The real worst critic

M is in an "Uh-oh Mama" phase right now. I'm one of those people who feels guilty and self-conscious about almost all my little short-comings, and it really doesn't help to have a personal commentator keeping tabs. Such as:

"Uh-oh Mama" (Pointing to the dirt under the sofa)
"Uh-oh Mama" (Pointing to the milk I spilled on the table)
"Uh-oh Mama" (Pointing to the car I nearly hit)

I'm really looking forward to the "Way to go Mama" phase. That's coming soon, right? Please?

30 Days Notice: A Clarification

Upon reading my last post, my husband suggested that perhaps I should clarify that I don't have multiple personalities. I'm not sure that the person with the possible multiple personality disorder has a whole lot of credible in such an assertion, but I certainly don't think I'm mentally ill. I just think I'm a writer, which, some might argue, isn't exactly so different.

What I mean is that I am a writer, have always been one, and am therefore always writing in my head. It's something I've done since I was very little and actually wrote aloud, meaning that I would narrate elaborate stories as I played with my toys. I know that many children do this, but from what I've learned, I did/do it to an extreme. Everything is a narrative, a dialogue, a scene in itself or one step in a very long sequence. I blog in my head, write emails to friends, edit long-abandoned stories.

So really, in retrospect, I have a zillion personalities. They're restless, since the two kids have put a halt to almost all writing, and therefore more vocal, assertive, and otherwise annoying, but I really wouldn't want it any other way. They are the characters yet to be, and the fact that they're still there gives me hope that one day they will find their way onto paper.

Or maybe I really am crazy. What is it they say? Ignorance is bliss? Hmm...

30 Days Notice

Aside from the shrieking pterodactyl (K) and the constant toddler babbling (M), I'm alone most of the day with my own thoughts. This is decidedly unsettling, as they come across as a pair of bickering roommates, parties who should long ago have split the furniture and found separate homes. Neither are entirely at fault; it's just, well, they're not exactly compatible. Roommate A is anal, perfectionistic, and bossy. Roommate B is relaxed, easygoing, and sweet. I'd like to think they're extensions of my right and left brain, both equally dominant in my personality and skills, but maybe I'm just a little nuts. Anyway, they go along some thing like this:

A: Don't pick her up! You pick her up and she'll expect it. This is about training, lady.
B: But she fell asleep while nursing. She's probably hungry. And it's just one time.
A: One time too many, marshmallow. What kind of pansy-ass girl are you raising anyway?
B: But I hate to see her so tired. If I just rock her a little bit...
A: Yeah, well, you see where that gets you. And don't come crying to me later, because I'm telling you so right now.

Or yesterday:

A: He cut the comforter! You let him cut with scissors near the bed, barely supervised, and look what happened!
B: Accidents happen. It's just a little hole in a comforter that was poor quality to begin with. It was about his autonomy, after all, and it could have been much worse.
A: Exactly! Do you know what he could have done? He could have cut his finger, or his clothes, or BOTH!
B: But he didn't.
A: But he could have. Seriously, what kind of parent are you anyway?
B: The kind who lets her kid learn how to use scissors. The kind who does art projects and makes stockings and sings to her kids while doing so.
A: Singing? Like Christmas carols? Like songs that have no educational quality whatsoever? Think of the time you're wasting!
B: But we were having fun.
A: Yeah, well, fun is all well and go until someone gets their eye poked out. Which sounds like the next likely event, if you ask me.

I never ask A, but he's always ready to volunteer anyway, and as kind a cheerleader as B is, she just doesn't have the stamina to stand up to A's beatings. I really think I need only one of them in residence, and I know we would all prefer that one to be B, but how exactly do I evict a tenant who's squatting to begin with?

(On a curious aside, did you notice how I automatically genderized A as male and B as female? Totally by accident, honestly, but I can hear A now: "See, there's another one of those pansy-ass girls mouthing off, that B. You ought to save K while you have the chance...")

If it were only this easy

1. Every child must take a nap every day.
2. If we are running late, naps will run late also. This does not mean that you will get up at the regular time. A fifteen minute delay will mean a fifteen minute later wake-up time, and so on.
3. Mom is entitled to naps too.
4. If you interrupt Mom during her nap, be prepared for her to climb into your bed and continue to rest. For your general well-being, quiet is highly recommended.
5. Mom does not consider 30 minutes a nap, and neither should you.
6. When Mom tells you to go back to sleep, it's a smart idea to do so.
7. If any or all of the above rules are not followed, be prepared to supplement with lots of hugs, kisses, words of love and praise, and unusually good behavior for the remainder of the day. And be sure to follow the rules from that moment on. Forever.

Deliriously happy

Red, diaper, pee pee, lion, brown, truck, take, stuck, board, love

OR

Ten words my son said for the first time today.

Drawing the (wrinkled) line

K and I were playing today with a little wrist rattle someone gave her. It's got a big, chewable monkey head attached to a crinkly piece of fabric designed to go around her wrist (or, better yet, be chewed endlessly while K ignores the monkey). We hadn't played with it much and the care label was still attached. Among the various instructions was the helpful statement: DO NOT IRON. Iron a toy? Really? I don't iron shirts, pants, or sheets. What in the world would make me, or anyone else, want to iron something that any child will wad, chew, and toss asunder in two seconds flat? I mean, I know my standards may be sub-par compared to some people, but I hope that most out there would agree that there are limits. If not, seriously, they have therapy for things like that.

Guilt-ridden as usual

I could make a bunch of excuses--I have really really good ones that I've been using liberally and with conviction--but the truth is I just didn't want to go.

Christmas cookies

Christmas cookies are fabulous. I love nearly every kind of Christmas cookie: gingerbread, thumbprints, sugar cookies, rice krispy treats--What? Rice krispy treats aren't Christmas cookies? Sure they are. I sprinkle them with red and green sugar. That makes them Christmasy. See?

Okay, so I'm admitting that I use this time of year to make all the cookies that I don't make the rest of the year because I will eat them. All of them. With delight. But it's Christmas, and we're all supposed to bake cookies. That's why they have all those recipes in magazines, and all those great ads in the Sunday paper. Then we eat them. All of them. With delight.

It's weird at first. I'm thinking, it's lunch time and I'm having a cookie. I don't usually have cookies at lunch. Hardly ever, really. Certainly not three days in a row. But after a while, I realize that the world didn't end, no calorie police came calling, and my pants are still buttoning (barely). It's one month a year; I'm going to town.

Of course, this post will seem appropriately hilarious when we get to the "how did I gain this much weight in one month" post sometime after the new year. Feel free to tell me so when the time comes. Right now, I'm having another piece of fudge...

The sound of progress

K is developing the full reaches of her vocal development. Yeah for K! She's also experimenting with the consequences of putting one object against another. Way to go! Let's all appreciate how precious these developments are! What feats! How wonderful!

Oh, and I've discovered that listening to a baby who's shrieking like a pterodactyl while banging every object within reach on my desk makes me a wee bit sarcastic. We all learn new things every day.

Caution: Depressing Topic Ahead

I miss my cats.

See, I've always been a cat person. We got our first cat when I was 5, and although my allergies forced her into exile in the garage, I still followed her around with all the dedication that a young cat-loving child can muster. For a bit I even subscribed to Cat Fancy magazine, dutifully saving each issue in the event that I would someday have a cat emergency requiring Cat Fancy's expertise. Our second cat arrived when I was in Junior High, an alternative to the large snake I was eyeballing. My parents were obviously desperate.

When B and I married, we had only been home from our honeymoon for a matter of days before I brought up the cat issue. B, being the excellent spouse that he is, acquiesced to my request and MK came our way. His arrival was really a mistake; the shelter let him go at 4 weeks instead of 8, so he was about as microscopic as they come. For the first few weeks, he had to actually climb onto a plate in order to eat food from it, and he spent a good deal of time riding around in B's chest pocket or curled under our chins. This is especially amusing since MK eventually grew to be an 18 pound behemoth.

TM arrived six months later when we decided that MK was bored at home all day and needed a companion if we ever hoped to have him quiet down at night. Big mistake. TM ended up being the cat who never grew up, a kitten in many ways and a dog in many others. We tried to do the slow introduction to the resident cat, then grew impatient and tossed them together for the fur to fly. They did fight, regularly and with a passion. MK almost always picked the fight, and TM always won. Still, they were good friends too.

Why all the nostalgia? Because shortly after K was born, M had an extended asthma attack. Since B and I are both allergic to cats, the recommendation was that the cats be removed from the home. We knew it was coming. B had long suffered for my sake, but we couldn't risk M's health. And despite our best attempts, we could not find a home that wanted them, so after a week we took them to the shelter. I kissed them both, crying. I continued to cry off and on for weeks, especially after they both were deemed un-adoptable (you can guess what that means at a shelter), then slowly became accustomed to their absence. Until this weekend, that is, when I unwrapped the Christmas ornaments to find the hand-painted cats that we made in their honor. You can imagine my response.

So here, in honor of my beloved cats, is my homage.

MK: You were my cat. You spent your first months curled in my lap, and in some ways you never left. At nap time, you loved the curve of my tummy, tucked against the couch where you would eventually stretch out and paw my face. In the summer you slept on my pillow, your head against mine, and in the winter you crawled under the covers at my side. Even after M arrived, you followed me from room to room, warming to him as you did to me, because of me, because it was the only way you could still be a part of my life. You never did figure out how to purr, just huffed rhythmically as though your engine just couldn't quite start, and your voice never aged from the kitten-squeak where it started. You would tempt other people into petting you, then bite. You weren't a particularly nice cat, everyone said, except they didn't know you like I did, the way you used to love to chase your pesky green puff ball, the way you would come when I called, the way you would nestle against me and sometimes even lick the top of my head. They were wrong. You were a good cat, a great cat; I was your person, and always will be.

TM: I've never met a more interesting cat. What a complement, but really, you were a cat of your own. You were not my cat. You were B's cat. You loved him the way a dog loves his master. You played fetch with rubber mice, knew that a laser dot came from a pointer, and used to open cabinets just to slam them. You figured out how to open the storm door. After we came home from a trip, we had to feed you little bits at a time because otherwise you would eat too fast and projectile vomit. When you ran too much you wheezed, and every few weeks you'd snot all over us for a day or two. It was a remnant of the cold you had when we first brought you home, the one where we had to use baby nasal drops to help you breath. You kept us up at nights, calling, and never did adjust to the kids. You trusted us enough that you landed flat on your side after B once dropped you when I said you believed he'd never do so. That trust was broken when we brought M and K into your home, taking your attention and your B. Despite this, I loved you too. You curled behind my legs at nap time. You were movable beyond belief. You never bit, hissed, or scratched. You loved, plain and obvious, always.

You both chirped at birds. You left balls of cat hair in your fighting wakes, and slept together curled like yin and yang. You traveled with us across the US and back again in ridiculously tiny cages, and rarely complained. You napped with me every day of each pregnancy, wiggling around my blooming belly. You were my companions, my friends, and I failed you in every sense of the word. I am so sorry, boys. You were my first children, and I loved you. You may be gone, but never forgotten. Never.

Depressing enough? Too bad. I feel better now, having shared a little piece of them. It won't bring them back, I know, but it makes me feel like they're still here, just a little.