Binkytown

Halloween Ettiquette

Dear Neighbors: Every Halloween I buy crap candy, well, at least what I consider to be crap candy. I can't buy the good stuff, the chocolates, the caramels, the peanut butter delights, because if I do, lets face it, I will eat three quarters of it before your kid comes over. I will give out the licorice and you should give out Snickers, because if we all give out licorice, what will there be for me to pilfer from my son's stash? I have licorice. I need chocolate. Please buy good stuff next year. Thank you.   

Dear Picky Kids: Now I know you are picky when it comes to vegetables, who isn't? But candy? Cut it out. Trick or Treat is about quantity, not quality. The point is to get as much candy in your bag as possible and work it out later. So if you try to hand back my red licorice and ask if you can have the green one, I will scold you and no you can't have it and you will have to work that out with your brothers later. Got it? You get what you get. Thank you.

Dear "Neighbors": If you want to come to my neighborhood to trick or treat after yours is done, that's cool. But please don't unleash twenty children from the Astro mini-van you parked in front of my house, right in front of the "DON'T PARK HERE" sign. Thank you.

Dear Greedy Kids: Can you have another? No. Can you have one for your sister who is not here? No. Can you have the green one? See above. Thank you.

Dear Trick or Treaters trying to milk an hour and a half after T&T is over: Go home. I'm eating dinner. Thank you.

Bah Humbug.

This hurts me as much as it hurts you

Tough love. I don't know if I'm going to survive it.

I only have one, so I don't know if it's true, but considering I read about a thousand mommy blogs at any given day, I think I have a relatively strong suspicion that my little man is more challenging than most. I should clarify; than most children who don't have special needs or developmental issues that make every day life more difficult. Although, as much as I feel I am sucking at the motherhood job lately, he could very well have special needs that I am not aware of.

Dooce writes about her daughter having SPD: "Stubborn Personality Disorder.. the only diagnosis they could come up with is that she is more stubborn and sensitive than the average human being. And there is nothing we can do about it except learn to live and deal with a child who has this type of personality." She writes about her daughter freaking out and I just laugh and laugh because it's so much funnier when it's happening but it's not happening to you.

Mornings have been bad lately. Really bad. We have to leave the house by eight for me to make it to work. Every day I allow myself plenty of time to accomplish this task yet every day I find myself standing in my garage at 8:15 on the verge of tears trying to force my two year old into his car seat. He wants to fix the tires, he wants to check something, his shirt is itchy and he has to take it off RIGHT NOW, he's running from me, he wants his backpack IN THE TRUNK. He tries to control every single aspect of his environment all of the time. He especially wants to control me.

He was refusing to get in the car this morning and after many mornings of lateness, my patience was thin. I would like to give you the minute by minute blow by blow but honestly, I can't even remember the chain of events. It involved him slamming the door shut every time I opened it and me trying to keep him from getting caught in it each time. Me sitting him on the cold hard cement garage floor and telling him (loudly) to sit there until he was ready to get into the car. (Which didn't work since he had no intention of getting in the car so that suited him just fine). I set out the choices: Make a good choice, either you get in the car or I will pick you up and put you in the car and you will be very unhappy and so will I. He refused so I had to pick him up and wrestle the thirty, angry, wiggling pounds of him into the car seat, but was unable to strap him in because I need two hands to do it and one of them was trying to restrain him in the seat as he screamed (good morning neighbors!)

What do you want? I found myself pleading with him. Tell me, please. When he is losing it like this there is usually something obscure that he wants to do, like hold the garage door opener, and if you can get him to stop screaming and tell you that, if you allow him to do that small thing that helps him regain some sense of control, he will magically snap out of it and start to comply with the natural order of things again. I want to sit on the driveway, he wailed. Fine, I snapped. Do it. I stepped aside and he slithered out of the backseat and sat on the garage floor again. You have one minute to sit there and then we need to GO. I should point out, I have said we need to go about fifty times by now, this was not a surprise. I rolled the dice, hoping this would be what he needed.

It wasn't. He still refused to get up. Another round of you do it or I do it ensued, another three minutes of car seat wrestling and wailing (hey neighbors- are you up now?) and I couldn't do it anymore. I picked him up, sat him back down on the garage floor and said I've had it, I'm going to work and you are going to stay here by yourself. I kind of shouted it. I turned my back on him and got into the car and slammed the door. It's the coup de grace, the last stop before I hit def con 20. I have had to do this before, just to get out of the house when he's refused to keep his shoes on, walk out the door, leave his train table in the morning. I've said, I'm leaving! Goodbye! Walked the distance to the car and came back to find him, hysterical, by the back door. The last time I did it I felt like such shit that I swore I wasn't going to do it ever again.

But I was in the car and he was sitting next to it, a big ball of emotion, crying and kicking, mommy! mommy! I held the steering wheel, squeezed it tight and then went to him. I scooped him up and held him until he calmed down, some. It takes him a long time to work himself out of something like this. Are you ready to get in the car? I asked. Mmm hmm, was the answer from buried in my neck. Mommy would never leave you, I say, buckling the straps. It's OK. Calm down now. I try and make up for the last twenty minutes by being extra gentle, extra soothing in my words but I feel like a fake. On the inside I'm still so angry. Angry that I'm late again, angry that my next door neighbor probably witnessed the whole thing, angry that this is my start to the day and I haven't even left the house yet, but more than any of those things, angry that I don't know how to be this child's mother. That I've had to use this kind of tactic to accomplish what we had to do. Angry that I don't know a better way. Angry that I made him cry. Who does that?

I try and tell myself, I'm doing this for his own good. He needs to know that he is not in charge, he is challenging me and I need to show him who is in control. I have to get to work, I have to.

None of it makes me feel any better.

Say Hello to My Little WTF???

Having breakfast with my friend last week, the Early Childhood Special-Ed teacher, talked turned to kids programming. Ooh- I asked, my mouth full of pancakes, I couldn't even wait to ask her, Have you seen Yo Gabba Gabba? She hadn't. I went on for ten minutes describing the Electric Company vibe, the groovy music, the graphics, the cool tricks, the way my son wants to wash his hair (It's fun to wash your hair, and this is how you do it...just try and get that out of your head now.. I dare you.) At some point I stopped and said - out loud - my god, I need a life.

But I love it. I really love it. I love the arm wiggle and the song about what the summer brings. I watch it with my son and we dance and we talk about keeping your hands to yourself and thinking happy thoughts when you can't sleep. We're gone during the day so we DVR (Tivo) it and we watch it together, both or all of us enjoying some down time after school and before dinner.

I stepped away at the end of the show last week to check in on the kitchen. There are commercials on Nick Jr., which doesn't thrill me, but most of the time they are aimed at pre-teen girls, nothing to be concerned about except the overall brainwashing consumerism of my son, which I think I still have a handle on. I tend to limit his exposure to PBS kids or Noggin, but they don't have Yo Gabba there, so I take the good with the bad. Except then it got ugly.

From the kitchen I heard the words Say Hello to My Little Friend, yes, that little friend, Al Pacino. I made a beeline for the living room. My brain was working overtime- Yo Gabba must have ended early, the TV channel defaulting to whatever we had on last night after he went to bed. Maybe I heard wrong? No. I didn't. As I rounded the corner there was Scarface, waving an assault weapon in the air. I grabbed the remote realizing this was a commercial. For a ring tone. On NICK JR. Immediately following a program created for pre-schoolers. Through some clever editing Scarface even shoots someone during the commercial, but it's hidden in such a way that you can tell he's firing the gun but you can't tell it's a person he is aiming at. IN THE MORNING. ON NICK JR. RIGHT AFTER THE DJ LANCE DANCE.

I am sick about this. I know they are free to advertise as they choose and I am free not to watch them, but I am still outraged. Don't they owe us parents just a little something when supplementing programming that is for children? Not the pre-teen set, not the teenagers, our little kids, the ones still in diapers. Who there at Nick Jr thought this was a good idea? Who made that decision, because you know someone did. Advertising is not random. Do they have children? Did they fall down and bump their head or miss that programming note in the meeting minutes because they were up all night tending for a sick child? Because those are about the only two scenarios I would be willing to accept without judging Nick Jr as being completely and blatantly irresponsible in their commercial choices.

Maybe it goes nowhere, to the land where dead emails to go die, but if you have seen this, or know someone who has, I encourage you to drop Nick Jr an email. If I could find a phone number I would have called them, but this was the best I could do.

Scarface. For real. What the fuck.

 

Deceptively Delicious Disappointment

So you know, there's this guy and his name is Jerry Seinfeld and he's like a bazillionaire and drives lots of Porsches. You may have seen one of his six thousand commercials on NBC during the Thursday night shows? (Gah. Thats a rant for another day.) He has a wife named Jessica. She created a cookbook. Deceptively Delicious: Simple Secrets to Get Your Kids Eating Good Food.

When Parent Bloggers Network offered up the chance to review this cookbook I was all over it like frosting on a cupcake because I have a son who only eats the same six things every day. One of those dishes is split pea soup so I'm satisfied that his diet is somewhat balanced, but clearly we need to expand. I thought this book might be just what I needed. Secrets! I need to know these secrets!

Read more here at the Full Mommy..   

Rhymes with Glenda the Good Witch

This morning I had breakfast with my two best girl friends; One of whom I talk to every day and the other who lives in San Diego and is in town for a wedding this weekend. We were coordinating plans between day care drop offs, car hand-offs and showers. At 8:55 my phone rang.

Where you at?

Half a block away.

Do you want to come here or meet us there?

I'll meet you there.

Cool. We're just getting in the car.

I know these women, probably better than I know myself. I knew they were in theory, getting ready to get into the car, but that event was a good five to ten minutes away. When I walked into my best friends I house I announced my presence with an "I don't see any bitches getting into any cars!" They barely looked up to acknowledge me, they just smiled as they packed last minute items and babies into gear. 

We call each other bitches, or biddies- as in, listen biddy, I'm not taking no for an answer or I know you bitches ate all the chocolate before I got here.

I'm not a fan of the word bitch. I'm sensitive to women's issues. I don't like the connotation and the baggage that goes along with it: The slimy guy on the made for TV movie who calls the main female character a bitch after she rejects him because he's, you know, slimy, or the good old stand by of labeling a woman a bitch because she knows what she wants. I would never use it to describe another woman or another friend, well at least not unless she really was a bitch.

But it works for us. It's a term of endearment. Because we love each other despite the fact that we have been roommates and truly ugly with each other in the petty, crabby, nasty way that good (and immature) friends can be. We love each other in celebration of the times we have stood up for ourselves, or fallen down and picked ourselves back up, or have been able to get back up because of something one or the other said.

Recently in a low patch, I was weepy during my lunch hour with my best friend in the car. I was lamenting how I hated being away from my son but couldn't reconcile not working, how I didn't want to take pills but felt like I needed pills and how seriously disappointing that felt in that moment. She snapped me out of it with one statement. She turned to me and said: "I'm going to make up a tee-shirt that says: I work outside the home and take anti-depressants and I like it. What do you think about that? I DON'T CARE." Her point was, stop worrying about how things look from the outside. Do what feels right, for you, for now. I laughed so hard I had no choice but to stop crying. 

No one wants to be a bitch all the time, but you have to admit, once in a while, it can be good for you. Especially if you are surrounded by the bitches you love best.

What goes up must come down

I got sent (at the last minute) on Thursday to Chicago for a conference on Health care and the Uninsured. It was at a swanky hotel where I was dazzled with food and beverages like Starbucks hot chocolate for eight hours straight. The same man was on the street corner asking for change when I arrived at eight in the morning and when I left at seven at night. It made it hard to take all the talking talking talking I heard very seriously.

Thank goodness for the kind man who handed me my iPod which flew out of my bag when I went I hit the pavement outside my hotel. As small as they are I would have never noticed it was gone. Accordingly, the fall must have jarred my cell phone for the final time, because alas, it will not work for more than five minutes.

Being gone for two days I could not WAIT to see my little man and did mad weaving in and out of traffic to get to day care to pick him up. When he saw me he clutched his teacher tightly, buried his face in her leg and wailed I WANT MY PAPA TO PICK ME UP.   

After spending two days in the windy city where I didn't have to fold any laundry, a birthday on a Monday, at work, after folding eighteen loads over the weekend is very unglamorous indeed.

Don't wake me

My (self employed) brother in law is taking a business trip to Europe this week, spending four days in Paris. Before he even asked for our input my husband and I bombarded him with questions- what are your plans? What are you going to see? Skip the Louvre, go to the Pompideau. The hotel we stayed at sucked but it was in the gay neighborhood and it was AWESOME. We were all over him. Clearly overwhelmed by our enthusiasm he said he didn't know, hadn't decided, etc, then quietly sent an email yesterday asking for any lodging recommendations we might have. When we couldn't sit in his lap and give him a ten minute lecture on what constitutes the perfect chocolate banana crepe and the best place to find one. (The Latin Quarter)

You would think that we were savvy world travelers, or francophone's or at least people who had spent a LONG TIME in France. We were none of the above. My husband and I both spent time there as single people and then made one long trip together before we were married, just like, um, I don't know, half of the population of the world, but even at our best, probably know enough about Paris to fit on a fingernail.

When my husband pulled up the Google Satellite feed to check out Notre Dame from the skies I literally had to look away. When I started searching for the street our hotel was on, the name of it now escaping me and the receipt tucked away in one of the many boxes in my basement, the image of the rooftops from the balcony of our room took my breath away.

I remember the stones in the street. The exact number of blocks to the cafe where we sat. I can't find my way out of paper bag but I remember the shop windows, how many rights we took to get to the metro station and the same park bench we returned to outside of Notre Dame, just sitting and looking, with nothing else more important to do than that. I remember every detail. I can't remember what I had for dinner last night but I remember it all. I was only one of many to it, but Paris has never left me. Even as I write this, thoughts and images bombard me. They are clear and vivid and feel like they just under the surface. Do you ever wake suddenly from a dream and feel that layer of sub-consciousness that only exists in your mind? It's so real. It's just like that. Right there.

Daycare now eats up the travel budget. The thought of the bags I would have to pack and the many hours of air travel in which I would have to endure entertaining a toddler gives me ulcers. I wish we were the kind of people that could pack a bag and our kid and fly off on an adventure, but we won't. We used to be adventurous. We used to be a lot of things. We're too tired for adventure. Too sleep deprived for jet lag, too frazzled to take on the unpredictable. Too desperate for the routine that keeps the screaming fits in check and tethers us in this stormy life we live.

I sent my brother in law a link to a hotel that comes highly recommended from a native I know. Then I sent it to my husband. We should go, I said, gazing at the stately gardens and statuesque building. We should, he wrote back, but we both understood that the we in this exchange was not us, not now. Before parenthood I always imagined we'd be parents who could travel. We did it with such ease. It's a surprise to me that we are not. One of many.

I know a new day will arrive when sleep comes more easily and an eight hour flight will seem much less daunting, but today, that's not enough.

So I close my eyes and dream of rooftops.   

No pressure

Guess what I WON?

I actually could really use this, I bought a crappy jogging stroller for the little man when he was born and I'm about ready to throw it out but didn't want to spend the money right now on a new one, so voila- I'm all set. Now do I keep it all shiny and pretty in the box until the next one arrives? (Assuming I can figure out how to have another one) Or do I bust it out now and seize the day. Carpe Diem!

Decisions, decisions... What would you do?

Erasure

This is not an ode to this Erasure, the techno pop group of the eighties, although while we are mentioning them, I recall fondly all five foot two of the lead singer with his platinum blond hair and a shiny red plastic jumpsuit at a concert in the 80s. It was the first time I had ever seen an openly gay man in person and I remember being shocked and absolutely fascinated at the same time. A man! in a red plastic jumpsuit! Who knew such things existed! Fond memories.

Anyway, this is about sibling rivalry. And personalized books.

Read more...

Getting (it) on with it

I'm not sure why the universe likes to mess with me so, but since I have proclaimed to the Internets my desire to have another baby, no less than seven bloggers I read and love have popped up with baby news on their websites. Come to think of it, almost all of them are on baby number two. Hmmm. Just like what I wanted. (Wow. How funny! Not). Except Halle Berry, who I include as my number seven, even though she's not really a blogger, I have given her honorary status because I like her and I'm happy for her. I also include JLo at number six because while she is saying "no no no" her face is completely giving it away and with rumors of IVF, you just know she's got twins in there which means she is having her second as well. Totally counts.

I stopped at the drug store today and picked up another ovulation kit. I looked at the price tag and thought wow, am I really buying another one of these?  I never thought I'd be buying this many. I don't really need it, it says the same thing every month, but for some reason the process, the routine of it makes me feel like I'm doing everything I can, apart from when I decide I'm too tired for sex and deciding that those swimmers who arrived the night before will just have to get the job done or too bad for them if they can't live long enough to do it. Sucks to be them.

I saw lots of pregnant women on my mini vacation and while I of course, want only good things for all human beings, I am no Angelina and as they swished by in their cute maternity suits I thought blah. Bitterness is, unfortunately, in my genes and something I have to work hard at not giving into, so I try and give it it's moment, scold myself appropriately, and move on. It's better than lingering indefinately.

I never had time for baby lust before, I didn't have to wait. Is it just me? Is there any other woman who is trying hard (heh) to get pregnant and who doesn't secretly gives a crusty to the lady walking by with the big belly bump? I think to myself, I am going to have stop reading so many mommy blogs, yet here I am talking about fertility and pregnancy and the lack of it. Oh, the irony.

Congrats to you and you and you and you and you (isn't this ridiculous?) (and you and you too). I mean it, I'm happy for all.

Happy, but impatient.