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.