Valentine's Day? Heck Yeah!

Of all the holidays that exist in Western civilization, the one that appeals to me the most is the one that should appeal least to a mean, cynical, jaded miscreant like me. Halloween should appeal to me, but for reasons far too stupid to mention, I hate Halloween.

Fact of the matter is, I freakin' love Valentine's Day! I would totally wear a heart-themed "ugly" sweater I wasn't too cheap to buy one.

I think I've always loved Valentine's Day - ever since I was a kid and we had our little class parties with the stupid decorated shoe/mail box. My best friend Sarah and I would always go all out and get each other special presents like a half-heart necklace. When joined together, it reads Best Friends. It was the most important thing I owned in 6th grade. (Yes, I was very much like Sue Heck. Still am.)

So now that I'm a mother and I have a kid who is finally at the age where we can do cool things together (hang me if I don't find chasing him all over a playground a cool thing to do), I decided to go all out for Valentine's Day.

Although it's easy to marginalize my son's interest by just saying he's into 1969 Type 101 Von Rolls (yes, still) and trolleys, he also really likes piñatas, cupcakes, and painting - all three of which were part of my mega Valentine's Day party plan.

Since #2 is only 15 months old (still not walking, but we'll save that drama for another day) and is definitely not at the age to do cool things, I figured I would squeeze our Valentine's Day party in while he was sleeping. He takes long naps. Just like me.

John was going to be out playing paintball so it was just gonna be me and #1 and a whole lotta fun.

But then my sister-in-law called to see what we were up to. Hell yeah, her kids are also at an age where they can do cool things so they scored an invite to our little Valentine's Day fiesta. And this was the agenda:

1. Make Valentines for loved ones.
2. Hit the piñata.
3. Eat cupcakes!!!

I don't like to brag, except when it comes to me and my piñata-making skills. Because #1 is really into Von Rolls, and that was the theme for his third birthday, and it would be deplorable on my part if there was no piñata at his birthday party (having a piñata was actually the reason we decided to have a birthday party in the first place), we needed something special. Let me tell you, don't expect to roll into Party City to buy a Von Roll piñata. They don't exist. Well, they don't if you're a regular dude. They do if you're my kid, because I, very quickly, thanks to the aid of Norma, learned how to make one. And it was pretty bitchin'.

So now I'm very cocky about pinata-making because I busted out a Valentine's Day pinata in less than 15 minutes. It wasn't crazy or anything, just an Amazon box and some tissue paper, but you should have seen the look on #1's face when he saw it. I practically had to restrain him with zip ties to keep him from whacking it until the cousins arrived.

Anyway, the party went down without a hitch. The kiddos had a blast making Valentines and hitting the piñata. I debated having them decorate their own cupcakes. Ultimately, I said to myself, "Settle down, Ace of Cakes, they're only three years old."

High from our successful little soiree, I had visions of doing little parties like this for all the holidays - St. Patrick's Day, Easter, May Day to celebrate the proletariat. Alas, my high eventually wore off and now I have returned to my usual, crabby self. But I'll see the Valentine-loving giddy me aproximately this time next year. Hope you had a Happy Valentine's Day too.

Fireworks on the Freeway

Every once in awhile, I'm called upon to do something millions of mothers do every day without incident. For some reason, I find it to be one of the most painful tasks conceivable. I'd rather spend some drill time in a dentist's chair than do this: pick my kids up from the sitter.

I work from home and I totally get that I'm blessed, my boss is the greatest human being ever, yada yada yada. But sometimes it is unavoidable - I must swap out my PJs for real people clothes and work off premises. This is all good and well until our beloved nanny Norma - a person that is on the short, short list of human beings I cannot live without - offers to take the kids home with her. I can just swing by and pick them up on my way home. This is very generous on her part because it usually means she hangs on to them longer than she should.

HOWEVER.

Every time I pick the kids up, #1 freaks out because he simply does not want to go home with me. He wants to stay and play with Norma and I have to hear him scream and cry about it all the way home. There's a couple of key things to consider here before passing judgement on me. 1) I pick them up right during the heart of rush hour traffic. The ride home usually lasts anywhere from 45 minutes to an hour, and #1 doesn't usually calm down until we're pulling up to the driveway. 2) Although I know how to get to Norma's house, I don't exactly know how to find the freeway from there. And so you say, "Hey dumbass, why don't you just retrace your steps from how you got there?" To which I would reply, "Because then I'd have to go north to go south and I hate backtracking more than I hate that you just called me a dumbass." So I end up driving around, trying to figure out where the hell I am, weaving in and out of good and bad neighborhoods, all while #1 is saying things like, "No Mommy! Stop the car! I want to get out now, please! I want Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooorma!"

Sometimes I turn the music up louder, but then I feel bad for #2 who is patiently waiting for me to find my way. He gets me. He lets me be me and figure out my way in life, unlike #1 who has already told me, at the ripe age of 3.5, that he doesn't like me anymore. They grow up so fast, don't they?

Anyway, after going through all this drama a few too many times, I finally figured out what the hell will calm the little maniac down. For some reason, brake lights remind #1 of fireworks, which prompts him to ask me to sing the Fireworks Song. Do you know that one? I bet you do. It's a little number by Francis Scott Key, AKA The Star Spangled Banner. By the way, I happen to think The Star Spangled Banner is one of the most beautiful songs ever written. I get teary eyed even when I sing it (just so you know, my vocals are akin to Alfalfa from The Little Rascals). Some day I dream of doing this songs justice by learning all the actual words.

Anyway, tonight after I sang it about twenty times and we were driving up the hill, 60 seconds away from our house, #1 said, "Mommy, I'm not sad anymore. I'm happy now."

And I was happy too. Happy for my kid. Happy for America. Happy to be home.

Thanksgiving Too Shall Pass

Not being the parental/maternal/mommy type, when my kid gets sick, it's the end of the world. You might be the parental/maternal/mommy type and when your kid gets sick, it could be the end of your world. You can write about that in your blog. But this is my blog and it's about me and the people I know, and the mothers I do know seem to handle their children getting sick just fine. For me, however, it has ruined my Thanksgiving. My first born is experiencing his first real-hardcore-snot-and-fever-fiesta-type virus.

Thank you, preschool. Or the zoo. Or the playground.

He even looks weird - like he's been mainlining Benadryl nonstop for 72 hours. His eyes are all droopy and he's just been in the craziest mood - erratically mellow, but then erratically cuckoo. The worst part of it is that although normally, his screams are incredibly piercing and awful, his screams now are muted and bizarre. It has come to this - I miss his shrieking. If he could scream like he did last week, at least I would know that he was normal again. He also looks thinner, which is bad since he's already a scrawny dude.

There is no middle ground when I worry about something. I've managed to convince myself he has the plague and if he overcomes this, it will be with less brain cells, or impaired vision, or a complete defiance towards afternoon naps. There will be a scar and it will be permanent.

Let's discuss Thanksgiving. No one died. We still have a roof over our head. There was no great tragedy other than the fact that I only ate half a plate of food and no dessert (not by choice, although I'm sure it didn't hurt me).

The first part of Thanksgiving was at my in-laws. That sucked because that's when I first noticed he looked high! He was in a crappy mood and didn't want to eat. He wanted to go play in the next room and I had to be the bouncer that made sure he and his cousins didn't terrorize each other. (Is it possible for three-year-olds to coexist harmoniously???)

Ate about a quarter of a plate at that dinner.

We left before dessert to squeeze in a nap before having to go to my mom's. I hoped he would just sleep it off and be fine when he woke up. He slept for a little while, or I did while I laid next to him. I'm not exactly sure if he got any sleep, but I got in about 45 minutes. That's the only good thing about the kid getting sick. It sort of justifies falling asleep in his bed with him ("I'm monitoring the fever"). Then at my mom's house, just as we were sitting down to eat, the housekeeper said, "He's got a fever."

Ugh.

We bust out the thermometer and it's 102. Ugh ugh ugh. Off to Wal-mart to buy drugs and Gatorade. I'm shoveling food in my mouth as we're packing the dudes up.

Ate about a quarter of a plate at that dinner as well.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. It is the day when, as far as I'm concerned, the best food is cooked and the best company is kept at my mother's house. However, I realized at 10PM last night as John and I were peacefully eating leftovers that my mom sent us, we are about five years away from being able to enjoy a peaceful and fun Thanksgiving. If it's not a sickness that throws a monkey wrench into the festivities, it'll be a bedtime, or boredom, or some other crazy thing that infects those little maniacs we call toddlers.

The doorbell rang this afternoon. There were flowers at my door. Made my Thanksgiving and my year. The note said, "This too shall pass." Thank you, Amy.

Scream if you're done with screams

One of my best friends is having a baby tomorrow. We know this because it's a planned c-section but it's made me a bit nostalgic about #2's birth, because it was more recent than #1's and because it was sort of documented on Facebook so I could keep clicking the Older Posts link to find the magical day. I don't think I was hip on the 'book when #1 hit us like a ton of jagged bricks.

Anyway, we're wrapping up year one with #2. This is a graduation of sorts for us. No more stupid Dr. Brown bottles with a million components, no more formula (although since we went all Up and Up on that shiznit, it's not such a hit to the wallet), no more awkward infant car seat, but best of all, no more BABIES!!!

I'm ashamed to say I don't remember too much about it, only because mostly what I can recall of this year is #1's high pitched screams. 2010 was definitely the year of the scream. Will 2011 hold the same fate for us? Let's hope not, since we've pretty much adopted a zero tolerance policy for screaming.

And this is how much I've changed since I became a parent. No longer am I embarrassed by #1's screams. He can scream all the way to the ENT to check the nodule that I'm sure is imminent, and I will remain calm and unfazed. And what's more, when homeboy is screaming in public that he wants an ice cream or cookie, I ignore him until we get to the car and then I take great pleasure in saying, "Remember what we talked about earlier today at Target? Remember quid pro quo? Yeah, no cookie or ice cream for you!" And more screaming ensues. From him, not me.

But at the end of the day, the monster (again, him not me) goes away and #1 becomes the super cool little dude that I adore. Is this what this parenting scam is? It's strange and exhausting 85% of the time and platinum 15% of the time. Pure, premium, platinum. I guess I'm a sucker for precious metals.

My Scream King

One of my personality traits is that I have incredibly high expectations of the people I surround myself with. I know that it is sometimes difficult to be my friend, but it is probably even more difficult to be my child. No one is perfect and it disappoints me to know how easily I forget that. #1 is two years and eight months old. He is right in the thick of things as far as toddler insanity goes. He can be set off by the word "NO" or just enjoy the random Code Red, Hurricane Level 4 tantrum.

Up until a few days ago, I started wondering if there was something psychologically wrong with him. Then I talked to some people at work. It's normal. This crazy, irrational behavior is totally normal - which makes me feel like an asshole because when people ask how the boys are doing, I say the baby is awesome (I cannot imagine a better baby) and the older one is like a little terrorist. You cannot reason with a terrorist.

Truth of the matter is that while #1 certainly throws his share of tantrums and has the kind of piercing scream that can make dogs within a three mile radius vacate, he is a beautiful, sensitive little dude. He's never tried to beat up or bite his little brother. He has a wonderful sense of humor. He's incredibly logical and strategic. His passion is not Barney or Yo Gabba Gabba - it's the Von Roll Type 101. He's goddamn brilliant. I need to remember this when we're at Walmart and he wants to go right when we need to go left and the screaming ensues (my little Scream King).

This too shall pass.

Intervention: It begins TODAY

As much as I love the A&E show, this post is not about the season premiere. After suffering a HELLISH weekend with my beloved toddler, John and I have decided to stage an intervention.

First, let me give you some backstory, #1 SUCKS at eating. He didn't use to. He used to be the awesome kid who would eat all the fruits and veggies you pureed for him. At eighteen months, he staged his first food revolt. It's been a downward spiral ever since.

I wish I could say, "At least he eats chicken McNuggets." No, he does not. He doesn't like Chicken McNuggets. (What kid on planet Earth does not like Chicken McNuggets??? Yes, I know Chicken McNuggets are shit. BUT at least they have *some* protein. We can all agree that some of it does come from a chicken, right?)

Oh sure, give him cookies and cake and he's king. Until he turns into a little psycho that is reminiscent of Regan from The Exorcist. I don't think it's the sugar fallout that makes him go nuts. I think it's the fact that he won't eat anything else.

Forgive me if I'd rather let my child starve than nourish him with cookies and ice cream.

We had a great week last week. He was eating his food. He was super well behaved. Then we went to a birthday party on Friday night. Fruit punch, cookies, cake. You name it. Saturday was ok. Sunday was a disaster. In between his bouts of psychosis -the only substantial piece of food he ingested yesterday was half a banana.

We used tough love and strategy to get the dudes to sleep through the night at three months. It's time to stage an intervention and get this kid on track. I'll keep you posted on how it goes.

Wish me luck.

Public Service Announcement

Now see here, pregnant woman, or someday pregnant woman, learn from this. I wish someone had told me how smug I was. It's too late for me. But you can still be saved.