is hard to find in a pinch and really, I don't think that I want to be the kind of person that goes around quoting the bible.  Next thing you know, you and your family are travelling around the country in your RV, screaming at people from street corners about the fires of hell and damnation. I have a thing about public speaking.

At this point, these classes are more about applying the principles of faith to their everyday life. (and notice that I said "faith" and not religion, they are two EXTREMELY different things.  Faith informs a person's way of life, guides their decisions, etc... religion is what makes people kill each other in the name of God.) We discuss current events, stuff going on in thier lives and we ask them to challenge what they have been taught and to find their own language of belief -- to let go of their parents' faith a little and find their own. I also try to show them that there is room for a very healthy sense of humor when it comes to God.  In fact,  God laughs at us all the time.  Have you seen those hairless dogs?  And how else can you explain "Kill Reality"?

This is work that I find most rewarding...

Every year my belief in the power of youth is renewed, and I feel re-charged.  I think that I may get more from them than I give...  I guess I hope that keeping this up will help me to take a deep breath and pause to remember what is was like to be a teenager when Bean is acting the fool.  That from this experience, I can take the strength to give Bean the tools I think that he needs to survive and be a postive influence on this world and trust that he will find his way.

And best of all, I am never disappointed by the shit that comes out of these kids mouths. It is an endless source of material.

Happy Sunday, y'all. 

where in the world is t'pon

Oh my peeps, I am predicting prolific postings ahead.  I am facing a weekend sans bebe and sans husband... I am taking a mental holiday.  That is right, this weekend the men of casa t'pon are going to have to make it without the homestead's namesake. I wish them luck. I would be concerned except that would take away from an entire 43 hours devoted to me.*

You see, this is my first overnight trip away from the Bean since his glorious appearing some 7.75 months ago.  Not a single day of his life has gone by in which he has not seen his mother's smiling face (or cringing, depending on the day... you get the point),  not a morning has gone by that he has not been greeted with food and play no later than 8 AM (in fairness, there were those 3-4 times that I made N. get out of bed at 6 AM with threats of never attempting to have children again, if you catch my drift), not a single night when he has not been rocked to sleep or gently fed by mama... all this would score me major points on Dr. S*ear's Amazing Attachment Parenting Race... but it is making t'pon a little fucking crazy.  Because, with all that quality togetherness comes a lot tantrums and shitty diapers and not a whole lot of fucking sleep. And let's be honest...  I am not an AP-kind of gal.

So, I took to the hills for some serious R&R at the spa with my bud, VeeDub.  I am a firm believer that there is no ill that a few days of total strangers rubbing your body can't cure.  Thus far, I have been scrubbed down and rubbed down and my jaw is just on the verge of unclenching.  There is not TV, but there is a wireless connection and electricity so my brain will get some quality attention as well.

And best of all, should my body betray me and wake me up at 6 AM because it is so conditioned to the abuse, like a twisted case of Pavlov's dog... I can give it the old fuck you, roll over and will myself back to sleep.  Or even better yet, I can waste all afternoon passed out at the pool in between letting these wonderful people practice their art.  And if I drool on the lounge chair, so be it.  Bean drools on everything I own...  I am just passing it forward.

The early observation on my Mom's Morning (and afternoon and evening and overnight x2) Out:

I miss them, but not enough to want to be there.  Yet. Talk to me in 12 hours though and I may be one big maternal mess.

* I will point out that N. has already requested that our fabulous nanny stop by from 1:00 - 8 PM on Saturday...  I kind of feel like that is cheating since that time covers two naps and bedtime... but once again, thinking those thoughts only punishes me by distracting me from my self-absorption.  We all do what we can to get by.

of mothers and pants

I was reading the other day in one of my many "what the hell is going on with this baby" books that long about the 7-8 month mark children begin to identify themselves as a separate being from their mommies. They begin to see themselves as individuals.

The book does not, however, indicate when mommies reach that particular developmental milestone.  Not that I am worried about me.  I fully recognize that Bean and I are not the same person. I, for one, can get cheerios into my mouth without stockpiling several thousand in the fat creases of my thighs; I can indicate a desire without screaming at the top of my lungs (although, I will concede that sometimes the tactic is very handy); I am an extremely capable napper; and I can extract my own nose goblins and do so willingly.  Bean?

Yeah... not so much.

Perhaps it is because Bean is a boy that I am capable of this recognition so early in his life.  I mean, the "little member" is a dead giveaway.  I say this, because my mother (Chicken Little) continues to labor under the delusion that we are exactly the same person.  Yes, we look (facially) remarkably alike and speak and gesture almost identically (it has been called "freakish" on more than one occasion)... but last I checked, yep... still two different people.

For the most part, it is only mildly irritating, this developmental block of my mother's.  According to her, we have the same tastes and needs in everything.  Nevermind the fact that she is 27 years older than me. If she likes it, I must like it.  If her doctor is concerned about it, why isn't my doctor concerned about it.  I must want to work full-time, because she did.  This is how I did it when you were young... and on and on and on.  Up until Bean, this situation was the single biggest contributor to our once-a-day phone habit. She knows that it bothers me...  but she often uses it against me in my weakest moments.

For example, about 2 months post-bean I was at an all-time personal low... feeling really bad about my weight and general doughboy-like appearance. I was tired of wearing anything that I had worn during pregnancy and may have worn the same pair of PJ bottoms for any number of days (but there exists no proof of this).  She offered, during a visit, to take me shopping for clothes, new clothes, that would flatter my "in-between" stage.

[NOTE:  I am a clothes junkie and you can think of my mom as the "pusher-man"... she feeds the habit as a sign of her love for me.  I have no interest in breaking my habit.  It is totally manageable (despite what N. might say) and does not get in the way of my everyday life, mostly. With the exception of the work hours spent trolling online shopping sites... but I am not sure that counts.]

I should have seen this as an obvious opportunity for my mother to "momify" my wardrobe, which she believes to be to "young" for an almost 30-year old* mother of one. Particularly, my commitment, dare we say, religious devotion to low-slung pants.  Not hip-huggers or the scandalously low cut jeans preferred by hookers and semi-talented teeny bopper pop-stars...  just low-cut, hip-grazing pants.  My mother prefers a style that is, well, a little higher. And that works for her, she is over 50 and she has a figure that can support higher waist pants... namely hips.  I, however, am the same width front to back as I am side to side -- like a column, or a 14-year old girl, or my father.  This is largely the reason that Bean's head came out looking like the business end of a torpedo.

So, after three hours of shopping and at least two pitiful fitting room breakdowns...  I came home with five pairs of new pants, suitable for work or play. At the time, I was grateful --pants that fit that weren't PJ bottoms and didn't have "panels".  But now, as I am still trying to kick off the last 8 lbs...  I realize that these pants look horrible on me.  They are, at best, unflattering, and, at worst, capable of landing me on "What not to Wear" in that horrible mirrored room. [BTW, BBC version so rocks the TLC-version]

I am all legs, crotch and armpits, my torso is GONE.  The only redeeming factor of these pants is that my legs look freakishly long. So if I could simply hide my upper-half behind a dutch door, all would be fine. And as if adding insult to injury... they make my gut look practically with child from the side.

I addressed this issue yesterday with my mother while bemoaning the fact that I don't have anything to wear. I told her that I looked like some kind of reject from the Ed Grimley School of Style... Her response:

"Well, I bought the same pair of pants and they look great on me, so you must be wrong. Perhaps you just need to lose the rest of the weight. Besides, you are too old to wear those low-rider pants anyway...  You know, I stopped wearing hip-huggers before my 25th birthday."

OK, sure.  So, 57 years and counting.

* 30th Birthday... T-minus 29 days. Tick-tock.

gone a huntin'

I believe that it is generally accepted that the obsessions of the parent are often adopted by the child.  It makes sense to me. My parents instilled certain "truths" in me (like the fact that a great pair of shoes can do wonders for the spirit) and N.'s parents certainly did a number on him.

How can it be helped, when from such a young and tender age we are bombarded by the deep-seeded fears, concerns, beliefs and obsessive compulsive rituals of the people charged to shine a light along the path of life for us. And as parents, of course we are going to shine the light specifically on those things for which we believe our children should be most watchful. 

We take our parents baggage and go out into the world to find our own set to add to the ensemble. We then try our best to find enough storage, somewhere, so that we can safely hide the whole set -- until the time comes to "pass it forward". 

Much to N.'s dismay, the time has come for me to begin bequeathing some of my finest to the Bean. N. believes that this particular obsession is new found, a recent addition to a long list of peculiar fascinations due in large part to the addition of a small, secreting being. The obsession in question...  boogers.

Boogs, bogeys, nose goblins, nose gold, whatever you want to call them, I am obsessed with the extraction and eradication of the little fuckers.  Both for myself and for my child.

I have very, very severe allergies and as a result I wage a daily battle to rid myself of the sticky secretion. It prevents me from breathing, it makes my nose itch uncontrollably, and sometimes (I mean, I am just being honest here) it hurts.  And so, I spend a lot of time waging an ongoing battle against the invaders. Sometimes, I find the need to involve others in the fight...  In college, I asked my roommate to check for "boogs" on such a regular basis, that she sent me this [Download boogs.pdf] the summer before our junior year. 

I had hoped that Bean would not inherit my nasal passage's uncanny ability to over-produce the stuff, but while blessed with a beautiful set of eyes, a great sense of humor and a stunning sense of style... the good must come with the bad.

And so, we battle on so that I can show him how to arm himself for the future.  I have three different aspirators and have perfected the techniques necessary to extract almost any variety.  I can also make pretty excellent progress with my pinkie nail and some strategic squeezing. And if all else fails it is pretty darn amazing what a warm washcloth will accomplish. I find it very satisfying work.

The only issue is that Bean does not seem to enjoy it at all.  In fact, he appears to hate it.  It is almost as if (gasp! could it be true?) he would rather just go about his day with those boogers hanging out like a couple free-loading, stoner roommates.

So, now I am faced with the question.  Do I let it go, assuming that Bean just isn't cut out for a life of nose goblin slaying? Or, do I press on with the knowledge that sometimes it just takes a little bit of commitment to really develop an apprentice.

we'll be back, after a few short messages

Ahhhhh, you still there?  Helloooooooooo -- ooooooooooo -- oooooooo, here that echo.  Serves me right I guess.  For those of you still out there, thanks for hanging in.  It has been a KAH-RAAAAZY week at casa t'pon and I am just now catching up.  Between:

• work (supporting a client with their Katrina Relief efforts and constant media monitoring doesn't do too much for the funny bone),
• my car (how hard is it really to get a tow truck to come to my house, which is stationary by the way, and pick up my car?  you would be surprised. 9 calls to roadside assistance, 3 tow services, and 7 hours later... my car is safely in the hands of certified technicians. and BONUS, there are only 18 cars ahead of mine for service. Su-per!)
• and the bean (we have petitioned to officially change his name to the very rare night variety of the Mexican jumping bean...)

Well, I am worn the fuck out.  But, looking forward to getting back into the swing of things.

Hey, to all the very more experienced moms out there...  riddle me this.  How the heck do you get diapers on a child that seems physically unable to sit or lay or be still for more than a nanosecond?  Would it be cruel and unusual to jerry-rig him with some kind device that would alleviate the need for a diaper? Anyone know a wholesale vendor who sells miles of plastic sheeting for my floors and furniture at a reasonable rate?  That is quickly becoming my only option.

If you have some good (or even bad at this point) assvice to share... well, I am all ears.  Short of a staple gun and roller skates, I am all out of clever thinking on this.