Jesus to the Rescue

by Patti

S was four years old and had just finished her first year of preschool. She was attending a little Lutheran school in our neighborhood, and her favorite times during the school day were “Jesus Time”, during which they would sing fun songs about Jesus and recite sweet prayers.

Father’s Day was around the corner, and, because M had been particularly cranky of late, I thought it would cheer him up to receive a hand-picked card from S. I took her to Walgreen's, and she loved looking at all of options and taking her time to choose just the right one. She browsed for a bit, occasionally holding up one that caught her eye. Then she squealed in delight; apparently she’d found “the one”. I took it from her and saw that it was a glittery baptism card, covered with crosses and doves, and other religious symbols. “Oh honey, this is not for Father’s Day; this is for a baptism.”

“What is baptism?” she asked.

Struggling to find the answer she would understand, I told her, “Well, it’s when you go to church and get blessed by holy water so you can take Jesus into your heart.”

"Does it hurt?"

"Oh, no!" I reassured her, "It makes you happy!"

S looked at the card and then looked back up at me. "Let's get it. Papi's been really grouchy lately. He really needs some Jesus in his heart!"

Surprise Party

by Patti

When I first found out I was pregnant, I took 7 tests to make sure it was real. Because, you know, the missed period and boulder boobs were not enough proof. Once I was thoroughly convinced, I shared the news with M. And then M had a nervous breakdown. No, literally. As in, he got slurring-and-stumbling-drunk, leapt out of a moving car while we were driving in the middle-of-nowhere and ran/stumbled/ran/fell/ran/stumbled into the night, invaded a stranger’s yard and squatted in his garden, turned on said stranger’s garden hose, and dangled it over his head as he sobbed through the spraying water about how it was all moving too fast. 

This was not the way I had pictured it would be.

S was a total surprise party. I was not expecting the 2 red lines that screamed “PREGNANT! OMG YOU ARE SOOOO PREGNANT!” when I took the test. I mean, I wanted a baby, but that was supposed to be “someday”; not right now, not like this.  I’ll admit: My first reaction? Tears. Lots and lots of “What the hell am I going to do?” tears. Part of my reaction was my own fear and shock; the other was worry about how M would react. You see, M has never been good at handling stress. He is definitely not a curveball kind of guy. He likes things organized and planned and neatly lined up. I, on the other hand, am not only a curveball catcher, I am a curveball thrower. And this? Was most definitely a curveball.

And just as I suspected, he did not catch that curveball. Instead, it cracked him on the head and knocked him out cold.

At first, before the Big Breakdown, he was mad. And that made ME mad.  I mean, we had been together at this point for 11 years!  We were married! We loved each other! For crying out loud, grow up! But apparently he was not in the mood for me to be pregnant. This was, after all, in clear violation of The Plan.

Over the next few weeks, this new knowledge tucked deeply in our pockets, we lived our life, but we lived it on the outskirts. We were ever so careful not to make waves, not to get too heavy. I could see that M was trying to act all casual and normal; as if what was happening wasn’t really happening at all. As if we could just sit together in the living room and watch TV, or go out with friends, or eat dinner at our little dining room table, just as we always did, it would all just go away.

And then came that night. We had gone to a party and traded places: He drank, I didn’t. And he drank. And drank. And drank. So much so, that by the time we left, he zigzagged his way to the car. I took the keys from him, jammed his jacked-up self into the car, and started the long drive home. The party had been at somebody’s farm; we were literally driving in the pitch-black of nothingness. He was incoherently yammering on about a kid he had seen at the party – a little boy dressed up like a traditional Argentine gaucho - and how it had reminded him of himself when he was a boy, when suddenly, he started laughing. It was the crazy, shake-your-shoulders silent kind of laugh, and I was happy to see him laughing again, so I laughed, too. Maybe everything would be alright, after all! But then I realized: he wasn’t laughing; he was crying. That’s when he demanded that I pull over, and before I could even navigate to the side of the road, he was opening the door and jumping out and running into the darkness.

Mid-breakdown, as M sat there swaying from side to side in a squatting position with some stranger’s hose spraying water over his head, the porch light of the hose’s owner flicked on. I heard the door creak open, and I braced myself for shotguns in the air and a menacing “Get off my property!” Instead, a man appeared, the porch light framing him like a glowing ring. He came softly toward us; M just sat there, choking on the water that sprayed down his face. “Hey buddy, are you alright?”

M looked up at him, ashamed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” he sputtered out into the water.

The man leaned gently into M and put his hand on M’s soaking wet head; a balm. “You take all the time you need, okay?”
 
After that night, we didn’t really talk about what had happened; we didn’t need to. I knew him well enough to know that something inside of him had shifted. It was as if that water had washed away the awful beginning, and we were starting clean.  A few weeks later, he came home from work with a little bag in his hands. He handed it to me, and inside was a tiny onesie with a cheerful yellow duck on the front. I held it out in front of me, imagining it filled up. I was smiling so big it hurt.

First Impressions

by Cathy

By now you must have read what prompted this baby of ours - this blog. The Uncorking of a Friendship explained how Patti and I met and how this all came to fruition.

Granted, I couldn't really stand her when I first met her back in January of 2006 - me, all pregnant and hormonal and she, all skinny and chirpy. But as Patti pointed out in that first blog post, as my belly expanded, so did our friendship and that of our daughters.

In every new friendship, there is always the memorable point in time when the relationship takes on a new form - a new meaning. Most notably, this is when one friend is invited/invites the other to enter their humble abode, their personal living space - their house.  The first time this happened for us was when Patti came over to see my new real baby - my second daughter, Ari - the one I had been hormonally pregnant with the entire duration of our friendship thus far. And what's shocking to me now as I think back on it, is that this happened a mind-boggling seven months after Patti and I met.

I had only been back from the hospital a few weeks when Patti and her daughter S came over to see the baby. I was appropriately sleep deprived and still sporting the tell-tale jelly belly. Wobbling around in my stretched out maternity gauchos and flowy top, I was eyeball-deep in new mommy mode. The kitchen was a nursery military zone - hardly a spot of counter or table was visible through all of the burp cloths, bottles, cans of formula, pacifiers, warming pots, bibs, blankets, napkins, towels, plates and utensils. Even the comfy loveseat in our kitchen was strewn with quilts, cloths and a giant boppy pillow. The floor in front of the couch was properly booby trapped with a bouncy seat.

When Patti first arrived, the baby was asleep so we had some time to sit out on my deck and enjoy the warm August night. We had no adult food or drink readily available in the house, which I didn't realize until we were chatting it up on the deck. Since I wasn't thinking straight, my husband was rummaging around our kitchen trying to find something to offer our new guest. Upon offering her a drink of cranberry/vodka, he quickly realized, after scraping around our freezer for a while, that we didn't even have a speck of ice. So Patti courteously sat there and drank her stacked, warm cocktail.

A few minutes went by and Joe slides the screen door open and pops his head out.

"Do you want a hard-boiled egg?"

Trying to keep her cheeks from exploding from laughter, Patti politely declined the tempting offer as I sat there with my eyes bulged out of my head, horrified. Of course if I were of sound body and mind, the Greek in me would have come out and I would have whipped up something from nothing. But for now, we had to contend with my sweet husband, (God love him) trying so hard to be a proper, respectable host. And he was doing the best he could considering the circumstances.

A few more minutes went by and out comes Joe. He plops a tub of industrial-sized hummus on the table and a plate of pita chips that were collected from the bottom 1/4 of the bag. Surprisingly, Patti didn't flinch. She happily sipped her flat cocktail and munched on the crumbs that she dipped into the big tub o' hummo. As if that weren't enough, considering how I looked and felt, she actually complimented me on how great I was rocking my mommy cleavage and how my hair looked like a lion's mane - all full, healthy and shiny. And that made me see myself in a whole, new, much-needed light.

I said to myself that night, that if a friend puts up with all of that and compliments me to boot, that is a friend well worth keeping. And I'm so glad I did.

Good Intentions

by Cathy

I vowed, when I had kids, that I would never be an embarrassing mom; I would never knowingly or purposefully embarrass my kids in front of their friends, peers, colleagues, or even...ahem...boys - unless of course they pushed me to the edge and really, in fact, deserved it. :)

Yesterday, my ten-year old daughter came home from school with her snack barely touched. I asked her why she didn't eat her snack of apples, cheese and pretzels and could it have anything to do with the fact that her snack was APPLES? Because it would take an army to get her to eat all of the five crispy cut slices of the apple or any basically any kind of fruit. But, no. She claims she didn't eat it because she was embarrassed to pull out the pre-packaged snack in front of her friends.

Of course she didn't tell me this right away, and tried very politely (God love her) to imply that she felt embarrassed to tell me that she was embarrassed because of something I had done.

To be fair to her, I am willing to post a picture of what said snack looked like:

Laugh if you must, but when I saw these at the store, I thought they were an ingeniously packaged way for my kids to eat fruit. I bought one for my five-year old, and since I have to always be fair and buy them each the same (or similar) thing, I instinctively bought one for Bella too. Packaged with pretzels and cheese, I thought this would definitely aid in digesting the apparently offensive fruit.

It didn't occur to me that the Mickey Mouse shaped packaging and a picture of a quacking Donald Duck would, like, totally embarrass my ten-year old.

Mysteriously, however, the pretzels had all been eaten as had some of the cheese. Because of this, I finally got her to admit that the packaging wasn't the real reason she didn't eat the apples - it was just the plain fact that she didn't like APPLES. Okaay? "But still mom," she quickly retorted, "I didn't want to pull out the snack in front of my friends."

Boy, did I learn my lesson. What I think may be cute and appropriate for my five-year old may not necessarily be the same for my ten-year old. They DO have a five-year difference that includes varying stages of behavioral development. As an intuitive, supportive parent, I have to put myself in each one of their shoes equally and think how I would feel if [enter potentially embarrassing situation here] happened.

Their needs and life stages are so different and I can't assume they aren't or even compare them to each other. That would be like comparing apples to oranges.

Disco Cab

by Patti

I have this annual gig in Chinatown where I sing for a company holiday party. The man that hires me is Asian, and he hires me to sing all of the "American Pop" music, and also hires this beautiful Chinese singer, Li, to perform the traditional music.

The host of the party always insists that I bring along a friend to partake in the festivities, and a couple of years ago I dragged along Cathy to do just that. After the gig was over, Cathy and I stepped out into the frozen December air and briskly walked to my car. We were full and happy and I had a nice chunk of change in my pocket for the job just done. But when we got to my car, it wasn't there. We both just stood there and stared at the empty spot, as if by staring at it the car would magically reappear. But it didn't. Instead, the sign I had not seen before suddenly appeared: "NO PARKING. WILL BE TOWED AT OWNER'S EXPENSE."

It was 478305 degrees below zero outside, and we were screwed. Well, I was screwed; Cathy was screwed by association. Once I realized that staring at the now empty parking spot was never going to bring my car back, I snapped to attention. It was after midnight. We were in Chinatown.  It was fuhREEZING. Teeth chattering, we ran back to the restaurant to do what, I don't know, but it felt like progress, however delusional. On the way in, we ran into Li, who was bundled up and ready to bolt.  She must have seen our "screwed" expressions, because she caught my arm and asked me what was wrong. I explained to her that my car had been towed.

She clucked sympathetically. "What you going to do? No cabs now."

"I don't know." And I didn't. The only thing I could think to do was cry. But that wouldn't get us home, either, so I was out of ideas. The el rumbled in the distance. "I know! We will just take the train home, and then I can go and pick up my car tomorrow."

Li looked at me very seriously and leaned forward, her finger wagging. "Oh, no, no. You too pretty for train."

I'd never been told I was too pretty for anything, much less a train.

Li continued. "You too pretty for train. You get kill on train."

Man, pretty people have it rough, don't they? Li must have seen my desperation and offered, "Okay, I drive you, but not all the way home. I drive you to where I live in downtown, then you take cab to tow place."
Cathy and I looked at each other, relieved. We wouldn't be stranded in Chinatown, after all, AND we were saved from having to take that train that we were too pretty for. We hopped in Li's car and she drove us to her building, and then we hopped in a cab to the tow lot.

The ride to the tow lot took about 392 years, and at first, we were quiet, wrapped sullenly in our bad fortune, but then the cab driver turned on the music and suddenly the cab was transformed from a plain ol' boring taxi to a full-on Disco Cab! We were jamming to the extended dance mix of Lady Gaga and I could swear a disco ball descended from the cab's ceiling. We did some top-notch seat dancing and sang out loud to each other and snapped self-portraits on our phones, and laughed about how we were "too pretty for train", and for a while, I totally forgot that my car had been towed and that we were actually on our way to the Scariest Part of the Universe to pick it up. Instead, we were in our very own private club, glamorous and free and clicking pretend champagne glasses while glitter rained down on our heads.

By the time we got there, we were high on life again and all was good in the world. We paid the driver and then I turned to find myself facing a small shack with a little window covered in prison-like bars. I approached the window and shelled out a large chunk of the money I had just earned to get my car back. As I handed the man holding my car hostage the money, I realized then that even when the ride of life gets bumpy and goes off course, as long as you have good friends, a sense of humor, and some change in your pocket, you can still sing out loud to the music, dance in your seats, and enjoy the ride in your very own Disco Cab. And that? Is what makes it all worth it.

When Hoarding Comes in Handy

by Patti 

 

Is there anything more inconvenient than fishing something out of your purse, only to find that is smothered in YOGURT?

That is what happened to me the other morning. I was dropping S off at the bus stop, and as she was about to get out the car, I shoved my hand in my bag to pull out my cell phone, and discovered that an entire container of Yoplait Strawberry Delight had exploded in my purse. So not delightful.

Why did I have a container of yogurt in my purse? Ask my anal husband, who cannot stand even a spare scrap of AIR to be loose in the house. Sure, he can collect totally useless things like vintage swords and old-timey radios, but keep a useful plastic bag in the house? NEVER. So instead, this morning as I rushed out the door in my usual rush-out-the-door way, I had to shove my entire LUNCH in my PURSE.

So here I was, my entire lunch now drowning in Strawberry Delight. As was also my cell phone, my hairbrush, my makeup bag, my fluffy powder brush, my unpaid bill, my suede change purse, my wallet, my glasses….

Poor S knew the tidal wave of cuss words that was about to pour out my mouth, so she feverishly started hunting the car for napkins. Of course, I had precisely one. One napkin. One napkin to clean up gallons of Strawberry Delight. The bus pulled up, and S, relieved to escape the wrath of my yogurt-covered rage, quickly pecked my cheek, leapt out of the car, and rushed to the safety of the bus. Instead of going to work, I drove back home with yogurt all over myself and my things and my car, and went back inside to commence Project Clean-Up This-Crap 2011. I used almost an entire roll of paper towels. After I emptied my purse, I turned it inside out and literally ran it under the kitchen faucet and wrung it out. Then, the clock taunting me because I was going to be late to work, I hastily shoved everything back into my purse. When I got to work, I once again emptied it out, and put my now soaking-wet stuff on a mound of paper towels on my desk.  There were are all my things, wet and shiny, laid out like dead fish on my desk.  I then turned my purse inside out, and ever-so-klassily placed it on my desk to dry, too.

Throughout the day, I told everybody about the purse incident, and I was amazed to find out that 99% of husbands do not ever throw anything away, ever. In fact, my co-worker Kristin said that her husband not only saves every plastic bag that comes across his path, he even saves the ones with holes in them, which means there are lunches falling out of bags instead of yogurts exploding in purses at her house. Cathy told me she has enough plastic bags shoved under her kitchen sink to save not only her family in a nuclear war, but mine as well, and probably everybody in Chicago. My cousin declared I was lucky that I have a husband who throws out things, since apparently most husbands are hoarders. But the general consensus was that, yes, this whole incident was clearly my husband’s fault, and that he should buy me a new purse.

I told him this last night, knowing quite well there will be no new purse. Instead, he’ll hand me a plastic bag and say, “Here’s your new purse.”

Fun, Interrupted

by Cathy

I was watching an episode of Parenthood the other night. One of the show's couples is separated, but take turns having their son visit. In this episode, the boy was to spend the weekend with his dad, who was at the woman's house to pick him up. "I made lunch for him for the next two days," the woman said, "so you don't have to worry about that." (Are men not capable of slapping some meat and cheese between two pieces of bread? But that's a whole different blog post...)This reminded me of the song and dance I always have to do before I leave my kids in the care of someone else at my house. Since Joe and I are blessed with plenty of family nearby, we get free babysitting services pretty much anytime we need them. As such, Joe feels like we should at least make it easy for the babysitters (usually the parents) by preparing dinner or throwing on a pot of coffee, partly because a) he feels bad that they have to watch our kids and cook for them and b) he gets annoyed that they will never 'make themselves at home' by helping themselves to the sandwich fixin's or looking for the coffee filters. Once, they even felt bad about turning up the heat and we returned from our night out to find them sitting there in their coats. Okaaay?

So to put them at ease and have everything at their disposal, I will inevitably be in the process of getting all gussied up - full-on hair and makeup, platform heels and sparkly jewelry up the wazoo - standing over my stove whipping up mac and cheese or sprinting down the hallway with my bath towel wrapped around me, attempting to rescue the burning pizza, all before I go out.

This process is the equivalent of you cleaning your house before your cleaning lady comes over.

The other night I was at a girls night out, and the only other mom at the table, who also happens to be Greek, says, "I had to make sure everything was handled before I went out tonight," referring to her first girls night out in a long time since having her baby.
"Don't tell me," I butted in. "Did you whip up dinner before you came out to dinner? Because I'm sitting here smelling like Greek pan-fried french fries. Sorry if I reek," I continued, fanning out my blouse. She erupted with laughter. She had whipped up a meal.

As moms, are we destined to never enjoy our rare Getting Ready To Go Out Without The Kids Routine instead of being interrupted by countless trips to the kitchen or the countless other preparations we must do to ensure proper care of our kids as we try to enjoy our night out? Are we destined to go out with one earring, incomplete makeup and no deodorant because we forgot what we were doing prior to running to the kitchen for the bazillionth time?

Wait, don't answer that. You need to focus on what to make for dinner before you go out. Get to it.

The Backstory

by Patti

Have you ever walked by a freak-out in progress? I’m talking about those parenting moments had in parking lots or grocery store aisles or restaurants; the ones you wish would have been had in private, or better yet: not at all.

I have walked by many of those freak-outs (like the lady at Target who, in total Christmas Meltdown Mode, roughly yanked her son by the arm away from the toy aisle and, through gritted teeth, threatened to tell Santa Claus of his awful behavior. Or, how about the lady at Jewel who had a total exorcist moment and shoved her kid down into the grocery cart for what must have been the billionth time while screaming “DAMN IT, STOP IT!”, while her other kid yanked incessantly on her leg), and before I became a parent, I would shake my head in judgment and just know without a doubt that if I was in that situation, I would never be so.... out-of-control.

Ha. Ha. HA. HA HA HA HA HA! Life has a way of showing us, doesn’t it, oh yes, it does.

When S was nearly 3 years old, we were in one of those overwhelming party supply stores, the ones that have aisles and aisles and aisles of overstimulation in the form of confetti! And balloons! And costumes! And glitter! And fluffy sparkly things! I was trying to buy favors for S’s upcoming birthday party, and when I say ‘trying’ I do mean trying. S was so completely hyper-aware of every fun and sparkly and colorful thing in that store, that what should have taken ½ hour tops was now verging on forever. Things really reached a peak when S, in frustration at being forced to STOP TOUCHING EVERYTHING, started THROWING THINGS ACROSS THE STORE to get me back for being so terribly un-fun.  I hastily paid while my demon continued to torpedo Fun! Party! Supplies! across the store, and when I turned to stop her, I was pelted in the face by a plastic bag of bouncy balls. Burning, I yanked her arm and dragged her out of the store. We got to the car, and I grabbed her under the arms and lifted her up in the air  towards the car as she kicked and screamed. I lost it. I shook her – not in that horrible, “brain shake”, kind of way – just in a “STOP IT I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE !” kind of way.  I was just.... SO MAD at her; she had driven me to my every edge of parental sanity.  At that very moment, a man was walking by, and shaking his head at me in disgust, said, “Some people should never be parents.”

The thing is… that man? Had NO IDEA what I had endured all day. He didn’t know that S had been cranky and crying and whining and defiant most of the day. He couldn’t know that she had been a monster in the store, running around, throwing things, challenging me every step of the way. All he knew was that I was out of control, and that my child was crying. And he judged me.

And I used to do the same.

Now? Having walked in the shoes of a mother who has lost control, I imagine the backstory: That poor mother, she is dealing with 3 kids and none of them are listening to her. She has been patient all day, and now she is spent. She tries her best, she really does. She is just tired. Tomorrow she will start fresh.

And that’s all we can do: Start fresh.

Tiny Tyrant Trickery

by Patti

I was talking to my coworker, Kristin, about her delicious chunk of a baby, Mallorie. Kristin is about to hit that all-important milestone in parenting: surviving the first year. I asked her how things were going, and she lowered her voice and said, almost shyly, “Well, there is one thing I’m kind of worried about…”  She then proceeded to tell me that her little bundle of joy seemed to have developed a full-on foot fetish. Day after day, Mallorie expertly removes her adorable little socks, shoves her pudgy foot of choice into her mouth, and starts to suck. Hard. Of course, I laughed, because, as a mother, I too, have witnessed my own baby in the throes of her own fetish.  Since Kristin seemed genuinely concerned, I did her a favor and shared my story:

S had one of those colorful little exersaucers, and she would zip around the house in it, laughing almost fiendishly as she did. One day, I heard what sounded like a gagging noise, and I turned to find S standing in her exersaucer in the doorway, her fist shoved deeply into her mouth, a mischievous glint in her eye. Seeing that she was GAGGING, I promptly removed her slimy little dimpled hand from her mouth and told her, “No!” Her hand practically boomeranged straight back into her mouth, and she balled it up into a fist and shoved it as far back she as she could, and, surprise! GAGGED. Each time she did this, she would gag, remove her hand, and then laugh maniacally. The vicious cycle continued the rest of the day, and for many weeks thereafter. Each time, I would remove her hand, and each time, she would stick it right back into her mouth and gag herself.

I finally decided that I would try a little reverse psychology. After all, she was clearly getting tons of attention from me with this little maneuver of hers, so I decided to stop rewarding her with it. I didn’t have to play my game for very long, though, because shortly thereafter, I heard the usual gagging sound, and then a new, different sound. I turned to find S in the doorway again, this time, with a look of sheer surprise on her face. The other thing on her face? Vomit! Lots of it! And all over her hand, and down the front of her onesie. S just stood there in her little exersaucer, her eyes the size of plates, covered in the result of her own obsessive stubbornness.

I couldn’t help it; I laughed. My poor baby was covered in puke and I stood there laughing.

After that day, S stopped shoving her fist in her mouth, but it wasn’t the end, no not by far. She found plenty of other things to obsess over, and, as each obsession eventually petered out, I learned to stop obsessing myself, and just let her be.

Kristin is still fairly new at the game of motherhood, but soon she’ll see that to survive, you have to remain one step ahead of these little tyrants. Yes, these babies are cute, but let’s not get crazy: they are tricky as hell and have a pretty solid strategy. Fetishes, obsessions, stubbornness, defiance, all cloaked in unbearable cuteness - it’s all part of the master plan to take us over and do us in. Kristin may be worried about her little foot sucker, but what she needs to realize is that if we, the innocent parents, are not careful, we end up the suckers, each and every time.

Eavesdropped: Liberty vs. Religion

by Cathy

The other day in our garage, Ari decided to share what she learned in school that day.

Now normally, when I specifically ask her:
"How was school?"
I get a generic "Goooood."
And to, "What did you do today? Anything exciting or fun?"
I'll get another generic, "We sang songs, did art and played outside."
This was a lot of information compared to the response I usually get from Bella, which is usually a flat, "Nothing."

As I was unloading the mounds of Target bags from the trunk, the two of them were goofing around with their bicycles on our driveway. Out of the blue, Ari starts:

"I pledge allegiant, to the father, of the United States of America..."
She kept going, but Bella and I were still stuck on that first sentence. We looked at each other and smiled as I whispered, "Awww, how cute. She has religion and liberty all mixed up."
We respectfully let her finish the pledge and I gave her big high-fives on learning to recite it - I mean, it's a lot of difficult, big, unknown words all strung together for a little five-year old to memorize.

Bella saw that I was still chuckling under my breath so she leaned in and said rather matter-of-factly:

"Well, if you think about it, she's right. She's pledging allegiance to Obama."

And I'll be darned if that doesn't make sense.