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April 18, 2011

And then the universe laughed in my face

There are some days that end like this: F finally walks through the door, I hand him a baby, give him an update and tell him I'm leaving. Not forever, of course. Just for now. For twenty minutes, or an hour. However long it takes for the ringing in my ears to subside, for sanity to return.

I get in the car, turn up the radio, roll down the window and just drive. No destination, no grand plan, no screaming or chattering from the back seat. Just music and breeze and freedom. Today I ended up at the ocean, as I usually do.

I got out of the car, coffee from the drive-thru Starbucks in hand, and walked down to the beach. The air was still cold, but it carried the scent of spring. Cherry blossoms and freshly cut grass. And perspective slowly returned: A crying baby, a broken vase, a dirty house, a lunch time tantrum ("Fine. I'm never eating anything ever again!") - frustrating as hell, sure, but not worth losing it over.

And then I felt a slight thump on my shoulder. Was it a friend who happened to be out wandering the same stretch of beach? A stranger stopping to chat about the gorgeous day? The hand of God, maybe, reaching out to tell me that everything is going to be okay?

No. It was bird shit. On my shoulder, in my hair, and seeping down my back.

Some days just suck.

(ps - Project Happy is still underway... but it took a time-out today.)

April 18, 2011 | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack

April 10, 2011

Just another day at the zoo


Mads, as she comes bouncing into the kitchen, laughing, jumping, screaming:
"Mom, guess what I'm on right now, but don't tell me, okay?"
Me, in my head: "Crack." Me, out loud: "Okay."
Mads: "Okay... Did you guess a donkey?"

Close enough.

Happy weekend...

April 10, 2011 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

April 07, 2011

When babies attack

I snuck into my bedroom today, sat in the dark and sent my husband the following text: "Your baby is a spazz."

I know it's not all that maternal a thing to say, but in my own defence it's the truth. Maybe it's teething or some kind of developmental spurt, or maybe a voodoo doctor crept into our house in the middle of the night and cast an 11-month hex on her, but for whatever reason A has morphed into crazy baby and I'm having a hard time adjusting.

For one thing, she yells. All day long, she yells. Not because she has a wet diaper, not because she's hungry. Because she's plain old pissed off, usually at me. She gets into these tiny baby rages because I've dared to, say, close the bathroom door or stop her from attacking the big screen TV or remove the ball of dog hair from her mouth. And it's amazing how loud she yells. If I weren't so concerned about the lasting damage being done to my eardrums I might even be impressed by it.

When a small child who can't even talk yet tries her best to rip you a new one, well, it's off-putting. My heart races, my face flushes, I get sort of dizzy. And then I remember that I'm the boss of her and try to dissuade, distract, tsk tsk, and claw my way back up the family hierarchy.

Every once in a while she gets the better of me, though, and I say, a little too loudly, "Okay! ENOUGH! Chill out already!" And then of course it's big sister to the rescue: "Don't get mad at her, Mom! We don't get mad at babies!"

They're teaming up on me already, these pint-sized dictators. It's time to retreat, have a big glass of wine and rethink my strategy.

April 7, 2011 | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

April 04, 2011

The big 5. Oh no.

The past few days have been a hurricane of wrapping paper and party hats and pink frosting. In case you missed it: Mads is 5.

Five! How can that be? She's way too young to be 5. I'm way too young for her to be 5. Forget the midlife crisis, I'm having a kindergarten one.

I'd pull the sheets over my head and ignore it if I could, but of course she won't let me. "Remember I'm a 5-year-old now, Mom?" "I can do it by myself, I'm a 5-year-old." "That was a 5-year-old hug." "The tag on my shirt says 5, and I'm 5 now - it's perfect!"

And she does seem older, somehow. Part of it is that she just has her own life going on - her own friends, her own ideas, her own style (skirts, always skirts). But beyond that she seems more independent, more sure of herself, less... fretful. As though the ground beneath her little feet has suddenly become more stable. She just seems to trust it - and her whole world - a tiny bit more.

As hard as it sometimes is to watch her grow up, and grow away from me, it helps to see that she's doing such a good job of it.

Have I mentioned lately how much I love this girl? Oh my. How I love this girl.

April 4, 2011 | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

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"Having a two-year-old is like having a blender that you don't have the top for." ~Jerry Seinfeld.

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