Here it Goes Again

Blah... I hate it when Jon leaves. It's just a little pre-deployment workup and he's only gone for a couple weeks, but when I drop him off again and watch him say goodbye to our son, who holds his hands up in his car seat and says, "Up!", it just train wrecks my composure. It doesn't help that all the way back in the car, Nate incessantly asks for his Daddy. Knife twist.

So I had corn dogs for lunch and a guilt-induced salad for dinner. With banana pudding. Because, you know, I had a salad. So it's okay.

All those, "He's gone, he's gone and he's never coming back" feelings resurface. Depression rings my doorbell and asks to come inside. He wants banana pudding, too. He likes helping me eat dessert. We're kind of buddies that way. Except he never gets fat. So we can't be friends. I consider letting him in, but make him wait at the door. I share banana pudding with him anyway before I tell him to go away. He's ugly and stupid and I'm not being friends with him this time. Besides, I ate all the pudding.

I hate deployments. I hate the need for composure that goes hand in hand with the need to not stuff my feelings, because then I'll explode. Because I will. It's not pretty. It's uglier than depression-induced banana pudding binges. Well... almost. But I never balance at a happy medium between the two. I either break down and pout or I straighten my back and go on with life in a "Screw you, Navy! You don't ruin MY life" kind of emotionless coma. It's all a bit ridiculous. It leaves me exhausted and I crawl onto the couch at night and, entirely humbled by my inability to act like what I think grown-ups are supposed to act like, I ask God, again, to show me, again, how the Gospel is still saving me. From my self pity, from my fear and from my childish heart. And then there is peace.

Peace and also cocoa puffs, because I finished the banana pudding.

Buckwheat and Haystack

When Nate was little, Jon called him Buckwheat, which I think is adorable. When he got older and more... active... we started calling him other things. Like "The Terrorist". Anyway. Henry's nickname is Haystack, because he looks like one and he's lazy and I always thought that "Buckwheat and Haystack" would be a great name and idea for a children's book. This is an example of the sort of material we have accrued for one such book.

This happened this very afternoon. Buckwheat decided after a round of "chase the dog with the clatter toy" that he wanted to hug him. Haystack didn't put up with it for long, but the joy in Buckwheat's grin as he hugged the dog was enough to start this conversation after Haystack ran away.

"Henry, why don't you just let him hug you? He loves you. You should be nice to him."
*Buckwheat chucks a full water bottle at Haystack*
The dog looks at me with those eyebrows of his... See? My point exactly. No hugging... ever!

Minutes later, Haystack, in desperation, grabs his de-stuffed toy and brings it to Buckwheat, which he does when he wants to play tug of war, one of two approved activities for said child, according to the dog (the first being cracker sharing). Buckwheat wants to play dodge ball instead and heaves one at Haystack, successfully slamming it into his poor doggie butt. Eyebrows aim themselves at me and I give up.

Sometimes Haystack looks at me and his eyebrows talk. They usually say, "Nobody fed me today... or... ever... can I have your food?" But on occasions like this, they say, "Remember a couple years ago when I was the only child and life was quiet and simple? Yeah. That was nice... jerks."

Self Sufficient

It isn't exactly easy to figure out discipline. I want a happy, well-behaved child and, to this end, I have disciplined with different techniques. I have tried things. Things that don't work. I have tried things that kind of work. The thing that works very best is nap time. When my son is asleep, he never disobeys me.

Spanking is not very popular nowadays and I'm not here to defend it as an institution. If you can get your kid to listen by being very stern and looking deeply into his eyes while repeating commands, then great. When I do that, my kid laughs at me. Intensity does not equal intimidation with toddlers. If your child understands the concept of 'time out' and will sit in a chair and feel admonished, great. Mine has no problem staying in a chair. In fact, wouldn't it be so fun to stand on the chair? And lean waaaay off the back and grin at Mom? And hang upsidedown from it? Yes. If those things work for you, fabulous. Kudos. Congratulations. Maybe one day, I can have a child like yours and judge people like me who spank their kids. We'll talk then.

In the meantime, if spanking is the only thing that persuades my child not to run into the street, then I will spank. It's better than running interference with a car.

The point is this: My son has found a way out of every other form of discipline I've attempted and he just found a way out of the last one. He self-spanks now.

We were having a coming-to-Jesus moment over whether or not Nate should be allowed to pull books off the shelf and chuck them onto the floor. I was on the, "Stop doing that" side and Nate was on the, "Make me, Woman!" side. He wasn't obeying, so after a couple commands, I said, "If you touch it again, I will come over there and spank you." Naturally he touched it again, but before I could fulfill my threat, he turned to me and spanked himself.

I paused. Perhaps it was a coincidence. Nope. When he touched the book again and I smacked his little butt, he repeated the action with wide eyes and eyebrows raised. His little hand spanked his fat thigh.

Now what? I don't have to spank him anymore, I guess. I suppose it'll go like this:

"Nate don't do that"
Nate does it
"Nathan Scott, spank yourself."
He does
"Now don't you feel bad that you disobeyed?"

Self-spanking is the new thing. Easiest discipline I've ever administered. Now I totally judge people who put their kids in time out. Losers.

Pumpelstiltskin

This is a picture of my Halloween pumpkin, purchased in October of last year and photographed this past weekend.

I left it on the porch throughout November because it was still appropriate as harvest decor. I left it out in December, because I didn't have anything Christmasy to put in the corner there and I didn't feel like moving it. In January, I checked to see if it was rotting or anything and left it out, assuming it would soon mold over, forcing me to stop being lazy and walk it to the trash. February came and it was still solid and golden orange and I thought it'd be funny to leave it till Jon got home from deployment at the end of the month. Folks, this bad boy is still there. It's the end of April.

My laziness always has an expiration date. Usually weeks, but with pumpkins, it's apparently a little longer. This is not about me or my lack of moral fiber anymore. This gourd looked at me and announced that it will not be rotting. In deference to it, I am leaving it be. I want to see how long this stand-off lasts. The only change I've seen is a slight lightening of the stem  I think it used to have a little more green/brown to it. I've checked underneath and it is as solid and dry as the day I bought it. San Diego, apparently, has the perfect conditions for pumpkin longevity.

I will keep you updated on The Pumpkin Phenomenon as (if) things develop. My new goal is for Pumpelstiltskin for him to make it to meet his replacement this coming October. A one-year-old pumpkin is something to be proud of, so I'm playing coach and taking all credit if it works and not sharing any, because in addition to being lazy, I'm selfish.

Whenever you feel like you've really accomplished something, I want you to think of this blog post and say to yourself, "Self, I may have accomplished something, but I sure as heck have never kept a harvest pumpkin alive and kicking for as long as Bek has. I should try harder." Then contain your disappointment and eat a brownie, because that's the best way to cure disappointment in one's accomplishments. Believe me. I sure haven't been comforting myself with pumpkin pie all this time.

An Open Letter to My Son

Nathan Scott,

You are a tornado of mischief and happiness. Many mothers write to their children as babies and say sweet, emotional things, but I know you, my Boy. You are not one to revel in emotionality. You are action and touching and moving and figuring out. The two emotions you partake in are as follows:
ANGER: When hungry, tired, hurt or mad at Momma. Manifestation: whining and screaming and smacking.
CONTENTMENT: Every situation other than anger. Manifestation: grinning as you systematically destroy my house as efficiently as you destroyed my navel while you gestated.



You know that I love you. You are quite fully confident in it, which is something I envy in you. I strive to take for granted how loved I am, as sky-is-blue fact and, like you, live a joyful existence in that confidence. And you love me, too. And you love your Daddy. You hug us around the legs and knock incessantly on the door when we're trying to use the bathroom and yell, "DA-DDEE!" and "MO-MEE" at the top of your lungs, just because you can.

Your current favorite toy is the squirt bottle Dad uses to wet your hair down before he cuts it. You grab it when you think I'm not looking, send a Dennis-the-Menace look my way and haul diaper to the other end of the house, where you proceed to moisten the couch, the floor, yourself and Henry with a malicious grin. Henry is not on the best terms with you right now, Nate. I hope this changes, but you don't tone down your tornado for anyone or anything and Henry is a peace-loving sort, easily overwhelmed by your intensity. I don't think he appreciates being squirted in the face, either. Something to consider.

By the way, I sat down to eat dinner tonight and got a wet rear. I know it was you and the squirt bottle.

Being your mother is a chronically tired thing. But it is also laughter. Lots of laughter. And joy. Your grin is fabulous. It makes me happy in a sunshine-and-chocolate-cake-in-my-soul kind of way. When I put you down to nap and instead you lay there saying, "tick, tock, tick, tock..." to yourself, I want to be frustrated with you, but I laugh instead. You are contagious, my Boy, but I've never enjoyed catching something quite this much.

I love you, you little Monster.

Mommy

Drool Frog

Jon had a late night flight tonight, so he got to hang out with us all day. We took full advantage, trying a new Thai place and alternately chasing Nate and pretending we didn't know him as he threw Bizzy Bear books on the floor at Barnes and Noble. It's ironic that, in order to fully concentrate on checking out books I might want to buy to read to my son (a sweet, albeit naive daydream), I had to completely ignore the fact that that same personage was climbing on the displays (which is not sweet... only obnoxious).

So we got fed up and went to World Market to strap him into a cart. Naturally, the browsing-while-confined thing doesn't suit the third member of the family, so we picked up a cheap frog bathtub toy - the kind that squirts water out of its mouth - and handed it over to buy us some time. Within feet of the frog display, he had chewed off the price tag, so we grabbed another and threw it in the cart, so that there would be something to ring up. When I got to the register, I pulled them both out with a, "So we don't want this one, but figured you needed a tag to scan, since he chewed the price tag off of this...one..." and as I said the second "this one", I squeezed it and a long, steady stream of drool shot out of the plastic frog at the cashier woman, splattering across the counter.

"Oh. Uh. Sorry... you don't have to touch that one... I'll just put it back in the cart..."

It's okay, she reassured me, with an "I hate kids" grimace... she had worked at Disneyland once. She then, painstakingly, wiped up the drool with a paper bag, holding it away from her with the very tips of her fingers.

Disney can't be a very clean place to work, but I bet no one water-gunned her with drool during her time there. Leave it to us to turn a dry bathtub toy into a working drool frog... no bath needed.

Not Cool

Jon is home, so I have ignored you all.

I knew having a kid would ransack my cool points, but there's something sweet and young and starry eyed about being pregnant with your first baby, so I held onto this idea that even after the ransacking, I would still maintain a degree of the joie de vivre that causes people to say, "You have kids? I never would have guessed!" That was dumb of me.

I haven't gotten a mom haircut, I wear skinny jeans and I listen to Adele. But the inevitability of my loss of coolness keeps proving itself. Strollers are great cup holders, but walk into Anthropologie with a kid in a stroller and you have to be wearing a dress or harem pants in order to make up for it. Walk into a store with a kid and no stroller and there's nothing you can do to make up for it, because you're guaranteed to be grim-faced and wild-eyed from fighting the wildebeest in your arms, whose purpose in life is to rearrange the jewelry display and throw chic pottery at the sales associate.

Target is the new Anthropologie. They get me there. They have big red wildebeest holders with wheels.

Jon and I ran away as soon as his parents came into town. They watched Nate and we tried to ski. I'll elaborate on my first-timer skiing prowess another time, for your reading pleasure, but know that my parents have been charged with neglect, having never taught me to ski, so that now, at 26, I fall down the intermediate slope like a stretch armstrong doll, picking up snide comments from the people on the lift overhead when I ski horizontally up snowbanks and land on my head and my feet at the same time. I wish I was kidding.

Yesterday when the in-laws were in town and we decided to go to Torrey Pines to hike along the beach-front cliffs, I surveyed my outfit. I had on designer jeans - my only redeeming outfit choice - that are high heel-length. I can't wear them with flats. I wasn't about to wear wedges on a hike (although in retrospect, I should have) and I was comfortable. So I put on tennis shoes. With jeans. In public. Which would have been fine had we only gone hiking. But we got hungry. Hiking does that. So we went to PF Changs. With my mom outfit. Let it be understood that my mother-in-law, who is also a mom, had on a cute outfit with chic flats.

I already felt my momishness when we walked into the restaurant. My hair in a messy bun, my zipped up hoodie, my mom shoes, my toddler running and shrieking and raising... heck. Everyone else in heels and tiny skirts and liquid eyeliner. Had I remembered make up that morning? I couldn't remember. I escaped to the bathroom, where three tiny, wobbly-in-high-heels lipstick princesses preened in the mirror. I had, indeed, remembered make up that morning, as was evidenced by the mascara, raccooning under my eyes. I walked into the stall and realized my fly was already down. Had been down the whole afternoon. Because, you know, it matched my outfit.

Moral of the story: never leave your house.

Or take a cue from your mother-in-law and care enough before you leave the house looking like Wal-Mart, so that you don't conclude at the end of the evening that you should never leave your house. And then, make rice-krispies treats. They fix most mom-things. But don't share with your kid. He doesn't need the sugar. You, on the other hand, most definitely do. Sugar and one of those people that tell you what to wear and make sure you don't leave the house looking like what you are.