Prolly All the Time

alright already!

You know, I have been trying to avoid recapping my recent guest performance with the Beavertucky Dancers in the passive-aggressive ballet.  But, ever since I indicated that I had caved and pulled on the tights, I have been FLOODED with requests for the update.  OK, flooded might be an exaggeration...  but I am short, so we can chalk it up to a matter of perspective.  you can drown in as little as a few inches of email people... be vigilant.

See, see me trying to distract you...  LOOK, over there.

OK, so it started quite innocently.  My MIL asked N. what MY opinion of the situation was...  now, some of you may find that irritating, that she refuses to actually call and speak to me -- that she only calls us on N.'s cell phone.  But, in this case, I avoided getting involved directly.  N. expressed that I really thought that since the baby is in fact my SIL's, her rules trump all.  That is all he told me about the conversation.  I think that more was said, who knows.

About three days later, as I am emailing with SIL on a TOTALLY unrelated subject, she personally introduced me to the large, pink elephant sitting in the corner. For two days, I ignored the elephant... but they are very loud and messy and they eat a lot... eventually, I had to acknowledge it. If for no other reason than I had to email my SIL back about something else.  It would have been awkward.  Plus, I was a little irritated that this stupid feud was still going on.

Long story short...  I was honest with her. I told her that I agreed with her but that for her to expect my MIL to be anything other than the person she has been for 57 years was being unrealistic and that she was setting herself up for a lifetime of disappointment. 

You see, as irritating and foreign as I think that my MIL is, and as bizarre as her behavior can be...  I have come to learn something about her over the past 7 years. She does not really know how to have a real, true relationship based on mutual trust and love with another person.  She had a tough childhood, she had to compete for affection...  and she has never met the good end of a psychologist's couch.  In many ways, I feel sorry for her.  It must be difficult and exhausting and incredibly lonely to never really TRUST that people care about you and love you, even if they disagree with you. There are people who are maliciously manipulative... she is not one of them. She has no idea that other people's minds and hearts don't work like hers.  She is just... oh heck, you know.

There is something else. My MIL lived to be a mother -- it defined her, it was her calling. You think that some of the mothers in your neighborhood "mommy mafia" are over the top...  you have no idea.  This woman started the revolution.  So, for my SIL to criticize her for the way she handled a child... to call into question her care for an infant, well, my SIL might as well have said "you are a suck ass mother!" because I guarantee you... that is what my MIL heard.

And this is in a nutshell, what I told my SIL.  That she had every right to speak her peace, to stand up for her wishes for her child... but in doing so, she had to understand what was going on in my MIL's head and prepare for the inevitable reaction.  Understanding this, has helped me pick my battles and let other things slide with a clench of the butt-hole and a crick of the neck.

My husband, FIL and BIL have their own coping mechanism for this... and as immature as I may think it is, it has served them well for over 35 years.  I encouraged SIL to find her own way of maneuvering around the landmines.  She is going to need it...

Living five miles away and all.

I don't think that they have resolved the issue... but perhaps they each have something to think about...

get your tickets...

The thing that I love about my husband's family is their ability to take any blessed event and turn it into an opportunity to show off their very best passive aggressive dance moves. Ordinarily, I wouldn't mention it, but as they are doing their best to drag me into it, I am forced to dust off my legwarmers and jazz hands and "Express Myself!"

I think that I have done a fair job of introducing y'all to my MIL. But, in order to really understand what is going on with this situation, I have to now share some additional information on my SIL and the family dynamics. In the interest of time, I am going with the cliff notes format, complete with bullets:

• My SIL is a little fanatic… she is a high-maintenance parent, overly concerned with germs, safety, and the media's danger du jour. As such, it is often difficult for her to keep perspective.
• My MIL does not really like my SIL, although I suspect that this is less about SIL and more about my MIL's belief that the only woman good enough for her sons is her.
• It probably doesn't help that these two women live less than 5 miles door to door from each other, go to the same church, etc. etc. etc. (I mean, have these people not heard of BOUNDARIES?)
• There have been no less than ten confrontations between SIL and MIL re: the raising of our first niece (3 yrs old), including one episode, involving a three page baby-care instruction manual and a trash can, which found me trapped me in the middle.
• My BIL and N. are both afraid of their mother. I have never seen two grown men (short of those who attended Catholic School) quake in fear when forced to confront an older woman. Granted, her fits are a sight to behold and I have seen her swing a golf club, but come on...

• Currently, I am the ranking favorite with my MIL, due in large part to the fact that early on (despite vehement protests from N.) I subtly indicated that I would not be a party to her manipulation and I also have the benefit of 1200 miles distance. (see, BOUNDARIES... an effective family management tool)

About three weeks ago, my BIL and SIL received a visit from the stork who dropped off a brand new baby girl, 5 weeks early. [I claim that the stork stopped by as my SIL is known for her ridiculously short labours.  This one clocked in at a remarkably irritating 2.25 hours -- from first contraction to baby on the ground.  Her first labour came in just under 4 hours. I wanted her daughter to provide Bean in-utero instructions on evacuation procedures to encourage his speedy disembarking, but alas, my SIL felt this might be a wee inappropriate for a then 2-year old.] This is her second preemie, our first niece was born about 7 weeks early.

Mama and baby are doing great and all appeared to be going gangbusters. That is until last week, when the curtain went up on the Beavertuckey Dancers' performance, "did grandma shake the baby?" Back by popular demand from its long run in 2003. It goes without saying that all of the information that I have on the incident comes second hand from N. who heard it from his brother and mother direct from a source.  Totally reliable. So, first the facts... my comments added in parentheses.

Last week, after some two weeks of loudly complaining that SIL was not letting her see enough of the grandbabies (I can't quite articulate how much IS enough, as I think that she sees A LOT of them already, but I digress), my MIL bundled up and headed out over the treacherous five miles to see the newest addition to the family.  Sometime during the visit, MIL began bouncing the two week old on her lap.  SIL calmly asked her to stop as she "is really concerned about shaken baby syndrome."  (I have seen my MIL bounce a baby and, to be fair, she is a bit aggressive in the way that she handles small children with poor neck control...  and SIL's babies are preemies which naturally makes a mama more concerned. That said, she certainly is not treating the baby as if it were a raw chicken part in a bag of shake and bake...) MIL promptly handed the baby over to FIL and has not held the baby since (because this is, of course, the mature way to handle the situation).

Several days later, while the family was once again gathered for a little passive-aggressive tension, MIL broke from the scripted choreography and into a daring dance solo.  She quite bluntly pointed out to SIL that her feelings were deeply hurt by the "shaken baby concerns" and went on to explain that no one in the family appreciates her (prompted by N.'s helpful comment that if MIL was hurt by SIL's concerns that she should just speak up and stop bothering us about it).  All MIL wants to do is help and no one wants her around (this is something she does A LOT... somehow any disagreement with her is a reflection of our lack of love and appreciation). SIL promptly broke into a teary explanation that she doesn't feel respected and that it is within her right to be concerned about her babies and to dictate their care (prompted by my BIL's helpful suggestion that if she felt uncomfortable with something MIL was doing that she should speak up and stand her ground and stop bothering him about it).   

They are now at an impasse, of course. No one is speaking and no one is bouncing this poor baby. The "boys" have come to me looking for some help.  BIL and N. want me to step in and calm SIL down... talk her off her fence so to speak, encourage her to lighten up about the bouncing and give their mom some slack. There is also a suggestion to speak to MIL and get her to see the lighter side of the situation. But here is the thing...  I don't want to get involved. Mostly because it is none of my business.

Also because I have nothing to gain from getting involved... regardless of who I personally think is in the right here. In fact, getting involved will surely only make things more difficult for me and I am pretty darn sure that if the tables were turned, SIL would not be rushing to my aid. This is their issue and they really need to work it out themselves.

And for those keeping track...  I think SIL has the defensible position.  Yes, she is overreacting about the bouncing.  I don't think that MIL is going to cause brain damage...  mostly, it just looks uncomfortable to the baby.  But, it is SIL's kid, which means her rules... so even if MIL thinks that SIL is bat-shit crazy, as long as SIL is not harming her children, its her way or the highway...

Am I being a bitch by not getting involved?  In the interest of familial relations, should I just be helpful?  Or, is butting my nose in just going to get it chopped off?

back in blog...

While my original intent in taking a short sabbatical from this blog was NOT to simply see how much y'all truly loved me...  that certainly was a happy coincidence.  Many thanks to all of you who have sent their well wishes (either by email or by comments) and requests to get back to blogging soon...  how it made this wee heart swell. I am back. Well-rested and enjoying the final day of a holiday vacation that, dare I say, was a tad too long.

To those of you who are working to spread a rumor that I am with child again... well, let's just hope that my mother never figures out how to surf the net with any kind of purpose or efficiency.  Have you not been reading along with the rest of us?  What, in these varied tales, leads you to believe that the care of ANY additional children should be left to N. and me.  No, Bean is lucky to have made it thus far with only a few hundred head wounds... 

So let me say, in no uncertain terms, as of today at 11:30 AM CT...  I am not "with" Bean the Second (or as he/she will be affectionately known, Garbanzo). 

I am, however, woefully behind in sharing our ongoing adventures.  I think that it would be overwhelming for me to try to jump in and give y'all a detailed account of the past 3 weeks -- holidays with my family, the nuances of Bean's development, and our descent into parental craziness. But, I would be remiss to simply gloss over the entire month.  So, allow me to present Dec 2005 highlights, in an easy-to-follow, bullet-ed format.

• N. is now a red belt, which in Special Combat Warrior School is one belt away from black.  This is significant because when N. started this particular practice of maiming and disfiguring other humans, he informed me that he would be largely ineffective in deterring any attacks on our persons until he was a green belt (that was 2 belts ago).  So, now that he is a red belt he knows just enough to be dangerous to everyone. I feel the need to issue a blanket warning to all would be assailants, attackers, burglars, perpetrators of general nuisance and irritation. Please don't come to our house. While I still contend that it is a 50/50 chance on who walks out with their femur in tact... I have seen our stuff.  It just isn't worth it.  And I never carry more than $1.65 in cash. Ever.
• While we are on the subject of Special Combat Warriors...  N. was also presented with the "Student of the Year" award for his commitment to the practice of this martial art.  I am not lying when I say that he was a little more enthusiastic about this framed piece of paper than he was about the birth of the Bean.  But in fairness to the man...  Bean was kind of boring for the first few weeks/months and the award is pretty impressive in that frame.
• I believe that the Christmas gifts from my MIL will most certainly win me some kind of "worst gift" award... This year's haul includes one of these (cause, you know... I like to take showers and then dry off), a trivet, and a set of lovely plastic sponge holders, complete with suction cups...  I know.  You don't know whether to laugh in my face or go around the corner and laugh behind my back. And it is not that I am ungrateful... just perplexed.
• My mother is convinced that, if left to my own devices without constant hen-picking and intervention, I would eventually swell to the size of a small Orca.
• Bean is 11 months old today.  WOW.  In one month's time, he has grown from a baby into a full-fledged toddler.  He is walking (and falling) like a professional (stuntman), feeding himself all manner of table foods (he has developed quite a preference for black beans, which, in case you are wondering, take approx. 19 hours to move through the system of a small child), waving hello and good bye to every single freaking human being and dog everyone that we come into contact with throughout the course of the day until said person waves back or walks away totally irritated, and continuing his aggressive program of inter-species bonding. He has also developed the perfect shit-eater's grin, if I have ever seen one.
• In keeping with his quick transition from infant to toddler, Bean also seems unnaturally attracted to the MOST dangerous item within reach.  If offered a choice between a broken glass, a steak knife and a blow torch...  you can bet that my kid is going for the fire hazard 10 out of 10 times.  Not that he wouldn't also be perfectly happy with the knife...  just not the same flair.
• Three days after Christmas, we battled the croup (I am still recovering).  I am told it was a mild case...  whatever.  Until last week, I had the distinct pleasure of not knowing what it is like to be hit in the face by projectile phlegm.  Innocence lost. Many of you will recall that I am not much of a fan of cold weather.  But last week, I was praying for temps below 40 degrees.  Especially since my parents refuse to set their water heater any higher than 76 degrees, you can practically catch your death of cold just taking a shower.
• I am never flying with Bean again unless he is sick or getting over the sick.  You see, when he is sick, he will sleep -- happily for hours.  When he is well, he must make eye contact and play the waving game with every person on the plane, at least once.  And if, by the time round one is complete, we aren't in the final approach, well, I hear that repetition is ALL THE RAGE with kids this age.
• During this vacation, I was forced to watch nearly 7 hours of poker, 48 hours of football, 5.75 hours of Teletu*bbies (don't judge, if it was the only thing that would silence that baby after 2 hours of whining, screaming and coughing, you would make sweet love to all of the telet*ubbies) and 3 hours of penguins dying in Antarctica.

I know that in my last entry, I rather cryptically referred to changes in store for us (thus leading to the aforementioned baby rumor).  The changes are still on the horizon... a lot of it is still up in the air with respect to timing and impact on the inhabitants of casa t'pon, so I have to stay a little tight lipped for now. 

Needless to say, 2006 should be a good year. Stick around for the ride, won't you?

trapped...

Bet that you thought that I was dead.  But no, I am actually being held hostage here in Beavertuckey with my very strange, very loud in-laws... who do not understand sarcasm, at all.  It has been a long week.  I am currently running on a battery that is losing power quicker than a South American banana republic, and it is so damn cold here, I have been forced to sit on a floor vent in my underwear wrapped in a flannel blanket...  I shit you not.  12 fucking degrees... what the hell is that?

The dinners have been interesting, as always, filled with prayer and off-color, clearly un-P.C. comments and jokes.  Yes, this family is a study in contrasts. My son is sleeping in a closet and my FIL has a habit of puttering around the house and walking into rooms currently occupied by others without knocking.  Bless his heart... I think that he is still a little embarrassed.

Thanksgiving eve, I had the distinct pleasure of consuming meatloaf (could you give a food dish a more unappetizing name... meat in a loaf form... UGH) baked in a festive pumpkin shell. Go ahead and read that last bit again, but I assure you that you read it correctly the first time... meatloaf baked in a festive pumpkin shell.  And yes, it tasted about as bad as you are imagining.  But, it was festive.

So far, we have had three meals that have involved thanksgiving food stuff, not including the actual thanksgiving dinner.  For those of you paying attention, yes, that means that one of those meals was a BREAKFAST.

My MIL has only made 15 parenting suggestions, which I am told (by my SIL) is actually a family record... on the low side.  Go me!

To top it all off, Bean has his first cold AND ear infection.

So, I spent most of my afternoon today in a Children's Urgent Care Clinic holding onto a very pissed off Bean, trying to prevent him from touching anything or anyone that might make him sicker than he already is.  And BTW, were it not for the highly contagious nature of baby sick snot...  it would make a fantastic adhesive. It sticks to human flesh (and cashmere sweaters) like nothing I have ever seen.  Really, transplant surgeons ought to investigate its benefit with respect to re-attaching limbs and digits and such.

So, I guess that most of all, I am thankful that Thanksgiving only comes once a year.

(In fairness to N., I ought to say that I am incredibly thankful that I have a husband who has such an incredible sense of humor about his family that he is not at all offended by my observations and good-natured complaining.  I also have a fabulous son, who despite the super-glue snot, is really pretty keen. So, I guess there might be a few other things to be thankful for...  but that is not quite as funny.)

apples don't roll too far...

Family legend has it that between the ages of six months and four years, a series of experiments was conducted on yours truly.  My parents, I am sure under the influence of some substance popular with members of the former-hippie, turned yuppie counter-culture, felt it was their duty to society to use their parenting experience to prove out any number of actual or imagined theories of child development. [I know, I am often amazed that I escaped childhood as high-functioning as I am. By all accounts, I ought to curled in a ball somewhere eschewing all personal contact.]

OK, so I am exaggerating slightly.  It is not as if these experiments put me in any MORTAL danger. There were the tests to determine at what point my taste buds became fully-developed (accomplished by repeated exposure to edible substances of varying type and taste -- some v. spicy, e.g. the habenero pepper, some just plain nasty, e.g. liver); there were experiments to see how many times I would reach for a toy, that was yanked away at the very last moment, before losing my shit; and there were the experiments designed to determine exactly the best method to keep me from getting out of bed at night, my personal favorite... mostly because I REMEMBER it.

At the time, I was getting out of bed at night to sneak-a-peak at the TV.  I would fall asleep on the stairs where hours later, Chicken Little and Hippie-freak (my dad) would trip over me. My parents went through a variety of "fixes" until settling on a motion detector/alarm system wired to my bedroom door.  Upon activation, the device emitted a ear-splicing noise, about 125 decibels (that of a car alarm), INSIDE the mot$her-fuc*king house.

Needless to say, after the first night of use,  I NEVER, EVER got out of the bed in the middle of night again.  My mother has since capitulated that perhaps the alarm was a tad over the top.  I bet that you are all thinking to yourselves, "it is a good thing that t'pon is an only child..."

Well, I think that it is fair to say that we all want better things for our children than we had for ourselves. As such, I have decided to out-source experimentation on Bean to our local state university. Our first appointment is on Saturday.

You thought that I was going to say something about not subjecting him to experimentation, didn't you?  Ha, obviously, we are still getting to know each other.

These are responsible researchers looking into how babies react to different faces and visual stimulation in a happy and safe environment.  Bean will wear a shower cap specially designed to measure his brain activity while he watches faces and pictures appear on a TV screen.  In 30 minutes time, Bean will help researchers get a little more insight into child development. Already, he is making contributions to society. I am so proud.

I have also checked to make sure there are no alarms involved.  I am responsible like that.

crazy is as crazy does...

Right now, sickness abounds at casa t'pon.  Bean is struggling through what appears to be either his first big cold, OR his brain is melting and oozing out of his nose. Hard to tell at this point, but I do know that it is affecting his sleep and that makes mama t'pon pissy.  N. is going through some kind of gastrointestinal difficulties.  Lets just say that I am not sure that the smell is ever going to come out of the guest bedroom, it has been a difficult couple of days.  And then I seem to be suffering from a general stomach ickiness...  which has brought on a definite bought of pregnancy paranoia.  I have yet to pee on a stick because the chances are HIGHLY unlikely... but hey, so were the chances with Bean. But, that is neither here nor there.

Today, we are talking about crazy... as in "everyone in my family, at least on my mom's side, goes bat-shit insane before they die" and shopping... as in "primary source of bonding and entertainment for Chicken Little (my mom) and me."

About six months following our nuptials, I informed N. that given the fact that he had made a solemn promise to me that he would not die before me... well, he more than likely would have to watch me deteriorate to the point of madness. I figured by this time in our relationship, he was locked in. People would definitely peg him as the jerk for leaving me because I was voted "most likely to eat chalk" in high school.

I cannot accurately predict the method of my madness (Alzhe*imer's, dem*entia, bi-p*olar and the mother of all schizophr*enia all have claimed members of the extended family), I feel pretty certain that my future contains at least a few years of drooling, fits of random and uncontrollable emotions, and referring to my children/grandchildren by the dogs' names. (N. will tell you that I am already exhibiting two out of the three as of this morning...) And I am OK with that...      

My only concern is that I do not wish to LOOK like a crazy person.  I made N promise that he would not let me sit in four-day old PJs with drool hanging off my lip, unless we were caring for a newborn. I have made sure in our planning that money is set aside to have someone come in and fix my hair on a regular basis and dress me up real pretty-like.  Occasionally, I remind N. of this arrangement.  And like most men quick to dismiss any conversation that might be a little uncomfortable...  he dismisses any odds that I will, one day, be making blue water.

N.: I think that you are fine.  While your dad is certainly not the poster-boy for mental health, he at least dilutes your mom's gene pool.  Your mom, however, is most certainly F&%^ed.

t'pon: You might as well accept the fact that I am going to go crazy... it won't be that bad. You can make fun of me.

N. To your face?

t'pon: Its not like I am going to even know who you are, so sure... you realize that Chicken Little will want to live with us when she loses her mind.

N:  So is she moving in next week? (t'pon shooting eye daggers)

t'pon: oh, you are SOFA KING clever.

N.: At least we could save some money by canceling the cable.  We can just sit around and watch your mom. Bonus, its interactive and encourages bonding with older generations for the kids. (I am now about to open a can of whoop ass on his special combat warrior butt. No one talks about my mama like that except me...)

t'pon: Forget it.

Fast-forward two days...

N: Make me a promise.

t'pon: what?

N.: Make me a promise about you and your crazy mom...

t'pon: Are you going hold me to a promise when I am crazy?  Because I don't think that's fair...  you can't hold me to a promise made 40 years earlier if I am calling you by the dog's name.  I won't remember it... that sets you up to totally take advantage of me.

N.: You call me by the dog's name now.

t'pon: Even more reason to be wary of this promise-making thing...

N.: Promise, or there will be no hair brushing.  Your crazy ass can wear dreadlocks for all I care.

t'pon: Fine.

N.:  When you and your crazy mother are out spending money...

t'pon: yeah...

N.: Make sure that it is HER money.

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.

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.

Me, anti-social?

So, as you may know, tonight is "National Night Out" or some such crap.  An evening where we are all encouraged to leave the comfortable confines of our air conditioned and TV-equipped homes to weather 100 degree heat and forced conversations with people who, simply by dumb luck, happen to live in our neighborhood.

I feel that it must be said that so far my experiences with my neighbors have been less than satisfactory.  Our first night on the block was Halloween 2003, which I thought would be a great opportunity to meet folks.  Hmmm, not so much. While several children came by to get candy from me (some of them, I noted came by more than once...) as I sat looking hopeful on our front porch, not a single adult introduced themselves or even waved back as I shouted greetings.  That hurt, I might still be carrying a grudge.

There are those who are quite rude, the "mommy mafia" who only started to acknowledge my existence when bean arrived, the busy bodies, and the next door neighbor who used to lock her dogs out in torrential downpours, leaving them to bay and cry right outside our bedroom window.  I love our house and I like the IDEA of our neighborhood...  So far, I just don't like the actual people all that much. There are exceptions, but I can go over to see those people anytime.  So, I am not all fired up to spend 2 hours sitting in the hot sun forcing myself to pretend that I care about speed bumps.   

N. says that we must go -- that we do not want to develop a reputation for being "anti-social", we don't want to impede our son's chances of healthy neighborhood friendships... he thinks that we might actually meet some nice people and make a few friends.  I am skeptically optimistic. 

I predict that I will be back inside my air-conditioned ivory tower just in time for House on FOX. But, just in case...  I set the TiVO.

Safety lessons

So, my mom (Chicken Little) called me the other day and left an urgent message on my voicemail.  She expressed grave concern about my safety and well-being and asked that I call her immediately, she needed to warn me about something.

I called her back, expecting this to be something significant.  I should have known better.  My mom is a v. intelligent, articulate and accomplished woman.  She is a Senior VP for a major financial instituation and one of the best managers I have ever met.  She has an advanced degree, and unbelievable sense of style and her sage advice has saved my ass time and time again. 

That said, she can be a bit of a flake and she is extremely excitable, particularly as it relates to emails she receives warning her about surly individuals lurking in the dark corners of bars, airports and parking lots waiting to pounce on unsuspecting young women. For example, she has forwarded me the stolen kidney email no less than 4 times, despite frequent reminders that it is an urban myth.

She is also v concered about the threat posed by this thing called the Internet! But, I digress.

So, what was her new warning?  Apparently, questionable elements have been approaching women in Walmart and BigLots parking lots and asking them to sample a new perfume.  The perfume turns out to be ethanol.  The unsuspecting lass is knocked unconscious, taken to another location where unspeakable acts are performed on her helpless body.  I listened patiently as my mom implored me to be careful... finally, when she was done, I asked her to again tell me where theses incidents were taking place...

"I told you, Walmart and BigLots parking lots..."

"Yeah... Mom, wouldn't you be more concerned about why I was in those parking lots in the first place?"*

[SILENCE]

"Good point.  Ok, well have a good day!" [hangs up]

Now, there is a valid point to be made that this could, I guess, occur in any parking lot... If she were thinking clearly about my safety she would have made that point.  But she didn't... I guess Chicken Little isn't worried about the security of the Super Target or the Saks parking lot.

* I will be the first to admit that my mom and I are Walmart snobs... although, I contend that my issue with the store is actually physically based as I tend to get sick everytime I have to go in there. In our household, this is called the Manele Bay syndrome... if you are interested, i could explain. In my life, I can count my trips to Walmart and can tell you exactly why I was forced to enter the store...  I just don't like it...  I can't tell you why.  It just is what it is, judge me if you must.