Because sometimes writing comes on paper with a binding

Kate asked if we are library members, and indeed we are.  I hadn’t been for awhile, and I surely never get a chance to browse for my own books.  So the other day when Hurricane Benjamin was at a play date under the care of our nanny, I took the calmer children to the library. Zachary got time in the children’s section and then graciously allowed me three minutes to look for some books of my own.  As we walked through the stacks and I grabbed a few things that looked appealing.  “Mommy, you want the hat book,” Zach suggested, pointing to a book that I had missed because it was down where only a four-year-old would see it.  Indeed, there was a picture of a hat on the spine.

So, if I am not around your blogs or posting here for a few days, you’ll know where to find me.  I am reading the hat book.

Hump day

            

            Wednesdays are rough.  On Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, I have a nanny here all afternoon and evening.  On Fridays, Daddy is home for supper.  But, Wednesdays, they can be very long days.  By the time I get Benjamin down for his nap, Lilah is screaming.  Then I nurse her while Zachary entertains himself.  Often, while I sit with her, I hear him trot into the bathroom, put on his little seat, grab a toy catalog, and sit down on the porcelain throne.  Eventually, I hear too much toilet paper being ripped off, the flush, and then Zach singing “happy Birthday” twice while he washes his hands.

            By the time I eat lunch, empty the boys’ lunch boxes, and close my eyes for fifteen minutes, it’s almost time to get Benjamin up, and Zach and I have only read a few books together.  And then it’s snack time, and Lilah needs to get up so we can go to karate, where somehow I am supposed to entertain the little ones in the tiny waiting area, and then home where I try to feed her whilst the boys pull out every last toy that we own, and finally I give up turn on the Tinkerbell movie and order a pizza for dinner.

            Don’t even ask about bathtime.

            Yesterday was especially rough, as J had taken the morning off so we could meet with Benjamin’s teachers to discuss his, ahem, spiritedness.  We were late because traffic was backed up to our front door.  The 405 was running smoothly, as we could see from the surface streets where we were sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic, unable to actually access the highway.  And, then traffic was brutal getting back to our neighborhood, where we were scheduled to visit the local elementary school to decide if our little guy is ready for kindergarten next year.  And Lilah thinks her car seat is some sort of Medieval torture device, causing her to scream mercilessly in that thing, so eventually we pulled over so I could nurse her.

            Don’t even ask about traffic getting back to the preschool for the noon pickup.

            And pickup was funky because the parking lot was jammed with cars due to the Chinese New Year party the Synagogue Sisterhood was hosting.  No, I don’t know why.   And more traffic getting home, with Zachary whining about the windows and Benjamin threatening to fall asleep and Lilah screaming some more.

            Some kid had been going the wrong way on the 10 Freeway, it seems, and he had plowed into a cop on his way to work at 5 AM.  They had a spectacular crash that snarled L.A. traffic pretty much all morning.

            It also killed both men.

            When we got home, I was relieved to be out of the car and start getting Benjamin down for his nap.  But, mostly, I was relieved I was not one of those mothers or the officer’s wife.

            And then there was the small plane crash in Santa Monica yesterday that killed two people.  Plus the dude who shot his whole family earlier in the week.  It’s a damned good thing that a woman just had octuplets, because the population of Los Angeles has taken a real hit this week.

Little man

            Even though they gave him the smallest size, we could probably fit an entire other child in Zachary’s karate uniform.  He is petite for a four-year-old.  So, we roll the bottoms, we roll the tops, and the sensei wraps that belt around his waist several times, pulling in all the extra fabric on his jacket.  But, despite his stature, for a half-hour on Mondays, Zachary walks taller than I have ever seen him before.

            The first two lessons, he felt awkward, unsure of how to relate to a male teacher and insecure about using his body this way.  The words were uncomfortable for him.  As a result, he was disrespectful and silly.  It was frustrating for me, because we had paid in advance; it was frustrating for his sensei; and it was frustrating for Zach, who wanted to be good but was protecting himself by intentionally mispronouncing the words.

            When you have a highly sensitive child, you get used to worrying about social situations and new experiences.  You cannot protect that child, so you are grateful for every talented teacher who comes down the pike.  Zachary has been fortunate to have had gifted preschool teachers, both in London and here in Los Angeles. 

            And he has one again in Sensei Kirk.  He is the right blend of humor and business, allowing Zach to be silly but keeping him serious about learning.  Martial arts studios are denizens of earnest geeks, men and women who take pride in their sport and the rituals that surround it.  Our dojo is no exception.  It is a world unto itself, and, while karate may have little social capital in the larger world, those who have immersed themselves in this life are cool within their own microcosm. 

            It is all one could ask for one’s child.

            The focus is learning respect.  Respect for the teacher, respect for the art, and respect for one’s ability and body.  Hard work and obedience are rewarded.  And all Zach wants is the reward of his sensei’s opprobrium.  As soon as he starts to slip, Sensei Kirk brings him back, reminding him that he will not get a little plastic ninja if he does not take his lesson seriously.  And the child wants that ninja.

            On Wednesdays, we go to group lessons, and Zach refuses to participate.  He is shy and nervous about this strange group of kids, and Sensei Sam is slowly moving him into the room.  But, on Mondays, Zach is focused as he practices half-moons and blocks.  He remembers everything from the previous lesson and tries hard to learn what Sensei Kirk is teaching.

            At the end of every lesson, Zach kneels again with his sensei.  His body looks so small and serious bent over there on the floor.  But what he is learning will make his back straighter.

Clearly, I do not wear dresses very often

            We went to a wedding on Saturday, which is astonishing given that we have missed something like a dozen weddings in the last five years due to pregnancy and small children.  But, it was an afternoon wedding that welcomed children.  So, we packed all three kids in the car and drove them out to spend an hour sitting angelically in a full Mass and then three hours being utterly charming in a loud crowd of people.

            Or, because we are not completely crazy, we got a sitter for the boys and just brought the baby, who can be shut up with a well-placed nipple in her mouth.  I had a whole five minutes to get ready for the event, donning a lovely dress I bought at one of Santa Monica’s designer consignment shops, with Spanx underneath to diminish my bulging and rolling.  I did put on a few sparkly things and a pair of strappy shoes, and then I came out to say goodbye to the boys.

            Benjamin looked up from whatever he was destroying on the kitchen floor and let loose with a wide, enchanted smile.  “Mommy,” he enthused, “you princess!”

            And that is why, on Sunday, I responded to posting by a local woman who was selling a used Tinkerbell costume in just his size.  Because flattery will get you everywhere.

Challenge week eight: New Math

            I’m sure you’re wondering what I weigh this fine morning.  I’m wondering that, myself.

            Last night, Lilah slept for more than eleven straight hours, for which we are considering sponsoring a tri-state parade in her honor.  Shortly after hour ten, I staggered into the bathroom, engorged with my gluttony of sleep.  I weighed myself as breastmilk sprayed all over the bathroom.  Then I rushed out to assemble the hand pump.

            J got ready for the gym while all three of the children remained asleep, even though the sun was shining.  “I’m up 1.7 pounds from where I started,” I told him.  “That’s almost 3 pounds from last week.  Of course, I’m about to pump some of it off.”

            “Well, you have to weigh yourself after you’ve pumped,” was his rejoinder.  (I think the English language needs a verb for a reply made in the tone of voice that implies “duh.”  “Snipped” implies something nasty and “scoffed” is more derogatory than this mock-insulting reply really was.)  So, I pumped six ounces and weighed myself again, only to find I was an entire pound lighter. 

            Now, I know I was an English major in college, but I am not so bad at math.  Last I checked, there are 16 ounces in a pound.  Anyone know how pumping six ounces made me lose an entire pound?

            It also begs the question of my actual weight, since I was carting a couple of feedings around in my boobs this morning.  Do I subtract for the additional eight ounces of milk?  And how much do I subtract? 

            I think maybe we should just say I had two good workouts at the Y and call it a week.

The sassy meme

Lola, the sassiest of mamas, sent me the following interview questions.  If you want me to interview you for your blog, just leave me a comment.

1:  If you could say anything you wanted to say to George Bush, what would you say?

          Go on now go, Walk out the door. Don’t turn around now, ‘Cause you’re not welcome anymore

2:  If you had to be the mother of Britney Spears or Lindsay Lohan, who would you choose and why?

           Now, see, this one is embarrassing.  I am woefully out of touch with popular culture.  I know that Spears drove with her kid out of a car seat and shaved her head.  I know that Lohan is an actor. Or maybe a singer.  Or maybe the checkout girl at Target.

3:  You get to be Queen for a day.  The kids are all taken care of, and you can spend as much money as you want.  What do you do all day?

          Excellent.  So, I’d need false eyelashes, probably a set of falsies, and a sequined dress.

          Oh, I just re-read the question. You said “Queen,” not “a queen.”  Well, that’s a letdown.

4:  Is there a song that brings tears to your eyes every time you hear it?  If so, which one?

          No, I’m not the sentimental type.  But cutting onions gets me every time.

5:  A fairy taps you on the shoulder and tells you that you can either have a perfect face or a perfect body for the rest of your life.  Which do you choose?

          I’m afraid that would be a hell of a lot of work, even for a fairy.  I’d settle for no more zits and thicker hair.

My choice

            Twice so far this week I have had to call another parent to apologize for the dental imprint Benjamin left behind in his attempt to eat his classmate.  And it’s only Thursday.  I do not know what to do with a child who thinks it is funny to slam doors in people’s faces and spends the majority of his day trying to devise new and ingenious ways to get the adults to say “no.”  Last night, as the boy lay on his bedroom floor naked and wailed, J looked at me and said, “maybe this is what the terrible twos look like with him.”

            You think?

            Not that four is all that fantastic, let me tell you.  Zachary ranges from cruel with his brother to bratty with his mother to angelic with his teachers to shy with his karate instructor.  But, mostly I get to see the cruel and the bratty. 

            It would all be a little easier to take if I had gotten perhaps one complete night of sleep in the last four months.  Lilah is a delightful baby, really she is, but would it kill her to sleep through the night every couple of weeks?  (edited to add: I wrote this yesterday, so of course last night she finally did.  Nine-and-a-half straight hours.)

            I have a husband who makes a solid living and is devoted to time with his kids.  I have a wonderful preschool to bring my kids to.  I have a part-time nanny.  All told, I am only alone with all three kids about a third of the time.  And I wanted children.  We planned the first two, and the third was a welcome but unplanned surprise.  We wanted kids so badly that we got a little help along the way.  I am raising kids in the best possible circumstances, a fact that does almost nothing to mitigate my thrice-daily urge to climb into the linen closet and hide under the chaos of unfolded towels.

            I cannot imagine how much worse it would be if I had not desired these children.  If I had been forced to bear them instead of choosing it.  If I was doing it on my own or without support or in poverty or as a teenager.  Or any of a million other scenarios.  Like in a country that does not counsel abortion as an option because it fears losing US aid. 

            On this anniversary of Roe v. Wade, I ask my brand-spanking-new President to protect children everywhere by allowing women to choose whether or not to bear them.  It is in no child’s best interest to be born to a woman who is not ready to either raise him or put him up for adoption.  I Blog for Choice because I know how freaking frustrating kids can be. 

            No one should be forced to face a two-year-old each morning.  That just has to be a choice.