Two toddlers and a mom

Today Peanut had a “field trip” of sorts for school. The plan was to drive to a nearby train station, ride about 3 stops to a neighboring town, get off and walk to a park, have a picnic lunch and play for a bit, then take the train back. Simple enough, right?

For most mothers, who had only one child to manage, yes, yes it was. For me? Who had both Loaf and Peanut? It was fraught with challenges.

First, I had to bring a stroller. There was no getting around it. Even without having to cart a blanket to sit on, lunch for the three of us, and diapers and wipes, a stroller was a must. Because walking anywhere with an untethered Loaf is not for the faint of heart. It requires stamina and strength, eagle eyes and a lightning fast reflexes. As well as patience. Lots and lots of patience.

I brought the smallest stroller we have: an umbrella number, but it was still me, two children, a backpack bigger than me and the stroller.

We made it to the train station in plenty of time and easily found a parking spot (sounds easy, but it’s not) and made out way to the platform. About five minutes before the train was due to arrive, I decided to free Loaf and fold up the stroller in order not to hold up the rest of our party (I don’t know what I was thinking with that because do you know how long it takes for 41 adults and even more kids to board a train? Neither do I, but it’s a really long time. I don’t think the conductors liked us very much).

But I digress. The moment I freed Loaf, I stooped to fold the stroller and what did she do? Make a beeline for the tracks. Luckily, a parent with those lightning fast reflexes that I lack caught her by the arm and she spent the rest of our wait being held—firmly—in my arms.

So we finally get on the train and they are in heaven. Seriously, this was about the best thing ever. And that was really fun and cool.

On the train




Now it’s time to disembark, and because there is a huge gap between the train and the platform, two teachers are standing there to help everyone off the train (this will be important for later).

We get off, I set up the stroller, Loaf climbs in (excellent, because I was expecting a battle) and off we go. It turns out be a respectable walk to the park and when we get there the first thing I see is a gigantic duck pond full of waterfowl. And I instantly think, “Oh. Shit.” Because if there is one thing Loaf loves it’s ducks. And geese. And swans. (Which in fairness are all “ducks” to her; so far she does not share her mother's love for identifying birds).

I strategically place our blanket as far from this water hazard as possible and we eat our lunch. (Well, I eat and Loaf and Peanut drink their vanilla milk and pick at what I brought for them).

We are not done with lunch for even .0004 seconds when the two girls run off toward the pond. Peanut is fine. A bunch of kids are feeding the birds small pieces of bread and she’s happy to just watch. Not Loaf though. Oh no, she insists on going right up to the edge and leaning way over to dangle a stick in the water. Any attempt to hang on to her, or stand in front of her, or move her is met with shrieking at a pitch that probably had dogs all over town howling in pain.

The water is mucky and filled with goose poop and since the pond is manmade, it immediately goes to a depth of a couple of feet. I have images of having to jump in after her and then riding back on the train covered in muck and crap. This is not making me happy.

Fortunately, the school’s director comes to the rescue by picking that exact moment to hand out beach balls to all the kids. Perhaps the only thing Loaf loves more than ducks are balls, so it was easy to persuade her go back to the picnic area. La phew.

The girls play with their balls for a few minutes, then I spy a large playground across the way with slides, swings and other kid-friendly fun. Best of all, it’s gated, and at this point keeping them confined seems like a good plan. They are in the middle of the play area, and I turn back to walk 20 feet or so to get our blanket, bag and stroller.

As I’m packing up, Loaf makes a run for a nearby road. Heart in my throat, I run after her, but again another parent was faster than me and thwarts her. Good shit, I’m really not doing so great here, am I?

The rest of our time is spent in the play area, which is fine with me. Not soon enough, it’s time to walk back to the train, so I plop Loaf back in the stroller and we start walking. Peanut is tired and we’re moving slowly and fall to the back of the pack. As we approach the station, I see that the train is already there. We pick up the pace and make it to the station. I remove Loaf and fold the stroller and we climb the stairs to the platform.

The boarding process this time around is going even more slowly. As we approach the train, the gap between the platform and train starts to worry me. How do I manage this? I have no free hands and I can’t very well put Loaf down even for a second.

I begin the verbal warnings to Peanut. “I’m going to get on the train first and then stop to help you. Don’t try to go yourself. Stay on. Got it?”

Except, she doesn’t get it and tries to follow me onto the train. Fortunately, for the third time today another adult has my back. She grabs Peanut’s hand and helps her board as I stand straddling the train and platform, trying to balance Loaf and the stroller and the giant bag.

And as I step on, I hear some mother behind me mutter, “Did you see that? She almost fell through.”

Gah! I slink away not feeling very capable or confident. We get a seat in the back of the car and the girls, while tired, still enjoy the ride back.

So I survived, but had three close calls. And what’s even better? Tomorrow I’m driving them – just the two of them – to Massachusetts to visit my mom. Just me. And them. And the New York State Thruway. Kill me now.

But hey? At least Loaf didn’t fall in the duck pond.

My nice, relaxing weekend has left me exhausted

We started off this holiday weekend with no plans (a rarity around here). Additionally, having a friend over for dinner Friday night forced us to clean the house early, so we were heading into the long weekend with a very clean house (even more of a rarity).

These factors left me hoping for a nice, relaxing weekend of playing with my kids, lounging around my yard and catching up on some reading.

And while I did all of that, tonight I am utterly, completely, can-barely-hold-my-eyelids-up exhausted. Why? Well, let’s review this from a scientific standpoint and we’ll see where things went awry. Let’s examine one 24-hour period in my life this weekend:

Saturday

4:38 a.m.—Cat wakes me up. Cannot go back to sleep. An hour or so later, Peanut arrives in room. “Ah ah!” she exclaims happily. Lift her into bed and pray for sleep. It does not come.

6:14 a.m.—Loaf wakes up. Roll out of bed. Eat, get dressed, wash up, etc.

7:45 a.m.—Read several stories to kids.

8:30 a.m.—Lather up with sunscreen and head outside. Walk down to pond. See three frogs. “Fish” with sticks. Head back to house. Play in sandbox. Make several sandcastles. Get up and pull a few weeds. Play a few rounds of “Ring-around-the-Rosie.” Color and read a couple more stories.

11:15 a.m.—Decide since it’s hot and Memorial Day, it’s time to “open the pool.” ← Ha! This consists of taking a blow-up wading pool out of Loaf’s closet, hooking it up to an air pump until it’s inflated, then sticking a hose in it for 10-15 min until it’s full. Viola! Instant pool. Can’t beat that.

11:45 a.m.—Begin search for girls’ bathing suits.

12:35 p.m.—Finally find suits. Get kids dressed, put on sunscreen and head out to pool. The water in the pool is equivalent to that in the North Atlantic in January. Your skin goes instantly numb upon contact. Nevertheless, both kids jump right in. Excellent. Snap a couple of pictures.

12:45 p.m.—Sit down to read magazine.

1 p.m.—“Mommy, I’m hungry.” Doh. Lunch. Forgot that! Head inside to make lunch (tuna on wheat). Eat outside. Bring dishes inside.

1:45 p.m.—Peanut changes out of bathing suit. Leaves wet suit on floor of room. Lecture child.

2 p.m.— Mark leaves for 20th (TWENTY!) high school reunion. Kisses goodbye all around.

2:05 p.m.—Loaf poops. Peel wet bathing suit and swim diaper off her and clean her up. Put dry clothes back on her. Head back outside. Children head for sandbox. Sit down to read magazine again. Read about half a page while stopping approximately every 25 seconds to answer a question, look at the pile of sand one of my kids wants to proudly show me, or

2:15 p.m.—Peanut decides to go back in pool. Help her put wet bathing suit back on. While I’m helping her, Loaf climbs in fully dressed. Bring her in the house and change her. Head back out. Sit down to read magazine again. Manage to actually read most of an article in between talking to kids.

3 p.m.—Kids are thirsty. Get up and fetch beverage. Peanut follows me in. Puts on a new dry outfit.

3:15 p.m.—Reapply sunscreen. Put Loaf into another outfit (since the last one got wet). Walk back down to pond. “Fish” some more. See two more frogs. Pick flowers (clover and buttercups) as we walk back to the house. Peanut pronounces she is hungry. ← She is going through a wicked growth spurt and is a bottomless pit these days. Head inside to fix snack.

4 p.m.—Sit in grass and eat snack (sliced fruit). Realize kids’ cups are empty. Get up and head back in to refill them. Peanut decides to go back in the pool. Help her with her suit. Monkey-see-monkey do (aka Loaf) also wants back in. Change her again. Sit at edge of pool and play with kids. Get splashed. Water is still frigid.

4:45 p.m.—Kids get out of pool. While they played, I wandered around watering the flower beds and pulling random weeds. Peanut claims to be hungry. Again. And of course, she must now change her clothes.

5:15 p.m.—Begin prepping dinner. Since kids did not nap (and quite frankly, I am spent) decide they will eat and go to bed early. The thought of laying comatose on the couch within hours sends rivers of joy through my beleagured brain.

5:45 p.m.—Dinner. Leftover pizza and salad. Dessert=half a chocolate chip cookie each.
Next, bath. Let kids splash in tub extra long tonight while I sit on floor with magnifying mirror in one hand and tweezers in the other and tweeze eyebrows (always multi-tasking).

6:30 p.m.—Kids are out of tubs, in PJs and their teeth are brushed. Peanut asks me to paint her nails, so I paint both her and Loaf’s fingers and toes. They are thrilled. Big hugs for Mommy!

6:45 p.m.—Time for them to watch their show. Figure they’ll be in bed by 7:45 p.m. Woo hoo! Do dishes and clean up kitchen while they watch one episode of Curious George, followed by the second half of Sesame Street (gotta see Elmo!).

7:45 p.m.—Bedtime! Read them both one story. Put Loaf in her crib with a few books. Figure she will be out cold in minutes since she did not nap today. Tuck Peanut in. Walk down hall. Sit on couch with book. Read a few pages.

8:15 p.m.—Hear Loaf tossing books out of her crib. One by one, they hit the floor with a loud BOOM. Ignore this.

8:20 p.m.—Loaf is crying. Really crying. Full out, pitching-a-fit crying. How can she still be awake? March down hall. Loaf is standing at the rail of her crib. In addition to tossing the books, she’s thrown out her Lamb and all her blankets. Put them back in and attempt to lay her back down. More crying. Bring her milk. She sips it, but then resumes crying.

8:30 p.m.—Decide to let her cry it out a bit. She HAS to be exhausted. Sit in living room listening to crying, which is only growing more intense.

8:35 p.m.—March back up hall. Pick up Loaf. Lay her in my bed. Lay next to her. Wait. Ten minutes pass and she is finally asleep. Slowly roll out of bed and tip-toe to bathroom. Wash face and brush teeth.

8:45 p.m.—Crawl back into bed with book.

9 p.m.—Eyes. Getting. Very. Heavy. . . . .

9:41 p.m.—Stir. Bring Loaf to crib. Zombie walk back to bed. Turn off light. Zzzzz.

Sunday

1:19 p.m.—Loaf wakes up. Walk into her room. She wants milk. I oblige. She sips it. I return milk to fridge. Fall back into bed. Sleep.

4:14 a.m.—Cat wakes me up. Make mental note not to get anymore cats. Doze. Sort of.

5:23 a.m. Peanut bounds into bedroom. “Ah ah!” she exclaims happily. Is it really morning??

So let’s see. In that 24-hour period it appears I spent approximately:
• 3.5 hours preparing food/drink items
• 30 minutes eating food items
• 6 hours playing outside
• 41 minutes “fishing” and poking frogs in the ass with sticks to make them jump
• 4 hours changing kids clothing and applying sunscreen.
• 24 minutes reading my own magazines/books
• 3 hours reading children’s books
• 39 minutes sitting
• 90 minutes answering questions and “oohing and ahhing” over random piles of sand
• 49 minutes making sandcastles
• Three and a half hours of uninterrupted sleep
• 2 hours laying in bed awake
• 5 minutes plucking eyebrows
• 15 minutes doing dishes
• 49 minutes making sandcastles
• 40 minutes searching for bathing suits
• 12 minutes "relaxing"

So there you go. That was my relaxing weekend. I can’t wait to get to work tomorrow so I can sit on my butt for a while and get a little rest.

Do as I say . . .

The scene: A mid-morning snack at our house yesterday.

Peanut requested dry cereal and I knew once Loaf saw what her sister had, she’d want some too. I poured some O’s into the only two clean bowls in the house: a pink one and a green one.

I was in a rush to get to the gym and absentmindedly put the green bowl in front of Peanut and the pink in front of Loaf. In case we have not covered this, Peanut loves all things pink. And I mean, she REALLY loves pink. It is, to quote Julia Roberts’s character in Steel Magnolias, her “signature color.”

Pissed at the indignity of having to eat from a non-pink bowl, Peanut shoved it onto the floor, spilling O’s all over the table and floor.

I immediately launched into lecture mode, sternly telling Peanut that we do not throw food on the floor in this house, and the problem could have been easily fixed by simply switching bowls with Loaf, all the while sweeping as much cereal as I could salvage from the table back into the green bowl.

I then plopped the green bowl in front of Loaf, who so far is perfectly happy to eat out of any dish or bowl regardless of its color, and picked up the pink bowl.

Still peeved by her actions, I pounded home my point one last time.

“So you understand Peanut? WE DO NOT. THROW FOOD. ON. THE. FLOOR,” I emphasized as I slid the bowl abruptly to her side of the table . . . and watched helplessly as it careened right off the edge of the table and landed upside down on the floor beside her chair.

Doof.

Morning e-mails with a scowl

Yesterday I was in the office, which means I checked all my e-mail accounts first thing in the morning.

On my personal Yahoo account, I get this e-mail newsletter Ideal Bite. It usually has really great tips for living a healthier, more environmentally conscious lifestyle.

I say usually because yesterday’s tip? Notsohelpful.

Yesterday, those cheerful, supportive folks over at Ideal Bite suggested that I forgo my swimsuit and spend my days at the beach this year in the nude.

Seriously.

According to Ideal Bite, “Swimsuits require energy and transport to produce, while birthday suits require none.”

Really? Well isn’t that great. Now I’m supposed to feel guilty for covering up my nearly 38-year-old, birthed-and-nursed-two-children, ain’t-what-it-used-to-be body. Riiiight.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for saving the planet. We go to the grocery store with our canvas bags and buy EnergyStar appliances and use low energy light bulbs all over our house. We eat organic food as much as we can and recycle and try in general not to be wasteful.

But walking the beach nude? Sorry. Even I have my limits.

In addition to not being willing to expose the world to my cellulite, I’m frankly not looking to see anyone else’s either. And I’m just not convinced that my swimsuit has that great of an environmental impact. I mean, if that’s true, don’t all clothes? Is this the topic of the next Al Gore movie:

The Inconvenient Clothes: Go Nude to Save the Planet

Sheesh. I guess the tip writers at Ideal Bite were a little stretched for topics this week. Though in fairness, the newsletter went on to suggest some swimsuit manufacturers that utilize environmentally friendly processes, as well organic and even recycled materials to produce their swimsuits, which is pretty cool.

So, there I was, already feeling a little cranky when I went back to my inbox to see that Yahoo had sent me a helpful little Anniversary Reminder.

“Aw,” I thought, “someone is having an anniversary. How nice.”

Then I opened it and discovered that the anniversary in the reminder was actually that of my graduation from college, which occurred sixteen years ago today on May 19, 19FUCKING91.

After absorbing that for a moment or two, I threw my laptop onto the floor, stomped on it, and yelled something about how that will teach you to toss the mother-fucking effects of time in my face like that first thing in the morning, you stupid piece of overrated bytes and chips.

OK, I didn’t really do any of that.

But I thought about it. Oh how I thought about it.

My child: social butterfly

In the past week, Peanut has received not one, not two, but FIVE invitations to upcoming birthday parties.



It seems that in addition to saving for college, we need to immediately open a savings account in order to provide a steady stream of birthday gifts to area children. We also apparently should forgo all hopes of having a social life of our own and resign ourselves to the fact that all of our weekends forvermore will be dedicated to driving Miss Popular around to various social events.

I remember the days when Mark and I went to parties where there was alcohol and loud music, and not a balloon, cupcake or person dressed as a cartoon character anywhere in sight.

::le sigh::

Thanks for the lectures, cupcakes and love

When I was young, my mom would take me grocery shopping at the Adams Supermarket in North Adams, Massachusetts. The supermarket was in a cavernous building split down the middle by a large corridor. On one side was Adams and on the other was Zayre’s, a discount department store could have inspired the modern Wal Mart.

The building’s middle was lined with gumball machines and those ride-on horses and cars that kids love. It also housed a small bakery called Molly’s, which always had an ample selection of scrumptious looking cupcakes.

Often after grocery shopping, my mom would wheel our cart over and buy me a cupcake for the ride home. The buttercream icing was always piled high, covered with sprinkles and topped with a small plastic decoration that varied depending on the season (a witch or black cat on Halloween, Santa at Christmas, a heart for Valentine’s Day, flowers during the spring and summer).

Inevitably, I’d pluck off the plastic decoration and carefully tuck it away for later, then eat nothing but the icing, leaving the entire cake to waste. While I’m sure my mom grumbled about this and probably mentioned something about starving kids in China, she continued to buy me cupcakes on a fairly frequent basis and I continued licking only the icing and leaving the bare, sad little cake uneaten.

In retrospect, it was a small part of my childhood, a teeny little blip among thousands of memories of my early years. But for some reason, it sticks with me and to this day whenever I eat a cupcake I think of Molly’s and my mom and her unending patience with the girl who knew even back then that the icing is the best part of the cake.

On Mother’s Day, it’s appropriate to thank your mom for all the things, big and small, that she did for you as a child. So here’s my list: Thank you mom for the hugs, the support, the hard lessons. The wiping of tears, the punishments, the kisses and snuggles, the stories, the birthday parties, the sewing of homemade Halloween costumes. The late nights holding my hand and wiping my head with a cloth when I was sick. All the time spent braiding and curling my hair. All the stories. The trip to the Clark Art Institute when I was 8 and the trips to visit me in New York City when I was 28. The quiet moments and the boisterous moments. The lectures and the love. The knowledge and know-how.

And, of course, the cupcakes, which helped make even trips to the grocery store fun and sweet and special. Love you.

Attention book clubbers!

My friend Martha wrote a book. She has a totally awesome blog and now she's a published author! Go Martha!

So if you're looking for a good summer read, I highly recommend her book, Ivy Briefs: True Tales of a Neurotic Law Student.

I don't even have my copy yet, but I just know it's going to be great.

If the dress fits . . . or doesn't

Mark and I have a wedding to go on Saturday, and since five years and one size have passed since I last donned a cocktail dress, I had no choice but to buy one.

So off I went at lunch to Loehmann's, which is my most favorite place to find fabulous clothing on the cheap. But, much to my surprise, the pickings were slim and I wasn't having much luck. Finally, I found a cute little Vera Wang dress in the Back Room (where all the really good designer stuff is). It was an adorable champagne colored satin dress with an A-line skirt and empire waist. The tag indicated it was a size 6 and best of all? It was well under $100.

Into the fitting room I went. I don't know if you've ever shopped at Loehmann's, but it has one of those really dreadful communal fitting rooms. In other words, if the pants you're trying on give you huge muffin top? Everyone in the room gets to experience that with you. Can't zip that skirt? The skinny teenage girl in the corner will definitely see that and snicker (bitch). For most of us, it is quite possibly one of the most unhappy places on earth.

So there I was with my small pile of dresses. The first couple fit, but weren't flattering. Then I got to my Vera Wang find, which I was already convinced was The One. I had visions of sipping cocktails and whirling about the dance floor in it, and in let me tell you - I looked fabulous.

I slid the dress up over my hips and slipped my arms through the spaghetti straps. But, instead of seeing the fabulous vision I hoped, the dress looked all wrong. The shoulder straps sat too close to my neck and the empire waist, which was circled by a lovely line of cream ribbon, seemed to cut straight across my nipples.

Huh. This doesn't look right, I thought. I bet it will be fine once I zip it.

I reached back and started pulling on the zipper. It went up to just about the top of my underwear and then wouldn't budge. I pulled the zipper harder, contorting and yanking on the back of the dress, but the zipper wasn't going up another notch. And then I realized with utter horror that this dress, a size 6, a dress that should surely be able to close around my body, wasn't even close to fitting. Not even close. Not in a million years. Not even if I had half my ribs removed.

And that's when the silent swearing started.

Fucking fashion designers and their fucking size double zero models, I thought as I pulled the dress off. What the hell are they trying to prove by cutting these clothes so fucking small? Don't they realize no one wants to buy clothes three sizes bigger than they are? That's why the Gap invented vanity sizing. FUCKERS!

Still cursing, I grabbed the hanger and started re-hanging the dress, all visions of my fabulousness seeping into the room's cheap, industrial carpet. And that's when I saw it. Right there on the label. Three little words that changed everything: Flower. Girl. Dress.

Flower Girl Dress? What the hell? Are you telling me I just embarrassed myself and had my self-esteem knocked down about 48 pegs because I was trying to put a CHILD'S dress on my body?

Well that's just fucking great. What genius sales person at Loehmann's put that dress with the adult clothing? I have no idea, but I bet she's a size double zero with a proportionate number of brain cells to match. Where ever she is, I suggest she keeps that job because any where else will eat her alive.

Oh, and in case you're curious, I did end up finding a very nice black silk dress by Nicole Miller. Also under $100 and an ADULT size six. And I looked fabulous.

And now, a few pictures

Peanut and Loaf playing dress up





More shots from Loaf's birthday










My two little Rock Stars

The cow says MOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

Yesterday was unbelievably, incredibly gorgeous. It was one of those very rare days when the sky is rich, deep blue and cloudless, and it's warm enough to walk around in shorts and a t-shirt, but it's not too hot.

To take advantage of this glorious day, after picking Peanut up from school, I took the girls to Fosterfields, a working historical farm that has a plethora of baby animals running about at this time of year.

We went last year, and it was a huge hit. Peanut remembered the baby animals very well and was so excited she could barely keep still on the drive there.

"Mommy, I am going to run right up and KISS the baby lambs," she exclaimed. "And I'm going to kiss the COW too."

"You are? What about the piglets?"

"No, they are too muddy," she responded (audible eye roll fully in play). "But I can't wait to KISS the COW. I'm going to kiss that COW right on the head!"

So we arrive, pay, and walk down to the barnyard. On the way we see some horses, geese and two very big, very fat and very stinky pigs.

Then we saw the piglet (only one this year - bummer) and watched it suck down a huge bottle in literally less than a minute.

Finally, we came upon the barn where the sheep, lambs, cows and calves were being held. Two of the cows were being milked, which both fascinated and horrified Peanut.

"What's that they're taking out of the cow's butt, Mom?"

"That's not her butt, honey; that's called an udder and that's milk."

long drawn out pause

"Who drinks that milk, Mom?"

"Well, we do. Remember when we talked about how milk comes from cows? Well, that's how they get it."

second drawn out pause

"Can I have some?"

Not really feeling much like explaining the entire pasteurization process, I just said, "it’s not quite ready yet." Thankfully, that was good enough.

We then went and ran around the fields, washed some "clothes" (really just scraps of cloth) on a washboard and hung them on a line to dry, churned butter in the farmhouse, and pumped water from an old pump.

After an hour and half, we were all exhausted. Loaf climbed into the stroller on her own and we started making our way toward the exit.

"WAIT!" shouted Peanut. "I didn't kiss the cow! I want to say goodbye to the cows!"

So I parked the stroller in the barn's entrance and walked inside. The barn was dark. All of the cows were now in pens along the walls, but looked over the top of their stalls to check us out.

"Can you lift me up, Mommy? I want to see the cow and say goodbye."

So I lifted her up and there she was, eyeball to eyeball with the absolutely enormous head of a cow.

"Isn't she pretty, honey?" (And she was. She was a soft brown and had big gentle eyes rimmed with long eyelashes).

"Can I kiss her now, Mommy?"

And before I could begin to explain all the reasons why she could not in fact kiss the cow, the animal handled things for me by mooing. Very loudly. About two-and-a-half feet from Peanut's head.

In the barn, the sound reverberated and seemed even louder and Peanut just about jumped out of her skin.

Clutching tightly onto my neck, eyes as big as saucers, she looked at me and said eagerly, "I'm ready to go now."

As I pushed the stroller back toward the parking lot, Peanut was completely silent. Finally, I asked her what she thought of the farm.

"That cow is much, much, much bigger than me," she said.

"Yes, they're big. Did you like when the cow mooed at you?"

"No, I did not."

"She was just saying hello, honey. That's how cows talk."

Considering this for a moment, she stopped, looked up at me and said, “I don’t want to talk to anymore cows. And I’m definitely not going to kiss one.”

Poor, sad, misunderstood cows.