Yes, this one is called Butt Floss

My daughter isn't even four yet, but she's already learning to play the game.  She just gets it. Maybe every parent thinks their kid is this bright, or maybe not.  I've met some parents who admit their children are not very sharp, and I know one father who actually refers to his son as a doofus.  (You know who you are.)    

Today we went to the dentist.  Veronica walked in like she owned the place, and within minutes she had the entire staff, including the evil Nurse Ratched-type receptionist, wrapped around her little finger.  It was like she was doing some clever, adorable standup comedy routine without even breaking a sweat.  She and I were both getting our teeth cleaned, but this was the first time Veronica got to be in her own room, all by her big grown-up self, with the hygienist.  She seemed pretty psyched about it because she'd been brushing her teeth extra long and hard for a couple days, just to make sure she was ready for her appointment.  She's a diligent kid.  She also very diligently scoured the bathroom floor, and then her butt, with her electric toothbrush. I threw it away as soon as I figured out what else she'd been using it for, but I'm not sure how long the butt-scrubbing had been going on.  Quite possibly days.  I'm trying to forget about it, but I keep thinking:  Which is dirtier?  My bathroom floor or her butt?

Anyway, back to the dentist.  So I'm in one room, getting my choppers worked on, which I actually love, and she's next door charming the pants off the fairly kid-savvy hygienist.  I couldn't see any of her antics, so all I got were sound bytes. They went something like this:

"Patty, did you put those stuffed animals all around the room to distract me while you clean my teeth?  Because you know, I'm pretty distracted right now."

"Patty, can you please also sharpen my teeth while you're cleaning them?  Because I'm going to be a lion for Halloween."  

"Patty, my mom said I can have chocolate cookies after the dentist as long as I behave.  And I'm going to brush my teeth after I eat the cookies."  (Ok, she dropped a dime on me, because I did bribe her, and will always and forever bribe her, but to her credit she pulled out a major save in the end. That's my girl.)

"Patty, I want to be just like you when I grow up."

And so on.  Everything she said, and particularly that last thing, elicited the most adoring, sugary oohs and aahs from the office staff.  Even the guy cleaning the windows took off his headphones so he could hear my daughter carry on and watch her bat her gorgeous, sable eyelashes.  And I'm sitting there, in the next room, listening to her but also trying to ignore it all, because I've decided that the dentist is another opportunity for me to have Pretend Alone Time.  As long as a jillion other people are looking after my daughter, cutely holding court in the next room, I might as well grab some shuteye.  After all, I'm used to her brilliance.  I've heard it all before.  

So, I'm pretty sure my daughter is no doofus.  Even though she used her toothbrush on her bottom. You never know - she may be on to something there.   And since I just started letting her floss her own teeth, I'm sure the floss will also make its way down under.  She'll have the cleanest butt around.

My baby is better than your baby

He did it, he did it, he did it!

Hallelujah, hang-ten (spin around and do it again) because my amazing little boy just slept through the entire night.  I have the best, most well-adjusted infant in the whole world!  Fall to your knees and give the one-fisted power salute!  My baby is better than your baby.  Nah, nah, na nah-nah!  

Just kidding.  I'm totally lying.  I thought it might be fun to pretend to be one of those annoying moms whose babies actually do sleep through the night, little flaxen-haired angels laying peacefully upon pillows of eiderdown while tiny fairies dance above their heads, sprinkling pixie dust, blah blah blah.  Rex might someday sleep all the way through the night, when he's twelve and I'm already dead from exhaustion.  Notice I said might sleep through the night. Meanwhile, we're back to nursing at least three times from dusk till dawn.  I don't enjoy it.  I'm pretty sure Rex wakes up so much because he is precocious, because he can already roll over, fart the alphabet and write his name. I'm lying again, but only about the writing part.

When he finally does sleep through the night, I'm sure I will continue to wake up anyway.  It's just what happens.  Maybe I'll train one of Veronica's stuffed animals to nurse, so that way I can still experience the joy of sleepless nights.  She has a large seal that might have breastfeeding potential, and it looks a lot like Rex in the dark.  Or maybe, by some miracle, when my baby starts to sleep more at night I'll sleep more, too.  Not bloody likely, but a girl can hope.  If I still can't sleep I'll just become a supermom who stays up all night, baking perfectly round scones, or something equally stupid.  

On the bright side, my mother just arrived.  The cavalry is here.  She is a grandmothering genius, a one-woman fix-it elixir, a marvel of multitasking.  Nana to the rescue!  

Hallelujah, hang ten (spin around and do it again) ...  

Dang! Double Dang!

There was poop in my underwear today, and it wasn't mine.  I'm fairly sure what happened to me today has never happened to anyone else in the history of parenting, but you never know. Bizarre incidents take place every day, and when you are a mother, they often involve your kid's poop.  So here's how it all went down.  

This morning, since today is Saturday, Veronica took a shower with me.  Rex was in the bathroom too, because he is in the bathroom every time I shower. There is no special Saturday-only rule for him because he is small and less annoying, since he doesn't demand to actually be in the shower with me.  He doesn't hog my spray or pee on my feet.  He's also less impressed by cartoons than Veronica, which is how she stays busy on most mornings while Rex and I are in the bathroom.

Today there was a pretty sizable traffic jam in the bathroom.  Rex was on the floor, and since he can roll over now I have to put him on a much larger blanket.  It takes up a lot of space.  Also on the floor was a stack of my clothes, a stack of Rex's clothes, a pile of extra towels and of course, Veronica's leotard and tutu, which is the only thing she will wear right now. It's safe to say the floor was covered with stuff.  Five minutes after Veronica got into the shower with me, she sang out, "I have to go poo-poo!" 

Of course.

Because this happens a lot, and because I had no desire to have her both pee and poop on my feet, I helped her out of the shower.  Draped in a towel and hunched over like a little old woman, she scuttled across the room, dripping on everything in her path, including Rex.  When she hopped up on the potty, Rex let out a huge squeal of delight - I assumed he was happy, because he loves to watch his sister do anything.

When the shower was over, it was time for all of us to get dressed.  I grabbed my stack of clothes from the floor and started to step into my undies, when lo and behold - Dang!  Double dang!  Shee-it.  

My underwear was covered, coated, with yellow baby shit.  My baby has added projectile pooping to his list of new talents.  That must have been why he was squealing with delight. Next time I will move my clothes pile as far away from his talented bottom as possible.  Maybe I'll need to leave it in the hallway.  

Bed Wars

I have to say that this business of sleeping in the same bed with another person is pretty strange.  I mean, I've been doing it for a long time now, but I still don't really get it.  It's nice to snuggle with someone else, but you can snuggle anywhere.  And occasionally it's nice to get busy with someone else, if you know what I mean, but we all know you don't always need a bed for that.  Unless you are really boring.  And you can certainly get busy in a twin bed or a bed that doesn't belong to you.  Let's face it:  most of the time beds are just for sleeping.  And if what you're mostly doing is sleeping, why share?  It's not like we're cavepeople who have to huddle together for warmth.  

When we started sharing a bed, around a hundred years ago, my husband accused me of angling. Or you could call it diagonal-ing, if that is a word, because throughout the course of the night I would shimmy my legs over to his side of the bed, but my head and torso would stay on my side. I turned myself into a human forward-slash.  I argued that my feet were, naturally, seeking the warmest spot they could find, and that was as close to him as possible.  When he sleeps my husband becomes the man-equivalent of a charcoal briquette.  I haven't tried cooking anything on him yet, but I'm dying to give it a shot.  He'd have made a great caveman.

In addition to angling, over the years we've accused each other of cover-hogging (him), pillow theft (me), attempted smothering (me again) and ankle-kicking (both of us).  All of these antics go on in an enormous California King bed, the biggest money can buy.  Sometimes the sleeping goes smoothly and other nights we could probably use a referee, or maybe a plexi-glass sound and motion barrier dividing our bed down the middle.  At any rate, we've gotten used to these bed wars.  It's just who we are.

After Rex was born I started sleeping in the spare bed in the nursery, because it was easier on everyone, especially me.  For a time I was getting up a jillion times a night to feed Rex in the dark, so sharing a room meant less fumbling (and therefore less cursing) on my part.  And less screaming for the baby, which was good for all of us.  Now, three-plus months into it, I must admit that I've come to love sleeping alone.  The spare bed is cushy and cozy and I've tricked it out with really soft sheets, all the pillows I want and a stack of five assorted comforters to keep me toasty, since I no longer have my caveman.  There is no one to steal my covers or complain that my toenails are too sharp. My little twin bed is totally bitchin, and I never use that phrase. 

Sooner or later I'll have to go back to my own, enormous, shared bed. Lately Rex has become way too grunty for me to get any decent sleep when I'm in the same room with him, even if I wear earplugs and put the pillow over my head.  What's more, now I'm convinced he can smell me sleeping across the nursery and is waking up more than he needs to, both for the pleasure of my company and for a nice slug of warm milk.  Really, who wouldn't?  

One of these days I'll have to say goodbye to my little paradise for good.  As an experiment, last night around 3 am, after feeding Rex, instead of staying in the nursery I went stepped back into the master bedroom. It felt newish, like a hotel; it was cooler than the nursery and smelled like grownups.  It was definitely a place I wanted to be.  And there was my old, familiar side of the bed, with my favorite plumpy pillows and down comforter, just inviting me to climb back in. I couldn't resist, so I went for it.  And it felt fantastic.  It was almost romantic, and for a few magic moments it was just me and the newness of my old bed.  

I rolled over, stretching, to the middle of the bed.  When my hand brushed against something warm I opened my eyes, momentarily disoriented, wondering what it was.  Then I let out a yelp, and almost peed my pants.  There was another person in bed with me!  There in the dark was my husband's head, at my eye level, and it totally freaked me out.  It honestly looked like there was a dummy in my bed.  Or a mannequin.  I suppose in the bliss of reunion with my big-girl bed, I forgot that this was a bed I shared with someone else, or maybe I've gotten too used to sleeping alone.  Either way, I hopped out of bed and hightailed it back to my bitchin little bed in the nursery, which was, thankfully, empty.  

Someday this bitchin little bed will be Rex's big-boy bed, and he will be a caveman-in-training. With all of his grunting, as adorable as it is, he's halfway there already.  And I've decided to very slowly reacquaint myself with my old, shared bed, a few hours at a time.  My husband and I will have to think up some new rules for our bed, but it seems like this is the dawn of a more peaceful era.  I have a hunch we'll be too tired to compete in our bed wars, won't care if the other person pulls off our comforter or kicks us in the balls.  The game has changed, and that's what happens when you have two children.  

Oops

No, I am not pregnant again.  That would definitely qualify as an oops, and it would be funny, but not funny ha-ha.  That would be funny like Armageddon is funny.

Every weekday I drop Veronica off at preschool, usually around 1:00, after lunch.  Rex gets to come along for the ride, because I'm not allowed to leave him home alone by himself, and also because everyone at preschool adores him.  We can't even make it past the office ladies without one of them wanting to hold him, kiss him and make believe he's their own for a few minutes while I take Veronica into Yellow Room to say goodbye.  I'm happy to relinquish him.  It's a good arrangement for everyone:  my arms get a break, the ladies get their fix, and best of all Rex avoids the visible fog of preschool germs that await once you pass the office. 

So the other day I said goodbye to Veronica with a relatively minor amount of drama, and made my escape towards the office and towards the front door of the school.  (Once I make it past the office I usually consider myself home-free; if Veronica happens to see me before that there's a new, more intense round of drama and an even more involved goodbye ritual, which could drag out for half an hour.  It's not fun.  It defeats the purpose of preschool.)  Anyway, I headed for the door and happened to notice the office manager holding a super cute baby.  I remarked to myself, "Wow, that's a really adorable baby," and as opened the door to leave, I realized that that was my baby.  

Oops.

Why, period

Today Veronica said 'why' fifty-seven times before noon.  Actually, probably before 11:00, because that's when my brain exploded and I could no longer hear anything.  It's amazing what you can tune out when you are a mother. 

"Mommy, is there always chicken inside of a chicken nugget?"  

"Yes, usually. As far as I know." (Oh please God let that be the end of it ...)

"Why."

I should say that she never asks why, she says why.  She demands why.  Often, she says why before I can even respond to her first question.  Sometimes I wonder if she's really listening to my response at all, or just waiting until she hears words and sounds come out of my mouth so she can press an automated button inside her mouth that says "Why."  It's her default.

One time we were driving in the car and neither of us had said anything for quite awhile. There was no topic of conversation on the table, no thread of a story left hanging in the air.  Just silence for several minutes, and then, out of the blue, from the back seat:  "Why." I had no idea what the hell she was talking about, but it didn't matter, because clearly she wanted an answer to something.  

So I made something up, which was fine with her, because she wasn't really listening to me anyway.  She had been asleep the whole time.  It's amazing what you can tune out when you are three.

  

Amish v. Homeless

I think I have hyperactive milk.  It's funny, because nothing else about me is that hyper - no one ever called me a spaz when I was a kid - but I suppose if I were to overachieve in any physical category as an adult, it would be in milk production.  Apparently when you have a lot of milk your baby can drink like two gallons in five minutes, which is I think the case with Rex.  He starts to scream, sputter and buck after eating for just a little while, and while I get the feeling that for him nursing is like sucking on a garden hose turned up full blast, I do wish he'd chill out a little.  I'm fairly sure he's getting enough to eat, because he's the size of an fully grown koala bear, but Veronica could be sneaking him extra food on the sly.  I have no idea.  

The only time Rex is a calm nurser is in the middle of the night.  Then he's all business and wants to go right back to sleep, which is great, except then I am awake, and I can't always fall back to sleep because I am thinking all kinds of crazy thoughts.  Yesterday I swear I saw a pack of Amish people in Golden Gate Park, so I was up all night thinking about the Amish and how they wound up in San Francisco.  Did they fly here?  No, because they're not into that sort of thing (too much electricity or machinery or something) ... so did they take the buggy carpool all the way from Ohio?  Did they ride horses?  Cows?  Jesus Christ, did they walk?  And what are they eating?  Are they hunting, farming, or quilting?  If so, where?  Is there such thing as an Amish vacation?  Last night I could clearly see there was no way I was getting back to sleep with these questions running through my head.

So I kept wondering.  Where are they staying?  Amish hotels?  In the park, in tents next to the homeless people?  Oh, my.  Then I started thinking about what the Amish would think of the homeless, and vice versa.  I've heard stories about the homeless near Stowe Lake hunting mallards for dinner, I assume by chucking beer bottles at their heads or stunning them with secondhand skunkweed smoke.  It probably sucks to be a duck in Golden Gate Park.  I have a feeling the Amish would skip the ducks all together, and go straight for hunting the bison. More challenging to be sure, but think of all the useful things you can make from a buffalo hide with a little elbow grease (which is, I've heard, an Amish trademark). 

Maybe the Amish are here teaching the homeless a thing or two about living off the land, in which case, maybe they can teach them a more humane way to hunt mallards.  Or teach them how to make beautiful patchwork quilts from newspapers and garbage bags.  Now there's a bright idea. 

He's a Yankee Doodle Boy

Last night Rex slapped me in the face.  I am not kidding.  

I'm used to this kind of behavior from Veronica, but since Rex is only three months old I was a little surprised.  Of course, it was an accident, but still.  There we were, getting all cozy in our chair, and SMACK!   Open-handed left hook to the cheek, expertly delivered.  I swear he wound up for it.  His hands have been mostly tightly clenched fists since birth, limited to flailing in the air and sticking in his mouth. I am taking this new developmental milestone, the 'baby bitch-slap', as a sign that he is growing up.

As further proof, this morning he used his new skill to yank at his boy bits, what Veronica refers to as his 'doodle and bag' (as in, "Mama, what's that bag thingy down there for?")  Apparently this new discovery thrilled him, because he got a huge smile on his face.  I haven't told my husband yet, but I'm sure he will be proud.  

And so it begins.  

The best little whorehouse in NOPA

There is a vacant storefront a block from our house, and I've decided I'm going to open a whorehouse.  Not the old-fashioned kind; there will be no whores working at my whorehouse.  I'm not the Madame type, and anyway, I really can't be managing prostitutes in my spare time.  Not my cup of tea.

The vacant space has three small rooms inside it, and that's what gave me the idea of calling it a whorehouse.  The similarities end there.  My business will really be a posh spa for mothers who need a place to crash for an hour or two, without distraction or interruption.  I can't tell you how many mothers I know who can't stay home when they have a sitter, because their kids will still be jumping all over them.  It's a major dilemma.

Each room in my whorehouse will have a comfy feather bed, a claw-foot bathtub and chocolate on demand.  No cell phones allowed. No men, either.  

My other pretend alone time

Mama's Little Love Letter has a cold, and no one, least of all Rex, is happy about it.  He's crabby and has been spewing greenish poop for a couple days, and since I hate it when that happens to me, I have tons of sympathy for him.  Plus, he's Mama's Little Love Letter to the World, which is my new nickname for him:  if I had the time to write the universe a love letter, it would be in the form of Rex.  He's adorable and soft and sweet and you just can't get enough of him.  Lately he's become quite a card.  

So the Laurel Hill Preschool Germ Express is running full steam ahead, and in her second week back at school Veronica has already gotten sick.  Now that she's better, we have the answer to her question, "Mommy, where does my cold go when I get over it?"  Clearly, like her old clothes and hand-me-down toys, it goes to her baby brother.  And I'm sure this is not the last time.  

The good news is that, in his funky state, Rex has really gotten into riding in the double stroller. It actually makes him chortle.  The stroller is one of those double-decker jobs where the big kid rides on top, and the little kid gets tucked underneath where he still has a view, albeit only that of people's knees and small dogs.  It's really cool.  Veronica has named it Strolley. If you buy it new, the stroller costs about a zillion dollars, but we somehow found one used and in good shape. It's bright orange and quite fancy.  My husband likes it because it's easy to steer and has a small turning radius, the obvious things a guy would like.  I like it because both kids are self-contained in one place, and since both seats face forward, when I'm pushing it I can't see either one of them.  In fact, I can barely hear them.  It's like I'm out for a walk by myself.

Taking a late-afternoon walk with the kids in Strolley has become, like my morning shower, one of Mommy's pretend-alone zones.  I figure if I can string enough of these pretend-alone situations together, I'll be able to go an entire day without children, at least in theory.  And yesterday I discovered that Strolley comes with a bonus: if I strap the stroller leash to my wrist, I can give the stroller a push, let go of the handle and the whole thing rides out in front of me for a couple of paces.  That's when I really get happy - I am walking, unfettered, in the park!  No kids!  No whining! Just little old me.  It's paradise, and even if it's just for a few seconds, I'll take what I can get.  

I am a bad, bad mommy (apparently)

It's happened, and it has happened much earlier than I thought it would.  

This morning Veronica yelled in my face, "You are a bad, bad mommy!  I don't want you to be my mommy!"  

I don't remember what she was mad about.  I think it was because I wouldn't let her in the shower with me, even though it is a weekday and the rule is No Showering With Mommy Until the Weekend, but I can't be sure if that's what sent her into hysterics.  Maybe it was just because.  Because she is three-and-a-half, because she is a girl and we are prone to outbursts, because, because, because, BECAUSE.  Maybe all girls say this to their mothers.  But really, at this age?  

It actually didn't bother me when she said it, and it was all I could do not to laugh out loud. Most of the things she says to me are hilarious; this was no exception, and I certainly am not a bad mommy.  (Usually I am a good mommy, and sometimes I am just an average-to-middling mommy, but it is rare that I am truly a bad mommy.)  I didn't take it personally.  But as she said it I did feel sorry for her, terrible really, because she was obviously in the throes of some kind of preschooler angst that was very real to her.  She is already, at her age, a consummate drama queen, the biggest actress.  Her world mostly consists of dancing, singing, flailing about and very loud sighing, punctuated by the frequent, "I never have any (fill in the blank)" or "You always do (fill in the blank) to me".  She is, it seems, faced with injustice at every turn.

So I hugged her, and said it was ok for her to say I'm a bad mommy, because it was.  It was fine.  So she wiggled and really cried for a bit and fake cried for a lot longer, and finally she decided to move on.  I left her with her father and sped off to the shower before she could call me anything else, something much worse, like a bad cook or a crappy artist, things I am actually insecure about.  I wondered what else she could possibly call me as she got older.  And as I heard her begin the morning struggle with my husband over getting dressed, she yelled, "Mommy!  You are a Mad Scientist!"  I laughed.  That I can handle.

Baby Catnip

It is around 3 am, and Rex is rolling around on his changing table like a kitten in catnip.  I don't know what it is about his changing table that makes him so crazy happy.  Day or night, it doesn't matter.  It's almost to the point where I don't want to change him on the table at night because it will rile him up, but I don't want to get poop on the bed or the crib.  One of these days he'll stop pooping at night.  Right?

So I'm trying to change him, and I discover that I really, really want a diet Coke, with ice. Yum.  Strange middle-of-the-night craving, especially when I'm not even thirsty.  When I was pregnant with Veronica I ate bananas in the middle of the night, and with Rex, bowls of cereal.  Since we are absolutely not having any more children, maybe the diet Coke thing is nature's way of saying I can stop being so nutritious and live a little - go ahead and toss back a nice artificially-flavored, tooth-staining caffeinated beverage.  

Since I have no diet Coke, I think about how healthy I've been while pregnant with and nursing children.  I've really been an ascetic, a nutritional saint, and I'm looking forward to the day Rex is weaned so I can go hog wild.  As I said, there will be no more pitter-patter of little feet around our house after Rex, and I'm anticipating my diet will go totally to shit.  I feel like I've earned it.  So the trick now will be to make sure I don't get pregnant again, and since I seem to get knocked up the minute I smell cupcakes or look at a wall calendar of cuddly kittens, we'll be taking drastic measures.

All that Glitters

There is glitter all over our house.  It's even in the baby's diaper.  I am surprised it could survive in such a nuclear environment, but there it was, stuck to his left cheek.  Amazing.  Cary has declared war on glitter and has vacuumed at least three times today, but still, it's everywhere. Secretly, I love the glitter, because if I squint it feels like I am living in Fairyland, and since these days I am walking around with my eyes half open anyway, it's just perfect.