The lean young warrior stood poised fat mom leaned in exhaustion, muscles taut as she surveyed the path alertly lower back aching from pushing the heavy tandem stroller.
She slung the bow and arrow over her back, squaring her shoulders with a fierce determination. reminded her toddler for the millionth time to quit picking his nose – no, don’t you dare wipe it on the baby! Gross!
It was time to embrace her destiny. She was born for this, for something bigger than the banal trivialities of every day life. She’d known this since she was young, and spent years training and preparing for this very moment. She was a leader, a warrior, and even if she were to lose her life in this struggle, she would fight passionately against the darkness until the very moment of death. do some laundry. Boy, she had a lot of laundry to do – there was just no way she could put it off for another day. She’d have to start on it as soon as they got home. Hmm. Should she do the whites first, or the towels? Decisions, decisions.
A fierce joy swept through her body, and with a shout she leapt forward, running lightly. She gave a heavy sigh, pressing her hands to the base of her spine, wincing. Man. Eight hours at a desk job was killer on the lower back. Ever faithful, the warrior’s wolf raced quickly alongside her, alert for any danger that might threaten his mistress as they raced along the sunbeaten path. Great. The cocker spaniel was all wrapped up in his leash again. He stood there, confused and whining, ready to piddle all over the place if she approached him too suddenly.
In front of her, the toddler began to shift nervously— why had they stopped? “Park? Park? PARK?! PARK?! PARK?! PARK?!” As if on cue, the infant picked up on his brother’s whines and began a quiet whining of his own. She glanced at the two of them in exasperation. Couldn’t she take two minutes to look at the sunset without both of them dissolving into a complete meltdown?
Hmmm. Maybe there’s a reason nobody writes fanfiction about being a mom.
Sometimes, as a parent, you get these really cool ideas about all the neat things you’re going to do together with your child.
Unfortunately, soon after they’re born children tend to develop their own personalities and opinions.
In other words, reality sets in and ruins your golden little dream.
Here’s a good example:
Before the DragonMonkey was born I had the greatest little scenario I’d like to imagine. There I’d be, leaning back on my couch, my tiny son curled up on my chest, cuddled all warm and soft against me. I’d lean my head down and breathe in his baby scent, then lay my cheek against him, close my eyes, and smile….
See? Isn’t that a great daydream?
For weeks I tried to get The DragonMonkey to comply. I’d tuck him against me, and hum to him, and pat his back, and swaddle, and unswaddle, and do everything possible to make him live out my little mommy-fantasy, but he wasn’t having anything to do with it. Fall asleep while being held? Are you kidding? There’s entirely too much to look at it! Kick, kick! Wiggle, wiggle!
One evening I came home from a late shift at my old bartender job only to be met at the door by a incredibly smug Bean.
“Guess who fell asleep on Dada’s chest?”
“What? How? You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope.”
“I’ve been trying to get him to do that for weeks! How’d you make him.. How…?”
“I guess he just wanted his Dada,” he said, oozing superiority like some kind of palpable disease.
Sometimes I think it should be legal, moral, and totally acceptable to kick your husband in his shins. I’m just sayin’.
Of course, I wasn’t the only one with a dream..
Before the DragonMonkey’s birth The Bean haughtily informed me that we weren’t going to have a lot of those silly, plastic kids toys in our house.
“And no dumb baby books, either. If he doesn’t ever get any, he won’t know what he’s missing.”
“So, what, he’s just going to pick up reading by osmosis?”
“No, we’ll get him good books. Educational books.” He paused for a moment, dreamy-eyed. “He can visit his dada at work once he’s older, and he’ll sit there by my desk, working on a math book all afternoon, because he won’t know any different.”
“Oh, reeeeeally? And just how old is he, in this scenario?”
“I dunno. Don’t give me that look! I don’t mean taking him as a little baby. I mean, I know he’ll have to grow up a bit first. Maybe two years old?”
Ha.
Ha ha ha.
Ha.
It’s okay – you can laugh at The Bean with me. He’s used to it by now.
So where am I going with this?
Here is where I am going with this:
There I was, sitting there at the world’s longest red light, and I thought to myself— Wow. I really want to sing me some Rick Astley.
And HEY, how cool would it be if I could teach the DragonMonkey to sing along with me?
Obviously, that would be really, really cool.
Man, I better drag out my phone and record this. This is going to be epic. We are so going to have a really cool, wonderful, remember-that-time-when-you-were-two-and-we-sang-Rick-Astley-together bonding moment right now.
I really don’t know what I thought was going to happen.—did I really think he was just going to burst out into song with me and the two of us would be some kind of harmonious, uber-cool Rickrolling mother-son team?
The kid can’t even pronounce the word “bubbles”. He still calls his oatmeal “Nonope”. Seriously, what was I thinking?
Oh well….. another dream dashed by reality.
Of course, I guess if it really was my dream I should probably have tried to learn the right lyrics. It wasn’t until I listened to it a second time that I realized I was singing “lay” instead of “let”. Apparently my Rick Astley carries me everywhere.
Every night we have to convince him – YET AGAIN – that no.
No.
NO.
No, there are no herds of monkeys living in our absurdly tiny backyard. The ficus trees that line the wall do NOT contain hoards of evil, flesh-biting monkeys or angry, volatile gorillas.
The trees are full of leaves. And sticks. And probably a couple of birds or bugs.
There are NO monkeys.
It takes awhile to convince him of this, but eventually it sinks in.
The DragonMonkey loves trucks. They have wheels, they roll, you can crash them into things…what’s not to love?
Trucks, Trucks, Trucks. It’s even fun to say.
Except he can’t pronounce “r”s.
And he pronounces “t”s as “f”s.
So, what does truck sound like when you remove the “r” and replace the “t” with an “f”?
I’ll give you a moment to sound it out in your head.
Okay, Is everyone with me?
Yeah.
In the interest of keeping this blog semi-clean, I’m just gonna go ahead and write “truck“. You guys can use your imaginations as to how the following conversations sounded in real life.
“Mama! Want my TRUCK! My TRUCK!”
Then, after he had finished playing with it, he politely tried to share with me, handing me the plastic yellow truck with a huge grin: “Truck? Truck you? Truck Mama?”
Naturally, in the interest of sharing, it’s always nice to give Bad Max a turn with the toy:
“Mama give TRUCK to doggie? Doggie truck? DOGGIE TRUCK? DOGGIE TRUCK!”
My favorite conversation occurred in the grocery store, after I took away his toy truck for throwing it at people:
“TRUUUUUUUUCK!!!!! MY TRUUUUUCK! MAMA, MY TRUCK!” (keep in mind that we are in a very crowded grocery store at this point and that the DragonMonkey is impossibly loud when he’s angry.) “Mama, TRUCK! Truck now! Now, mama. TRUCK! Truck to me! Truck me! TRUCK! ME TRUCK! TRUCK ME!NO TRUCK YOU… TRUCK ME! “
Yawning, I drag myself out the front door and sit in my car. I’d like to lean my head back against the headrest, just for a moment, but I know that’s too dangerous. I need to keep moving or I’ll fall asleep.
It’s early- just a little after 6:30 in the morning. I’m not due at work until 7:30, but I could use the extra 30 minutes to catch up. I know I’m salary and the time is not paid, but it’s worth it for my sanity.
Through sheer force of will I bypass Starbucks. I love them, but I’m never going to lose the baby weight if I keep downing 300 calories worth of coffee several times a week.
I pull into the parking lot at ten to seven….. and my cell phone rings.
The Caller ID is my boss.
“Hey, Becky, have you left work yet?”
“I’m in the parking lot right now.” I wait for this to sink in – that I’m a wonderful employee who has arrived thirty minutes early.
I wait in vain.
“Oh, good. There’s a problem with our latest project. Call me when you’ve got your computer up and running.”
I stare at my cell phone with a sinking feeling and sigh. There goes my extra time.
The next few hours pass by in a blur– by the time I surface I realize I’ve missed my pumping time. Again. My gigantic fridge stockpile I was so proud of is dwindling slowly by a few ounces every day and it’s starting to stress me out.
I stare sightlessly at the computer screen as I strap two plastic sucky things to my breasts, which has got to be the least sexy thing ever and let myself be milked like a large, overweight white cow politely powder my nose. It feels good to surface for air.
Of course, as soon as I’m done I hit the ground running again. Frantically-typed emails, phone calls, shuffling paper, mailing items, more emails, more phone calls, more emails, errands, more paper.
I surface again hours later and realize that I barely have time to pump before I go home. Great. I’m probably going to end up two or maybe even three ounces short again today. Perfect.
Like always, I leave work about ten minutes late. I really need to speak to my boss about my salary. I can’t keep giving away my time for free like this.
The drive home is nice, but sadly a little too short. I’m probably the only person in Southern California who would like a longer commute home, but those precious minutes in the car are the only time I have to myself all day.
I try to sneak in the front door, but the DragonMonkey sees my car pull up.
“Mama car! Car! MAMA CAR! MAMA CAR! MAMA CAR! MAMA CAR!”
Before my mom can stop him he has bolted out the front door and is flying down the walkway to my car. I’d be flattered, but he’s being pretty literal. Sure, he’s glad to see me, but that’s not why he’s excited. He’s thrilled because my car is home. Crawling around the inside of my car and pretending to drive is the highlight of his day. Normally I let him do it even though I generally get elbowed, bruised and generally beat up as he clambers all over me in the front seat, but I can hear Squidgelet whining. He sounds hungry.
“Sweetie, I need to get inside. Mama needs to feed Squidgelet.” I’ve tried nursing on the street before, but every time I do I end up flashing a neighbor. So now we go inside.
It’s really quite amazing how quickly the DragonMonkey can shift from ecstatic joy to rage.
“NO! MAMA CAR! NO INSIDE! MAMA CAR!” I sigh, and scoop him up. He thrashes against me, back arched, howling his rage and frustration. I drop him unceremoniously just in the front door and manage to slam it behind me only milliseconds before he can dart back outside.
His screams doubly in intensity and volume. When he sees me hanging my keys on the keyring, he kicks me in the shin.
“CORNER. NOW!” He throws himself wailing into the corner, bemoaning his very existence.
I sigh, and grab the Squidgelet from my mom. I toss the baggies of milk in the fridge then sit on the couch and pop him on to nurse. Despite the ear-deafening screams from the corner, the moment turns almost peaceful.
The DragonMonkey notices my attention has wandered, so he decides to up the ante. When his screams stop abruptly I look up, just in time to watch him spit. On the floor.
I hate the spitting.
But I am just SO tired.
“Mama,” the DragonMonkey sings out. “Mama. SPIT.” He ineptly sprays the floor again, deliberately showing off just how bad he is.
I know negative attention is still atttention, and I should probably just ignore it… but I really do hate spit.
“NO SPITTING!” I dislodge the Squidgelet and lay him on the floor. He begins to wail at being at his sudden abandonment and is joined only moments later by the DragonMonkey as he sees me approaching. He does his best to stick his nose in the corner, but it’s too late.
“You spit, you spend time in your crib. Time out in your crib, NOW. NO SPITTING! EVER!”
I plop him in his crib and close the door behind me, doing my best to ignore the furious screams.
I return to the living room and rescue the screaming Squid from the floor.
Ah, peace at last.
I leave the DragonMonkey in there for about ten minutes two very brief minutes before I return. He’s a snotty, tear-filled, disgusting mess.
“Hug?” he says miserably. “Mama up? Hug?”
I use a towel to mop up his messy face, then lift him from his crib. He lays against me, exhausted from his rage, arms encircling me.
“Huuuug,” he says warmly. “Huuuug Mama. Mommy. Huuuuuuuuug Mommy.” He deepens the hug and I return it. Ah, finally. A sweet moment with my son.
He leans back, breaking the hug, and places a hand on either side of my face, forcing me to look at him.
“Hi Mama.”
“Hi, DragonMonkey. I love you.”
“Hi, Mama…..” he trails off, then smiles a little too wide and a little too bright. “Mama, car?” he asks sweetly.
I sigh. The idea of going out to sit in my car for forty-five minutes is just not appealing. I’d really rather skip it for a day.
“Sweetie, not today. Mama’s tired.”
The sweet expression slips off his face. “Mama. CAR.” It’s pretty obvious he’s not asking this time.
I put him down and sigh again. I seem to sigh a lot when I’m around the DragonMonkey. “Sweetie, I said no. No car. Not today. I know it’s disappointing, but you’ll just have to learn to deal with it.”
He stares at me in fury for a moment, and then spits on me.
You read that right. He spits. On. ME.
It pretty much goes down like this:
Furious, I scoop him up and drop him in his crib again.
Both kids in bed. If I’m lucky, I’ll get an hour or two before the Squid starts crying. I hate teething.
I get less than two hours before the Squid’s pained cries wake me up. For the rest of the night, every forty-five minutes, he wakes me up crying. I can’t get mad at him – he so very rarely complains that I know it really hurts him.
Still.
Rock, rock, rock, nurse, sleep, scream, rock, rock, rock… nurse. Sleep. SCREAM. Rock, rock, rock, sleep….
BEEEP BEEEP BEEEP BEEEP BEEP!
The early morning light streams dimly through the window, painting the bedroom grey.
“YES!” I interrupt. “WE ARE GOING TO THE BEACH. I HAVE SAID NOTHING BUT YES SINCE WE GOT IN THIS CAR. I HAVE SAID YES. I HAVE SAID NO. I HAVE IGNORED YOU. I HAVE ANSWERED YOU. YOU SEE THAT WE ARE ON THE WAY TO THE BEACH. WHY DO YOU KEEP ASKING?“
So that means a video’s worth, what, a million words?
In that case, I am totally overachieving this week.
First, the cast of characters – I thought I’d do a test run at videotaping all three of us before I got to the meat of the explanation. After all, I’m sitting in a chair, holding two kids and using one arm to take a video with my cell phone camera. I figured I should do a test run. I decided to ask the DragonMonkey a few questions showing off how cute he is and how he says “Nonope” instead of “oatmeal”.
Instead, I got a video of a two-year-old who spits and says oatmeal perfectly clear. Ah, such is life.
And now for the explanation:
Anyways, I’m off to go drag my tired carcass into bed. I’ll leave you with a photo from this weekend – Guess who I got to meet?
The Bean and I are in the middle of our intricate just-got-home-hi-honey-hug-kiss-cook-dinner-put-kids-to-bed dance.
It’s a noisy, complex dance with nightly showings.
The DragonMonkey runs laps in our house, chasing the dog and squealing with excitement.
Bad Max skitters around the corners, claws tick-ticking on the wood, tongue flapping out the corner of his mouth as he narrowly evades being tackled by a two year old.
Fun! Family! Run! Fun! Run! Run! With a dog as simple as Max, it’s not hard to read his thoughts.
“Hahahahahaha! Run! Run! Doggie! More run!” DragonMonkey screams with laughter at the top of his voice.
There’s a reason he and Max are best friends.
The Squidgelet whines softly from his swing, fighting sleep.
I push past the Bean through the narrow doorway into the kitchen, both of us having to flatten ourselves against the walls for there to be enough room.
“No running, Max. DragonMonkey, leave the dog alone. Sweetie, can you pull out some chicken out of the freezer? Max, no running. DragonMonkey, STOP. Hi, Babe, how was your day?”
“Busy,” mumbles the Bean, reaching arm-deep in the freezer, fumbling around for a bag of chicken.
“Hey, I was hoping to go to the gym tomorrow before — DragonMonkey, please get down – before work. You don’t have to —MAMA SAID GET DOWN. ONE… TWO… Thank you. — You don’t have to leave early tomorrow, do you?”
“No, we should be— DRAGONMONKEY, BE NICE TO THE CAT — We should be good. Here’s the chicken.”
Squidgelet’s whines increased in volume.
I toss the still-frozen chicken into some warm water to defrost (oh no! bacteria! Toxic mold! Death! Whatever.) and push past the Bean again as I go to get the Squidgelet.
“Shhh. Shhhh.” I try to avoid nursing him to sleep as it’s a bad habit to fall into, but some nights you just do what you can to survive.
“Hahahahahah! MORE RUN! MORE RUN!” Max and DragonMonkey barrel past me in another noisy loop in the house.
“NO RUNNING!” I bellow, jolting Squidgelet awake. The corner of his lips twist down as if pulled by strings. “Shhh, shhhh! It’s okay!” I try to murmur into his ears, but it’s too late – I’ve thoroughly scared him.
“MWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!”
I jiggle him in what I hope is a soothing manner, making shushing noises in his ears. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Shhh, shhh…. Mama wasn’t hollering at you.”
Tick, tick, tick, skitter, Tick, tick, Pant, pant, pant. Max careens past me for a third time.
“MORE RUN! MORE RUN! RUN, RUN, RUN, DOGGIE, RUN, RUN! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” screeches the DragonMonkey.
“NO RUNNING IN THE HOUSE!” I yell, startling the poor Squidgelet into a fresh burst of crying.
I miss living on the dude ranch.
I miss lazy, quiet evenings with dusty rays of sun dancing through the pines, turning the whole world gold. I miss the sight of horses munching contentedly in the pasture below me, occasionally stomping a fly and snorting out hay dust.
I love my kids, but I miss the sweet scent of horse and alfalfa mixing with the wild fragrance of pine needles. If I were there, I’d be kicking my legs up on the front porch, ankles crossed as I balanced on the railing. The wind would be blowing down off the hill, passing through the trees with creaking moan that never failed to make me shiver, soul contented.
CRASH!
“Uh-oh!” the Dragonmonkey calls out. Cheerfully. “Mama! Mama! Uh-oh!”
Oh, is that all? Silly boy. That’s not ewww. That’s a lizard. It’s pretty big, too. Wait back there – let Mama take a picture.
See? A lizard. It’s nothing to be scared of.
Wait. What? You want me to pick it up for you? Ummm, yeah. I’d rather not. Here. Here’s a stick. Maybe if you poke it the lizard will decide to run away and Mama can go back to… well, actually Mama wasn’t doing anything all that interesting, but she’s pretty sure she can find something more interesting than staring at a motionless lizard.
No, Matty. Don’t just squat there and wave the stick at it. The ground is cold, and lizards are cold blooded. As such, when their blood has cooled they tend to be more sluggish— Oh. Wait. Never mind. That’s too much information for a two year old.
Poke.
DragonMonkey, poke.
Poke at it with the stick. For goodness’ sakes, aren’t boys supposed to have some sort of natural rapport with lizards, or something?
There you. Good job. I’ll keep taking pictures because I want to document your cute little expression of surprise when it runs away.
Wow, that’s a really lazy lizard. Here, give Mama the stick. She’ll poke it and it will run away. It needs to find a place to hide before our evil cats find it.
