Nine extra floors

When I was in high school, I gave my mother a VHS copy of "When Harry Met Sally," along with a box of Mallomars.  Two of her favorite things in the world.  Two of mine as well.  My mom, sister and I watched that movie or bits of that movie whenever we needed a good laugh or a good cry.   Easily hundreds of times.  I will often think of a line from that film and laugh out loud at the memory, of the movie and the companionship with my mom and sister.  How sad it is that when you're older and really appreciate your family members, you hardly spend much time with them.  Tomorrow night when my husband goes out and I'm "babysitting," I already know how I'll pass the time.  Spending a few hours in a world curated by Nora Ephron is indeed a privilege.  Her words will be missed.

A few other privileges I happened to enjoy this week:

Watching the 12-year-old girls and their mamas singing along to Maroon 5 when I happened to catch five minutes of the "Today" show this morning.  Not the biggest fan of the band, but how sweet to see such unabashed bonding.

My son stopping to smell each flower and hug each doggie that we pass on our walks.  I usually rush him along to get where we're going.  Finally, yesterday, I stopped to wonder why I didn't let him revel in it a bit longer.  His calendar will be filled soon enough.  Perhaps I should start paying more attention to all the lessons he's teaching me rather than stressing about the opposite.

Dinner with old friends last night and seeing one experience true bliss as she cuddled with her three-week-old daughter.  Living across the country from where I grew up and spent most of my adult life, I consider myself beyond lucky to have three close friends from college within a twenty minute radius of my house.  Maybe forty with traffic.  Chatting with them always feels like coming home.

Night out on the town with great friends tonight. Let out of the cage two nights in a row!  We're going to rage at this (punk) rock opera.  Let's hope my husband doesn't fall asleep-he doesn't have the best theater track record.

Fytk.  At dinner the other night my friends yelled at me for watching so many epis of FNL in a row.  Literally, they were screaming that I need to savor each episode as it will be over all too soon.  All three of them had wistful looks in their eyes and one said that she was jealous I was watching it for the first time.  Hah.  Perhaps I need to start limiting my time with Tim Riggins.

Thinking about my brother's wedding in the fall and dancing the night away with family and his old friends.  The little mister and I are already working on our moves.

Gratitude with a side of bacon

I woke up at 6:05 this morning.  I was cranky and completely bleary-eyed.  And, I am pretty sure I woke up my son and my husband as I walked out the front door.  None of that mattered the minute I walked through the church doors.  Spending two hours helping serve breakfast to those who need it most was really what I needed most.  The world shifts a little when you step away from your life, run around refilling milk/water/coffee pitchers, stuff your back pockets with sugar packets to hand out every third minute and smile as wide as you can all before 9 am.  Plus, all the free coffee you can drink.  Not a bad way to start the day.

Travel by numbers

Days spent in Mexico: 5

Pounds of avocados eaten: hundreds (fine, dozens)

Red lights/stop signs missed: at least 7

Amount of money paid to cop in sleazy shakedown: $50

Mosquito bite tally: hundreds (fine, dozens)

Trips to the doctor to get ear wax out of my ear caused by q-tip use:1

Number of q-tips used after doctor made me promise never to use them again: 3

Times I felt jealous of the three couples we met who left their kid(s) at home:  263

Hours of FNL watched in a row solo upon return: 5

Requests my husband has made to get burritos in the last 48 hours: 3

At Least There's Guacamole

I used to be a good packer.  I actually liked packing, especially the requisite pre-packing shopping excursions.  I was so careful I hardly ever needed to visit a store at my destination, save for the occasional bathroom-related emergency.  In Greece, I was so insanely constipated that I didn't poop for 6 days.  6 days!  Can you imagine?  Of course, when I did finally go, it was in a toilet that wasn't flushing properly and I ran out of the restaurant screaming at my friends that "we had to leave. NOW!"  Whatever.  It was worth it-Greece is gorgeous.

Now, I have become a terrible packer.  Not so much for myself, but for the little.   I can't seem to handle the extra pressure.  We pretty much have to go shopping every time we get somewhere because I've forgotten to bring a sippy cup, diapers, wipes, pajamas, snacks-you name it, I've forgotten it.  Right now we are on a quick getaway to Mexico and I'm lamenting my idiocy at forgetting truly the most. important. thing. ever.  The lullaby toy.  We've used this to get our son snoozing ever since my brilliant friend Paige gave it to us as a baby welcoming gift at 8 days old.  I forgot it once before, in Atlanta, but then we were able to run to the local Target to grab another one.  Now we have the pretty one specifically for travel.  Fat lot of good Violet does when she's sitting in the closet at home.

The first night and day were rough.  My voice does not lend itself to lullabies.  Campy, loud Old McDonald, Wheels on the Bus, that's my wheelhouse.  But soothing I am not.  I was trying to sing the mister to sleep and I swear he started covering his ears.  We've since worked it out by basically pushing the crib into the closet.  What?  The door is cracked a bit.  This kid is part vampire-he needs darkness when he sleeps. Any ray of sunlight in the room and he's up and ready to party.  I know those stupid blackout shades I put in the nursery would come back to haunt me. 

Thankfully, he's the only bebe at this resort, so everyone else thinks it's hilarious and cute when he shouts or runs around the pool without his diaper while I'm trying to change him.  His new favorite word is "pee pee" and I can't tell if it's the act, the result or the weapon he's talking about or all three at once.  Time to be more careful with my word choices.  No doubt my son will be the one cursing at his preschool.

Hatsa luego!

FNL

I know I'm like 9,000 years late to the party, but the mister and I have just started watching Friday Night Lights from the get go.  I've seen a bunch of epis here and there (mostly on planes-I love me some marathon TV en flight) and I wanted to start from the beginning.  Seeing as it's summer, there's nothing on other than HBO/SHO on Sunday nights (TRUE BLOOD!!!) and I just realized I can watch it fo' free through Xfinity Streampix, now's the perfect time to start a 76-hour project.

I missed most fad television shows (Mad Men, Lost, Arrested Development, Freaks and Geeks, The Wire, etc.)  I know!  Clearly, I live under a rock. I did read 50 Shades of Grey about six months ago, before all the cool kids were doing it. 

Is it bad that I'm now already fearing my son's sporting days? 

Clear Eyes, Full Hearts, Can't Lose.

(My) Mama Knows Best

 

Naps are for losers, yo!

My mom is here visiting.  This is awesome for all kinds of reasons, not the least of which is that she can offer parenting advice every other minute.  Now, normally I'd say this would be mildly to somewhat annoying, but right now we are in the thick of a naptime regression and I am losing my mind.  Does my son not realize that his naptime is for my ever important internet perusing?  I've already given up trying to use my phone for anything besides capturing his antics.  Please honey child, spare me the one vestige of sanity I have all day!  Fun times around these parts lately.

It started about a week ago when his nap shrank down from about 100-140 minutes to about 60-70 minutes.  Ouch.  That was miserable, though I had no idea what was to come.  Now, I'd be happy with an hour, considering it's been 30, 40 minutes in between shrieks and howls.  I have no idea what's causing this issue.  He's still sleeping 12 hours at night and doesn't experience major bodily harm upon waking like he must during the day to produce these horrendous screams.  Are his daydreams that scary?

So at least my mom is here to comfort him, especially when I'm quaking in fear that we're all losing the nap.  That cannot happen.  It will not stand. 

But, the main tidbit that my mom offered this week is to stop asking my son so many damn questions.  It's true!  I never noticed but I give him all the authority in our relationship.  Do you want to eat?  Is the food good?  Would you like some more?  Is it time to go to sleep?  Are you ready to brush your teeth? And on and on and on.  And on. 

She pointed out that I give him more agency than I give myself.  It's such a simple concept, but I only realized the power play once my mom mentioned it.  Also, I'm not exactly helping his language skillz by encouraging him to answer y/n to everything.  By trying to engage him in conversation, I'm probably doing exactly the opposite.  Strangely, I've noticed that he always answers "no" in a whisper and "yes" in a shout.  That's a good thing?  According to the gospel of my mama, instead of always asking him what he wants/needs/thinks, I should be telling him what's happening.  Might as well pretend like I have some idea.

Falling apples

This morning I walked into Target just as a mom and her 8/9 year old son were walking out, fighting.  As we reached for the same door, I overheard the mother say, "well, that's why you're not getting a toy, because you're a GODDAMN ASSHOLE."  Looking back on it now, I almost wish I had said something to her.  Of course, she probably would have decked me. 

The saddest part was that the son didn't look at all hurt or surprised.  I'm sure he hears far worse at home.  When I told my mother, who was a social worker for twenty years, she said I probably should have reported her to the police for verbal abuse.  How terrible for this poor boy to be publicly shamed by the very person who should be providing unconditional love.  I can't imagine that will bode well in his future.  My new parenting goal is to never call my son an asshole.  At least not to his face.