Cold Spaghetti

During our 140 mile drive from New Orleans to Mobile, I was nostalgic for the way things used to be. Back when we walked uphill 3 miles each way to wait an hour at the bus stop for a ride to school, and had to go to the library and use a card catalog to find books for research papers, and didn’t have a variety of handheld electronics to fight over on car trips. We annoyed our parents with “ARE WE THERE YET,” which is very much preferred over, “I WANT TO PLAY WITH THE GAME THINGY” “NO, IT’S MY TURN” “NO IT IS NOT YOUR TURN” etc.

I tried to explain the joy of simply looking out the window at the dark silhouettes of trees, looking for words and letters in street signs and license plates, listening to the radio, and using your imagination to day dream away the trip. That is how we did it, yessir-ree, and it was character building.

It just goes to show that no matter what you do, what you have, or what you put in front of children during a car ride — they will always annoy you as a point of fact. So save your batteries, Moms and Dads. Don’t worry about the DVD player, the Ipod, or handheld game machine. It won’t matter. They will still make you threaten to pull over that car.

Now that we are in Mobile, here are a few pictures of the kids from January 2007 that I found on my parents’ computer…

The party happened.

I’m very embarrassed to admit this, but it’s a day and a half later and I still feel hung over. From the 90 minute party, in a location away from my house where they did just about everything, with very friendly well-mannered 5 year-olds who had a great time. Based on those facts, my new greatest fear is a sleepover with a dozen 11 year-olds.

10 days ago, when I called Elmwood in a desperate state, wondering if they too had everything booked party-wise, I happened to be on the phone when a cancellation for a party Saturday morning came in. Not wanting to ignore the miracle happening before me, I took the slot. It was for 90 minutes in the Adrenaline Rush Room, 60 of which is dedicated to a all-you-can-bounce inflatable obstacle course and 40-foot trampoline. The last 30 minutes is for pizza and cake. Very clear, straightforward, and easy. The kids had a blast.

Here is some video of them in the first few minutes of the party…

Will blew out his candles (in three tries) surrounded by some girlfriends. He was adorable.

Thank goodness it’s over.

(In that second picture, I tried to play around and see how it would look if I took out the candle reflections on his head. Not too well. Obviously, Momma needs to take in a few more photoshop tutorials on patching. And, if you think the pictures look grainy, it’s because they are. I didn’t want to use the flash — kids hate it — and the available light was dim. Sometimes you just gotta go to 1600.)

Today is Will’s 5th birthday and that is a big deal. Five is just a big deal. We have five fingers, five toes. There are five workdays in our week. We have a nickel for five cents and a five dollar bill and learn to count money in fives. And when their children are at the age of 5, Mothers have to take a long, hard look and realize that they have managed to raise a newborn to an infant to a baby to a toddler to a preschooler to a kid.

This post was suppose to be my tome to my first baby, my boy, the infant I cried everyday over for months, spent hours hooked to a pump and feeding through a finger-tube. The baby I struggled to care for while starting a PhD. The toddler I took away from home before a storm destroyed our city. The preschooler who attended three schools in under a year, spoke two languages, and lived in 3 countries before turning 3 years old. The boy I now look to for help around the house. That guy.

But instead, my arm is weighed down by the heavy head of Kate, who has been throwing up for 7 hours. I’m afraid to leave her side, as she’s so lethargic that I am concerned over her ability to turn her head and not choke when her body decides it’s time for another go. She’s wiped out all her pajamas, most of my clothes, and countless towels, bedcovers, and blankets. It’s going to be a long, long night.

One thing we know is that she won’t make it to Will’s Birthday Party tomorrow.

One other thing I know is that we’re two for two on our lives failing apart right before the Po’Boy Fest; this was the same week Paul had the emergency appendectomy a year ago. I sense a pattern.

So until I can say something more complex and memorable about my darling boy, here is the picture-book account…

Will, fresh out. With antibiotic all over his little eyes. (U of Michigan hospital, Ann Arbor, MI)

Will, eating his first ever cake on his first birthday, New Orleans:

Will on his 2nd birthday. We had a small party in the front yard. Folks came from around the block and commented that this was, “the first post-Katrina party”. My Mom brought a helium tank from Alabama so that we could have some balloons, which Will spent the entire morning popping.

Will on his 3rd Birthday. Argh.

Will, with the little O’Delice cake for his 4th birthday.

Will, today, on his 5th birthday, with his classmates signing Happy Birthday (in French, of course).

After 16 plus years of being a strict vegetarian (only occasionally would he even eat Lucky Charms), Paul began to eat meat again around the time that Kate was born.

Having already given up vegetarianism a few months before (uncontrollable anemia during my pregnancy was the catalyst — that, and I’d already re-introduced the entryway drug, fish, into my diet when we moved to New Orleans), I didn’t think that there would be a huge change in our eating habits. After all, I was eating meat again and it didn’t seem like a big change.

But Paul. Wow, Paul. When that boy fell off the wagon, he fell off HARD. Now, his life is neatly summed up in this xkcd chart:

Paul is the bacon-cook of the house (I showed no talent for this particular skill early on and formally resigned those duties), so the 1% of the time Paul cooks, it’s bacon. He cooks a pound of it in a pot (“it’s the way they did it in the Grand Canyon”) and then proceeds to eat the entire pot, using a spatula to scoop out any missed crumbles at the bottom.

The upside to this is that now I have ideas on what to get him for Christmas. I thought that I was on track for a non-cholesterol-raising holiday. Then we had this (censored) conversation this morning:

“So, I think the present that I want to give you is going to go down in price after Christmas. How do you feel about exchanging presents later?”

“When I asked you to play a Wii, I wasn’t suggesting you buy anything.”

[Side note: Did I mention that Paul likes to search my computer for signs of what I’m trying to get him for Christmas?]

“[edited] Fine, then. No presents for you, gift spoiler.”

He completely spoiled my surprise, but how can I not have something special for him on Christmas morning? Something more exciting than the socks that currently represent the sum total of what Paul will receive from his loving wife and children. Then it occurred to me: I can bestow upon my favorite meat-eater the gift of bacon! Here are some bacon ideas I’ve found.

Uncle Oinker’s Bacon Mints. “Just for the sheer joy of handing someone a bacon flavored mint!”

Bacon Scented Bacon Print Tuxedo. “You can get married in bacon, get confirmed in bacon or go to the Oscars in bacon!”

Bacon Flavored Toothpicks. “Arm yourself with invigorating pig freshness and the confidence that you can take on the world.”

Maple Bacon Morning Coffee. “Reminiscent of a hearty Saturday morning breakfast around the table, this sweet, savory coffee delights the senses with the smell and taste of home!”

Bacon Air Freshner. “Put one up in the family room and everyone will have a sudden craving for a BLT.”

Bacon Strips Bandaids. “Bacon Strips are cut to look like small slabs of bacon.”

Maple Bacon Lollipops. “The salty chunks of bacon make a delicious and unique counterpoint to the subtle sweetness of the maple, and oh, yeah- you’ll be eating an oh-my-god bacon lollipop!”

Bacon Floss. “Now you can improve your dental hygiene while enjoying the amazing flavor of crispy fried bacon. Is there anything bacon can’t improve?”

Bacon Wallet. “Sleek, yet meaty.”

Bacon Gift-wrap. “Start wrapping in style!”

A Chocolate bar of Bacon. “Rub your thumb over the chocolate bar to release the aromas of smoked applewood bacon flirting with deep milk chocolate.”

Wake-n-Bacon. “This clock gently wakes you up with the mouthwatering aroma of bacon, just like waking up on a Sunday morning to the smell of Mom cooking breakfast. Unless you’re Jewish.”

And of course, a variety of Bacon-of-the-Month-Clubs. Including one offered through The Grateful Plate and one through The Pig Next Door.

Just in case you get bacon overload and aren’t sure what to do with it all, you can always make Bacon Soap.

Finally, if this just isn’t enough and you need more bacon-inspired recipes, products, or advice, you can turn to Mr. Bacon Pants (Alejna, this one is for you) at www.MrBaconPants.com.

Tonight was our first parent teacher conference of the year. The kids are in a French school, immersed in French all day long, so it’s been a bit of a mystery to us as to how they were doing. For Kate we had no worries; she’s young, she’s in the most primary of classes the school offers, and there are no huge developmental issues that need immediate attention (eventually we’ll turn to pottying and removal of Abby — her pacifier — but we’re currently living in the beautiful world of LATER on those issues).

For Will, it’s been constant worry. Worry that he was struggling with a bully. Worry that he wasn’t able to sit still. Worry that he is the youngest (or almost the youngest) in the class. Worry that he isn’t bringing home points to show good behavior. Worry that he is over-tired without a nap. The worry came from little things that we were seeing: a random bathroom accident around the same time as the concern over the bully, increased difficulty and whiny behavior at home, the fact that he wasn’t bringing home ‘creature cards,’ given when students reach 10 points for good behavior (there is the possibility to earn 1 point each day). Although he seems to love school (he never wants to go home when we arrive to pick him up), he complains about going to school each morning. Was he showing us signs that he was stressed? Were we missing important clues that indicate a problem?

We have been in communication with his teacher and the school director about our concerns. It’s fair to say that I am a high-maintenance Mom when I don’t understand something. (Although I would prefer the terms “engaged” and “involved.”) It’s a new school, the learning curve is steeper than we would have thought, and getting information from other parents has been difficult. Thankfully, the school staff is understanding and accommodating of our questions.

Nana (Paul’s Mom) came yesterday and spent the morning with Will’s class. Via her report, in class, Will is quiet. He fidgets, but really no more or less than any of his classmates. When asked to do something, he follows direction without hesitation, which she felt was strong indication that he understood the commands. At one point, the teacher pulled out dice and some cards. She called over students one by one and asked them a series of questions, rolling the dice and showing the cards — a test of numbers, counting, and letters. Nana couldn’t tell what the right or wrong answers were, only that comparatively, Will seemed to fly through the questions.

So we arrived at Will’s conference a little nervous. I had my notebook out, pen raised.

“Will,” his teacher began, “Will is… what is the word…?” (Will’s teacher is French, she’s searching for the right word) “… he is…”

My hand readies to write.

“… amazing.”

I freeze. Really? I put down the pen. This is not the word I thought she was going to say.

She proceeds to tell us that she had wondered if Will was learning at all, that she sees him looking around the room, daydreaming, not really paying attention. That when they learn songs, she wonders how well he knows the words. That he is shy and doesn’t speak. (This is normal with immersion — in the first year, children tend to primarily listen. In the second year, they begin to speak.) So today, when she checked in with the students in preparation for the afternoon’s parent meetings, she was “amazed” that Will not only flew through the dice and cards, but that he did it faster and with accuracy equal to that of the students who had been in French school for several years. “You should be very proud of him,” she told us with a smile.

I’d love to say that we are simply outstanding parents, dutifully fostering his French learning. But outside of asking him to teach us different words or sing songs for the video camera, we’re not doing much. All this time and worry about Will, when the truth is that he is really, truly learning, completely in stride with his class. It was the first time I’d actually believed that maybe he wasn’t going to be held back from Kindergarten (all my worry had resigned me to this reality, because I was so sure we’d made the wrong choice by putting him in the Kindergarten in the first place.) Could this be anxiety over how fast this kid is growing up?

As we left the school, feeling a bit shocked and surprised, Paul says, “We managed to get through our first parent-teacher conference without the words ‘restraining order.’ I consider that a success.”

Then we exchanged glances and he voiced what we both were thinking, “I spoke too soon; we still have to do Kate’s.”

Will did not want to go to school today.

First, he tried the Peggy Ann McKay approach. He dramatically explained his sudden illnesses and selflessly proclaimed that he “would feel REALLY BAD if he got anyone else sick. REALLY FOR REAL.” When I felt his head and tested his smile button (belly tickle spot), he was unable to maintain the facade. But I wanted to validate his complaint, “let’s get you a good breakfast,” I offered, “and maybe that will help you feel better.”

Because Paul gets up at 5:30 and walks to the corner coffee shop to start work at 6 each morning, I handle the kids by myself. Some mornings are fine. Other mornings… not so much.

Somewhere between changing Kate’s huge leaking poop and dealing with her current obsession of testing just how committed I am to ignore her when she screams, I forced Will to get dressed.

As in, I carried him to where his clothes were laid out. I pulled off his pajamas. I grabbed him by the ankle and dragged him back when he tried to slide away. I forced underwear and pants on his kicking legs. By the time I had his vest on, he was calmer and stood while I tucked in his shirt and helped get on his socks. He fussed and then pouted. Somewhere in the process, he declared me THE WORST MOMMY EVER.

I’m pretty sure that I’ve been called this before, but today I felt like I really earned it. Isn’t forced-dressing right up there with forcing cod liver oil down a child’s throat?

“At least I’m not dressing you in plaid bell-bottoms and taking pictures,” I joked to myself as he continued to be angry.

Finally, I explained the deal. “I love you no matter what names you call me. You can hurt me with your words, Will, but it will never change how much I love you. And I love you so much that I will risk you being angry with me to keep you safe and to do things that are good for you — like go to school.”

He paused and was still.

Then, under his breath, “but you are still not my friend.”

—-

Under the circumstances, I feel it’s okay to post this then.

—

When I have my nervous breakdown and move to the beach to make jewelry on the days when they untie my jacket, THESE are the kinds of things I want to make. Happy place. Happy place. Happy place…

Growing up, my Dad worked nonstop. Terms like ‘work-a-holic’ don’t even apply to military families, because there is no such thing as a nonworking day. Even if he did have a day off, he was changing the oil in the car or dumping my clothes drawers on the floor during a room inspection (drawers not neat, everything on the floor!) My brother and I proudly reasoned that his obsession was due to a higher calling and we did our best to understand.

Then he retired from the Navy and took a real job. And worked just as much. Then we realized that no, in fact, Dad was just a work-addict.

A little more than a month ago, Dad took a new job. Since getting that job, he’s worked from home during the day, come home before 6pm, and gone on vacation. Maybe these sound normal for some, but for my Dad, it singles major alarm. Even my Mom has been complaining that she has no idea what to do with my Dad around the house more than 10 minutes a day. Is this his mid-life crisis? Or maybe worse, could he have been given some sort of terrible diagnosis and is busy working on a bucket list? We wondered.

But I think I’ve figured it out. After meeting who he’s working with, I realize that it’s not that he is a machine. It’s that this is the first time he has not worked for crazy people. Amazingly, when faced with a normal work situation that places realistic demands on it’s employees, he began to act normally. It gives me faith for the future… if only other companies and managers and bosses and government entities could do the same, maybe we can turn this ship around.

So my happy Dad and still-i-shock-Mom just came back from Vegas, where they saw Elton John and Bette Middler. (My Dad was thrilled with their 2nd row seats, “when she slapped her thigh, we could HEAR her slapping her thigh!”) They followed up the shows with 4 days in a resort in Death Valley. Wow. So, here he is, our new Dad.

I especially like when she talks about Wesley and Clare — because she’s wearing PJ’s that we gave to Clare (when she turned 1?). When she out grew them, she sent them to Kate to wear.

Jen, Mad and Su have Just Posts up for October — these are social justice and activism oriented posts nominated by readers — and I am flattered to be among the offerings. I learned of these through the talented and mellifluous Alejna, who is fun to read not only because of ThThTh, but because she is an endless source of pants-related humor. (Become the mother of a toddler and pants become very funny. Really.) The Just Posts have been a big source of inspiration for me over the last few months and this month’s posts were no different. I loved Jen’s writing about the impact of the tropical storm-related flooding in Belize, which has devastated the rural community she and her husband bought property within and are moving to in January of the coming year. Magpie’s charge inspired me to donate $25 to charity. My own sister-in-law made a strong argument about how the legacy of slavery is still a very real presence to school children attending schools named after slave owners. These are just a few examples.

I enjoy reading the Just Posts because it helps me to connect to others who are aware of the world around us and look for ways to make a difference. A little happy place in the internet.

The beach is my other happy place. So, here are a few pictures from the beautiful Gulf Coast, featuring my favorite kids. Because there is where I want to be right now…

There are so many things that contribute to my Bad Mommy status… using Jack Daniels as a teething soother, stuffing the kids into the overhead bins during air travel, co-sleeping… you get the idea.

But the number one thing that solidifies me as a Bad Mommy is this: I hate my children’s birthdays.

It gets worse each year. The anxiety, the fretting, the countless nights of web searches for the same ideas. Weeks of calling every mediocre local option to find that it doesn’t matter anyway, they are booked. Worrying over the date, the time, the people. Being frustrated that the weather is a complete question mark (three years ago it was 95 degrees and unbearably humid, last year we had frost on the ground). Feeling disappointment over Will’s obsession with presents. Knowing that I have a team on hand to judge when whatever I do doesn’t live up to expectation. Because it’s all on the Mom. There is no one else on earth responsible for children’s birthdays and every little detail… from the humidity to how the streamers bend to the taste of the frosting on the cake… lie on the shoulders of The Mother.

It’s not that I’m caught up in some ‘perfect birthday’ ideal. I couldn’t care less about theme, crafts, or activities. I just want a simple party with some friends where the adults can hang around and talk and the kids can run themselves silly. That’s it. THAT IS ALL.

Really, what I want is to borrow someone else’s house for the weekend — one with a big yard — rent a jumpy house to put outside, and let the kids run around the yard for 90 minutes while the parents hang back, eat, and talk. I wouldn’t even mind cleaning up afterward. This, in my view, is the World’s Best Birthday.

And the anxiety is because it’s just a total impossibility. Something that simple is simply not possible. There is nothing I can do to have a stress-free party for my kids, and I feel angry that I even have to think about it.

NEW PLAN, Will and Kate! You guys get to stay 4 and 2 FOREVER!