Mandajuice

Weekend Update, Take Two

Saturday night we enjoyed a steak dinner at John and Lynne's place.  Surprisingly enough, Alex didn't really terrorize us in the way I was expecting and I ended up really enjoying myself.  (Although I'm sure Lynne is still busy cleaning up Alex's little messes all over her house!  Sorry about that!)

At one point, Alex had to try on Christopher's new shoes:

Christopher was such a good sport:

On Sunday, we mostly sat around doing nothing all day.  Fortunately, Jamie and Adeeb rescued us from our boredom and invited us to dinner.  And we had SO MUCH FUN!  We always love hanging out with them - it's like three playdates all rolled in to one (Dave and Adeeb, Alex and Joe and Jamie and me).

Aside from Alex being a total bully (and Joe being way too cool about it for a toddler), I think they had a good time running around and stealing toys from eachother.  And bottles.  And crackers.  Right before dinner, while I was thoroughly enjoying one of Adeeb's concoctions (I don't know how he could GET that much booze in a drink without me being able to TASTE it!), Alex climbed up into Joe's highchair and shared the tray with his buddy:

I'm pretty sure the hunger strike is over!  And Jamie served us a delicious pasta dinner (on her grandmother's good china!) and topped the night off with chocolate FONDUE!!!  We felt ever so spoiled.  And I'm pretty sure that Alex loves Jamie almost as much as Harry does.  After dinner he sat in her lap for at least ten minutes (which may as well have been an hour for a busypants like him):

Jamie and I are now counting down our final days as working moms.  Hopefully, our new careers will give us more time to hang out while our boys play (all four of them).  Maybe Joe can even teach Alex the alphabet!   

Harry the bandit

I couldn't find a laundry basket this morning and needed to throw Dave's jeans in the dryer before leaving the house, so I dumped all the clean clothes on the kitchen table. 

And I came home tonight to find this:

Harry had used the clean laundry pile as a dogbed.  And he didn't even use the chairs to get up there:

They were all pushed in!  He jumped up there from the floor. 

Here's the little stinkah:

Weekend Update

Aaack!  Work swampedness killed my afternoon!  I promise to add more later with photos! of our fun fun weekend.  It involved as much drunken debauchery as mommy-types like me can muster!

Shiny happy memories

I'm one of those abnoxious people who grew up in a fairlytale.  I have NO bad memories from my childhood.  As in, zero, zilch, NONE whatsoever.  Sure, my mom threw the occasional piece of dinnerware on the hardwood floor in anger and my brother cut the head off my Madame Alexander doll, but those incidents really only served to enrich the experience.  Seriously, my first two decades were disgustingly happy and I wouldn't change A THING.

The first decade was pretty much spent in a tract home in Campbell, a very modest home by any stretch of the imagination (at least back then it was modest, now it's like THIS).  Long before the advent of the mini-van, my mother spent years driving us around in a gianormous stationwagon before graduating to a fullsize extra-tall Dodge Van.  You know, the kind with the stepladder on the back.  I'm sure if I dig deep, I can find a photo of it. 

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At this point in the writing, I started scrounging around the garage and hit the jackpot when I found a box of old photos.  I spent the next hour and the remainder of Alex's nap looking through them.  I found the actual tract house, the minivan and about eleventy million other photos that I want to scan and post.  When I have time.  Promise.

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Anyhow, the point I was trying to make is that we were pretty poor.  So my parents had to come up with creative ways to entertain us and GET US OUT OF THE HOUSE BEFORE WE DROVE THEM INSANE.  And they had skills.  There was Las Madres, the local pool and of course, the airport.  My absolute favorite childhood activity involved watching planes land.  Who knew?

So on those hot air-conditioning deprived summer evenings, we'd all (all four of us back then) pile into the van and park at the airport, right under the runway.  By right under the runway, I mean literally RIGHT next to the sound wall at the end of the runway.  We'd climb the little step ladder, lay our backs on top of the van and the planes would come down for a landing RIGHT OVER OUR HEADS.  Each one would rattle the entire van and Dan and I would dare eachother to stand up and wave our arms at the pilots.  The adrenaline rush went unmatched until I experienced my first rollercoaster about a decade later.  I'm sure I'm not doing it justice here, but these were about the best memories I have from my early childhood.

And so, a few weeks ago Dave and I started taking Alex to the airport, which is conveniently located only two freeway exits from ours.  He shrieks and squeals with delight and points at the landing planes in perfect little boy fashion.  It will be a short-lived experience, though, because they've blocked off most of the roadways to prevent people from parking or stopping.  The only way we are able to watch, even from the side of the runway, is because the airport is under construction and the hard-hat men don't mind us gawking from their jobsite.  Once they finish, though, our fun will be over.  (Of course I'm assuming that they'll EVER finish.  I have my doubts.)

Here are my boys watching the runway:

With mom (see what I mean about the walking fashion disaster.  I need an intervention!):

Dooder Dialog

Me: Alex! Say Pony
Boy: poh-poh

Me: say poh
Boy: poh

Me: say nee
Boy: nee

Me: Say poh-nee
Boy: poh-poh
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Me: Alex! Say Grandma!
Boy: Mah-mah

Me: Say Mommy
Boy: Mah-mah

(Apparently Alex had TWO mommies.  As if I needed additional incentive to quit my job!  At least he says "pah-pah" (grandpa) clearly.)
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Me: Alex! Say Daddy!
Boy: Dah-dah

Me: Say dah
Boy: Dah

Me: Say dee
Boy: Dee

Me: Say Dah-dee
Boy: Dah-dah
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Me: Alex! Say Mommy!
Boy: Mah-mah

Me: Say mah
Boy: Mah

Me: Say mee
Boy: Mee

Me: Say mah-mee
Boy: Mah-mah

I suppose I could go on here, but you get the picture.  He CAN say each syllable individually, but putting them together is too big a puzzle for his wee willy brain.  It'll come along in time, I'm sure.  For now at least it's CUTE!

New this morning: Oht-meel (I'm sure my mom's already heard it a million times, but I almost NEVER feed him breakfast!)

Here he is eating a cheese burrito with Dah-dah:

Veeery, Veeeery Intriesting

Because I have none of my own, I enjoy the company of people who have interesting hobbies.  My friend Jenna likes old movies and vintage clothing patterns and can knit a sweater or rewire an electrical outlet with aplomb.  Another former co-worker of mine spends his weekends geocaching, golfing and building intricate wooden rocking horses for children's shelters.  My own mother is an art docent who quilts and paints and can book a mean vacation on a dime.  Even

Me?  None of the above.  Unless you count watching TV and consuming high quantities of sugar, I have no interests.  Sure, I have tons of "used-to" hobbies like singing jazz, horseback riding, learning foreign languages and even traveling.  But those are all just things I used to do before I dried up and got old.  I am SO old for 28.  And since I refuse to turn 30, my last and final birthday is just around the corner.  Perhaps I should start acting my age.

Anyway, there is this really interesting couple in my Estate Planning class.  Couples like them always make me feel inadequate.  As if Dave and I should be doing something more than eating our dinners on the couch and then flopping into bed after a long day.

This couple, Rafael and Marguerita, are from Colombia.  They're probably in their mid forties and have Spanish accents so thick you can barely understand a word they say.  Unless of course, you actually listen to them.  Then you notice that they speak flawless English and are incredibly well-educated.  Both of them are Engineers by day and claim to be taking this class out of "personal interest" something I can't even begin to comprehend.  Twenty minutes on ABC trusts has the same effect on me as a dose of benadryl does - pure zzzzzzzzzzz.

So last night the professor arrives, sighs and says "Everyone has read chapter 11, right?  So would anyone like to teach it for me?"  And not being from this country and not understanding that he wasn't being serious and that it isn't cool to be teachers pet (which is the reason I used for almost never responding to teachers questions even when I almost always knew the answers), Rafael raised his hand and said "I'll do it."

And much to everyone's surprise, he got up and taught us all about ABC trusts and QTIP trusts and how they work.  And?  He did a FAR better job than our actual professor - he even took questions from the class and explained his answers clearly.  Because English is his second (or third or fifth probably) language, he chose his words carefully and was so precise and clear that we all clapped when he sat down.  He was brilliant. 

Here in California, our exposure to South American culture leads us to believe that anyone with a Spanish accent eats burritos for breakfast, has ten children and waits on the corner outside of Home Depot hoping to mow your lawn for a fiver.  Most people never even consider the idea that there are HIGHLY EDUCATED PEOPLE living south of the border.  People who, while working for a multinational company on assignment in the US decide what the hell?  Let's go take a class about the US estate tax code and how to plan around it.  That'll be fun! 

I just find this couple SO INTERESTING!  Who gets up and teaches a class like that?  And he did it IN SPITE of his incredibly thick accent, which would've had any of the rest of us shaking in our boots.  But not Rafael, he just got up and taught like it was nothing.

I just keep hoping that I'll get more interesting again.  That someday soon I'll at least be able re-visit some of my old hobbies.  Or at least remember enough of my Spanish to have a real conversation with Rafael and Marguerita.

Desperately seeking a makeover

I seriously need to stop Tivo'ing 'What Not to Wear' because it's making me want to shave my head and burn every. single. piece. of clothing that I own.  I am a walking fashion disaster and I'm convinced that if I can just find a kindly homosexual to run his fingers through my hair, all will be right with the world again.  Maybe I should put an ad up on craig's list.

The fact that I've gained back all three of those pounds I lost two weeks ago isn't helping.  Nor is the fact that I CAN NOT SLEEP FOR THE LIFE OF ME.  First I blamed our mattress, which is a pile of expensive suckage, but last night I slept on the guest bed in Alex's room and STILL barely managed to get in a decent wink.  Of course I could blame the 30-thread-count sheets I bought at Target for $8.99 which make you feel like you're sleeping on the floor of a woodshop, but that would only be an excuse to keep me in denial about the real problem: caffeine.  I'm up to three cups a day plus the occassional diet coke (or three) in the afternoon.  I think it's about time I cut the mattress some slack. 

Which means (BLASPHEMY!) I have to cut down on all the coffeeliciousness that I adore with every fiber of my being.  And it will be a delicate scale to balance - some small part of me (probably the same part who wants to divorce Dave and enter into polygamy with Mike and Ike) wants to scream "SCREW THE STUPID SLEEP AND DRINK ANOTHER CUP!" even if I know it's the root of all evil.  Addiction is such a vicious cycle.  At least the Skip the Buzz pods are kickass.

Aqua baby hunger strike

Mr. Monkey is officially on a hunger strike.  He's barely eaten anything since Monday.  Sure, he gobbled down some pasta on Tuesday night, but that's just because I made him his favorite kind.  Part of me is starting to worry and part of me knows that as long as he keeps drinking six bottles of whole milk a day, he'll be fine.  But I am curious.

The odd thing is that he's not rejecting food outright.  He'll take a bite, chew on it for a solid 60 seconds and then spit it out on the floor.  So it's not that he doesn't like the taste of whatever we give him - he just doesn't want to swallow.  Could this be teething?  Sore throat?  Revenge on the clean carpets?  I'm clueless.  Of course Harry couldn't be happier, especially after his own recent Safeway-brand hunger strike. 

Oh well.  All I can do is continue to offer him healthy food.  Eventually he'll eat it.

More mommy madness

As if the poor dead horse hasn't been beaten enough already, this is yet another post about the Perfect Madness article and everyone's reaction to it.  I spent about twenty minutes reading the Mommy Drive-By thread over at Chez Miscarriage before concluding the following:

YOU MOMMIES HAVE NO BALLS

That's right.  The more sob stories I read about how mothers are publicly criticized for not breastfeeding or for breastfeeding too long or for feeding their children McDonald's or for working outside of the home or for not working outside of the home, etc etc etc, and how HURT these mommies feel as a result of the criticism, the more ANNOYED I got.  Sure, I've been on the receiving end of a rude comment from an obnoxious stranger or two, BUT I NEVER LET THOSE COMMENTS BOTHER ME.  Not for ONE NANOSECOND.  Comments like those only serve to remind me of one of my favorite quotes:

"I love it when stupid people say stupid things.  That's how we know who they are." (Ted Nugent)(of all people!)

Dave is fond of telling me that I am "the best mom in the world" or that "Alex couldn't dream of having a better mommy."  And you know what?  He's absolutely right.  I've never had a moment's doubt about it.  There is no question that I am the best possible mother for OUR CHILD because he is OUR child.  Knowing this and really believing it - believing that Dave and I know what is best for our family - allows me to PARENT WITH CONFIDENCE.  And I fear that a whole generation of mothers is doing the exact opposite.  They are parenting the way Bill Clinton served as president - by holding a wet finger up to the air, figuring out which way the wind is blowing and doing whatever is popular (or feeling guilty for not doing it).

I think a lot of this, at least for me, comes down to personality.  I've never been one to labor over decisions or to play scenes over and over in my head wondering if I did the right thing.  I decide.  I act.  I move on.  It's a pretty simple way of approaching life.  I have very few regrets and even fewer apologies. 

When Alex was still struggling to nurse enough to gain weight, I used to take him down to the lactation center every day for a weigh-feed-weigh.  There were only two scales, so I usually had at least a short wait before I could undress him, remove his diaper, put him on the scale, dress him, feed him and then weigh him again.  I used to crack up at watching the other moms undress and dress their newborns.  THEY WERE SO NERVOUS you'd have thought their babies were made of glass.  I remember waiting almost twenty minutes while one new mother changed her baby into a fresh diaper and a clean onesie, a process that, at most, took me three minutes.  It was as if the fear of making a mistake paralized her.  I bet it never occurred to her that there are many ways to put a diaper on a baby and that as long as it catches the poop, it's FINE.

Now there are plenty of things that I'm sure I've done "wrong".  We don't co-sleep, we don't sling, we've never even considered using a cloth diaper.  I work outside the home and I even let my child cry it out!  But the one thing I've never done?  Is question my ability to be an excellent mother.  And no snide comment about my lack of "perfection" is ever going to take me down that path. 

Photolicious!

Condo living room before:

And after:

Aren't these lamps fabulous?

I really love them.

I also really love this guy: