Friday, February 21, 2014

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...

1 comment:

  1. Um....I love this. I'll be following along. And I am seriously dying to meet you at Rozann's wedding!

    ReplyDelete