BrandiBlog

The toddler pallet is a very strange thing.  An item that was once his absolute favorite food can be treated with utter contempt the next day.  You just never know the way the wind will blow when it comes to toddler culinary preferences.

I just experienced this fickleness during Ryan’s morning snack.  Since he had French toast for breakfast, I figured he should probably have something a little healthier for his snack.  I first offered him cheese and crackers.  Before I even turned around the cheese was on our tile floor and the crackers smashed into a jillion crumbs.  So I then offered him some slices of apple.  They quickly joined the cheese.  I thought, “Hmmm, maybe some watermelon and honeydew?”  Those little fruit chunks flew across our living room faster than you could yell, “Look out for flying fruit!”

Then I thought of bananas.  Ryan’s absolute favorite thing in the world (before today, mind you) is bananas.  That kid could eat bananas from sun up until sun down.  So I headed over to his highchair, peeling half of a banana.  Just seeing the peel set Ryan into a screeching frenzy.  “NOOOOOO!” he squealed as he swung at me.  I asked, “How about some banana, little monkey?”  The screaming took on an even higher pitch and intensity.  He proclaimed, “No nanah, Mama!  No nanah!” and slapped at me.

And so goes a day in the life of a toddler.  My lesson for today was that just because he liked something yesterday it NEVER guarantees that he’ll be gung-ho for it the next day; or hell, even the next meal.  Toddlers are fickle like that.  Perhaps this is god’s sneaky way of prepping unsuspecting parents for those teenage years.  I don’t know, but I had the distinct feeling that someone up above was watching and laughing.

I have Spring Fever.  It hit me about about a week ago and it’s making me crazy.  All I want to do is sit on a patio, eat some chips and salsa and drink a Corona with lime. 

Back in my high school days, we would usually take an extended lunch (AKA ditch 4th hour) on days like this.  We would go to someone’s house for lunch, break into their parent’s liquor cabinet, make cocktails and lay out by the pool.  Oh, to be 16 and stupid again. 

If only I could spend the afternoon by the pool with a drink.  Damn being an adult!

Gaw.  It feels like all that I ever do on my days off from work is laundry and trips to the grocery store.  Yesterday was no different. 

Following a nearly-two hour midday nap, Ryan finished his lunch and seemed in a perfect mood for me to drag him to the grocery store.  So I jumped at the chance to get him in and out of there before his compliant mood shifted.

The first 15 minutes of so of shopping went surprisingly well.  Even though Ryan had refused to wear shoes to the store (see much earlier post regarding Grocery Store Feet), he seemed happy enough riding in the cart and helping me pick out produce. 

When he saw the heaping piles of apples, he squealed and cried out, “Appahs!”  When he spotted bunches of bananas, he proclaimed, “Nanahs!”  He even helped me pick out a good tomato and some zucchini.  He was my little farmer-in-training.

But then things changed.  I made the mistake of going down the cookie and cracker aisle and letting him see me select a bag of animal crackers. 

He went berserk!  He started screeching in a pitch that I could swear was just below the one that only dogs can hear.  He grabbed at the bag and demanded that I open it IMMEDIATELY! 

So like the frenzied, panicked mother we’ve all seen in the grocery store on at least one sad occassion, I ripped that bag open with my teeth and started feeding my banshee animal crackers.

Just offering him animal crackers wasn’t enough.  He wanted a show with his meal.  So I had the exciting task of making various animal noises for his entertainment. 

I’d pull out a lion-shaped cracker and have to give a loud, “ROOOOAAAAR!” before he’d take it. 

I’d fish out a monkey-shaped cracker and go, “OOOH-OOOH, AAAH-AAAH!” 

Ryan would laugh hysterically, take the cracker from me, and shove it into his mouth.  Then he’d point at the bag and want more.  This little scenario played out at least 47 times as I tried to quickly finish my shopping.  Meanwhile, strangers gawked at the animal-sounds performance I was giving, much to the delight of my crazily giggling 16 month old.

When I finally went up to the register to pay for my cart full of items, I sheepishly tried to explain to the cashier why I was holding a half-eaten bag of animal crackers that I had yet to pay for.  She stopped me midway through my explanation and said, “Oh, honey, we’ve ALL been there.  Here, let me scan that bag first and then you can give it back to him.” 

I was beyond relieved!  Here I was thinking what a terrible mother I must be to ply my child with animal cookies to prevent an in-store meltdown.  But then I realized, Nah.  I’m just a veteran mom now.  I’ve been there.  And I lived to tell about it.

As Easter approaches and I think about which traditions I’d like to start with my own child, it prompts me to think back on my own childhood.

When I was a kid, I both loved and dreaded Easter.  Same goes for the Tooth Fairy.  Why, you may ask?  Because of my dad.  He used to say that he was going to beat up the Easter Bunny.  And the Tooth Fairy, for that matter.  He would tell my brother and I that he was going to wait for these mythical creatures to show up at our house at night so he could beat them up.  Visions of the Easter Bunny with a blackened eye or the Tooth Fairy with broken wings would devastate me.  So I would cry myself to sleep at night, worrying about the fate of my poor, helpful potential friends.

My dad had no idea that I took his jokes literally.  He just thought he was being funny.  But for me, the threat of physical harm to someone who was coming to my house to bring me a little gift made me feel guilt and despair that no child should ever experience.  I would feel awful going through my Easter basket or putting the quarter that I found under my pillow in the morning into my piggy bank.  Like somehow my self-perceived selfishness had caused pain for someone else.

This self-deprecating thinking has filtered into many different arenas of my adult life.  I find that I often do without new things (glasses, clothes, beauty products, etc.) because somewhere, deep down inside, I don’t deserve such things.  Crazy, I know.  But I’ve become a master of doing without and have to ponder where this mindset came from.  Perhaps it’s from being raised without having much.  Perhaps it’s because for all of my adult life I’ve lived on very little money after choosing to go into the noble-yet-pathetically-paying field of teaching.  Or perhaps it’s because my dad said he was going to beat up the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy.

I had pretty much forgotten about all of this until yesterday when my dad said that he was going to beat up the Easter Bunny when he came to drop off Ryan’s basket this Sunday.  I almost went through the roof!  I hissed at my father, “Do NOT say that around Ryan!!!!”  He chuckled and looked at me like I was insane.  But I meant what I said—the last thing that I, as a parent, want for my child is to feel guilt for receiving childhood presents.  And it kills me to imagine that Ryan could grow up thinking he isn’t deserving of kindness from others.

So this year the Easter Bunny IS coming to our house with a basket for Ryan.  And there will be no mention of harm.  Childhood is short.  And I want my precious boy to not miss a single second of pure joy and innocence.  Thank you, Easter Bunny.

There’s this weird phenomenon that women experience pretty much the second that they find out that they are going to become a mother. And it continues, for quite conceivably, the rest of that woman’s life. It’s called “Mama Guilt”.

Mama Guilt is essentially this overwhelming sense of guilt that makes a woman feel like every single decision or action that she makes will somehow scar her child for life. Here is an example of my progression of Mama Guilt:

1) The day I found out I was pregnant–15 seconds after seeing the second purple line on my home pregnancy test, I thought to myself, “Oh my god, I drank like a fish two weeks ago. What if I’ve caused my baby to have fetal alcohol syndrome???!!!!”

2) Six weeks into the pregnancy– Morning sickness kicked in and I couldn’t tolerate consuming much more than Taco Bell tostadas and Jolly Rancher candies. I became convinced that, “I am going to kill this baby from junk food malnutrition.”

3) 18 weeks into the pregnancy–I went in for my ultrasound to find out the sex of my baby. During the ultrasound, the technician spotted a couple of small cysts on the baby’s brain. I tell myself, “Oh my god, my baby is going to have Down’s Syndrome because I smoked all of that weed in my 20’s.

4) 32 weeks into the pregnancy–I started having trouble with my blood pressure and wound up on bed-rest for the remainder of my pregnancy. I thought, “My baby is going to die from pre-eclampsia symptoms because I ate too many pickle-flavored shave ice from Bahama Bucks.”

5) Two days after childbirth–My son suffered from terrible jaundice and had to stay in NICU for 4 days. I assumed, “His jaundice is because I couldn’t feed him enough since I suck at breastfeeding and my boobs are duds that are obviously for aesthetics instead of function.”

And so the Mama Guilt goes. Baby cries all night, Mama Guilt tells you it’s your fault because you don’t know more than the first verse to Bette Middler’s “The Rose”. Baby gets a rash and Mama Guilt tells you it’s because you bought the off-brand of baby detergent instead of the $20/bottle name brand stuff. Baby won’t eat green beans and Mama Guilt tells you that it’s because you never ate any when you were pregnant. Mama Guilt is a powerful entity that makes formerly-sane women think that every single little thing that goes on in raising another human being is somehow HER fault.

I’d like to be able to say that Mama Guilt goes away once the children “grow up”. However, watching my 83 year old grandmother agonize over the actions of my 55 year old father and say to me, “I think it’s because I didn’t kiss him enough when he was a baby,” makes me realize that Mama Guilt is unavoidable. I guess we’re just wired that way.

Next time around, I am SO being a man.

Leap Day is always a weird one for me. It seems like every Leap Day unusual things always happen in my life that make it impossible for me to NOT remember it. One year I was involved in a fender-bender. Another year there was a horrific dog incident that resulted in the death of my neighbor’s toy poodle. You know, the kind of stuff that makes you think, “Thank god Leap Day only comes around once every four years.”

One of my most memorable Leap Day incidents occurred in 1996. I was halfway through my first year teaching and was working at a private school run by a company who had a few residential treatment centers for adolescents.

The students who attended my school lived in adjacent group homes and belonged to a demographic that I never even knew existed before I had already accepted the job and made it through my first day of teaching–they were adolescent sex offenders. Yeah, it would have been nice if the school administrators would have mentioned that to me during the interview process. But that’s another story for another day.

I had eight boys in my class between the ages of 14 and 17, and one girl who was 15. Her name was Stacey. Stacey was negative, volatile, and in the lower end of the intelligence scale. To be perfectly honest, there wasn’t a single thing that I could find that I liked about her. Every day that I had to spend in a classroom with her was worse than the next. I considered that year to be my “Intro to Classroom Management with Subversive Behaviors 101″. I, unfortunately, was required to be certified in Therapeutic Crisis Intervention, which is just fancy terminology for taking someone down to the ground who is physically threatening you. Good times.

That year on Leap Day Stacey was really on a roll, cussing and throwing things around the room. Every directive I gave her was followed by her response of, “Fuck you you stupid white bitch.” Aw, so sweet. Then she started spitting–on the walls, the desks, the carpet. Being a believer in natural consequences, I went and grabbed the bottle of Simple Green cleaner out from under the sink and attempted to give it to Stacey to use to clean up her spit.

She wouldn’t have it! She called me every nasty name she could think of. Then the worst part happened–she hocked a spit-wad onto my chest and then grabbed the squirt bottle of cleaner and sprayed me in the face.

I was in complete shock! In my stunned state, she ran down the hall towards the bathroom. Suddenly my adrenaline started pumping. I took off after Stacey, yelling to the boys, “Do your math!” as I ran down the hall after her. Right as I got to the bathroom door she was trying to close it on me. I leaped forward, right foot in front of me, and kicked the door open Bruce Lee style. The door slammed Stacey to the wall and I flew into the room next to her.

I grabbed her hands behind her back, stood her up against the wall face-first and put my body weight up against her to keep her from turning around and decking me. The boys were at the door, peeking in and asking, “Are you ok, Miss?” Stacey was crying and I turned towards them and said, “What does it look like?”

The police were called, Stacey went back to juvie and I, thankfully, didn’t have to deal with her for the rest of the year. And the bad behaviors of the boys surprisingly disappeared after that day. Whenever someone would start to get a little obnoxious, the other ones would say, “Hey, remember what she did to Stacey on her birthday?” Oh yeah, I failed to mention that Stacey had turned 16 on that fateful Leap Day. And I turned into a Bad Ass Leaping Motherfucker who didn’t have to do another restraint for the rest of the school year.

I just had this whole thing completed and then I hit something funky and made it all disappear. Can’t remember the last time I yelled, “FUCK!” so loudly.

The rules are as follows:
1. Link to the person’s blog who tagged you.
2. Post these rules on your blog.
3. List seven random and/or weird facts about yourself.
4. Tag seven random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs.
5. Let each person know that they have been tagged by posting on comment on their blog.

I will try to follow the rules…
1. I have been tagged by 3 people on their blogs: Kellie , Katie and Suzie . Gee, thanks.

2. I posted the rules above.

3. #1: Weird: I love biting my toenails. It totally grosses my husband out, but I just can’t help myself! So I usually have to do it really quickly whenever he either is not home or out of the room. Shhhh, don’t tell him.

#2: Weird: I was born on my grandfather’s birthday.

#3 : Weird: I constantly play this little game with my husband where I pose ridiculous scenarios for him to choose a preference of. For example, last night I asked him, “Who would you rather make out with, John McCain or Barack Obama?” He hates this game. Yet I continue on.

#4: Random: I’m leaving for vacation to Oregon in 7 days.

#5: Random: I hate that new show on tv “My Dad is Better Than Your Dad”. I’m convinced that the participants are just actors and none of the parent/child combos are real family members.

#6: Weird/Random: Our dog is almost 15 years old. That’s pretty amazing for a lab/pittie mix.

#7: Weird/Random: My son was born on his due date.

4. Now to tag people:
So I don’t really know if I’m allowed to tag people who have already been tagged. I’m going to assume that I CAN and tag a couple of people who Suzie, Katie and Kellie have already tagged and then a few who they haven’t preyed on already. I am tagging Jazmine, Kari , Karol , Meg , Melissa , Natalie , and Tamara. Sorry, Beezies!

5. Let the fun (or hatred) begin!

I had the much-needed experience last Saturday night of having a “Mom’s Night Out”.  Seven of us got out of our normal mommy gear of yoga pants and stained t-shirts, put on a little make-up and left the babies at home with their fathers in order to whoop it up.  It was a much needed respite for all of us that included Coronas, Washington Apple shots, Mexican food, cleavage, and laughter.  I have to say, I <3 my mommy friends. 

As I got ready for my big night out, I remembered back in the day when I’d spend hours doing my hair and make-up before hitting the town.  Back then I’d also usually be drinking already, hoping to save a little cash at the bar by showing up with a good buzz already going.   However, this night I had 45 minutes and a bottle of vitamin water.  Ahh, how times change.

As the last step in my getting-ready process, I grabbed my shoes that were sitting near the baby-gate that separates our son from the kitchen.  I was feeling pretty good about myself–I had on full make-up, had actually blow dried my hair for a change and even had on earrings and a necklace.  I thought, “Wow, I’m lookin’ good!” 

I quickly slipped on my right shoe, and then my left.  However, I could feel something odd in the toe of my right shoe.  It was oddly rigid-yet-flexible, more substantial than a piece of paper but not pointy like a rock.  What in the hell was it? 

I slipped my shoe off and shook the culprit out.  To my amazement, a slice of dried up pepperoni fell out of my shoe. 

How, you may ask, did I end up with a pizza topping in my shoe? 

Well, the night before had been Pizza Night in my house.  Ryan’s highchair must have been within an arm’s reach of my shoes. 

Toddlers+Pizza=Pepperoni Shoes for Mommy

Glamorous.

Last weekend I got a wild hair up my butt to clean out the closet in our home office. Feeling the need to start purging and packing for our move to Oregon in June, I figured the office would be a good place to start. It was an eye-opening experience, to say the least.

One of the first things that I realized is that I’m a pack-rat. Yeah, I knew that I tend to be a “piler” who has little mounds of papers and random crap on pretty much any flat surface in our house. But going through the boxes in our office that had never been opened since the last time we moved in 2005, I found that I also tend to keep everything–I mean EVERYTHING! I found old cards given to me by friends 10 years ago, concert ticket stubs from 1993, and pens, post-it pads and mini-flashlights from title agencies and home inspection companies that I picked up at a real estate conference in 2004. I also found old airline ticket stubs from my travels with my cousin Jason, newsletters from schools I used to teach at, and matches from restaurants and bars around the country. I even found an old box of Valentine’s Day conversation hearts candies. Yes, I keep everything.

The second thing that I realized is that I have a really hard time letting go of these little mementos from my past. It was surprising to me the intense sadness that came over me as I ripped up up old checks with my maiden name on them. And it nearly broke my heart to throw away old mailing return labels with the address of my old single-girl pad, my condo in west Mesa. It was like I was breaking up with my best friend. Saying good-bye to the girl who I had once been was more difficult than I had ever imagined.

So now have a huge hill of “trash” sitting in the middle of our office until we can get it all thrown away over the next couple of weeks of trash pick-up. Although it makes me a bit melancholy to see that pile, I’m glad that I had a chance to sit down and sort through it all last Sunday. It was nice to reminisce a bit, tell Matt stories about the girl I had once been and to say good-bye to all of the material items that I felt compelled to keep all this time in order to stay connected. Although they’re gone, I still have the memories to keep. And those will be a lot easier to move to Oregon than 25 boxes filled with useless trinkets.

It’s been weeks since I’ve written a new blog post. I keep making excuses:

“I’m too tired.”

“I’m too busy.”

“I don’t have anything to write about.”

I’m kidding myself. The real truth is that I always start things with enthusiasm and then slowly fizzle out. I’ve done this time and time again. Belly dancing. Scrabble Club. Wicca classes. A gym. Candle making. All endeavors that seemed like my life calling until a month of two later when I lost interest and moreso, motivation. It’s so much easier to just veg on the couch and watch American Idol.

I thought blogging would be different. There were no supplies to purchase, no real skills required, and best of all, I didn’t even have to change out of my pajamas or leave my house. What a novel concept!

Well, it was easier said than done. Now approximately 8 months into my blogging jaunt I find that once again I’m fizzling out. This doesn’t make sense to me–what’s so hard about blogging? I mean, I can do it in my underwear while eating leftover Valentine’s Day candy. Not that I’m doing that right now or anything…

Anyhow, my fantastic husband gave me a new laptop for Valentine’s Day and now I have no excuse to not keep up with my blog. So stay tuned for random crap written in my pajamas while watching bad reality tv. And call me on it if I start flaking again.

Thanks for the kick in the ass, Suzie.