Summer Wrap-Up

Here we are, folks.

Drawing the curtains on another summer — a summer which, if you are inhabiting the Upper Midwest, never really arrived. Any day now... so, October?

The close of August has left me contemplative and I'm taking stock of what has changed around here, and also what needs to change. Starting with this blog design. But I'm reminded of that hilarious t-shirt I once saw:

Things I Ain't Got Time For:
1) That.

But I digress. Here's how Trotters are faring at the start of (gulp) September.

Home:

Contrary to what you have heard about the consistency of modern building design, our home has shrunk. I think the rental listing billed it at 1,500 square feet, but I have reason to believe we're operating with about 850 these days. While, no, the perimeter has remained stationary, and the ceilings are not dropping, there exists a buffer wall of dog hair and kids toys that creeps ever centerward, like calcium deposits on the skeletal system. There is no walking from Point A to B; there's hopscotch and juking and kneeing four-legged mammals (more on him in a minute) as I try to lock my gaze at a fixed destination, obscured by so much colorful plastic crap. There are Olympic-level long jumps over masses of dollhouse furniture. There are NFL-esque high-stepping gauntlet exercises through minefields of My Little Ponies. With such acrobatics, there's frequent loss of balance, sending me crashing into musical educational toys, thus triggering a discord of bells and midi-file Mozart and sounding like something tripped the alarm in a Japanese pachinko shop.

I've always been a bit smug about keeping the toy population in check, instituting Draconian tactics banishing all items that didn't fit snugly in the low shelves behind our couch. That worked — for one kid. Two kids? Two different developmental stages? Lots of frigging toys. June, God love her, is the sort that will generally sit and play with one thing for a while, and she's always been that way. Tess (also God love her) is fitting our predictions of her being a little adventuress and leans toward the "more is more" camp, plucking and chucking each item from a basket before moving on to find something with an electrical current on which to chew. This kid likes her stuff where she can see it, that is, everywhere. So I sit here at my desk, staring at a partially assembled Mrs. Potato Head where my AP Style Guide usually sits, amid complete and utter chaos.

But truly, who frigging cares. They're fabulous children.

Kids:

As I alluded above, my babies are huge and wonderful all that other stuff that makes a mama weep. June is a kid. Her legs are growing lean and muscular; her once zaftig belly is flattening out; her face more chiseled, her eyes less naive. It's breaking my heart and delighting me concurrently. She misses nothing, and has to know everything. She relishes her independence. Her conversational ability, recall, vocabulary and analytical skills astound me. She's selflessly kind and so considerate. All that and she can negotiate like a preschool-aged Karen Lewis. Observe:

June: Mama, can I please have something to eat?
Me: Let's take a food break, Bug. You just ate lunch.
June: Just something real quick. Real quick, mama.
Me: Later, Bug.
June: Just one fruit snack.
Me: No, June.
June: Just two fruit snacks, I promise.
Me: No.
June: Just three fruit snacks and some pretzels, real quick.
Me: GAH! FINE! FRUIT SNACKS! YOU WIN!

She brings limitless joy and energy with her everywhere — which is why I'm real damn ready for her to start school again. Dear sweet Jesus, I love this child. But she needs to leave me the bleep alone for a minute.

That sounds awful, with good reason, but I know I'm not the only one who feels this way. She's like a Border Collie, and if she's not given enough exercise will start running wind sprints through our very compromised (see above) home by 4 p.m. That or jumping. Or climbing. On me. She's not what I would categorize as particularly high energy, but she's 3, and her peak comes right at my valley. I was feeling a little worn out the other day — just your usual cocktail of fatigue and forgetting what my body felt like without someone attached to it. My "alone time" comprised a trip to the grocery store — so, so sad sounding but it was a delight. As I was ho-humming my way through dry goods, I spotted not one, not two, but three parents walking their adult special needs children through the aisles. Looking for a wake-up call, moms of healthy kids? Watch an exhausted elderly woman hobble through a supermarket on the arms of her 30-year-old daughter loudly sobbing about not finding the brand of tampons she prefers.

I shut up right quick.

Anyway.

And Tess? Sweet, sweet, Tess. That kid is on the move. While she's not "crawling" per se, she has developed a rather efficient butt-scoot style of transport that Greg noted was evocative of a hermit crab (or how Mrs. Peacock from that one episode of "The X-Files" might get around). I watch her practicing her form — sliding onto her belly, pushing herself onto her knees, shooting her legs out in front of her — like doing baby burpees. She's very much the second kid, in that when she discovers a fossilized Cheerio long ago lost under a piece of furniture, I'm a little slower to jump into action — if at all. I've always been fascinated by birth order and personality development, especially coming from a family of four kids who bear pretty discrete character traits. "How can children raised by the same two parents in the same exact way turn out so differently?"

I'll tell you how. They're not raised by the same parents.

June and Tess have two different mothers. June's mom was sweet, patient, adventurous and calm. Tess's mom, however, is a bit hotheaded, weepy, unstable and prone to saying things like, "You need to leave me alone with this wine right now before I lose it." Tess's mom has — tada! — more than one child.

June spent her first few years assuming I had two modes: talking sweetly or singing sweetly. Then we had Tess and I added a third to my repertoire: Cranky Stresserson-McShortfuse. One day I left for the hospital all pregnant and happy; a few days later I returned with a baby and what June must perceive as a personality disorder.

Tess has born emotional witness to a few more tears, a few more "Fine, I give ups," and has the insatiable yen for dog hair to prove it, thanks to the lax supervision she generally enjoys.

This is how kids turn out differently, folks.

Gypsy:

Old Man Red Dog is hanging in, you guys. He's a bit more ornery, has a few more mystery growths, andhas an ever-looser sphincter — but he's got some puppy left in him. He still lives for fetch and is a solid running companion, but we're seeing more elderly old coot traits than even a few short months ago. He grunts when he gets up, takes a few more indoor dumps than we'd prefer, and tries to hock up loogies that just aren't there. This reminds of when my maternal grandfather was alive and he and my grandmother would spend weeks visiting from their home in Florida. My grandparents would claim the family room with the pull-out couch (and one TV) as their sleeping quarters, and then my grandfather would plant his flag in the den with the recliner (and the other TV) for the daylight hours. He'd pass out in the chair with a ball game on and wouldn't move until dinner. Imagine the fallout when children hopelessly addicted to television would come running in from school only to remember they had been ostensibly thrown into rehab, going cold turkey amid a full-blown case of the Tom & Jerry jitters. We'd instead crowd around the small black and white kitchen set, jonesing hard and settling for a fuzzy episode of "Gilligan's Island" — the canned laugh track punctuated by an occasional apnea-cough from my grandfather sleeping in front of our precious, large color TV.

No, I wasn't sitting at my beloved grandmother's knee begging her for fascinating stories of her youth; no, I didn't plead to watch the game with my grandfather, letting him impart his wisdom upon me. I was shitty and resentful and counting the minutes before we could watch "The Jetsons" in peace. And now neither of them are alive. Well played, Kerry.

Stupid TV.

(Wait! I didn't mean that! I take it back!)

But that was quite a segue — back to Gypsy.

He's so patient with Tess, who is completely smitten, but you see the fear in his eyes when she Mrs. Peacocks her way over to him. We see his barrel chest rise and fall a little faster, his eyes widen, his tail go ramrod straight, all while she's contemplating, "Hmm, do I shove my thumb in his eye or do I give that ashy elbow a good licking?" He takes the abuse for a minute or so and then he awkwardly hoists his lumpy girth up and away, tufts of undercoat left in his wake. Tess is bummed, but then she eats some dog hair and presses on.

Side note: I just accidentally kicked him square in the head as I was stepping to avoid doing a banana peel-slide on Funshine Bear across the dining room floor. Sorry, buddy.

Garden:

Oh, my poor garden. It's not terrible this year, but it ain't great either. I guess I have to consider any output a success considering it spent its first six weeks under water (thank you, Wettest Summer on Record). I determined that I need to get $3.50 worth of value out of each plant in order to break even, and I'm about three-quarters of the way there. So in that sense, yes, not bad. But by the looks of it, you'd think it had been abandoned. The tomatoes are gasping to churn out messed-up looking fruit, as the blight systematically creeps its way to choke out the tallest, greenest leaves. A fully ripened red bell pepper fell effortlessly into my hands the other day — because it had rotted from the inside out. The cucumbers are runty and malformed. The carrots, all frond. The weeds, however, are doing fabulous. Strong and green and flowering. See? Not a total bust. My hot peppers are on point, too, as are the few herbs I planted. My onions and lettuce from seed have been worthwhile additions, and we're looking to reap a hefty crop of fall raspberries from our one climbing bush, if I can beat the birds to them. For anyone concerned about the decline of the bumble bee population, worry not, they're alive and well and getting drunk off berry nectar in our backyard. I told Greg that if you stand close enough, I swear you can hear a lascivious "Ohhhh yeaaaahhhhhh" as they hump each flower, rise awkwardly on their disproportionately small wings, and crash land on another. Oh, and don't believe the hype about the Plushies of the insect world. Those effers definitely sting.

One thing I've been doing this year, thanks to the general shortfall, is making the best use of garden scraps. Since we rent and rotting garbage is generally not preferred by landladies who share your yard, we do not compost. So I save all the little ends and bits and ugly pieces and throw them in the small food processor attachment of our immersion blender (it's a lot easier to use and clean than our big Cuisinart). Chunks of tomatoes, onions, half-used garlic cloves, hot peppers, kosher salt and a squeeze of lime get a few pulses and whoomp — really, really delicious salsa. So there, this post wasn't totally worthless. I just gave you a recipe.

Well, that's about it for now. I'm off to do my 30-Day Shred, which as it stands is looking to be more of a 22-day affair.

Eh.

Happy Fall, y'all.

Nip the nap

I am currently enjoying "quiet time."

And in the vein of Linda Richman and her Holy Roman Empire being neither holy nor Roman, I am neither enjoying "quiet time" nor is it particularly quiet.

Alas.


June is playing by herself in the dining room as I attempt to force silent boundaries, during which I may get work done and June must keep her trap shut for 60 full minutes against all odds. She used to have quiet time in her bedroom in the hamfisted hope that she would succumb to her fatigue and lie down for a bit, but I bagged that when she would a) become disconsolate, b) stand at the top of the stairs and bellow, "Mom? Is quiet time over yet?" every two minutes, c) begin upending furniture and clearing bookshelves, or d) all of the above. I told her today that quiet time could be had downstairs, in my presence, on her own terms. This is what a desperate parent does in the wake (ba dum bum) of a child having long given up her nap. This is a last resort measure. Mine is the unwashed face of placation.

Alas again.

June has always been a pretty good sleeper. The product of both a lucky break and schedule-stickler parents, her rest has been consistent, uninterrupted and unprotested. She fell asleep and stayed asleep at night. She welcomed her midday siestas with aplomb. We had no grocery store meltdowns or face-plants in chicken fingers after a late-night bedtime. Sleep was pursued. Sleep was beloved. Sleep was a feather in my parenting cap.

And then she turned 3.

Somewhere in the electric, absorptive rivulets of her brain matter, so pulsing with new knowledge and the quest for it, she figured it out — "Wait a sec, I can control this. I don't have to be asleep right now. And you know what? Neither do they."

So she didn't. And we didn't. She'd wake in the middle of the night, as she had probably done hundreds of times before, but instead of giving her animals a gentle hump and then drifting back off to sleep, she got herself a wild hare and stayed awake. She'd call out for us, quiet at first and then crescendoing with a steadying rhythm and incantation that sounded like a heckler at a hockey game.

"Mama! Mama!... ma-MA! ma-MA! ma-MA!"

Of course, that first utterance of "mama" would jolt me awake like I had been doused with a bucket of cold water. Greg and I would find each other's gaze in our dark room and play a wordless game of rock-paper-scissors. Let's say, for the sake of exposition, I lost this game. I'd then hustle to her room bearing the concern all parents have when awoken to the sounds of their child's pleading calls, open the door, and find her...in bed, covers drawn, pretending to be asleep.

I felt my cool slipping from me like warm jell-o through a fork.

"Junie, what?"

(silence)

"Junie, what?? You woke us up, what is it?"

(silence)

"OK, I'm leaving now--"

"Wait! Mama, I need a drink of water."

I should mention now that June has been in a barricade-free twin bed for about eight months. Every evening we fill a water glass and leave it on her nightstand, approximately 10 inches from her face. We do not bind her wrists at night, nor do we boobytrap her access to refreshment. She has excellent fine motor skills and better-than-average eyesight. There is nothing, I tell you nothing, prohibiting her from accessing it herself.

And yet I stand there before her, the Mr. Carson to her Lord Grantham. I'd make some hyperbolic sort of "She'd ask me to wipe her ass if she could!" statement, but she's 3 and I really do assist in that department still. But point being, she doesn't need our help in the middle of the night. Instead she needs the sadistic thrill of watching her parents go slowly mad.

This is not like the pattern of frequent waking one encounters with a newborn, where the wee-hour wordless communion with a cooing, feeding baby is primal, beautiful, arresting experience.

This is some bullshit.

Now, I feel like I need to make an aside about what a great kid she is, how much happiness and joy she spreads in our lives, how often she makes us roar with laughter, what an angel she is most of the time. You all know how I feel about her, and how I feel is pride and delight that transcends obnoxiousness. But she's also normal, thank God, and normal kids bug the shit out of their folks occasionally. The other day she had grown weak from uncontrollable, source-less sobbing, slamming doors in my face as Tess tried to sleep in the adjoining room. I don't remember what her request was — a request I was obviously not heeding — when I calmly stated, "Junie, I don't negotiate with terrorists." She grew ever more incensed, threw one hand on her hip and wagged a finger from the other in my face, saying, "Yes you do! You DO negotiate with terrorists!"

But she was totally right. At 2 a.m. I'd make al Qaeda an omelette if it meant they'd let me sleep straight through to 7. My concessions to June's odd-hours demands were doing none of us any favors, but I just wanted to go back the frig to bed. There was begging, bribing, threatening, comforting, ignoring, crying (hers, not mine), sobbing (mine, not hers) and a whole host of other inconsistencies. Greg, of course, was deep in the shit alongside me, trading off in the good cop/bad cop pattern that characterized our nights. I threw the issue out on Facebook and got some ideas. I talked to my family. I got her pediatrician involved.

She suggested that whatever we do, we do it consistently and we make sure June knows we're pissed off. But while our anger should be palpable, we weren't to talk -- because talking would and does quickly escalate to yelling, and the drama is precisely what she's looking for in her bored wakefulness. And when she does go the night without a peep? Throw her a freaking ticker tape parade. She is to know that this is behavior to be applauded.

Yet (and I'm knocking on every wood and wood laminate surface I can reach from my desk) by the time I acquired this information, her hollering had abated. Whatever we did or told her worked. And this is the real b-word of the situation: I don't really remember what it was that got her to stop -- what threat or reward was dangled in her sweet, sleepy face to soothe her? I'd love to pass along some "been there, done that" words of wisdom to others, or put it on ice for when Tess decides she doesn't want to sleep anymore, but I can't -- that knowledge is gone.

Crap.

But who cares, because now she wakes up at a decent morning hour, runs into our room and says with delight, "Dad! Mom! No hollering!" We hug and kiss her, high-five her and tell her how proud we are. I throw some more questionable parenting bombs to secure additional nights like these, telling her we'll make brownies or go to "Old McDonald's" if she keeps it up.

I know this isn't the end of it, because at the very point I realize, "Hey, she's given it up for good!" she'll have her driver's license and I'll have discovered a whole new reason to not sleep.

Yet have I mentioned what a good kid she is?

As I typed this, a pudgy hand appeared from behind the dining room wall, extending in it a play bottle of ketchup from her pretend kitchen.

Me: "Junie, it's still quiet time."
Junie: "But I just wanted to give you a beer."

I accepted her "beer," hoping against all hope it was real, and sent her back to the dining room where she was to be quiet for the remaining 20 minutes.

It was the noisiest quiet, but thanks to the beer, I did wind up enjoying it.

Climbing a '14-er

 As far as years go, 2013 was a pretty epic one for the Trotters.

Work advances were pretty solid, and we got to do a little traveling to see family. It wasn't all butterflies and rainbows, but it was damn close.

And thanks to a one Teresa Clare, "Tess," it's as close as it's going to get.


This little Tess. I can't talk about her without heaving a love-drunk sigh. She's as sweet a baby as I've ever encountered (warning: slight bias alert) and smashed the "first smile" milestone marker by weeks. Days go by without hearing more than a meek fuss from her, and if there's anything she loves more than contentedly smiling and cooing at her kin, it's sleeping. Don't be mistaken. I know the teenage years are going to hang me out to dry.

Out. To. Dry.

With that said, we're taking these days by the gonads and running with them. While I find myself right busy all damn day and plum exhausted by nightfall, much of my time is spent in cuddly baby bliss. I'm reveling in this time, knowing this is very likely the last child we'll have. I don't want to take my eyes off her or June. She, too, is changing and growing at such a breakneck speed that it takes my breath away. While she dabbles in your typical toddler behavioral, um, quirks, she is a shining light of joy and humor, a beacon to which we are all innately drawn.

But the time has come to put the kid-cam on ice and get down to brass tacks. While we're the <gag> richest we've ever been, 2014 Trotters need to make that paper. We are no exception to the current rule of a family that requires two incomes. Greg and I long ago decided that I would stay at home with the girls while they were young, which was very important to both of us, and cobble together whatever work I could in my "free time." That time is ever more elusive but cultivating it is imperative. So that's why I've assembled a few things that need to happen in 2014 in order to get my act together and start bringing home more of the extra-lean, imitation bacon. It's not a comprehensive list but includes both personal and professional goals.

In no particular order:

1) Grow a pair.

A physiological impossibility for a two-time gestating woman, but still a metaphorical sack in need of some grabbing. I had balls at one point, I swear I did, but they shriveled up inside of me like I was plunged in ice water somewhere between the birth of June and the desire to establish this thing you call a "savings account." Any desire to go out of my career comfort zone was suspended for, well, comfort. But the fact is I have nothing to lose. It's not as if I have built this empire that may crumble with one misstep. My empire is an anthill. I've done some great things for which I'm very proud in the last several years, don't get me wrong, but in 2014 I need to get something big off the ground.

Uhhh, suggestions welcome.

2) Blog more.

The energy produced by your collective eye roll has the potential to disrupt the lunar tides. Who the hell needs another blog? Not you, that's for sure. No one wants to hear me wax schmalzy and falsely authoritative on parenting, or see what I'm cooking (frozen pizza again). I haven't had anyone knocking on my door to get to the bottom of my beauty regime, which is predicated upon using up the last of that nipple cream for every possible purpose; or for my fashion choices — a "Newton's Cradle" of jammies, slippers and sensible washables in virtual perpetuity. I'm not going vegan for a year. I won't be hiking the AT and living to tell the tale (this year). I'm not going to be renaming this "Toothfairies and Dingleberries" or whatever that goofy blog-calling trend is. It'll likely be me just tuning in more often than not with a quick paragraph on some musings, ideas, stories, etc. I just need to get back into the regular practice of writing, making it ritualistic, daily and necessary — like brushing my teeth (wait a sec, did I...?). Anyway, if you'd like to read it, great. If not, I don't blame you.

Oh, and nipple cream makes really good lip balm, by the way.

3) Move it, fatty.

I count myself among the lucky. I'm a very healthy person lacking any chronic conditions, nagging pains, acute this-and-thats. The problem is I just like that extra sleep in the morning. And chocolate. And my healthy streak may run out, so I want to enjoy and embrace it while I can. We eat pretty well, and I have been in the practice of getting regular, rigorous exercise. Just not lately. Yes, I can drum up some pretty decent excuses including but not limited to birthing an infant, surgical recovery, lack of funds for a gym membership, the worst @%&*ing winter in memory, and so forth. But we have a TV, and on TV one can view exercise videos. It's less a matter of getting the back fat in check as it is in longterm wellness creation, healthy habit formation, and exemplifying a positive body image for the sake of my daughters.

Oh, who am I kidding -- I want this back fat gone-zo.

4) Improved Gypsy P.R.

Poor, beleaguered Gypsy. The sweetest, kindest, smartest, gentlest dog I've ever ignored. Somewhere in that canine brain so clogged with preternaturally accurate mealtime predictions, his need for fetch, and the singularly exquisite taste of his butthole are the halcyon days of our childlessness. More specifically, Greg's bitchlessness. He was King Shit once upon a time, a dog for whom work schedules were rearranged to accommodate his appetites. A dog for whom we purchased doggie shampoo. A dog spoiled. Now he is a dog deferred, often only engaged to get him to come back inside after an abbreviated bathroom break in the frigid, turd-studded out-of-doors.

Gypsy's not a baby guy — never has been. When we first brought June home from the hospital and placed her near him, hoping to generate one of those achingly cute lion-protecting-his-pride sort of relationships, he haltingly drew his creaky, arthritic forelegs into his keg-like form, stood and walked away in search of a dark corner, all the while letting out a graceless snort as if to say, "This is so not my scene." His face grayed faster that day than that Nazi's who drank out of the wrong cup in "The Last Crusade." He's tolerant of the kids, but they remain largely something to avoid. Relations improved when June began raining food, but she continues to be yet another obstacle to Greg. He's not the Sit Around and Gamely Let the Baby Pull My Ears dog. He's the Retreat To the Bedroom And Wedge As Much As I Can of My Lumpy 90-lb Body Under The Bed dog.

This is where I imagine him, among the dust bunnies and out-of-season shoes, trying to find his "happy place" — the place of his youth. Where he'd otter dive into the Pacific for tennis balls. Where men fueled by beer and a bonfire's heat would gamely play fetch for hours in the sand. Where the slack line to his lupine ancestry was pulled taut during camping trips in the redwoods with Greg, as he served as companion and more importantly, vital protector of his beloved master. He'd visit these places in his head, but the memories grew dimmer with every turn of the diaper pail, the click-click-click like the snake-tailed finish of a film reel — eventually spinning into darkness.

Now he lives in the suburbs and I tell him to shut up when he barks.

There comes a point in the day when, after juggling the two kids and finally getting them to their respective rooms for some semblance of nap time/quiet time, I am afforded anywhere between five minutes to one hour of alone time—time usually spent doing housework, paying bills or working. Without fail, this is the moment that Gypsy leans against the dining room wall, begins thumping his tail and moaning, the preamble to his "potties dance" — another need for which I must cater. After seeing to needs all morning long, I need no more. So I knead my hands, mutter "balls" under my breath (trying not to swear), and stomp over to the back door to let him out, giving him the passive-aggressive side-eye resentment that one incurs when asking me to get up out of a chair. Oh, and the hair -- THE HAIR! I'm in talks with Ian Ziering's team to producer "Hairnado" as the only logical end to the limitless production power of his aged follicles.

The poor guy. What the hell did he do? I love this dog so, I do, and I worry that June picked up on cues that Gypsy is a creature in direct competition with her — she guards her food unnecessarily in a Darwinian display of resource protection, lest she let her guard down and Gypsy helps himself to a heart-shaped PB&J. They didn't have that forged-in-childhood bond. Gypsy's an old dog and June, Tess and even me? Well, we are in every sense the new tricks. But June very recently has taken a keen interest in Gypsy, following him around, lining stuffed animals down his back, cuddling him, pretending to be his mother. I've decided to pick up on her cues and engage him more than I have been lately. He doesn't  quite know what to do with this new attention, and has reacted by trying to escape it. He'll come around. I'm coming around. If our home is a ship, Gypsy's ass is in steerage. It's time he come back to the sunshine of the deck.

Make that the poop deck.

So that's it for now, but there are more: harness my patience, organize my desk, and start writing down more of Tess's baby milestones. June's log is a multivolume affair; Tess's thus far has a few hastily written sentences about craving graham crackers in the hospital after she was born, and how they encouraged me to "pass gas" to keep the pain of the c-section incision at bay—a suggestion I reluctantly heeded only immediately before a nurse would enter the room, without fail. Sweet Tess needs a few more heartfelt thoughts on paper from her dear mom, no?

But I gotta run — the pizza's almost ready. Anything about my life that is in dire need of polishing? What about you guys? Any self-improvement campaigns launched this year? I'd love to hear about them.

Until next time...