let's pretend we're friends!

It's been a rough couple days adjusting from the itinerant lifestyle that ended last Friday night (I have NEVER been so happy to see the City of Campbell sign). We ended up going to San Francisco the very next day (45 minutes? Psh. That's nuthin'.) so Zach and Addie could attend the Yo Gabba Gabba concert while my mom, Louie, and I gorged ourselves on sushi in Japan Center. We made the mistake of staying in the city too long thinking we could enjoy Union Square and some holiday shopping, which ended up with us getting caught in a downpour, me having to nurse Louie in a shoe store, and all of us waiting thirty minutes just to get our car out of the valet parking garage. I started to experience Road-Trip-PTSD when the kids began to cry and whine while we were trapped downtown in what was essentially a parking lot filled with angry SUV's and pushy pedestrians. We made it home though, and vowed not to get in the car unless absolutely necessary for the next few weeks.

*****

So of course I break that pact today and pack the kids up to visit the Children's Discovery Museum. I was determined to get out the apathetic funk I've been feeling, and we hadn't been there in awhile. I scored a close parking spot and made sure to feed the meter so we had plenty of time to play. Yes! Pro-active and responsible!

I always feel so awkward in public spaces for children. Parks and museums especially, since all the adults are forced to be in close proximity with one another but do our darndest to pretend the other doesn't exist. Of course not everyone is stand-offish. There are many different types of parents out there...

The most enthusiastic and hands-on parents, usually fathers armed with expensive cameras, are the ones who normally work full-time jobs and took the day off to spend time with their kid. They have boundless energy that's channeled into chasing their child around, crawling with them through the tunnels, proudly exclaiming over their amazing ball-throwing abilities, and hovering over every activity with a huge grin on their face. It's really very sweet. I think Grandma's and babysitters come next in the pyramid of happy, active participants.

Next are the moms who have obviously been to the museum 4,382 times, because this is one of the few enclosed spaces to play in when it's cold outside and you don't want to drag screaming children out of mall stores. They usually have an older kid running around while a baby sits in their lap or hangs in a Baby Bjorn. They look really tired. I think I fall into this category now.

Then there are those who look bored shitless and super resentful of the fact that they are sitting here watching their kid finger-paint rather then leading a team-meeting in a boardroom. They check their phones a lot and offer a wan smile when their child shows them their masterpiece.

genius!

However, it really depends on the individual when it comes to adult conversation. I think most parents prefer to avoid interaction with each other. We prefer our children's play-time to be like one-night stands: no names, no future plans, no meaningful personal information exchanged. The most that's usually offered is a query into the age of your child, and then a nod and smile, like, "okay, that's all I'm going to ask you now." I can't really blame anyone though. We're all tired, and it can be mind-numbing saying the same thing over and over every time your toddler slobbers on another kid's toy. Plus, having children doesn't change one's personality and suddenly transforn you into an extrovert.

Yet everywhere I go, I get bored enough to try and work up a conversation with another adult. This is usually a mistake. I end up sounding incredibly awkward and dorky, and after several failed attempts at starting friendly banter, I tend to give up and join the little people at the miniature kitchen table to nom on plastic fruit.

Here are some gems I offered up today:

To a friendly-looking mother in the bubble-making exhibit:

"I guess this means I don't have to give my kid a bath now, right?" (She turns toward me and gives a half-hearted smile while revealing that she is on her cell-phone. She ushers her son away.)

****

To a man who must have been at least six and a half feet tall with hair all the way down his back, wearing a scary trench coat:

"Wow, I thought I had hard time chasing my daugher around the tunnels and crawl-spaces...hahaha...you must barely fit through them! hahaha."

"No, I fit through them okay." (obviously perturbed at my joke about his height which I'm sure has been commented on his entire life.)

He was very tall.

****

To a harried-looking father who is trying to keep his daughter from getting paint all over herself in the art-studio as I point to the butterfly habitat:

"Looks like one of em' didn't make it, huh? Like, it's dead! hahaha!"

To which he glances at the habitat and then back to me, and shrugs, "Yeah, I guess so."

It was very dead.

And so it goes...

****

I still felt pretty triumphant about our outing, regardless of my social skills, until we were on the freeway halfway home and I noticed the traffic ticket flapping against the windshield. GAAARRRRRRRHULKSMASH. I couldn't believe it. There was still fifteen minutes left on the meter when we left the parking space. It must have been a mistake! When we got home, I opened the envelope and read that I was parked on a red curb. Um, no, I wasn't. Unless a red curb constitutes six inches of scraped off red paint at the very edge of the parking spot. Which had a working meter. In between two other parked cars. Whatever, California, I thought you were more laid back than that asshole, Washington, but that's obviously not the case. I've now racked up $600 in traffic tickets within a week. Let's see what happens tomorrow...maybe I'll be in a car accident! Maybe I'll get my 84th hospital bill from a private company saying I owe $300 for pain medication administered to me after Louie's birth! Just kidding on the car accident...that's not very funny.

It's a good thing I have zen-master friends I can talk to when shit like this happens. After I kicked the car tire as hard as I could (not smart), I called a woman who very calmly talked me away from the edge of a cliff. I now have a homework assignment: find a baby-sitter to give Zach and I a break every so often, and call two friends. I think I can handle that. Breathe in, breathe out. Moving on with my day.

I hope no more traffic violations (of both the car/parent variety) are involved.

Why Facebook is Totally Evil...Plus: The Difference Between Thing #1 and Thing #2

I "de-activated" my account ten minutes ago, to much less fanfare than I expected (I don't know what I was expecting, some sort of departing ceremony?). I participated in a real-time messaging frenzy amongst friends to make dinner plans next week, then proceeded to my Account page, clicked "De-activate account", and wouldn't you know it, discovered that re-activating my profile is as simple as LOGGING IN AGAIN.

WTF, Facebook? How is that supposed to safe-guard my Facebook Sobriety?!

I guess I have to look at it the same way as puttin' down the bottle. It's always going to exist in this world, but I've officially stepped over an invisible line where now I have a choice.

It boggles my mind how intertwined my life had become with this social media website. I perused through my wall history last night to see how far it would take me (B.A.-Before Addie), and copied/pasted my favorite updates in a Word document so I can reference it when I actually get around to writing in the kid's milestones. Um, speaking of which, what kind of horrible parent am I that I never wrote down a single weight/height/age marker for Addie since she's been born? I don't know how much she weighed at her 2-week, 1-month, 2-month, 4-month, 18-month checkup! God, I should've at least shared it with the world on Facebook.

So far it feels like I have done everything totally backwards when it comes to having kids. With Addie (my first), I was militantly utilitarian and a mega cheapskate. Hand-me-downs all the way! Who cares if she's dressed solely in boy's clothing for the first four months of her life; this is 2010 people, let the gender lines be blurred! I think the only items we spent money on were cloth diapers (which I compulsively researched on quality/price-points like my very life depended on it). Louie's wardrobe definitely consists of some hand-me-downs, but they are from a dear friend's son who she always dressed adorably, and they are all in perfect condition. Plus, I bought cute, manly little pieces here and there once I found out I was having a boy. Like this shirt:

Robots Rule.

Addie, on the other hand, looked like she was dressed by aliens who came down to Earth and were handed a miniature human and a pile of mis-matched baby boy clothes:

"Can you tell my mother has never dressed a baby?"

At least my friends and family took pity on my poor, androgynous-looking child and bought her some new, girly clothes:

Which would still never save me from the shame of dressing her like this:

"What did I do to deserve this?"

That's right. She is wearing an old work-out tank top belonging to my mother, circa 1985, with blue baby legwarmers, and a hoodie with a whale on it. Add to that her male-pattern baldness and she was quite the little stunner. I'm not saying I'm proud, people.*

Dressing/purchasing of baby-items is just ONE of the many things that has changed since having a second child. However, this post is devolving into an example of why my eldest will be speaking to a therapist about me in twenty years so I'm going to stop for now. At least I can show her this photo one day and say, "See! I learned, and look at how relatively normal you appeared by 18 months":

Hmmm....

*Although to be fair, she was only wearing that tank top because she got poop all over her onesie while we were visiting my mom,and, I, expert packer of baby-things, forgot to pack extra clothes.

Rumble In The Crib

The other day, I had a moment where I felt quite proud that I outsmarted someone. A baby. My eight month old baby. I know, I can see the look on your faces now...

The weather's been like the surface of the sun as of late so Addie is naked most of the time. Very cute, but problematic since she's figured out how easily she can rip the tabs off her diapers. Rii-ip. Stick 'em back on. Rip. Rip. (evil giggle) Back on. It's become a futile game we play.

When I was worried enough she would pee on our bed again, I finally grabbed a pair of dirty shorts crumpled on the floor and shoved them on her. Ha! Take THAT, baby! I thought triumphantly. She kept clawing at herself for a minute, figured the game was over, shrugged her chubby little shoulders like she was going, "meh, whatever gets you off, crazy lady," and tried to roll off the bed.

Small victories...

"You may have won this battle, but you will not win the war!"

(also, she's not in floating in purgatory, our bedsheets are black.)

One Heckuva Baby-The Swearing Dilemma

Our daughter is going to be eight months old in three weeks. According to the books, she may start to crawl, pull herself up on the furniture, sit up, play peek-a-boo, and eat finger foods. Those are fun and all, but the most stirring change I have been witness to lately is her ability to observe and copy what we are doing.  She watches me clap my hands, and she clumsily claps hers. She watches me pet Zoe, and she tries ripping her ears off (almost the same). My favorite Simon Says so far is opening and closing my mouth like a fish, making a pop, pop, pop sound, which she ever so graciously indulges me in.  But this revelation of mimicry is also a bit troubling, because it makes the whole "being a role model"-thing REAL---that every action she sees us perform, her little brain synapses are strengthening and telling her to try the same. And that especially goes for language. 

Now, Zach and I are relatively intelligent folk. We throw in some SAT-level words in our day-to-day conversation, and Zach loves to babble differential equations to Addie when they sit on the couch. But we also swear...a LOT.  Not like every other word is fuck, but you have the usual shit, hell, asswipe peppered into daily conversation.  And we've come to the point where we know she is keenly listening to our speech patterns, and we have to act on curtailing, or banishing, the "bad" words altogether. Preferably before her first word is cocksucker. 

I know it can be done. We have perfectly polite conversations with nary a douchebag when we're talking to friends, colleagues, and the check-out person at Trader Joe's. But you know how your slang, your tone, your level of vocabulary, changes depending on the context of the situation and the people you're with? When Zach and I get together, there's just a natural inclination to swear--it adds color, depth...GRAVITAS, to the stories we tell each other at the end of the day.  

"That bad, troubled, drunk man swerved into my lane and almost killed me today." 

"Helen told me she and her husband are making love like jackrabbits to get pregnant again." 

Just doesn't have the same pizzazz, si? 

Of course, my fear is that we will have a child like the ones you see on Nanny 911 (or whatever the show is called with the British lady who looks like she gets kinky in the bedroom). The ones who bite people and kill cats and tell their parents to go fuck themselves. I've seen a five year old gleefully saying "shit, fuck, shit, fuck" in a sing-songy voice on that show. But I also have a feeling these children are the product of more then just swearing. 

At $.05/word, you owe me about..a Nintendo Wii. 

I know Adeline will eventually hear all the words we try to shield her from. And I'm torn, because I believe that words only have as much power as we give them.  So should we stop swearing altogether? Wouldn't it make the words more powerful and appealing for kids who often want to do exactly what they're told not to? Do we try our best to curb our language around her, and if she asks about it, tell her they are "adult words" and shouldn't be used with her peers? Or am I making WAY too much of this and just continue with our colorful conversations? I remember my Dad swearing intermittently; my mother, never. But I never ended up repeating his most popular phrase ("Get your head out of your ass.") to my 10-year old friends, and still don't to this day.

I guess there's only so much you can do as a parent to teach your child how to express herself without swearing, and then at some point, they're going to decide whether to incorporate that language into their speech.  I'm genuinely curious what other parents' experiences have been like regarding this subject---Do you have a curse jar you put money into when you're caught? Did you explain to your child that it's a "bad" word, or, that it's perfectly acceptable in certain situations, which they may discern when they're older? Did you curse when they were a baby, and now you're paying for it? 

Any funny stories with little ones and words? :)