The Bright Side

Little lamb bones stared up at us from our plates. I don't generally cook lamb, but my mother-in-law does. She had served the rare delicacy at The Partner's 32nd birthday celebration. I brought out the leftovers at home the next night because, while I don't generally cook it, I have no qualms about reheating it.

The Boss pondered the meat and bone curiously. I think the difference between that piece of meat and the others she eats unquestioningly on a regular basis lays in the nomenclature. "Lamb" is straightforward. Things like "hamburger" and "roast" and "hot dog" beat around the bush a bit more. One can eat them without being reminded via word choice that the food he is consuming once romped around a pasture or looked out longingly from a cage.

"The lamb that had the bones tooken out of it must be dead now, right?" The Boss asked us, looking more toward The Partner than toward me. He's the one with the answers.

"Yup," The Partner said.

"Um, yup," I agreed.

She didn't quite gesticulate into one huge shrug, but she might as well have. "No more life for him." If there was any sorrow in her voice, it was overwritten by the optimism in her follow-up. "But the lambs that weren't food, more life for them!"

The Best Mom I Ever Had

She says "You're the best mom in the world." She means her world, of course, which is vastly different from the greater and lesser world around her. Nobody else would consider me the best mom; nobody else needs to (her brother excluded). When she says I'm the best, she means it. And I am.

Are there better moms? Most of them are. But other moms don't matter. There's something liberating about being held accountable only to the authority of my children. I don't have to worry about what others think and there's no need to curry the favor of strangers. When it comes to bestowing best mom status, only my children can do it.

I've never been the best at anything before; I wouldn't believe it if someone told me I was. There's just too much competition and I'm too realistic. But when The Boss says "You're the best," or when she narrows it down to "you're the best mom in the mom's club," or when she opens it back up again to "you're the best mom in the whole, wide world," I see that it's true. I could never be anything greater than what my four year old thinks I am.

Still, some of my realism's been passed down. Some of my sarcasm is evident in the eye-rolls that come more often now. The Boss has been honing a sense of irony since before she could put words to wit. She knows what I know. Every so often she speaks it beneath a cocked eyebrow and lit cheeks:

"You're the best mom I ever had."

That Look

Number Two doesn't listen to me. If I so much as mention his name within earshot, he will freeze in place and refuse to move even an eyeball in my direction. He's unbudgeable.

The same child is putty in his father's hands. All The Partner has to do is look slightly perturbed at an action Number Two is taking and it will cease immediately.

Under The Partner's watch, Number Two finishes his plate. Under mine, he is liable to starve. Number Two sleeps at The Partner's behest; he splits ears with his shrieks at mine. I don't think I lack severity or foll0w-through, so I'm not sure where the exact discrepancy lays. All I know is that The Partner has officially made himself indispensable around here, as if being the main breadwinner and the brains behind this operation hadn't set him up in high enough regard already.

The Boss, too, knows how it is. She referenced this fact as Number Two was wailing in his room after I put him to bed last night. The Partner was setting a new CD to "play" at the tail end of The Boss's nightly pre-sleep ritual in her own room down the hall. She wrinkled her nose as if Number Two's screams smelled funny. She looked to The Partner. "You're the boss of my brother, right?"

"Right," The Partner affirmed.

She nodded, looking him directly in those hazel peepers that can silence a beast. "Then go in there and give him the hairy eyeball," she said.

All I Want For Christmas is My Two Front Teats

There was a time, however brief, that I possessed a chest. It may not have been bountiful, but it was not board-like, either. The first sign of increased cup size manifested itself shortly before the birth of my daughter and lasted through a single suckling year. The bounty returned with my second child. Twenty months later, it is beginning to recede again as my son cuts back to a 2- or 3-times-a-day nursing schedule. Of all the things I’ve lost, I miss my boobs the most.

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Best Behavior

We were sitting at the lunch table when The Boss referenced Christmas for the 3,100,068th this week by way of a declaration related to all the presents she would be receiving.

The Partner, who was working from home because nobody else at the office would be there to notice, looked at his offspring in alarm. "Who's getting you a lot of presents?"

"Santa Claus," The Boss said.

"Oh, phew. I was getting worried. I mean, I didn't get you a lot of presents. How do you know Santa will?"

The Boss looked at him with an air of confident--and maybe just a bit withering--excitement. Her cheeks shone reddish pink as if exerted by expectation. She was almost levitating on her bench seat with the force of her glee. Finally, she erupted:

"Because I've been good all damn day!"

A Christmas Miracle

The Partner and I have something of a contentious marriage. This is no secret. Most of our fights revolve around the fact that The Partner is right and I am wrong. He had me convinced of this dynamic until two days ago.

My epiphany had roots near the mailbox, at the spot where I picked up two packages sitting together in a clear, plastic bag. I looked at the top package to see my name printed on the front. I will admit that I am not totally faultless in this; I did, as I so often do, fail to think my next action through. I just assumed that the two packages were part of one shipment and that both had been directed to me. I opened the first, then the other. One held a hundred Christmas cards of my own design, ready to be served with a salutation and an address label. The other held Arrested Development, the complete series. I didn't scratch my head for long before closing the lid to the box so that I could see it had not, in fact, been addressed to me--though the status of that DVD set on my Christmas wishlist assured me that I was the gift's final destination.

I made it back into the house to tell The Partner of my blunder. I handed him the violated package. "Oops," I said. "I accidentally opened it."

He glared at me. While I did not exactly misread his expression, I did not understand the gravity of it. So I went on. "And, ha, this is funny...I know about the popcorn popper you got me, too. What were you thinking, leaving it right there in the open?"

The next five minutes were a flurry of boxes and bubble wrap as The Partner threw packing material all around the office amidst declarations that he was "giving up!" He was freakishly serious.

"If you didn't want me to find the popcorn popper, why didn't you hide it?" I inquired.

"Why should I have to hide it? You're not a child!"

I just stood there, open mouthed, in apparent dispute of that assertion. I did not even know how to respond. Finally, I summoned the words. "You left the box in the middle of the office right with everyone else's gifts. I went through them to see what had arrived and how much I was going to have to wrap. I assumed you wouldn't leave any of my presents right there where I could find them."

"What about the fact that the popcorn popper box was on its side, facing the wall?"

"What?" I looked at him with more childlike confusion. "It was facing the wall? What the hell is that supposed to indicate? The box's position means nothing to me! It was in a pile with everything else we are giving for Christmas so I OPENED IT!"

But he insisted I was supposed to know that side-lying boxes, even when in plain sight, were verboten boxes. He attempted to make me feel stupid and wrong in the face of his righteous brilliance. But this is where my epiphany arose fully and in all its splendor. I am not stupid and wrong.

Suddenly 11 years of fighting were called into question. His skillful use of logic and argument had, over time, convinced me of the permanent fault line that was a fissure through my body. He was articulate, reasoned and extremely determined. I was uninformed and confused. His very refusal to ever say "I'm sorry" reinforced his steadfast convictions.

Large issues related to money, parenting and sex have always clouded my understanding with their enormity. But this small argument, I could see through. Easily. It was ridiculous.

Yes, I opened two boxes that I shouldn't have. No, I did not do it on purpose. I refuse to take the blame just because he made no attempt to protect his purchases from my scatterbrained ways.

In the end, though, he ended up giving me one of the best gifts I've ever received. I never would've found it if I didn't accidentally stumble upon Arrested Development and an electric popcorn maker two weeks before Christmas. This gift is the serenity I felt as I listened to him yell and swear and throw things. It's the calmness I experienced in the face of blame. For the first time in my life, I felt 100% certain that The Partner was not right.

And if he is not right about this, the skies are alight with the possibilities of what other untold wonders he may be wrong about. My reality shines with the brightness of countless Christmas lights. I hear the Hallelujah Chorus swell around me. I smell Hot Buttered Rum and I taste victory. Whoever said 'tis better to give than receive never got a doozie like this one.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

The Gingerbreadman's Junk

I was working on an article at my computer in the kitchen while The Partner and The Boss made gingerbread magic in the dining room behind me. The clack of the computer keys in front of me were my soundtrack until a sound from candyland jarred me out of my reverie.

"That will be his penis," I heard The Boss say.

I did a doubletake. "What?" I demanded.

I heard The Partner stifle a laugh.

This I had to see for myself. I walked into the dining room.

"What?" I repeated.

"A penis," she said.

"Where?" I asked.

"Here," The Boss said. She pointed to a small bead, edible and red, that she'd stuck under the gingerbreadman's crotch.

All I could do was nod, thoughtfully. What I was thinking about was how hard I could laugh and still maintain some semblance of maturity. Apparently I gave The Boss just enough convulsive laughter to glom onto. She loves an appreciative audience.

"Penis." She let it rip once more, her tone short and emphatic. She looked up at me with an arched eyebrow. I half expected her to launch into a chorus of penispenispenispenis, but it appears she's gotten too sophisticated. She left it at that.

And I left the room to go write about it.

Oh Damn

Here's the thing about Number Two: he's gruff. When he's nursing, I can't look down at him too long without my face being slapped away by his hand. Over the course of the day, whenever he finds something awry, he will point at it and shout "oh, damn!" Repeatedly. Part of me would like to believe that's not what he's actually saying, but it's obviously the sentiment and more than likely the curse.

He's huggy, though. He wraps his arms around my leg willy-nilly as we go about our business. He kisses with his bottom lip sticking out and fat. He hangs onto is sister like he's hanging on for life. He says thanks.

He's an enigma. That's not to say I know any parent who's got his or her child all figured out. It's just that, in my limited experience as the mother of two, I see him as the child who plays it closest to the vest. He's the one with more words than he lets on; he's the one who chooses them slyly.

He's nineteen months old and I can already tell I'm never going to figure him out.

Maybe Santa Drives a Caddy

Santa Claus came to the town green yesterday, bringing with him red- and green-sweatered elves eerily reminiscent of local middle school students. The Boss went moony, her eyes full and shining at the sight of him. I was more discerning, raising an eyebrow at the rough outline of what seemed like foam padding underneath the worn red velveteen and the belt held in place with a paper clip.

"Where's his sleigh?" The Boss whispered to me.

I looked around. "Hmm, I don't know." I cast a long glance to the roof of the historic grange building around which we were assembled for the tree lighting. "No sleigh there. Maybe it's on the other side?"

The Boss was skeptical. She stared at the roofline, as if willing a magical Christmas menagerie to appear. She did a full body pout that started with the crease of her forehead and ended with heels stomping into the ground. "Humph," she breathed out. "Not even a single reindeer."

The Moon Sees the Somebody I Would Like to See

I have two babies born under a full moon. Naysayers cite coincidence; I have more faith in the pull of that celestial mother globe.

My first birth story is lit by the moon, its natural image pervading a tale that turned mostly medical when I looked away from the light.

"The half hour ride to the hospital at 2 a.m. was black, peaceful and portentous. I was becoming more aware by the second that I was taking a one-way trip out of my old life. I was attuned to every shadow, every curve of the road, every shard of moonlight that lead the way. The Dixie Chicks sung “Landslide” on the radio and I was overwhelmed. Then the hospital was on my right, and I looked at the elongated glass façade of the state-of-the-art facility that I had driven by so many times, never knowing when I’d end up inside, but always aware that I would not come out the same.

We walked in the emergency entrance as directed by the on-call doctor and signed in. A Women and Infants nurse was dispatched as our escort. On our way to the labor and delivery wing, we wound through an emergency ward of moaners, pukers and passed-out invalids presumably drawn in by the pull of that full moon. “This is much worse than usual,” said the nurse. 'I’m glad you’re not having contractions so we can just get through here fast.'”

My research now indicates that the moon's effect is focused on the amniotic fluids. Just as she influences the earth's tides, she has reach into the wet parts of ourselves. In an article about the moon's effect on natural childbirth, author David Rose writes that, as a woman's body readies itself for birth, "the amniotic sac becomes distended to the point where it will easily burst if put under pressure. Under normal circumstances, the pressure of labor contractions bursts the sac. During a full moon, the pressure caused by the moon’s effect on the water inside the sac can cause the same things to happen, but without the accompanying contractions."

He goes on to say that "natural childbirth doesn’t always move forward and with no other signs of labor present, the obstetrician may decide to induce the birth." His own study of the personal stories of women he knows found that of 8 women with births set into motion when their water broke at the full moon, there were no contractions present in five of them.

It is no official study by any means, but it sheds so much (moon)light on my own experience. My water broke in a slow trickle in the afternoon before the full moon. Absolutely no contractions accompanied the rupture until they were brought on forcibly by Pitocin 20 hours later. I was led to believe this slow leak with no contractions was a somewhat odd occurrence, but I should've trusted my body and nature more than that. Nothing is new under the sun...or the moon.

Whoomp (There It Is)

Number Two has precious few words. I might worry about it more if he didn't do things like shout out "Whoomp, there it is" at random intervals over the course of the day. He heard the song one time, a week and a half ago, and up it pops in casual conversation to this day. I will admit that it sounds more like "Whoop, deer-is," but for a 19-month-old whose entire vocabulary consists of "ball," "dog," "dad," and "thanks," there is something impressive about his grasp of the Tag Team concept.

"I'm taking it back to the old school,
'Cause I'm an old fool who's so cool"

(Seriously, though, doesn't he look about 19 years old in this picture?)

I Finished NaBloPoMo '09

I saw this badge on the National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo) site. It best represented my successful completion of the challenge, so I took it. It reminds me of my favorite sarcastic retro slogan:

Anyhoo.

This was the easiest go I've had at NaBloPoMo since I started participating in the thirty-day blog posting challenge three years ago. I think the secret was in the fact that, for the first time in my writing life, I gave up all regard for the opinions of others. I didn't censor myself or hold out for brilliance that I was completely delusional to think would ever come. I just wrote. Many of my posts this month were longer than those I usually commit to this blog. I'm pretty sure they were more boring. They were the essence of what Anne Lamott terms the "shitty first draft" in her archetypal book on the writing process, Bird By Bird.

I'm not sure if her words were working at my subconscious when I embarked on NaBloPoMo this month or if I somehow came to the conclusion on my own, but, either way, her message exemplifies my guiding force in posting daily throughout November. "Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people," Lamott wrote. "It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the main obstacle between you and a shitty first draft."

In letting go of that dictatorial inner voice, I was able to write a lot. The fact that most of it was shitty doesn't mean there weren't pieces of goodness in there: images that just might show up in the novel I am starting on; memories that can help shape my characters; and experiments in style and grammar that have, at the very least, potential to enhance my craft. While my posts this month are likely to remain "shitty first drafts," it's reasonable to think that they might spawn other shitty first drafts that will actually go on to become something more.

Now that I understand the cramping effects of perfectionism, the next most important step is making sure I don't lose the discipline of the past thirty days. Discipline has always been my biggest deficit. It's a whole other chapter in Lamott's book; one that I will, like everything else, have to learn for myself, and in my own sweet time.

The Handyman

The Partner can now add "Exterminator" to his resume of life.

I thought it would take a professional to eradicate the pests that were leaving their excretions from stove-top utensil rest to the seat of Number Two's high chair. The Partner disagreed. Armed with information from the Internet and an arsenal from Home Depot, he set to plugging up every crevice in the kitchen with steel wool and foam sealant. It seems to have worked.

Every time I think of him knee-deep in poop where he pulled out the dishwasher to lay waste to the mouse colony, I am amazed at the lengths to which he will go in order to avoid paying an outside party. He's not phased by pellet-sized proof of diseased products of digestion. He is not deterred by mishaps involving foam sealant on his forearm that must be removed with paint thinner. He just does what he has to do. I will never cease to be impressed at how competently he manages the thankless tasks that keep our house in running order.

As The Boss likes to say, he really does come in handy sometimes.

Keeping the Kiss

This is how Number Two kisses, with his bottom lip pushed out and his chin jutting in the direction of the recipient. I've seen cute things in my day, but not like this. I never want him to stop. More than that, I don't want to forget it.

I can't remember anything. By the time Number Two got here, it was as if I was taking care of a newborn--then an infant, then a toddler--for the first time. The Boss's babyhood was not even a memory. I know from mining my mother and mother-in-law for their own reminiscences that this is not unusual. They don't remember a thing, either, though they deny it to varying degrees. I won't deny it. I think the forgetting is one of the most woeful parts of being a parent.

But this time I have a picture and I have these words. I will make this memory stick.

I'm keeping the kiss.

Learning to Count

This morning was a rare opportunity to lay in bed with nothing pressing on us but The Boss as she bounced all over our duvet-covered limbs. The Partner was on edge, ready to double over in protection of the family jewels if one of The Boss's feet landed in the wrong place. I vacillated between trying to fall back asleep and making the most of this just-the-three-of-us time. Rain beat against the roof.

"I'd hate to be any shopper waiting in line for Door Buster sales at 4 this morning," he said.

"Amen." I nodded in happy acknowledgement of our dry and uncrowded environs. Relatively speaking, anyway. The Boss did a flying squirrel and landed between us.

"Hey, The Boss's friend B. counted to 200 the other day in the car when I picked her up for a playdate," I mentioned to The Partner, apropos of nothing but the nagging need I have to compare my kids to every other child within a five year age radius.

"Let's hear how high you can count," The Partner prompted. Numbers are not The Boss's strong suit. She's like me in that regard.

The Boss obliged her father. She stumbled here and there, requiring a bit of help each time she hit a new group of tens.

"18, 19, 11, 20," she said.

"No, not 11. It's 19, 20," The Partner got her back on the right track. She chugged along until 29.

"Thirty," he prodded. Then, as something of an aside: "It should really be threety, shouldn't it?"

We giggled, me moreso than The Boss. I was embarrasingly amused. "Yeah, and twenty should be twoty! " I squealed. "Twoty-one, twoty-two..." I couldn't go on. I rolled over, incoherent, on twoty-two.

The Boss pulled energy from my laughter and threw herself in a gleeful heap near where The Partner's hip rested alongside mine. "Ah, the fun of the times," she sighed as she settled into the feathery nest of down. "The laughter of the family."

The Partner and I looked at each other over The Boss's head, shaking our heads and laughing out loud. We do this a lot. She is always saying things that bring out our mutual amazement in this thing we've created. Ah, the fun of the times, I repeated, just to hear it again. The laughter of the family. The Boss snuggled into our giggling mass.

Sometimes I think our daughter is four going on twoty-nine.

Happy Thanksgiving

The Boss has a well defined and passionately protected sense of self. She doesn't take well to being told that a belief she holds true is false. It's like the time (yesterday, in fact; if it was any less recent I would've already forgotten it) that The Partner dismissed something she told him with an "in your dreams." That's what he said. In your dreams. I thought it was a bit rude when I heard it, but I didn't comment. Turns out, I didn't have to. The Boss defended herself.

"Dreams can come true, you know," she informed him. She was matter of fact and emphatic. She may have been just a teensy bit haughty, too.

Yes! I thought. Thatta girl.

The Partner shrugged his shoulders and cocked his head to the side in concession. I could tell from his smile that The Boss had hit him in that oft-wounded spot somewhere between the heart and the funny bone (where would that be, exactly--the armpit?). She is one of the only people in the world who can change his perception of things. She is the one in the best position to make him realize that, yes, dreams can come true. I was proud of her creativity and conviction. I was grateful that she knew the perfect way to deliver a message that her father wouldn't have given a second thought to if it had come from anyone but her.

This holiday, I'm thankful for fathers and daughters.

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.