The Place To Be This Thanksgiving

This period of my life--with two young children, a dog, a rodent infestation, and a husband (in no particular order)--seems to be exemplified by shit. It's everywhere I look. It's everything I smell, sometimes to the point that I can almost--I can't really, can I?--taste it.

We have mice again. As a result, my constant scrubbing and spraying and vacuuming and mopping has made the kitchen the cleanest it's ever been. Yet it's never been filthier. I've seen brown rice nuggets in places no human being should ever see them. I've heard mouse friends frolicking in the walls behind me while I watch television. They fall from wooden supports and then scamper back up again while I raise the volume on Glee to drown out their chorus.


Number Two earns his nickname roughly five times a day with big, black blueberry poops. The kid loves fruit, what can I say? Everywhere I turn there is more of it.


I made the mistake of making chili the other night and then serving it as leftovers the next. The Partner has never let loose the likes of the olfactory assault he's been waging ever since. I can't be near him. I just CANNOT be near him.


I'd like to leave the mice home for Thanksgiving; find a grandparent to change each and every one of Number Two's diapers; and situate myself in a corner far removed from General McFarter. But, wouldn't you know: we're hosting the holiday at our place this year. We will have to work together, all day, as a family.

I'd better light a lot of candles.

Don't you wish you could join us?

Radio We Can Agree On

I purchased my Sirius Satellite Radio unit because of Howard Stern back in 2005. His two stations, Howard 100 and Howard 101, have been bringing me untold hours of joy ever since. Before he slipped the surly bonds of terrestrial radio, I listened to his show in syndication on WCCC, the local indie station with the claim to fame of having employed Stern as a morning DJ thirty years ago. While Stern’s detractors are legion here and anywhere, his Connecticut fan base rivals that of any other stronghold he fought to win over the past three decades.

There is an obvious discrepancy between parenthood and my subscription to the Howard Stern channels. Though I held out as long as I could—until my 2 year old daughter switched up Bob the Builder with the name of the Stern Show producer and started singing “Bababooey, yes you can!” at the supermarket—I was forced to curtail my listening habits while she was in the car. It was at that point I discovered a benefit I hadn’t anticipated when I signed on with Sirius more than six months before my daughter was born. That happy surprise was Kids Place Live. The KPL programming fell on the exact opposite end of the listener spectrum from the Howard Stern Show and would become our third most listened-to station.

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Homemade

I have recently come into my own in the gift giving department. I just cannot get enough of it. I spend hours and hours brainstorming and creating personalized items to give to my nearest and dearest. I also jump on any opportunity to participate in holiday gift exchanges of the Secret Santa variety. Trying to think of the perfect idea for someone I would not ordinarily be gifting with my presents leaves me happily exhausted.

This year I am creating these offerings with the aid of Photoshop, a printer, bulk stationary, and a lot of thought as to what colors and images best represent the recipient. The process is as much for me as it is for them. In reflecting on the people I'm making these gifts for, I get to relive why it is that they're special to me. I hope that when they receive them, they'll be reminded in this small way why I'm special to them.

I'm no Martha Stewart. I'm not crafty or scrappy. I just like to mess around with design software and order a lot of envelopes. I used to roll my eyes whenever my mother would ask for something homemade for the holidays. That would always be at the top of her list, right after the completely pie-in-the-sky request for "good children." Why would she want something I made? Didn't she think she deserved something she could actually use?

Maybe I'm getting old, but homemade makes a lot of sense to me now. It's more personal. It can be economical. It can, despite the misgivings of my youthful self, actually be useful. It can fulfill something in both the gifter and giftee.

I'm surprised just how much I am looking forward to this homemade Christmas.

New England Mamas

New England Mamas is back. The blog, devoted to all that is maternal in our steepled corner of the country, has returned from its hiatus with a new organizational structure and several additional voices. I'm excited to be a contributing writer to New England Mamas once again. My first post, which will appear sometime this week, will supply the missing link between Howard Stern and contemporary children's radio programming. Check in daily over at New England Mamas until the connection is revealed.

Wordless

Number Two gives kisses with his bottom lip protruding. It would look like a pout if it weren't for the raised eyebrow, indicative of his sly wait for the object of his affection to offer a cheek.

Number Two can focus with angry intensity. His eyes narrow only enough to pull his nose and upper lip into a sneer. The expanse of hazel seems suddenly darker. I am looking at my husband, minus 30 years.

Number Two's eyes can be bright as light shining over his laugh. A tickle can do it, or a toss in the air, but mainly it's The Boss who elicits the most guttural glee from this tiny, stoic man. He giggles in bursts, each one louder than the last. For a short while it seems like he never wants to stop.

At nineteen months, has very few words. Number Two gets his point across with two sharp eyes and mouth that is in turn kissable and vindictive. He leaves no room for questioning. His silence is crystal clear.

Better Get Used to It

Making friends has been something of a challenge since I became a mother. It's not that I lack acquaintances; I know plenty of people of the playgroup persuasion. The problem is that I haven't been able to get past the kids we have in common to find out if, maybe, we have other mutual interests as well.

Some of my closest friends are mothers. These friendships, however, were not formed under the influence of children. I've known some of these women since early childhood, others since middle school, and some since college. A few surfed in more recently through bulletin boards and blogs. I got to know them all before they spawned those little pieces of themselves that rendered them incapable of fully focusing on anything else. Now I love their children, too.

But the women I meet for the first time through my children are harder to get to know. They're moms first; what they are beyond that is beyond me. I could probably coax the information out of them if I was more socially inclined. But I guess I'm not interested in working that hard. That's as good an explanation as any. There's got to be some reason why I've been hauling my children off to group activities and playdates with the same women for two years now without one serious friendship to show for it.

Today The Boss came home from school with the latest report on a begrudging friend whom I'll call A. This child is not afraid to proclaim her need to "get used" to someone before committing to friendship. A. stands in stark contrast to The Boss, who throws her love around like the kind of sparkling confetti that gets into everything and keeps showing up even when you think you've vacuumed up the last of it. A. didn't play with me today, The Boss would intone sadly. She's still not used to me. Though I'd noticed them together more and more on the playground, it was still anyone's guess whether A. felt she had become properly accustomed to my daughter. Until today.

The Boss brought the message home from school. She bounced with the delivery of it, her cheeks little splotches of red beneath round eyes.

"Mommy, mommy! A. says she'll be used to me as long as I don't pick my nose!"

I laughed. I patted The Boss on the head. Then I nodded thoughtfully.

Friends take some getting used to.

The Tie That Binds

My mother hasn't spoken to me for two months. I don't know why. There was no inciting event of which I am aware, but that doesn't mean something didn't happen that she perceives as such. What I do know is she is not a happy person right now. The reasons behind this really have very little to do with me--as far as I know--but the fallout of her misery has reach.

I'm new to this mothering thing. She is a veteran. I have babies and hope. She has grown children that remind her of her failures. It's sad to watch, and scarier to contemplate.

Today Number Two fell asleep on my chest during a nursing session. His head rested in the crook of my arm while his midsection lay heavy on mine. He was a soft, sleepy weight. I tried to relax in this moment with my loving and dependent baby, but all I could think about was the fact that I am giving up our newness with each passing minute. Soon my two children will be out of this stage where they know they need me. Reality has already begun to take over where there had heretofore only been hope. They are no longer newborns, infants or wobbling toddlers. They're the realization of my dreams. Here's why that's scary: hope is all good; reality is good and bad.

Once my mother was like me. She loved her little baby. That baby was her chief interest. Then the baby grew up and suddenly it was hard to see how closely bonded they had been.

There's always something between a mother and her child. When a child is born, the connection is not figurative. There's the cord, then the breast, then arms that hold tight and easy in the absence of resistance. But babies grow and go. Still, there's that connection--this time it is figurative--which finds its strength in shapelessness. Sometimes it's so hard to see and feel that you'd swear it was no longer there. It is, though. And it's working harder than ever to do its job.