Don't hate the player, hate the game

When I used to see kids misbehaving, I assumed that at least some portion of the blame fell on the caregiver. Obviously, the mom/dad/nanny wasn't setting limits and guiding the child into a life of productivity, kindness and healthy attitudes about body image and reality television. And maybe this is still true about older children. What the hell do I know about older kids? I have a toddler. A toddler who likes to throw fits in public places and has consequently thrown all my annoying pre-child judgments right the hell out the window with my sanity. I've needed to remind myself many times over the past couple of weeks how much I love my little monkey. He's a hilarious, quirky kid who really enjoys hugging tummies, frozen blueberries and making people laugh. I love his wide leg cowboy swagger. I love his hysterical laughter when I even pretend I'm going to tickle him. I love his excitement about the world, and particularly the sandboxes, around him. I HATE his shrieking.

We are in a Level 1, red-hot, teaming screaming zone these days. He seems to do it most when he has the maximum audience capacity and is surrounded by calm, quiet toddlers who make him look even more maniacal in comparison. The more folks around to gawk at him and mommy, the better. Library storytime offers the biggest return per scream. He makes the most of that forum and goes full-throttle. I believe he's inherited my lung capacity. Yeah, yeah, he's got a lot of personality and he usually screams because he's excited. He's active. He's energetic and spirited. Even though he's not doing it on purpose (or is he?), he's becoming kind of a PITA. But, he's still my PITA. And, I have to take him to these storytimes or else he'll never learn to read or write and will definitely kill squirrels in our backyard.

Not ready to live the life of an agoraphobe, I've been trying pretty much everything I can over the past month to "discourage this behavior." From what I've gleaned while talking (whining) to mommy friends, reading the very much on point and spookily clairvoyant babycenter emails, and grilling his pediatrician, these are the ONLY truths about the situation and my role in it:

1. Stop Caring--what does it matter what other people think about my mini? Apparently, I take this shit way too seriously. After the third person in the playground muses that my son must be a lot of work, you'd think I'd learn to just shrug it off. Chances are I'll never see that person again (and why would I want to since he/she clearly hates happy, sometimes loud toddlers) so I'm determined to stop letting it drive me crazy and feeling like the world's worst mama.

2. Ignore--obviously this is easier said then done, but I am trying as hard as I can to ask Mr. Monk to stop screaming/throwing things/thrusting his pelvis, explain why he should not scream/throw/thrust and then ignore him until the undesirable behavior stops. I really should have gone into acting because I say these things in the sweetest, happiest, most kind I love you voice ever even though I am seething inside.

3. Easy come, easy go--you know those old rainbow striped Emergency Broadcast System TV spots that beeped for a minute and then reminded you that it was just a test? Well, this too is only a test. It might be a hard, annoying one, but it'll be over soon. Most likely, the screaming is a result of him not having the language to properly express himself. So when he does begin to learn more words (everything is "baby" or "this/that" these days), I can look forward to him never shutting up. Right? Right? Please tell me this is just a test of the Emergency Broadcast System and my (mostly) sweet child is not a terrorist.

Blurry, but I love the hair wings

Stuck In The Middle With You

Five and a half years later and he still wears the Urban Fetch shirt all the time

On the plane home from a rather long, difficult week in New York (aside from a very special dinner at Jean Georges) dealing with a scary (and successful!) surgery for one of my necessary people, 500 Days of Summer popped on my Virgin Red. Who can resist Zooey? Mr. Schneed hates this movie. He just doesn’t understand why she doesn’t want to be with the nice, cute guy. I remember seeing it in the theater and my cute, nice guy husband was viscerally angry at Summer. Watching it the other night while feeling wistful, I had an epiphany—I never have to date again! You would think this would have struck me earlier given that I've been with my husband for over 5 years. I've always been a slow learner. Obviously, this is assuming that I don’t go through an even more horrifying divorce. Barring that, I never have to date again. Woohoo!

No more painful breakups. No more sobbing through dinners with friends because yet another relationship is on the bridge to nowhere. No more wondering if he'll call. No more wondering if I'll ever fall in love again. No more fearing that I'll never have a family. But also: No more searching for the perfect outfit to wear on a first date. No more witty text/im/email banter. No more wondering what it would be like to wake up with him. No more trying so hard to be my best self.

I've been so focused this past year on being a mother that I fear I've ignored my wifely duties. Perhaps ignored is a little harsh. Maybe more like forgot to water for, oh, say, about a year and change. But, thankfully ours is a cactus marriage and (mostly) thrived during the drought. In yesterday's Modern Love column in the NY Times, the author writes about how she poked the bear and endeavored to make her good marriage even better. I'm starting to feel the same itch to start poking. Why wait for things to start falling apart before letting my dear, sweet boyfriend-for-life know how much he means to me?

In the spirit of fixing what ain't really broken but could use a tune up, I want to try to recapture some of the giddiness and excitement of dating. Lately, I find myself saying things to my husband in a tone I might kindly call shrewish. Where did this person come from and how can I banish her? Before snapping or snarking, I want to take a moment to think about how I would react if I were only dating this man. Would I criticize how he bites the spoon every time he eats ice cream? Would I make fun of his desire to watch The Bachelor? (Probably). Would I compliment him more?

When we first moved in together, after traveling back and forth between New York and San Francisco for over a year, we used to wake up each morning laughing at our good fortune. We knew how exciting it was to be together every day and our pillow talk reflected that. Now our pillows are dreadfully quiet as we've both passed out from exhaustion and fear that tonight might be the night that the baby doesn't sleep. This week I'm breaking the silence. I've been feeling like quite the lucky girl again--time to let my date know.

It's not just me

The other night my brother and I were treated to a fancy, schmancy dinner at Jean Georges by his extremely generous and pretty much spectacular girlfriend. The meal was all sorts of buttery and delicious. I should be not surprised that all of my clothing suddenly appears to be a wee bit tight. This morning I felt all Chris Farley as I wrestled with the buttons on my now uber fitted winter coat. The dinner, which was in celebration of my brother's birth, consisted of eating, drinking and desserting for hours. Let your eyes linger on this vision of beauty that was my chocolate dessert platter.



We consumed this, and two others like it of the caramel and orchard persuasion, along with numerous chocolates, candies, marshmallows...and my mouth just started watering.

After gorging ourselves with wine and fois gras (actually not my thing, but when at JG...), we rolled ourselves back to the apartment where we are staying for the week. The building's front door was open and we all struggled to find a working set of keys when the apartment lock flat out refused entry to all the ones we had. We went through each of the sets that we were given, laughing loudly at our dilemma. How rude! Did the locks change? Are we that drunk? Finally, as we were just starting to get the tiniest bit frustrated, I questioned whether we were even in the right building. Um, no. Turns out we were in the building right next door that conveniently looks exactly the same. It's amazing that no one came out of the apartment after we spent at least a good 5-10 minutes fiddling with the lock and cursing at 11:30 pm. Needless to say, we hauled ass up and out immediately and found our proper home. Apparently, this is a family thing.

Lesson # 568

Just a little tip from me to you…

Don’t put your boarding pass and your driver’s license in your back pocket!

Eek! Fortunately, I realized they were missing before I tried to get on the plane (though, unfortunately, not before I was halfway across the airport).

Got kegels?

Childbirth, the gift that keeps on giving...

Why is it that my kid has been incapable of napping for more than an hour straight in his crib of late but, sitting in the mall parking lot this morning, in an increasingly hot car parked in the sun, with an anxious mommy who is very afraid she might pee in her pants for the second time this week (yeah, that happened), he managed to sleep for 90 minutes and counting? Oh, little boy, even in your sleep you continue to outsmart me.

You really haven't lived till you've considered peeing in your kid's bottle. Constantly refreshing Facebook to check new status updates only gets you so far when your bladder is screaming at you. The only thing more precious than the sweet relief of a sleeping baby is the sweet relief of a toilet. But, I stand by the edict that you never, ever wake a sleeping baby.

The way I saw it, I had four options:

A) Pee myself and just buy new pants when I (finally) go in to the mall.

B) Have my husband drive 20 minutes to sit with the kid while I did my business.

C) Pee outside the car, pretending not to see all the hundreds of people in the parking lot who are also doing their civic duty by taking advantage of winter sales. This, of course, was my husband's suggestion-he could basically open the door a crack and mission accomplished. Stupid penis envy.

D) Continuously text my husband while he's hard at work to distract myself from seeing yellow and thinking happy peeing thoughts.

Obviously, I chose A. Macy's was having a 30% off jeans sale.

I miss home!

Good thing I'm going on SUNDAY to see my family! Yay!!

A taste of the madness

They were already there, promise.

David Bowie?

• Strangers should compliment each other more. A woman in a restaurant yesterday told me she loved my coat, remarking that I "looked great in red." Made my morning.

• Peter Dinklage is rad.

• Today I overheard three men in their twenties (total Mission hipsters) wax poetically about their childhood dogs for a good ten minutes, complete with reenactments and wistful looks. It might have been the cutest thing EVER. Tony is one of the best gifts we could give our family.
  

• I know it makes me a total weirdo, but I really enjoy writing thank you notes. It gives me a small, perfect sense of accomplishment.

• Yesterday afternoon I let people in front of me while driving every time I had the chance. Feels pretty good not to always be rushing. One guy stuck his hand out his window and gave me a big old thumbs up. Nice.

• To Keratin treatment or not?

• Getting a book on a friend of a friend's recommendation and realizing that it's an erotica novel is hilarious. And yet I can't stop reading. Also, did you know that S&M is now called BDSM? An erotic and educational novel.

• Pinterest, stop sucking up all my damn time.

• My child has a terrifying fascination with curbs, stairs, and generally anything with a high probability of leading to pain. I'm definitely scared for his ski season to start.

• New Girl, you are pretty funny.

• Why does everyone complain about infancy when toddlerhood is SO. MUCH. HARDER?

• Between the bubbles, the somersaults and the balance beam, I'm pretty sure my active, exuberant and altogether impassioned (we're working on our euphemisms here) son had the best 45 minutes of his life this morning at gym class.