Pooped

For my mother-in-law, who knows that I love her, and also knows how to laugh at herself.  A skill in which we should all become experts.  

SI, Grandma, and DD

There are a few things that every parent knows.

And, when you're first pregnant, blissfully oblivious of the realities of parenting... before it's really sunk in that this is genuinely the rest of your life... other parents try to warn you.

You hear the stories constantly.  Themes, repeating.  Endlessly, it seems.

And one of them does make a mark.

Painting with poo.

You know it's probably going to happen, but what do you care?  You don't have to worry about that... after all, it will be MONTHS before your baby is coordinated enough to do something so... gross.  It might be years before they get the idea.

But eventually, they're going to get the idea.  And it's probably going to happen in some sorry, hapless kind of way.

Grandma and the monkeys

Take my children, for example.  Grandma has been staying with us while I desperately try to catch up on my sleep deficit and M studies for midterms.  And she has been through most of this before.

But... well... I have found that grandparents are a little more reluctant than mommies and daddies to lay down the law.  Particularly when it comes to punishment.  And naptime.

As you may recall, naptime is a frequent source of drama in our home.  Just not usually to the extent of yesterday afternoon.

I was out of the day yesterday.  I had Spanish class, some errands to run, and a chiropractor/acupuncture appointment.  (Amazing- acupuncture is the only thing that has ever done my SPD any good.)  I got home at about 3:30 pm.

As I was ever so laboriously climbing the three flights of stairs to our condo, I thought to myself... the girls didn't wake up this morning until 9am- I bet they're still napping!  I bet I can go through that door, and SIT DOWN for about ten minutes.

She's a pro.  She can handle this, right?

Instead, I opened the door to hear, "Thank, GOD- Mommy's home!  Mommy can help!"

Help?  Help with WHAT?

You see, the previous day DD finally- FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME- pooped into the potty.  She's been peeing in the potty almost every time for two months now, but only poops in her diaper during nap or bedtime.  With the exception of a handful of times that she's pooped in her underpants.  Which sucks for everybody.

After she pooped in the potty, I screamed with delight and did a dance and sang a song and gave her TWO m&ms.  It was quite the to-do.

As Grandma explains it, she did not want to poop in her diaper again.  So, after almost two hours of refusing to nap for Grandma, she removed her diaper in order to poop.

All over her bed.

She was so traumatized, she began screaming and screaming and screaming.  That's when Grandma came in and saw the mess.  I walked in the door about five minutes later.  By that time, DD's hands had been somewhat cleaned off, but the telltale signs of poo were everywhere.

Grandma and the monkeys

She had, in her panic, smeared it on the wall.  On the rails of her bed.  On her blankets.  On her FROG (the importance of which can only be described by this post), but the bulk of the poo was on her pony.

It was a nightmare of fecal proportions.

SI was just standing in her crib (she had also refused to nap) narrating the scene to me.  "DD pooed in the bed!  DD pooed on her frog!  DD sad!  DD have poo on her blanket!"

As DD calmed down, she began to see the humor in the situation.  Sadly, as of that moment I did not.  As she repeated, "This funny, mommy!"  I emphatically replied, "NO IT IS NOT."

Ominously, DD giggled.

It took Grandma and I about half an hour to sort things into a facsimile of peace and quiet.  At that point I told the girls they needed another hour of quiet time, put them back to bed, and sat down with a glass of water.

The much beloved Grandma of poo related disaster

They immediately began to goof around again.

Me?  I took a nap and left Grandma with the monsters.

But this morning?  This morning, the two of them were spitting onto DD's bed and "drawing" on the wall with the "bubbles."

Right where the poo had been.

Once again, I will choose to blame the whole catastrophe on Grandma.  Because then I can keep telling myself that *I* would have been better at getting them to shut up and lay down for nap time, and the whole poo debacle would never have happened.

But who am I kidding?  I've known since I was first pregnant with my monsters.

Since all the other mommies in the world warned me...

Some day, they said to me then and I say to you now, your kid is going to play with their own poo.  And it's not going to be pretty.  And it's going to be disgusting for a whole host of reasons you cannot yet comprehend.  And you're going to marvel at how any species so obviously dumb could claw their way to the top of the food chain.

Grandma reading to the monkeys

And then you'll look in their cute little face, shake your head and say to yourself, "Screw it.  It's probably just going to get grosser."

...

Dear Lord, I hope it doesn't get grosser.

And if it does, I hope I can still blame it on Grandma.

Teacher's Helper, or Childcare Disaster Zone

My very distracting children

We have, up until extremely recently, been very very lucky when it comes to our childcare.

Don't get me wrong, all things considered we're still pretty lucky.  But not as lucky as I'd like.

You see, we have virtually no family in the area.  And the family that we DO have in the area is pretty far away, all told.  (We're on the far south side of the city, my mother's cousin is in the near north suburbs.)  Add to that our extreme financial constraints... we basically just plain can't afford childcare.  And yet, somehow I must get to class on a regular basis in order to finish my degree.

For much of the first year, M was unemployed.  That is one of the reasons that we couldn't afford childcare.  But, that also made him available to watch the girls while I went to class.

Then we found Our Mary Poppins.  Our magical, wonderful, perfect part time nanny.  What made her so perfect?  First, she LOVES the girls.  LOVES them.  And they absolutely adore her.  Next, and also wonderful, she lives in the neighborhood.  In the event of an emergency, she can usually be here in less than twenty minutes.

But the biggest, best-est thing that made her the second most important adult in my life, was her availability.  She's an art student.

I used to be an art student.

I know how good art students can be on living on virtually nothing.

She was willing to live on virtually nothing.

Best of all?  Every semester, I would register first.  Then, she would register for classes around my class schedule.  And thus, she was always available when I needed her, she always had enough money to get by, and we had babysitting that we could BARELY afford.  We've been paying more for our childcare each month than for our mortgage.  And this month our insurance premiums went up.  Again.

It was a freakin' steal.  We knew it, and we were grateful.  So grateful that whenever she was running low at the end of the month, or had some extra expenses (wisdom teeth, etc.) we were happy to help her out.  As much as we possibly could.  Because we had become completely symbiotic.  Codependent, if you will.  And we had become friends.

Cut to this semester.

DD is cute enough to make me forget what happened next.

Thanks to the horrific, inhumane, and sadistic language requirements of my school, I have to be at class for one hour every single day.

She had almost managed to make that work.  Almost.  But then her advisor started shifting her classes around.  Other classes were canceled, rescheduled, or otherwise made to change their nature.

Suddenly, Our Mary Poppins couldn't come over anymore.  This was the start of my second week of classes.  I began missing my classes.

I started calling anyone, ANYONE who might help me.

I talked to a dozen day care providers.

First of all, places that can take my kids at 7:15am when I need to drop them off?  Not exactly a dime a dozen.  They're happy to take them at 8am.  You know, the minute my 50 minute long class starts.  That doesn't work.

Or, they're happy to take them at 7:15am when I need to drop them off.  You know, for $20 apiece for each hour.  Making two days of childcare for the absolute minimum I could require cost more than one whole week of our previous arrangement.

Or, they can come to me.  But only for twice Our Mary Poppins' rate, and only if I promise them twice as many hours as I need.

I tried Sitter City.  But to check any of the responses to my listing, I need to pay them $140.  That wasn't happening.

I tried a few local parent networks.  The one that seems the most likely still hasn't gotten back to me, but needs me to pay them an application fee and membership dues before they'll give me any real info.

The University provides childcare for free.  IF your kids are potty-trained (I'll MAKE them learn in a week, if that's what it takes!), and IF they're 2 years and 7 months old.  Which they'll be... five days before I graduate.  Screw you, University childcare!

So I finally found a situation that might work.  Two days a week (for the time being) Our Mary Poppins will continue to come to our home.  Until she finds something tha makes her enough money to actually live.

SI thinks something sounds unlikely...

One day a week, a friend of mine will come and sit with the girls while she works on her novel.

And last of all, I would drop my girls off twice a week before class with my friend Hella Mystical on the north side of the city, then drive back into the center of the city for classes.

Can you see the flaw in the plan yet?

Here's a hint- Chicago was recently named one of the top three worst cities in the country for traffic congestion.

I did the math.  Given typical traffic, I would have to get my girls into the car and on the way to Sage's place around 6am.  Then, I would have to leave her place by about 7:15 to make it to my class on time.

That's during typical traffic.

Today was the test day.  I don't just mean that I was trying out my ability to traverse three quarters of Chicago geography, either.  Today was my first Spanish exam.  Something I absolutely cannot make up later.  And that counts for a significant portion of my grade.

I had to make it to class.

Unfortunately, getting up is not my forté.  I slept in by about twenty minutes (I had stayed up until midnight studying), resulting in what would have been exactly a 20 minute delay in our departure.  Unfortunately, DD decided that the shoes I put her in were not acceptable.  She refused to walk down the stairs in them.  This slowed us down another half an hour.

We got into the car at 6:57.

And then we were off!  Took the back way up to LSD, like a ninja.  Hopped off of LSD onto the Eisenhower like a pro- traffic averted!  And then, the radio announced the worst few words I could imagine hearing.  Possibly ever.

"...and today, Chicago welcomes SUPERMAN!"

That's right, Superman started filming in MY city today.  Downtown.  Resulting in... lane closures, exits shut down, and of course- gaggles of Superman fanatics hoping to find their way to the filming location and snap some pictures of the Man of Steel.

I had to make a decision.  My kids were hungry and angry, but it was going to take me more than half an hour to get to Sage's, and God knows how long to get back.  And I couldn't miss my freakin' exam.

I turned the car around.  I took my children with me to school.

First, we walked into the student center.  DD stumbled and fell in the crosswalk to the building, and was genuinely freaked out when a nice lady helped her up.  I managed to calm her with the promise of a muffin.

DD's pout isn't nearly as cute when she means it.

We got to the coffee shop in the student center.  Thankfully open.  And possessing of muffins.

I started to grab some muffins, and my heart skipped a beat.  Only two varieties of muffin.  Cranberry, which my kids won't eat for some reason, and chocolate chip.

Chocolate chip.  I was going to have to buzz my kids on chocolate to come with me to class.  Well, it was this or nothing.  So, chocolate it was.

I tried to explain that they had to wait for the muffin until we got to the classroom.  DD didn't care, she wanted her muffin then.  Desperately.  It was the last morsel of food on the planet.  She wailed for half the walk to the building (the second farthest building on campus, I might add), occasionally throwing herself onto the sidewalk and sobbing.

We made it to the classroom.  With ten minutes to spare.  The girls sat down peacefully, quietly, happily, and ate their muffins.  As they ate their muffins, I noticed DD's face.  Her black eye was yellowing grossly, and on top of that she'd given herself a huge knock on the head last night when she fell down running after me as I ran to get a phone call.  I looked at SI, she needs her fingernails trimmed and had scratches on her nose.  They hadn't bathed last night.  They were covered in crumbs and chocolate.  My children were a gigantic mess.  They were going to make this impossible.

I thought things through quickly.  During the test, all the grown-ups would be sitting down, writing on a piece of paper and not talking.  I had paper.  I had pens.  The girls could do the same.

As more people filed into the room, the girls got antsy.  I gave them their pens and paper.  No problem.

And then la profesora arrived.  And she began to teach.

DD was okay.  She was happy to draw and write all morning as far as I could tell.  Not SI.  La profesora was obviously very important.  SI got up and began to follow her around.  She tried to crawl through her legs.  She tried to tickle her tummy.  She didn't quite want to reach.  This left her fidgeting with la profesora's fly and belt.

My daughter was trying to molest the professor, who was remarkably unfazed.  And my other daughter was sitting at my feet, trying to show the heart she had managed to draw with pride beaming from every pore.  I wasn't taking in a word of the lecture.

This child groped my Spanish professor.

I just kept thinking, "Just hand out the test!  Please, just pass out the damn test!"

SI grabbed her pen, and tried to write on the board like la profesora.  The screech was horrific.  La profesora kindly gave her a piece of chalk, and SI spent much of the rest of class drawing on the chalk board, following la profesora.  She occasionally tried to steal some of the students' pens.  Each time I would run after her, grab her, apologize quickly and quietly, and force her into the seat with me.  From which she would cheerfully jump to follow la profesora.

During the last ten minutes, all she wanted was for la profesora to carry her.  Which, amazingly, she did without any form of complaint.  Until SI sneezed on her face.

DD was a champ.  She drew on her paper, drew on the chalkboard a bit (with chalk), and ran in little circles giggling for a while.  She was distracting, but nothing could have beaten SI for being a chaos machine for that hour.

And the worst part of all?  Because I had been out of the house so early, I had missed an email from la profesora.

¡Hola!
!No examen hoy!

It's still too early to start drinking, isn't it?

Be the Match

Recently, I ran a guest post by an awesome lady called the Evolving Homemaker.  I learned something from her blog- how to get on the bone marrow registry.

How awesome is that envelope?

You see, it had been in my plans for ages.  Ages and ages and ages.  But I thought I had to *go* somewhere.  First I was waiting until I wasn't pregnant.  Then, I was waiting until my doctor got back from her maternity leave.  Then, I was waiting until I found a new doctor after my doctor decided not to go back to work.  I just kept sort of hoping somebody nearby would have a drive... I even asked around at the last blood drive I went to.  Nobody had any information.

Nobody had told me that all I had to do was to visit http://www.marrow.org/ and order my own free kit.  It was super easy- you fill out your forms online, they send you a kit, you take your own samples, and BOOM!  You're on the list!

But surely, it can't be THAT easy, can it?

I took five, yes, five, minutes off from my studying to get my samples this afternoon.  It only took that long because I was posing for pictures.  (Many thanks to Our Mary Poppins for photographing!)

Witness!

My kit came in the mail while we were away

Always read the instructions!

Preparation was simple- open this stuff

And... swab!

Putting the swabs into the kit...

Voila!

Postage is pre-paid, and it's done!  Super easy!  You could even do it drunk!  (But don't.)

My accomplishments today?
Took a final exam.  (Un examen final en español!)
Did two loads of laundry.
Picked tomatoes from my garden.
Got on the National Bone Marrow registry.
Ate a sandwich.

For some reason, being on the donor registry really seems to scare people.  I don't understand why.  Yes, it probably doesn't feel too great, physically, to donate marrow.  But in reality, those sorts of donations are NOT the majority- usually it's a lot more like donating blood.  You just need to take some injected drugs for a while before you donate.  And even if a person DOES need your bone marrow?  Doesn't it feel better to know that you're saving somebody's life than it hurts to have some minor surgery?

I certainly think so.

Save a life.  Get on the registry.  Be the Match!

Becoming Something-or-other....

The best part of my day- coming home and being attacked.

The semester is almost over.  The crazy summer of doom is threatening to wind down.

I am, of course, still too busy to write all the things I'd like.  So instead I'll share these little gems from the last few days...

You see, it was never my plan to be away from my kids every day.  Not until they were in school.  Not until they were grown up enough to WANT to spend most of their day without me.  I wanted to be home, to be with them, until they were in pre-school at least.  It just happened that this summer, that wasn't in the cards.  This summer, I had to focus on school, on making sure that my family can have a better, more comfortable future.  And now, it looks like that's probably going to be the case next semester as well, although to a lesser degree.

Yes, I have to take classes five days a week next semester.  I'm pretty pissed off about it.  Who the hell schedules absolutely mandatory classes for only 50 minutes at 8am three days a week?  What are they thinking?  I swear, the language program at my school is run by sadistic space monkeys with minions of grad students under mind control*.

I don't mind spending my first half hour at home in the foyer.

I have never been the sort of person who hated school.  I LOVED school.  What I hated were the other kids.  Well, I don't realy hate the other kids anymore.  And I don't exactly hate school.  I just hate it enough that on a semi-regular basis I smash my mouse into pieces while screaming my head off at my homework*.  It's really hard to have much love for a place when going there frequently means tearing your screaming children off of your legs as they cling to you, desperate for you to stay and eat breakfast with them, or watch Sesame Street, or read a book...

No, I've got a lot of angst about school these days.  From the pain of just plain going there to the selfish, stupid, incompetent jerks that I'm supposed to be working with on big projects.  Forty page term papers and the like that I have to do myself because places called "Jason's Deli" don't serve beer at four in the afternoon*.  But I digress.

Is she happier to see me, or my hat?

Back to the girls.  This week, my most excellent MIL watched the girls while I went to school.  She drove in from Minnesota to deliver us another hand-me-down (but very fine) car we're purchasing from M's uncle as our Kia is a barely functional death trap*.  She graciously stayed for the week since Our Mary Poppins is on an island somewhere learning how to blow glass.

Usually, I get home, catch up quickly with Our Mary Poppins, and then we say goodbye and she goes about her day.  My MIL has many more super fun details to share.

For example, the first morning that she was on her own with the girls, they expressed a remarkable amount of awareness and acceptance of their lots in life.  As she changed SI's diaper, DD began to babble vaguely, like she does, occasionally spattering in real words.  One of those words was, "Daddy."

Definitely happier to see the hat.

SI perked up a bit at the sound of her father's name, but rather than go looking for him or getting upset that he wasn't around, she responded to DD's diatribe.

"Daddy?  No," she said, shaking her head.  "Mommy?  No," she said, shaking her head sadly.  My MIL responded, "What about Grandma?"  "Ga-ma? Yes," nodding her head.  She could be patient and wait for me to come back.

A few days later, Grandma made the mistake of mentioning me over breakfast.  They kept craning around in their chairs, looking for me.  And once breakfast was over, SI spent the day carrying around my shoes.

How sad is that?

I love coming home

I just want this semester to end so I can spend my time with my girls.  I hate missing breakfasts and bedtimes and hugs and kisses.

I just want to go back to being happy with the sort of mommy I was becoming.





*This statement may not be an exaggeration

On Crashing and Burning... literally

DD in M's shoes

Last night was, to put it mildly, very rough.  Ever since SI's illness, or Grandma's visit, or whatever it was, the girls absolutely will not self-soothe.  They will not put themselves to sleep peacefully.  Not for a nap, not for the night.  Yes, I appreciate all of your comments that this is a phase and that it will pass.  But as you are probably aware, as it's happening that's not too great of a comfort.  It's a question of hoping every night that tonight will be the night.

This is a problem.  Not just for the usual outnumbered-by-unhappy-children reasons, but also because, not being used to this, I am making stupid, stupid mistakes.

For example, as a general rule, as soon as I close the nursery door, I'm basically done being Mommy for the night.  I can, say, make myself a meal.  Or a cup of tea.  Or study.  Or watch some 30 Rock.

So, last night, I did what I normally would do.  I put the kettle on, put a pot of artichokes on the stove (an extra special treat!), and began to do my homework.  A few minutes into this lovely routine, the screaming begins.

SI in my shoes

Now, as you might recall, I no longer have a baby monitor.  This isn't usually a problem- we have a plug-in unit that lives in the bedroom, so if something goes wrong while I'm sleeping they'll wake me up.  But the rest of the time, it's just a question of, "Did I hear somebody being miserable?"  As the kitchen is on the complete opposite end of the house from the nursery in our one floor flat, I tend to err on the side of caution.

That said, I definitely heard somebody being miserable.  I went into the nursery, expecting that I would tuck everyone back in, make sure everyone has their own loveys, and then leave again.

So naive.

The moment I close the door behind me, SI starts shrieking as though she has been stabbed.  I stand on the far side of the door for a moment, trying to decide what to do.  I know she's exhausted, she didn't nap well.  But I also know she can scream for ALL OF TIME if she decides that it's in order to do so.  I also knows that, if I snuggle and rock her, it will only take about three minutes to have her out cold.  So, I heave a heavy sigh, and return to the room.  I take her out of the crib, and begin to rock her.  As expected, her eyelids droop and her breathing slows, but she doesn't go to sleep.  I can't blame her.  It would be hard for me to sleep if there was somebody five feet away shouting and laughing and JUMPING ON THE BED as hard as she possible could.

DD hams it up

Yes, DD was screwing me over on this one.

So I finally reach the point where I'm sure that, given some peace and quiet, if I put SI back into her crib she'll sleep peacefully.  I cautiously put her in bed, and pick up DD.  Got to get her to settle down, or my night is going to get mighty long.

DD is elated to be held and rocked.  So happy, in fact, that she must laugh and smile and cover me in kisses.  All well and good, but SI's crib is much closer to the rocking chair.  Directly next to the rocking chair.  So each expression of mirth by DD rouses SI a little more.  I try everything.  I swaddle DD.  That's very funny.  I throw the blanket over her head, despite the fact that it's already very dark.  This is a GREAT game!  She throws the blanket over my head.  I shush and shush her, she makes raspberry sounds.

SI cleans it up

And suddenly, I'm getting a migraine.

And it's not one of those, "I just want to go relax with my cup of tea," sorts of migraines.  No... it's got a new, different sort of flavor.  It's one of those, "This is a toxic environment and I must get out," migraines.  Like I get in the perfume section of department stores.  Like I'm breathing something that isn't supposed to be air.

And then I smell the smoke.

And then I remember that I had dinner on the stove at the opposite end of the house, the hour ago that I entered this nursery that is starting to bear a strong resemblance to Hell.

I literally throw DD back into her crib, and go running across the house at top speed.  My beautiful, beautiful artichokes- my talismans of Spring and the husbandry of my own psyche- they are on fire.  All of the water has evaporated, and the poor tin steaming tray upon which they rest... it is blackened and sooty.

The smoke smells vaguely cemeterial.  And I start to go blind.

DD eating a Hamantaschen

Not with rage, mind you.  My rage has been tempered quickly by my organ freezing terror.  No, it's just that I get ocular migraines.  I literally go blind from having a headache- and frequently going blind is my first warning that I'm about to be in tremendous pain.  So far, it's only happened while I was driving once.  Never again.  Sometimes I get little windows of vision, but it's not terribly helpful.  The only thing to do is get into a nice, quiet room, and lay down.  Drink a glass of water.  Try a few simple remedies.  The usual headache things.

But, of course, the only room where I can go to lay down and be in pitch blackness is my bedroom... conveniently also the only room with a direct connection to the sounds coming out of the nursery.  Very loud, VERY unhappy sounds.

What do I do instead?  I finish off a bag of Oreos.  That's what a responsible adult does when under extreme duress, right?

I eat a bag of Oreos, I snipe at M when he finally returns from school, I throw away a hard boiled egg that I am completely incapable of peeling, and (of course) I completely fail to finish my homework.  I go to bed early, hungry, in pain, the moment I'm certain that the noises from the nursery are gone for good, and before I can say anything too terribly rude to the wonderful man emptying my dishwasher.  It's all about damage control.

SI hears there are cookies over here

I wake at 6:30, a full two hours before my children usually rise, with the plan to do my homework then.  After all, that gives me three and a half full hours before I leave for class.  Plenty of time to edit my paper, review my notes, read a case study or two.

So, so naive.

DD, who didn't exactly go to bed happy, awakens early- not unusual if she's had a bad night.  She wakes up as early as mother, and remembers immediately that her mother doesn't love her anymore.  The conclusion she must have been reaching while I downed my dunked Oreos without chewing them up first.

And me?  As soon as the sun hits my eyelids I remember that I've got a raging migraine that's trying to kill me.  I take an arsenal of quick dissolving, fact acting prescription drugs, and go to meet my destiny.

The girls, both awake now, helpfully assist me in dressing and changing them.  They give me countless kisses and hugs while I cook them french toast.  And then Our Mary Poppins arrives, and I hit the books.

In the only quiet, child-free room in the house. My bedroom.

Oh Grandma, I wish I could blame you for my woes.

The nice, quiet, comfortable, shady, warm bedroom.  Where I sit in the nice, downy, cozy, comfortable bed...

I awake several minutes into my second of three classes of the day, when the diaper service calls to inform me that our credit card has been declined.

And my migraine?  Yup.  Still there.  Nice and mushy instead of stabby and achey, but still there.

So here I am.  Updating my blog instead of learning about horizontal management and collaboration.  No- that class starts in about two minutes.  Right now I should be learning about American defense policy.  (Note: Now that I've added pictures of my children being extremely adorable- something that always helps me feel better about being a bitter parent- I should in fact be learning about networking and non-hierarchical management.)  But regardless, I'm not going.  I'm listening to Our Mary Poppins go through the drama of nap-time without going to her aid, at a nice, comfortable, quiet distance, and I'm wondering when I'm going to squeeze in the time to do some extra credit to make up for today. 

And I'm really wishing I had a fucking artichoke.

:::sigh:::

Vacating

Welcome home, SuperMommy.

It's been almost a week since you heard from me.  Ages, in this fast-paced blogosphere.  I might as well have dropped off the face of the earth.  So where have I been while I've been away?

I've been on vacation.

SI chasing DD around the yard

No, let me rephrase- I've been at home, with my children and my laundry and my cat and my most excellent MIL.  I am on Spring Break from school, until Tuesday.

I had thought that I would use my break to... say... write a lot.  Or read a lot.  Or do my "spring cleaning."  Instead, I've been being SuperMommy, which is a job that does not come with vacation time.  I've wiped a lot of noses, I've wiped just as many butts, and I've folded a mountain of clean clothes.  At least twice.

I'm having a really wonderful vacation, too.  Really, I am.

M and I go to different universities.  This means that, unfortunately, our semesters don't always match up.  Last week he was on Spring Break.  This week, my turn.  Totally kills any hope of maybe GOING somewhere.  Not that we would- where would we want to take two toddlers?  That said, M has his last midterm tonight, so he's been at school every day after work.  That means he wakes up at 4am, leaves the house at 5am, goes straight from work to school, and then comes home around 9 or 10pm, completely exhausted.  He doesn't get to see his kids.

As for me, this makes me FEEL very much like I'm on vacation.  I sleep in (compared to 4am), I neglect my school reading (amazingly, none of my professors assigned homework for the break,) and I play with my children (who are finally both healthy and back to normal.)  Nobody is as hard working as M these days.  I'm planning on catching up with him for insanity of commitments this summer.

SI contemplates the universe, DD sees a bird

The thing that REALLY makes it feel like a vacation, though, is my kids.  I love being home with them.  I know I could never be a total success as a SAHM, I need to get out on my own sometimes.  I have plans to work once I've got my degree, but only part-time.  Enough to pay for the child care.

I like having conversations with other adults, I like having the freedom to stop by my favorite pastry shop, or do half a dozen errands in an hour.  Small children are the kryptonite to that sort of freedom.  And more than anything, there's the wonderful moment where you go home to your kids.  It doesn't matter what else is going on.  Sesame Street is on PBS?  Who cares!  Mommy's here!  We've got crayons and paper?  So what!  Mommy's here!  Were we eating sandwiches?  Not anymore!  Mommy's here!  Time to cover SuperMommy in hugs and kisses, scream with delight, lead her around the dining room in a welcome-home parade, play catch with her... suddenly, it's all about me.  And it's not just being a total narcissist that makes this appealing.  It's a success.

DD charging after a dog

Being a parent is hard.  Everybody tells you that when you get pregnant, but it's not something you can really understand until you're there.  If you've been a nanny, and au pair, a teacher... it's different.

Being a parent is insanely hard.  You can't stop- EVER.  You never get to turn it off.  You're a parent 24/7 for the rest of your life.  Your life revolves around people who will never EVER reciprocate the sort of investment you put into them.  Your greatest achievements and failures all stop being individual- suddenly they're all about what your kid did.  What your kid didn't do.

The other day, I was in the grocery store parking lot.  DD pointed towards the minivan and shouted, "Mama, da CAAAAAAR!"  I was so proud I had to tell everybody I talked to for about... well, I guess I'm still doing it, huh?

So for my Spring Break, I'm home with my kids.  Every day when I get them out of their cribs they're happy to see that it's me, and not Our Mary Poppins (who they adore.)  Every night when they go to bed, they're ecstatic that it's me making the silly voices for Are You My Mother?, no matter how much they love M's Nixon imitation.  For my vacation, I'm rocking motherhood.  Hard.

SI getting clean after playing in the mud

Today, we're testing more products for Kolcraft.  Then I'm making M a steak dinner to celebrate his midterm.  And then tomorrow he actually gets to come home from work, and he and my MIL and I will all go out and act like grownups together.

School is frustrating as hell.  It sucks not to see my husband on a daily basis.  It sucks that he doesn't see his wonderful little girls.  And it sucks that the weather got all miserable again.

But if every day I'm the main event in my daughters' lives, the most exciting thing to happen no matter what else is happening... this is pretty much the best vacation ever.

Freedom, Consequences, and The Opposite of Teamwork

First of all, many MANY thanks to Kyle at Have Kids, Will Blog (and The Kopp Twins- whose little girls I personally can't get enough of) for the incredibly kind words about me and my blog.

Secondly, another heap of thanks to Mom Daughter Reviews for even more lovely and kind things about me that you're spreading all over the internet.

All this attention could turn a girl's head!

And now- onto a subject about which I've been meaning to write at length- Freedom.

I am, in a way that I have not been since practically becoming pregnant, free.  You see, we live on a third floor walk up.  It's a gorgeous place- huge east facing windows with no obstructions, so it's always filled with natural light.  I've taken advantage of that by filling it with stained glass.  It has a lovely balcony on the front, where we can watch strangers and friends come and go.  It's on a nice quiet block, the most non-emergency vehicle noise we get up here are the sound frolicking children and dogs in the unofficial dog park next door.  We love it here.

But, again, it's a third floor walk-up.  When we moved in, I was already five months pregnant (twin adjustment: ten months pregnant) and in a really remarkable amount of pain from my SPD.  I didn't get out much.

Then there were two babies.  And it was winter.  I pretty much hibernated.  Spring came, and with it my return to school.  It was so nice and breezy in the house, with all those big, south facing windows opened wide.  And it was so much of a hassle to bring my children up and down, one at a time, the treacherous back stairs to the back yard.  Plus, we were so busy traveling.  Whenever I was home, I just stayed there.

But now things are different.  Spring has almost really sprung, it's routinely warmish, and sunnyish, or at the very least pleasantly dreary and humid.  I love early spring.  And now, my children have learned to climb the stairs.

Allow me to repeat that.

My children, each about thirty pounds of squirmy little toddler, are capable of bringing themselves from the front door of our building to the front door of our condo three stories above.  Add to that some success with a few tries at medicating my mystery condition, and I actually FEEL like leaving the house!

I can't tell you how liberating this change has been.  Suddenly, during those non-school days, I can GO somewhere, I can take my curious and friendly children off to play with other kids, I can meet other parents, and I can even run to the grocery store.  I almost don't know what to do with all that freedom.

Unfortunately, this isn't a perfect situation.  The girls can get themselves up, but not down.  Fine, down is easier for this grown-up.  Or so I thought.

Turns out that my old friends, back injuries and ankle sprains, do not like taking carrying two children down the stairs at once.  But what else do I do?  Take one down, leave her in the front yard all alone, and return for the child panicking in her coat and shoes upstairs?  I somehow doubt that this might lead to anything resembling happiness, and even at my best all I can imagine is hearing my daughter's name on an amber alert over and over and over.  So I use my trusty sling, tie one child on to my chest, pop the other on a hip under one arm, grab all our stuff, and leave the house.

The girls are loving it.  These days, if I need to distract them from absolutely anything,all I have to do is say, "Shoes!" and off they go to pull their shoes out of the drawer and try putting them onto their silly little feet.

We've been going to toddler music classes, and the produce market, and the occasional meet-up at other mother's houses.  And I feel like a new woman.

A completely broken, shattered, mutilated woman.  It feels like when I raise my head I'm catching some ample amount of flesh between my vertebrae, like I have a golf ball lodged under my right shoulder blade, and like I've been kicked repeatedly in the lower back.

Now, this alone wouldn't really be a problem, but it's compounding another little problem in a big way.  School.  That's right, I'm still in classes.  And every single one of my infuriating professors has assigned group projects.

I hate group projects.  It has been my experience for pretty much my entire life that the real purposes of these experiments are to test the limits of how much work you can do for other people without getting the credit.  So far, my biggest group project of the semester has beaten all the records.

You see, there's another woman in my group.  Another woman with a child, who has to travel a fair distance to get to class, and who seems rather busy.  When we first discussed this, there seemed to be a measure of understanding between us.  As the semester has progressed with me struggling to keep afloat in the midst of my illness and toddlers, this woman has failed to turn in her assignments, show up for classes, or cooperate in any way with her group.  Each week, her demands for our meetings have become more and more outrageous, up until we reached a total breaking point.  M and I have been having some money problems- the bursar at his school never sent him his financial aid, my school is still denying my my FAFSA for taking two semesters off to have babies, and both of our cars needed about a grand worth of repairs after the storm of doom.  I was ready to start missing classes because I couldn't afford Our Mary Poppins, but she got pneumonia anyway, and saved me the embarrassment of having to cancel on her.  In desperation, I agreed to a date, time, and general geographic area for a team meeting, chose the only location within that area that came equipped with high chairs (a deli), and agreed to schlep my toddlers to the South Loop and build a Power Point presentation.

Of course, there was pouring rain from dawn until dusk the day of our meeting.

So, what did this fellow mother and student and commuter do at four o'clock in the afternoon, watching me wrestle a child less than a year and a half old into a sling outside of a deli where she had agreed to meet me?

She marched up to us, third teammate in tow, and flat out refused to convene our meeting in the deli- at 4 in the afternoon with two toddlers in attendance- BECAUSE THERE WAS NO BEER.

I stood there, jaw on asphalt, spine on fire, SI a-flailin', DD a-wailin', getting steadily wetter, and collected my thoughts.

And as a reasonable adult with no choice but to finish this class, no reasonable options aside from taking my children home, and with a million and one responsibilities already waiting for me when I got there, I volunteered to do the whole project by myself.

It was exactly what she had expected.  She didn't even miss a beat.  She said, "Okay then!" and cheerfully handed of any semblance of responsibility.

She picked the one and only day and time she would be available to meet up again and review our project- conveniently a day that M is home and can watch the girls- and went off in search of beer.

To his credit, our other teammate seemed to feel that there must be a catch.  He's sent me a few emails since making sure I've got his part of the info and offering to go on fact-finding and photography missions.  But this other woman?  Her response to my declaration that I would just DO IT, was to tell me what her bit of the information was supposed to be, and what images I should get to go along with it- things that I already knew.  In short, that she had done no work and that I was now to do her part of the work- in all of its aspects- on her behalf.

Would you eat them on a boat?

Me?  I put the girls back into their car seats (miraculously they were okay with this) and just took them back home.  Where we had, without a doubt, the nicest night we've ever had without M at home.  Really, the girls were so charming ans sweet and loving that I couldn't help but feel like my degree was just a waste of time- a diversion from the only people in my life that always make me feel wonderful and good and successful, people who never royally screw me over out of pure selfish spite.

Still, I'm doing the damn project.  I'm stuck with this woman for the rest of the semester, so I'm just going to count my lucky stars that it's half over and wait until this presentation is done.  And then I am going to rip this woman a new one.  Seriously, I am laying down the law, letting her know that even if the professor feels that it's none of his concern if a teammate is completely useless (his argument is that if you can't work with difficult people in a group in school you can't do it in real life, so tough cookies) I can still go to her advisor, and that if she leaves us in the lurch like that for our final project I'll be making it very clear that she is NOT part of our group and had nothing to do with it.  I'm used to making enemies of colleagues, and I can deal with that kind of animosity for another few semesters.

So what's the moral of the story?  Is there a lesson, or at the very least a happy ending?

Thank you, thank you Sam I Am.

Let's see... it's sunny and beautiful and not EXACTLY warm but marvelously springlike.  I can bundle my wonderful children into their shoes and sweaters, and take them down the street to the playground.  Or next door, to a big open grassy (muddy) lot, or just sit on the front stoop while they play in the tulips.  Because I'm free, you see?  Tomorrow I'll be finishing that stupid Power Point, with M playing happily with his children.  I've replaced my desk chair with my yoga ball, so my back pain is slowly improving.  I've got a grocery list full of ingredients for making hamentastchen (I love the spring!) and I'm planning the girls Purim costumes.

Tomorrow I'm going to be up to my ears in school related frustrations, but right now I can sit in the sun with my amazing, sweet, cheerful little girls, and feel like the most successful person in the world.  So yes, it's the best of all possible endings.  Me and my girls get to ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after.

Becoming...

I only just realized it...

A a child, I had the impression that my mother could fix anything.  Any toy, any bump or bruise, any emotional woe.  My mom could make it better.

I'd still really like to believe, and you'd be amazed how often she does.  But I know she's only human, that it's no fault of hers that there are some things you just can't fix.

But I guess I always figured that when I was a mother, I'd have that power, too.  And I don't.  I just have the ability to make my kids forget REALLY QUICKLY that something isn't okay.

The real trick of being a mother isn't that you get to make it better.  It's that no matter how bad it is, you see the best things, ONLY good things, about your child.  And that means that no matter how bad things might be, THEY make it better for you.

And so I'm sitting here, after my day...

• Babysitter with flu, missing class
• Return of mystery illness after medication failure, Doctor pronouncement that medical failure=cure
• writer's block (of sorts)
• back pain
• thoughtlessness, rudeness, and some OFFENSIVE shit from people I need to work with (class project)
• pointless transport of children across town and back (see above) 

...of misery, feeling happy and at peace with the world.  Because two of the most amazing people in the world are sleeping peacefully, after being tucked into bed with love and kisses by their mother.  Who can fix anything.

I'm a superhero.

Proud as Punch

A portrait I once did of Aunt Genocide

I started really getting serious about painting when I was about fifteen years old.  I had always loved to make a big mess out of crayons and paints, and always sort of thought I was alright at making an attractive picture.  But when I was a teenager I began to really consider it an important part of who I was.

After being thoroughly indoctrinated by one of my community college professors, I decided to transfer to the School of the Art Institute of Chicago.  I swooped down on Chicago, scholarship in hand, art shows under my belt, and chalk full of confidence.  Then the Dean of the school delivered an address to us transfer students.  I will never forget that speech.

"Less than one percent of you will ever be able to make your career as an artist.  You will have to scrape by, doing things you might hate, or by letting go of your artistic principles to work in advertising or other media... but you won't make a career as an artist.  Being an artist is the hardest thing you can be, and the chances that it's what you WILL be is so slim... so I say this- If you can do something else, ANYTHING else, do that instead.  But if there is nothing else you can be, if no matter what you will always be striving to create something true and wonderful, then be an artist.  But if you can do anything else at all... do that."

I remembered that speech every day.  Every time I left a class feeling disgusted with my classmates, or my professors, or even with myself, I remembered that speech.  And eventually, I dropped out of art school.

Our Mary Poppins and two coloring grublings

That said, I'm still an artist.  And I still consider it an important part of who I am.

And of course, as a parent, I have high hopes for my children.  I have dreams of them becoming great painters and sculptors, having their own retrospectives at the MCA, creating disturbing representations of their childhoods that I can feel publicly awkward about.  So it's not at all a surprise that I would let my kids play with (child safe) art supplies.

What I did find surprising, believe it or not, was DD's affinity for it.  That child LOVES to draw!  So much, in fact, that for the last few days it's all she's wanted to do.  She made yesterday fairly hellish for Our Mary Poppins, refusing to put down the crayons even for a minute- even to eat.  She just wanted to draw and draw and draw.

She completed about four drawings, such as they are.  SI isn't quite so into it as DD, but still enjoys it a great deal.  How much?  If you can imagine, I actually managed to mop my floors today.  Because my children were content to sit quietly in their chairs, coloring with crayons, for over an HOUR.  I made them stop when I realized it was nap time.  And DD did not relinquish her crayons quietly.

The cause of one of the proudest moments of my life

Already, I'm putting together a mental list of everything I need to get my children to keep their creative juices going.  A two sided child easel, a bucket of sidewalk chalk, finger paints, gigantic rolls of paper...  But that's just the tip of the iceberg.  I'll be getting them fabric markers and tie-dyes, face paints and playdough... not to mention the heaps of watercolors I'm sure they'll go through.  I'll be cleaning out the children's section of my favorite art supply store.

And of course, I'll be hanging up my daughters' drawings.

I'm the proudest mommy you ever saw- DD LOVES to make art!  She LOVES to color!  She doesn't want to do anything else!

My imagination is flooded with figures of the amount I need to put away for art school, which of the Chicago charter art schools she'd be happiest in, how I'll proudly put her paintings up all over my home for the rest of my life...

I know.  I'm getting ahead of myself.  My daughters are seventeen months old, not years old.  Drawing is still new and exciting, and the novelty will probably wane.  Something else will come along.

After all, two weeks ago DD was all about building with blocks, and it was M who was proud as a peacock.  He's a structural engineer, and seeing her carefully create stacks and stacks of colorful foam blocks- six, eight, ten blocks high- filled him with the sense of genetic accomplishment and joy that is the bread and butter of parental success.

The cause of one of the proudest moments of my life

And then there are those morning when all SI wants to do is sing in harmony with me- which makes me feel happy and proud and imagine SI onstage at the Met, playing Mimi or Tamiri.  Or even with a guitar in hand, sitting onstage in a dimly lit coffee shop, singing folk ballads.

I can't help myself but be proud to bursting of these little toddler accomplishments.  Every success of theirs is not only my success as a parent, but also my success in that I can see the potential of my own dreams, my own hopes, shining so clearly in my children.

I don't know what they might be when they grow up- artists, musicians, architects... But no matter what they are, I am sure I will always be proud of them.  I will always think them the most brilliant and talented of children, and I will always be sure that their potential is ever so much broader than mine- that they can accomplish any feat.

They have unlimited potential, those grublings of mine.  And I am prouder of them than I know how to say.

Little Angels

SuperMommy and her grublings

Yes, I'm still sick.  Getting better, but my condition remains a mystery.  It isn't gerontological, it isn't my appendix, it isn't my gall bladder, it isn't my liver...

I've been feeling better, slowly but surely.  And when I have a few more answers I'll be sure to share them with you.  But in the meantime, life has been... surprisingly easy.

SI in a change purse... er, hat

Both M and I are falling behind in classes a bit.  Both of us are tired and frustrated.  But the girls?  They have been- in a word- angels.

They've been eating well, they've been fairly sanguine about their diaper changes (potty training is postponed until I am well).  They've been extra loving and extra cuddly and extra happy to do just about everything.

They've been good to their sitters, who are saints, and have been making all non-health related aspects of my life so much fun.

DD is learning more and more words.  SI has finally decided that learning English might be in her best interest.

One morning, I made them fruity yogurt for breakfast.  Not only did they not throw any on the floor, not get any all over their heads, and not smear it all over their trays, they actually scraped their bowls clean with graham crackers.  Their daddy was so proud.

DD learning to help SuperMommy out a little more

There's something truly magical about having two little people come running into your room to play with you when you're sick in bed.  Having them so happy to see you, distracted though they might be, so excited to give you kisses and then run away again...  It's been amazing.

On the days when I've been on my own with them despite my depleted condition (such as today) they've played all sorts of mommy-sitting-down games with me, given me so many kisses, and largely taken care of themselves.  Today we all sat down and watched a whole movie- "Fantasia 2000."  DD liked the whales in the water.  SI liked the toy soldier.  These girls have surpassed my wildest expectations.

Not only them, but M as well.  While I've been sick he has stepped up in a real way.  He's frequently lamented that he's lost some of his SuperDaddy touch since he relinquished his role as a stay-at-home parent.  I've seen it, and I can attest.  When you're not the stay-at-home parent, you're not quite as adept at handling the daily routine.  Especially when you're outnumbered.  He might not have gotten the dishes, laundry, or other miscellaneous cleaning done, but everyone was fed and happy.  Even yours truly.

This is what the elephant says

It's been a very long few weeks.  I am desperate for answers, desperate to stop feeling ill and dizzy and vaguely miserable.  But my family have been angels.  M, SI, and DD have made me the happiest mommy in the world.

And yes, I've lost about five pounds.  Hooray, starvation diet!

On Monday, I'll be announcing the winner of the box of chocolates!  I can attest- the Heart and Soul meltaways are both chocolaty and delicious.  So enter to win now if you haven't yet!  And I'll be posting quite a bit next week.  I have some pieces I've been working on in my convalescence.  Hopefully, they'll make you laugh and make you happy.

Best wishes, my dear readers!