Finally, Chaos

Today these things all happened at once, in the following order. Apparently the chaos that happens when you have two kids has finally arrived.

Rex, who is now eating solid food, spit his rice cereal all over me and began to scream.

The doorbell rang.

I tripped over the dog.

Rex dangling from one arm, I answered the door.  It was the lady who was buying something I posted on Craigslist, but she forgot cash. I sent her to the ATM at the corner. What is it about 'cash only' that makes people only bring checks?

Next, Sanchi licked up two Advil that he found on the floor. I was able to get them out of his mouth. (I was briefly tempted to transfer them right into my mouth, as I was developing a massive headache from everything that was going on.)

As I was tossing the Advil in the trash, Veronica swiped an open bag of flour off the counter and began to dance around the kitchen with it.

The doorbell rang again. 

The Craigslist lady was back, asking if I would please help her out to her car because she couldn't carry everything. Apparently she did not notice I was carrying an enormous screaming baby covered in flour. What a dipshit.

The Lunatic Fringe

"I don't want my scissors for a whole week," Veronica says, solemnly handing me a chunk of her hair.  She's just given herself bangs, only these bangs are on the side of her head, and she looks ridiculous.  I believe the French used to call bangs 'the lunatic fringe', back in the 1880s when they were invented.  Bangs, not the French.  

So now she's doling out her own punishments, or as we call them in my house, consequences. We're New-Agey like that around here.  I'm not sure what to do, so I take the scissors, and the hair, and say, "Ok."  Really, what else is there to say?  Or to do?  My precocious kid has taken all the fun out of parenting.  I'm sure by the time she's thirteen she'll be handing down her own sentence for shoplifting and driving herself to juvie, all cigarettes and tattoos.  Great.  Looking forward to it.

The reason I am up at 1:23 am is that I had to change Rex after I fed him, and that woke him up, so now I am waiting for him to stop grunting and go back to sleep.  Thank goodness he is no longer pooping at night, but now he's peeing what seems like quarts (is he drinking Gatorade when I'm not looking?) and I have to give him a new diaper around midnight or he wakes up soaked to his neck.  I'm not kidding.  That has happened exactly twice, when I've attempted to let him go twelve hours at night on just one diaper.  Not good.  Eventually I'll stop feeding him at night and maybe one diaper will do, or maybe I'll have to start using adult Depends on him.  And on myself, so then I won't have to get up either.  I'll just pee my pants, smile peacefully and go back to sleep.  Like Rex does right now.  In theory.

More to come in the morning ...

And He Keeps ... On ... Growing

Rex had his four month checkup today. It's official: he's a baby wonder, what with his gargantuan size and the creeping/crawling thing, and of course his legendary cuteness and winning personality. Our pediatrician got to call in the other doctors to brag about her patient - as if she's responsible for his talents - and they all shuffled past Rex in awe, like they were looking at Lenin's tomb or something. As if.

So Rexie had to get a couple of shots, which he wasn't thrilled about, but he handled it like a trooper. I actually think he was more pissed about the band-aid. When got home I realized he must have grown on the way back from the appointment, because I could not get him out of his clothes to change him. I repeat: I COULD NOT GET HIM OUT OF HIS CLOTHES. They had become hermetically sealed to his burgeoning body, which appeared to have expanded the way a pigeon's stomach puffs up when it eats too much wedding rice. It took me a long, long time to disrobe him. I contemplated getting the shoehorn, but I wasn't sure if it worked in reverse. I'll use it the next time I have to put his clothes on.

How to Outsmart a Preschooler

You can't. At least, I can't. Maybe another preschooler could, but then probably only by accident. My child is whip-smart and the more I try to out-brain her, the more frustrated I get. She is as stubborn as that old mule, Number 7, from The Dukes of Hazard. And yes, arguing with her makes me feel like Uncle Jesse except without Bo and Luke to get me out of 'this cotton-pickin' fix', so I wind up feeling like I'm going to end up in the county jail a) for being a bad parent and b) for having bad hair. It's not fair. At least in Hazard County Jail you get to eat fried chicken while using the jiggle-belt exercise machine. If you are Boss Hogg. Which sometimes I am.

The other day I discovered Veronica watching CNN. It must have come on after her Clifford show ended, or maybe she knows how to use the remote. Anyway, it was the financial report, and she was actually listening. Not just listening, but paying attention. At least it wasn't Fox News. That would have been too much to bear.

Sloppy Kisses

I can tell that I'm Rex's favorite because he gives me sloppy, open-mouthed kisses all the time. His favorite slurp-spot is on my cheek - right or left, it doesn't matter.  I'll be holding him and out of the corner of my eye I'll see his gaping maw coming coming at me, like a snake about to strike. Usually I turn my head just in time to prevent him from latching onto my nose, which I'm sure he'd happily do.  He's happy to get any piece of mama, and that makes me happy.  

He has also taken his rolling to a new level; today he rolled over once, and once again in the same direction, to get to a favorite toy that was across the floor.  He's pretty smart that way. At least that's what I prefer to think, not that it was on accident, or that his tubby little baby inertia kept him going.  One of these days he's going to perform a somersault, or a cartwheel, and then too I'll prefer to think he planned it.  A perfect 10 from the mama-judge.  Not that I'm biased.  

By the way, things are going to get kicked up a notch around here, and soon.  I say this because in addition to his Olympian floor exercise skills, my four-month old son is attempting to crawl.  This is practically unheard of in baby developmental milestone circles.  Again, I am biased, and definitely feeling a little braggy, but mostly I am terrified because now we are going to have to baby-proof the house all over again.  In the past week Rex has been seen, by multiple independent witnesses and on several occasions, up on his knees and elbows.  Rocking back and forth, like a baby spaceship about to take off.  His substantial buttocks and thighs are going to propel him forward any day now, and we are all screwed.  My biggest fear is that, because he's so little and will undoubtedly crawl quicker than lightening, I'll lose him in the house.  So we're back to baby-gate city for awhile, and I can already hear Veronica moaning and groaning about how hard her life will be then.

At least we'll still have our sloppy, slurpy kisses.  

Rex'n'Roll

Rex is rolling all over the place.  This would not be a problem, and would even be kind of cute, if it weren't for the fact that he is too excited to nap anymore.  He's too busy rolling.  So he's really tired a) because he's not napping and b) because he's burning up too many calories doing baby calisthenics.  He's Rexercising.  

I'm tired.  If Rex doesn't nap, then obviously I don't nap.  If I could just put him in his crib and he could quietly roll around it would be one thing; I could pretend he was asleep, put in my earplugs and go get some shuteye downstairs.  But now that he's rolling, he's about as quiet as construction workers in Manhattan.  He yells, grunts, farts and even whistles, just like they do. If Rex happens to roll onto his back, sometimes he'll get stuck that way, stranded like a turtle. I'm not sure why he doesn't just flip back over onto his tummy, because I've seen him do it a dozen times on the floor.  Something about being on his back in his crib must render him temporarily powerless.  And god forbid he should simply fall asleep on his back.   He just won't do it; never has.  So then it's up to me to go back in with my baby spatula and turn him over, otherwise the construction noises start up again.  This time with more hollering.  No sleep for Mama.  I never sleep when I'm in New York City, either.

My Daughter and the Steak Knife

Yesterday was a day of firsts, all around, for our family. I am exhausted just thinking about it.

First, Rex rolled over in his crib. Not the first time he's rolled over, to be sure, but the first time I went in after his nap and saw him with his feet up on the bumper. Staring at the ceiling, just contemplating his life. He may as well have been smoking a cigar.

Then, Veronica rode her bike all the way to the fire station. It was only six blocks, but it was a big deal. She told the fireman she'd been riding for miles and miles and needed something cold to drink. He believed every word. Then she asked him why he was so dirty. Oh, my god.

After the fire house we stopped at the grocery store. We still had Veronica's bike, but no lock, so I let her ride her bike inside. She was very respectful of the other shoppers, even as she zoomed up and down the aisles and narrowly missed knocking over a huge display of glass vodka bottles. No one, including several employees and a store manager, even said boo to me about it because Veronica was so charming. I have a feeling my daughter is going to go through life this way, getting away with things that are normal for her but unorthodox for other folks. Her idea of normal is way off the radar for most regular people. She chose a tiny pumpkin to bring home and insisted on carrying it while she rode her bike.

When we got home I fed Rex, and he blew his first raspberry while nursing, right onto my boob. I actually thought he'd farted, but it came from the wrong end, and then I saw him do it again. He was doing it deliberately. Then, another first: a huge belly laugh from my baby. He's been chuckling for months but this was his first real all-out, hysterical, laughter at something he'd done. Now all he wants do to is blow raspberries and he's going around looking like he has a big secret, like he owns the place. His eyes are full of merry mischief.

After the raspberry incident I went into the kitchen, where I found my daughter calmly, deliberately dissecting her mini-pumpkin with a steak knife. She told me earlier she was going to carve it before Halloween, so there you go. She was holding the knife with the precision of a surgeon wielding a scalpel, and there were tiny, even cuts in the pumpkin. She innocently looked up and said, "I got the knife from the wooden block, and I'm telling you the truth, just like Lincoln and the cherry tree. But I didn't realize it was wrong to take the knife, so you shouldn't be mad."

Well. I wasn't mad, and didn't even correct her about the Lincoln thing. I just quietly removed the knife from her three-and-three-quarter year-old hand, and made a mental note to put the knives out of reach. Then again, they were out of reach before and she got to them anyway, so I think I might just teach her how to use them properly. It seems like she already knows how. But if I did that, I'm sure I'd have to teach her how to properly use matches, and then the creme brulee torch. Where would it end?

I guess we are in for a lot of firsts around here.

Cooling Out

Rex is almost four months old, and there are times when I still can't believe he's real. He's funny, and happy, but also very odd for a baby. For instance, he doesn't really like to suck, but he loves to bite and gnaw on things - my knuckles, arms, ankles, any part of my body, actually.  Feeding him is like nursing a hungry Clydesdale, or a barracuda.  Yet his eyes are unmistakably human:  deep, blue reflecting pools of light.  Gorgeous.  Unlike anything I've ever seen, actually. If he weren't such a shrieking and pooping machine, I'd be convinced he wasn't really a baby. In fact, sometimes it's like aliens are projecting an infant hologram into my house from outer space. 

And while I'm at it, where did Veronica come from?  Both of my children seem like brilliantly kooky little beings from another planet, disguised as humans.  I'm not sure what they are doing here on earth, maybe just chilling out before their next interplanetary assignment.  In any case, they're hilarious, and strange, and it's easy to see that they're related.  It seems like they share a huge secret that no one else knows about.  

The other day Veronica announced to her snack table at school, apropos of nothing, "Sometimes I go into the bathroom to do mischief.  I do naughty things.  I take cigarettes from the shelf and go into the bathroom and smoke them, and sometimes I take Rex in with me, and we just sit there and smoke and cool out."  

!!!!!!!!

Yep, Veronica and Rex are in on something.  My kids are conspiring, and one of them can't even talk yet.  Good thing he has Veronica to talk for him.  Even if she makes stuff up, it's damn interesting.  

Social (Dis)Order

Most days I'd like to trade places with our dog Sanchi, at least for a few hours. Seriously. He sleeps all day, and when he's not laying around hogging my space and breathing my air, he's out at the beach with his personal trainer. Did I mention he gets water, food and a comfy ottoman to sleep on at night? Three hots and a cot, all in exchange for being a dog. We keep hoping one of these days he'll redeem himself, somehow pay us back for nearly six years of mooching, perhaps rescue one of the children or dig up a million dollars in the back yard. Even though he's really smart, we're not getting our hopes up. Right now he's at my side, staring at my fingers as I type. I'm pretty sure he's taking notes for when dogs take over the world.

Sanchi used to be our kid - spoiled, pampered, adored. Babied. Then we started having real babies, and he got bumped to the bottom of the social order, which is where he really should have been all along. These days he gets about as much attention as the laundry, and this gives me one more thing to feel guilty about, even while I'm in the garden picking up his poop. Something doesn't seem quite right about this equation, but since I'm at in charge of 80% of our household poop, I suck it up. Sometimes it seems I'm the one at the bottom of the social order around here. Dog shit should be the least of my concerns.

Speaking of poop, I think I should start composting Rex's manure. Baby manure would be a major cash crop for California, second only to pot, if we could just figure out how to package it for the farmers. Rex's manure alone could be used to fertilize at least an acre of something. I'm sure of it. The day I figure out a way to legally grow marijuana and use baby poop to fertilize it, I'll be a rich woman, no doubt about it. That would shoot me straight to the top of my family's social order. And just think about what excellent weed it would be - an indirect derivative of breast milk, chock full of nutrients and antibodies. I can just hear the potheads now: "That's some good shit, man."