A Daily Dose of Zen Sarcasm!

Metamorphosing

Thicket of Cherries, originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

Spring is ironic because it's a beautiful event that is the walloping harbinger of life, and then death.

It happens so quickly, all this beauty. All this fragile beauty that makes some of us so sick and renders others of us into zombies who can't drive and who think they can find parking down by the Tidal Basin when it's 11:30 am, 79 degrees, and more than ten thousand other people have had a similar idea.

And then the long summer settles in, and nature becomes fat and matronly and eventually she becomes ugly and jowly and then she becomes a haggard, disheveled hag who chases you away with icy words and an acid tongue of frost.

Bla, bla, bla. I lost some weight.

I find myself emerging from a cocoon of ugly and haggard and jowly and for the first time in years I feel light, like I can enjoy the sun. Call it postpartum depression that got stuck in the DC mail; call it sudden impending modest amounts of hotness getting to my head; call it really bad timing, considering that I'm here and feeling good and pretty for once in a long time, and there's no one to cast admiring glances in my direction.

Well, no one except for this one kid, who had to have been over ten years younger than I-- he seemed to want to flirt with me earlier today, despite the fact that I was in feeding Thunderdome with the toddler.

I was baffled. I haven't really had to fend off the admiring glances for the past eleventy-or-so years, but it seems there is a first time for everything.

A first time for everything, Including having a very young guy think it's dead sexy that I'm getting pelted with partly-chewed pieces of bread. Maybe he ate paste as a kid.

Surrealist In DC

It's not just the fact that the District of Columbia is a little evil empire onto itself-- a little oasis of rabidly outspoken with such a dramatic and shocking disparity between rich and poor that it boggles the mind whenever one crosses the river.

It's not even the fact that the city's zeitgeist, like the city streets, is filled with enough tangents to make even the more sane among us get lost in the zaniness.

And it's not that it's March and things are insane.  No wait-- I guess it is partly that it is March and things do go insane a little.   But I honestly wonder why I've had several encounters with the surreal lately.  It's a little weird (ha!).

_________

The first surreal moment came a few weeks ago, back when it was bitterly cold and we thought spring would never ever get here.  As I started on a walk, bundled up from here to eternity and wearing long underwear --just so you get an uncomfortable visual-- underneath my thickest pair of jeans, I saw a woman down the street.

She was in a bathrobe and shower slippers, with a towel over her head.  She had a confused, shy smile on her face, and was clutching a comb with one hand and desperately trying to keep the towel over her head like a modesty veil with the other one.

As I got closer and closer to her, I realize I panicked.  I had Don Meow strapped to my back and I somehow became alarmed that this seemingly defenseless and confused woman could somehow hurt us.  Other people walking up and down the street at that time --a prime time of day for work people, might I add--  were openly ignoring her.

She didn't seem to mind, or to want to be helped in any way.  Weird: normally when people are standing in the middle of the street, they tend to work the corner and either have some strange story about how they lost their change and, "could you spare $0.25 for a phonecall? Or maybe $5?"  (Strange Guy at the CVS on 12th does this) or, "Would you please break this $20 because I need only small bills, now."

But this woman, except for her face of confusion and her odd smile, was mute.

I walked on by. 

And then sheer panic assailed me, because what if she is someone's grandmother or aunt?  Or what if she doesn't speak English or is mentally ill or accidentally wandered away from an asylum or a special care facility? 

So I did what anyone with a ridiculous amount of time to spare would have done: I stared at her for ten minutes from a prudent distance and then called the police. 

Here is the surreal part: the 911 dispatch didn't question my call; was incredibly nice and polite; and sent police in my direction within five more minutes. 

And as I was walking away, a beat cop was turning the corner and walking toward me and (presumably) toward the lady.  As I approached him to ask if he was going that way, I heard him say the following,

"Okay mommy.  I love you too. *kiss*"

Then he put his phone away and politely informed me that there was a car on the way but that he was headed in that direction, too.

_______

Mommy?

6 ~ The Lovers

Following the theme of yesterday's (ha-ha) post, it sometimes hits me with the force of what I would imagine a speeding train would feel that I have two actual, live, cute little boys.

And that these boys once took over the precious real estate south of my ribs.  And that they made me pee a lot and robbed me of valuable food-storing space.

And it strikes me as amazing that they love each other.  I hope you will not think it's creepy that I've chosen to write about them for this particular card: love and lovers aren't just strictly about romantic love.  Love and feeling take many different shapes, and to me this relationship illustrates the simple power of the card.

_________

Herr Meow, being the older and wiser one, sometimes grapples with moral issues related to the fact that this other being who seems to look a lot like him --though this is possibly not something that's ever crossed his mind except for when we're looking at pictures-- wants attention or cries or tries to drool all over his Favorite Toy at the time (the "Favorite Toy" in question being anything that Don Meow has happened to take and might possibly belong to Herr Meow).  He sometimes hesitates or shoves unkindly --almost instinctively, beyond thought-- and sometimes he acts like a baby and starts to make noise at the same time his brother does.

On the other hand, Don Meow is always ready: one look at that beloved face, and he is off and gurgling and laughing and squealing whenever his brother does anything remotely funny, or even human.  A smile or a gitchie-goo or a fart noise will send the little baby into paroxysms of squealing laughter.

For his part, Big Brother does try to control and sabotage a little, but he mostly just wants to hold and hug and carry and make laugh and tickle and hold and hug.  He breathes his brother in; he lifts him; he puts him down.  He shows him infinite patience even as the baby drools on him or screeches or pulls his hair-- he likes it!  Do it some more!  Until it becomes, "no no nonononooooo," before starting all over again.

They seek each other; they laugh; one cries; one pouts; they seek each other again.  It's this pure emotion, this whole having a brother bit, that makes me overwhelmed with conflicting feelings of happiness and wariness and exhaustion and the teeniest bit of envy for that pureness of feeling, that having-a-siblingness that I, much like being able to pee standing up, will never quite know for myself.

5 ~ The Hierophant

I am cheating, and the Hierophant, were he to exist, knows. 

Yes, I changed that date setting.

Yes, I am trying to make you believe that I actually blogged last night, when I really didn't.

You see, my miniature Hierophant turned nine months old today, and he hasn't let me sleep much.

But I do believe you knew that already: I'm thinking you do read this drivel after all.

___________

I try to con Don Meow into doing things my way, but his little innate wisdom doesn't let me pull anything --fast or slow-- on him.

Those little baby pup seal eyes look at me with a clean slate-mind behind them.  He is clean and pure, even if foul things come out of that little bumhole.

In his little innocent way, he is a bridge between something beyond me-- something beyond words and something stronger than feeling or duty.  It's something that Herr Meow used to be able to do, with his own formerly baby-seal-pup-eyed stare.  Now he speaks and squeals and demands and understands-- he has fallen from that suspended state of babylike grace.  This does not make him any less exciting or charming-- it just makes him be on the long road to adulthood. 

It also makes him fun, and sneaky in his own way.  He now understands what it means to lie.

Don Meow looks on, and his chubby little hands of doom-- grasping everything with vise-like grip until it's destroyed-- reach out for us.  He smiles when he smiles and in between he drools.

And all along, he smells like that soft, sweet, innocent babyness that is so new it hurts a little.

File Under "Quit Staring At Me"

I know you were thinking you were a cool, compassionate man, sitting there with your coworkers and your cool tags,enjoying your business lunch, sipping on Diet Coke.  Hey, I would have even toasted your choice of beverage --mine too!-- as the choice for us eternal dieter types.

Except that you wouldn't stop staring at me.  Or, more specifically, at Don Meow.

________

For those of you who haven't recently scraped extraneous child-related goop from your clothes, allow me to fill you in on something: teeth, for all their food-chopping and tag-removal virtue are quite a pain in the ass when they are erupting out of the gums of your seven-month old.  My seven-month old, who is quite the drooler and I am beginning to suspect has been actually teething since the day he was born --either that or he is quite dramatic in all his elocutions--  has been exceedingly cranky on account of his lower right incisor starting to strain those precious velvety pink gums.

The poor little sweetie.  One moment he's happy as can be, and the next he is like a rabid dog, shoving anything he can into his painful maw and biting down to make the pain go away.

And this was what you were witnessing, sir.

Not that I could have conveyed any of this with my eyes or my mind, really, as I was far too busy shushing the kid and shoving anything I could into his mouth to prevent him as much as possible from hollering anymore. 

But then you'd look at me, even as I busily tried to hide behind the miserable baby.  And you'd keep looking at me, making me uncomfortable with that vague expression of contemptuous pity that you shone my way like an unwanted beacon.

Don't do that.

Randomata: File Under "Cool Stuff"

Hey there Interwebs!  I'm writing you a quick missive here because I want you to do two things:

1. I would like you to pay a visit to my generous friend, SoloMother.  Not only is she a talented writer, but she is also giving away these totally cute and fully recyclable lunch totes from ReSnackIt!  Even if you don't have kids, many of you take your lunch to work; and even if you have no kids and don't work, surely in your leisure you must have time to go to a picnic-- and therefore you need to go to my friend's blog and enter the giveaway! :o)

2. And speaking of cool things, Herr Meow recently got to test a toy from the kind people over at eBeanstalk, who are dedicated to selecting good, safe educational toys and learning baby gifts.  They sent us the cutest wooden toy called Activity Bus from Plan Toys, a maker of eco-friendly wooden toys. We got to play (and play, and play, and play) with this adorable little wooden school bus that turns into a classroom and the possibilities seemed endless.  Herr Meow loved to pretend that the teacher and student that came with the set were father and son, for instance.  They also had a turn as pirates and firefighters and he spent countless hours making voices and moving the figurines around.  Even Don Meow was transfixed by the pretty, bright colors-- however we did make sure to keep his chubby little fingers away from the figurines, to prevent choking. 

Anyhoo-- there's something to spice up your humpday.  I will be back later in the week to finally deliver my boob-related post.  Or perhaps I will finally tell you about my brush with a vice squad sting operation.  Oh I know-- the wonders never cease. 

Half a Year of Chunky Awesomeness

Little grunts and shifts.  A sigh.  Peaceful sleep.

As strange as it may sound, I am sometimes in denial of having a second child.  I find myself thinking that it's not possible that I ever was pregnant again, let alone that I gave birth and currently have a baby, sleeping soundly in the crib next to me.

A baby, born six months ago today.  It seems like just yesterday  --if yesterday had been about seventy degrees cooler-- that Monsieur Meow and I were speeding along on a very early Friday morning.  While it was all happening it seemed like it was taking forever; the contractions, the car ride, the labor.  But if I stop to think how it all happened, not only did I go into labor five days early but once my water broke, the kid was out and screaming bloody murder in under four hours total.

Now that's service.

Anyway, now I am in denial about my baby is getting bigger and wanting to do things like eat food ; sleep less; destroy towers of blocks that his beloved big brother builds for him; or have a burning and loudly-expressed desire to crawl across the floor, even if it means attempting to do so on his forehead.

(Aside: And this one likes to eat, it seems.  I'd been doing a couple of dry runs, introducing a little bit of water some days, banana, and even a small mouthful of bean insides, to all of which he seemed to respond favorably.  Today we tried plain rice cereal and he actually snatched the full spoon out of my hand and gummed it eagerly, even as he made this horrible, what-are-you-feeding-me-woman face.  Think of the most adorable thing EVAR and multiply it by ten. Million.  Yeah.)

I am barely used to having a new little bundle of chunkiness in my life, and said bundle of chunky wants to wriggle out of my grasp and become a little boy already. 

And part of me is not ready, but the other part is really enjoying all this, and looking forward to all the changes to come.

Happy half-birthday to you, dear sweet Don Meow.

Maternal Evolution

Face-off, originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

This little cute chunky monkey face, a.k.a. Don Meow, likes to keep me up nights.

Oh sleep, how I miss thee.

He also likes to pinch and chomp on limbs; he likes to make cute random talky noises and the most darling high-pitched squeals for no reason; he enjoys being talked to, especially in Spanish; he does not particularly enjoy smiling for pictures; and he positively adores covering the world with his drool so much that his brother, Herr Meow, has decided to start calling him "The Slug."

(Proud Mama notes: Srsly? He came up with a nickname all on his own! A correctly applied nickname!)

_______

When people tell you that every baby is different and that you simply cannot and must not compare, they are usually trying to soothe ruffled tempers because someone's kid is going through a milestone faster than another's, or because someone's kid is filling out (and in) their diaper much better than another's child.

It's only when you become the parent of more than one child that you get to realize that, indeed, comparisons are pointless. Or at least comparisons amongst your offspring are pointless and potentially hurtful.

Don't get me wrong: the comparison monster likes to rear its ugly head all the time. Did Herr Meow get to be as chunky? Is Don Meow more drooly? Was the first-born more camera-friendly? Is the second-born blessed with more expressive eyebrows?

Who communicated better? Who will be taller? Who is the better eater? Who slept less or more or better or longer or more often?

And yet, for all the inner monologue that sometimes keeps me up and plagues me and makes me wonder if the Good Mothers of the World ever do this, when I actually focus on the children and stop questioning for a few seconds, I find that I can just let go and enjoy.

I can enjoy the soft, chubby, ripply deliciousness that the little baby basks in with his whole self. And I can do so while I also enjoy the lean, low-body-fat, creamy, austere landscape that barely holds babylike features within my little preschooler hellion.

I can nuzzle into the buttery chin and sniff Don Meow's milky babyness, while also snuggling against Herr Meow's lanky, mini-dynamo frame.

And I can laugh at Herr Meow's budding sense of humor and comedic timing, such as when he, embarrassingly correctly, admonished one of his little friends to "stop being such a douchebag" (reason #8375 why I would be going to Hell, if such a place existed); while I also laugh at Don Meow, who blew the tiniest of raspberries today and then cracked up at his own sound (fart sounds NEVER get old).

And I can marvel that these two children were once an actual part of my body, while now they are a part of my very existence and a very real pain in my behind (or "butt-hoooooole" as Herr Meow might gleefully declare-- this being reason #8376, by the way).

And really, when you're talking about something being a part of yourself, how can you compare? I mean, objectively i suppose you can compare your spleen to your eye, but it's all a part of the same whole. And so it is with children.

If only I could get them to sleep when I sleep, we'd really be in business.

All Hail, The MissTache

There have been some very turmoil-y days in the Meowhold.

For one, we are finally the owners of some sweet solar panels upon our roof. We will be living a little more off the grid and this is immensely exciting, especially to Monsieur Meow.  For me, to be perfectly honest, the most exciting part is not to have the incredibly nice guys who installed the solar panels going up and down the stairs a million times a day. 

Priorities, I suppose.

Herr Meow has finished his first year of slightly more serious school, and this was exciting too.  He celebrated by deciding he needed to walk home to a local restaurant... on his own.  We found him almost three blocks away from home, with his pail and shovel, determined to make it to the Argonaut.  I don't think I've ever been more scared of the unknown in my life.

Don Meow is now working on sprouting teeth --he is a consummate drooler-- and he's mastered rolling from back to tummy over the past two weeks.  He is a chuckler, too-- just tickle him a little bit and watch as he does that little stuck-clutch laugh that is so endearing in babies.  He's also managed to almost roll off the bed a couple of times: I give him a month.

Mademoiselle Gracie is a fit feline.  She is exceptionally tartar-free and she could stand to lose a few ounces-- but I think most females always feel that way.  I wish I could lose some more of that post-baby chunk myself.

I find it hard to write these days.

I sometimes fire up Ye Olde Typepad and stare at the blank screen for ages, not even feeling the faintest stirring to commit anything to paper.  I have been reading more, and my life feels like it's lived so intensely that I can hardly remember it; and yet, the blog remains sadly mute.

And it's not for a lack of things to write, either. 

For instance, the other day I saw a woman with an it-would-make-Burt-Reynolds-envious mustache.  It took me a few seconds to realize what the fuzzy worm that decorated her upper lip like a festive Christmas garland would a mantelpiece really was, since she was otherwise well-dressed and made-up, you see.  She even had panty hose on in the sticky southern heat of a few days ago.

Maybe that is a nasty statement: why should a well-dressed woman --or any woman, for that matter-- forego the pleasures of having an accessory that for some reason (androgens, perhaps?) has been viewed as exclusively male?

So I started to think that perhaps discriminating on the basis of mustache should be the next crusade for women.  Why should we be denied, if The Powers that Be gave us the wherewithal, to grow and properly maintain thick, luxuriant mustaches?  It wouldn't have to be something that produces a visceral, knee-jerk disgust reaction, you know.  It could be something beautiful and elaborate; something to coat with glittery mascara and to weave beads into.

Something to behold: a woman's beautiful lip fur.

Certainly, it's something to be grateful for: it seems to have been a remedy of sorts for this dull, low-hanging writer's block.

His First One Hundred (And One) Days

Today we went by the airshow at Andrews, celebrating Don Meow's one-hundredth-and-first day on this earth by watching some very cool planes do some very awesome maneuvers in the air.

Your tax dollars at work, being awesome.

______

Earlier, I mentioned how I thought Barack Obama deserved a middle-of-the-road C for his suddenly-middle-of-the-road "progressiveness". 

On the other hand, I think my little Don Meow deserves an A during his first one hundred days in Office of  Cuteness and Cooing.  And Poop.  And I realize I haven't shared much of his birth story. 

And a B, and a C.... oooh.  An idea is born.  An abridged idea, but an idea nonetheless.

A is for Apparently Amazingly fast labor, which truly started around 12:15 am when my waters broke, and ended at 3:57 am, when Don Meow popped out to say hello.

B is for Bouncing Baby Boy, which surprised me a little bit since I thought that the fact that this pregnancy was achier and more nauseated than the first could mean it would be a girl.  But there was no doubt as they thrust his boy parts in my face, that he was, indeed a boy.  Distinctly remember thinking, "Huh-- a matched set."

C is for Crying, which dear Don Meow did upon leaving the vaginal canal, and lustily.  Cry, cry, cry, and then make loads of noise.  This child was quite the vocal aficionado from day one.

D is for Delightful, yet Disturbing array of crocheted and knitted baby hats provided by the Spouses' Club.  We made off with an eyelet-looking one at first, but then a nurse also decided we needed a blue variegated one and a camouflage one.  You know, so the child knows it belongs in the military family from day one.  (hey, patterns!)

E is for Edibles, which we had by the diaperbagful, and were still not enough to Extinguish my Enormous Eatathon after giving birth.  If you're pregnant and reading this, I cannot stress this enough: PACK SNACKS.

F is for Feisty Female.  That would be me.  I demanded to move around and be left alone, and I wailed like a Feral Fire-breathing Phoenix (humor me with the F-sound at least-- I realize Phoenices do not wail) while pushing out the little Fat Fetus.

G is for Good God! Gushing (gallons of everything) and Gravidity Gone!  Golly gee... what can I say?  Giving birth is painful, it's true, but it's also a hormonal trip like no other.  It's my second time at rodeo and I can confidently say that while it's nervewracking to think of what will come, once you're done it's a feeling like I can only imagine the most pure runner's high can feel; a feeling of accomplishment and elation and like you can walk out and take over the world while folding the laundry, if need be.  Never mind that you crash a few minutes later-- right after birth, your endorphins will take you there, wherever
"there" happens to be.  Also, Going to the hospital once your bag of waters has popped was quite a trip (pun, I imagine, quite coincidental); it was kind of a walking-with-a-water-balloon-between-your-legs kind of feeling.  Although I should retract that "kind of", now, shouldn't I?

H is for Hospital.  Because although I thought at one point of doing the whole Home birth thing, Monsieur Meow was simply Not Sure about the whole thing.  And if I'm being Honest, it was lovely to have someone to clean up all those Gs.  Happy mother, she who doesn't have to boil Her own birthing instruments (but maybe I'm missing the point of a Home birth, and if so, I apologize to the Heavens).

I is for I.V. lock.  I realize this is actually called a Heparin lock (Hep lock) but I think the H was better suited to the hospital.  And this is part of why I didn't want a hospital birth: I resent having to have a catheter in place for that ethereal yet dangerous "just in case" gray area of life.  I tried to delay getting mine put in as long as possible and I whined actively until it was removed, around 10 am that morning.  And I guess that the lock didn't like me much either, because it was jammed close to my wrist bone and it chafed and hurt long after the catheter was gone.  But really, if that was to be the extent of the medical intervention at my birth, then so be it and happily.

J is for Just five days short of his due date. 

K is for Kegels.  Just. Do. Them.

L is for Love at first sight.  Little babies are Love anyway, but as much as the clichés seem to prepare you for it, nothing really does justice to when you first touch that fuzzy little head and let those little tiny quasireptilian fingers curl around your suddenly-gigantic one.

M is for Mommy, twice over.  Man, they just don't tell you how much Motherhood again will Mess up your life (and ruffle the feathers in your Marriage).

[Not to mention what it does to your blogging...]

N is for Nursing, which Don Meow did right away while Nuzzling on my Neck, and has mastered very quickly.  Nervous memories of Herr Meow kept me on pins and Needles, but in the end, it was all fine.  And really, it was far more Normal than I thought the first time around, too.  N is also for Nine, Number of ounces by which Don Meow exceeded Herr Meow's birthweight.  Herr Meow was almost a half inch longer, however.

O is for Ob-Gyn, traditional sort.  The woman who caught my baby was One such type of doctor, and while she felt a little uncomfortable with a Feral Female who refused to birth on her back and numb from the waist down, she was still genial, accomodating, caring, and very funny-- and let us not forget she was awakened at 2 am in order to catch said baby.  I will always hear her happy yelp of "IT'S A BOY!" in my head when I think of that night, and smile.

P is for Pirates-- because Herr Meow says so.  This house is all Pirates, all the time, lately.  I'm not sure what that might have to do with giving birth, other than I guess the Privateer in my uterus is now sailing the seas of the living, or something like that.  Also, Personality starts with a P, which Don Meow has slowly been unfolding.  You can say that he is a Puckish, Playful and Piggy little baby: he so far seems to always keeps us guessing; he loves to interact and "talk" up a storm; and boy, does he ever love to eat, as can be evidenced by his overall roly-poly chunkiness.

Q is for Quintuplets, which thankfully I was not carrying.  I am glad to have only borne one baby at a time, and my hat is off to people who are able to parent multiples with a Quickness to their step and no Quivering of their chins.

R is for Rooting, Reassurance, Rubber of backs, voice of Reason, and Runner-- all Roles Monsieur Meow fulfilled excellently: Really glad he was there.

S is for Sensations-- from the contractions that Seemed to last forever, and which Started irregularly a week prior; to the feeling that I'd be having the baby on Saturday, January 31st; and then on Monday, February 2nd; and then on Wednesday, February 4th; and Lo!  Finally, after Seeming like it was forever, the moment finally came and went, fast and hard and gritty like a Sirocco.  And I have not been able to catch up on Sleep ever since.

T is for Thursday night, after the beloved Thursday shows like 30 Rock and Bones (of course).  It was about Twenty-eight degrees and I was freezing my Toes and everything else off-- although there was little Time to  focus on much anything other than my impending parturition.  Incidentally, Twenty-eight degrees was a Temperature that would suffer a dramatic Turnaround on Saturday, when it was about sixty-five degrees and puzzlingly pleasant for the beginning of February (mean February 5-7 temperature is 36 ºF).

U is for the Umbilical cord, which feels bumpy, lumpy and odd as it comes out , dragging the placenta along with it.  I believe I described it recently as a bit like having a very bumpy bowel movement, but out the wrong hole.  I realize this is charming talk, but this time around both the Umbilical cord and the placenta remain very vivid in my mind-- both the exit and the textures and the squishiness and the amazement in my mind that ALL THAT could come out of me, and I could still weigh 175 lbs (the horror).

V is for Visitors in the hospital-- not many, just Herr Meow and Rev. Mom.  And nothing prepares you --while we're at the whole "being prepared by life for momentous stuff" diatribe-- for the moment in which your firstborn meets the one other being on earth with whom he shares more genetic information than anyone.

W is for Well baby, which Don Meow has been.  He is well, round, chubby and very, very demanding. 

X is for Xeroderma, a.k.a. dry skin.  This is what happens when you lose a lot of fluids, have a baby, and spend the next day and a half in the drying chamber that is a hospital.  All the lotion in the world was not enough, it seemed.

Z is for Zinger, meaning both a witty and caustic remark or a surprising turn of events or revelation.  Don Meow is a zingerful baby, always with a WAH! or a GOO! or a BWAAAAH! to interject.  I have been told that the younger child is usually mellower, but I am not exactly sure in which ways Don Meow will fullfil this dictum, since he is a veritable plethora of cute, tiny sounds and big sounds and baby zingers to fit every mood and manner. 

And the revelation is that with the firstborn, the beauty is in the newness of every waking moment, and the dread that hangs behind every action and every perceived neglect.  The second child and, I imagine, subsequent ones, let you enjoy life a little more because there is not the fragile balance of beholding raw miracles the first time around.  You know this fragility, and you know this beauty.  And you know the dread, too.  So you can steal back a little time and you can play a little longer with and without the baby, and you can enjoy the highs and sweep more of the lows underneath the welcome mat.

Other People's Children

This is, perhaps, the biggie.

The taboo subject.

That Which Will Not Be Named, as far as mothers' circles are concerned.

For, you see, there is much to be learned from other people's children.  And most of it is none too flattering.

_______

I, as usual, get way ahead of myself.  Call it my shameless attempt to get your attention with a couple of what I hope will be inflammatory sentences, just so you'll stay and read and pause and perhaps go, "OMG girlfriend is wack."

Because I know you speak in 80s-slang-cum-urban-platitudes, that's why.

But seriously, I have been mulling writing about this for a while.  Because, you see, people do not have children in a bubble.  When you have a child, or more than one child, you are also exposed to the world with children.  Some of these people happen to be pretty cool people --the kind with which you may get caught up in a picket-fenced fantasy in your mind or perhaps some glossy photo shoot of what life with children --yours and those of others-- might be like in UtopiaLand. 

Children with wide smiles, blurs of action in gorgeous clothing that isn't marred by primeval goop, none of which would be coming out of their nose or mouth, or worse.

Parents who are well-coiffed and well-rested and in gorgeous clothing, none of which would be marred by the aforementioned goop, having adult conversations that are not subjected to Spelling-Bee-like parsing.

A pristine swath of land, free of mosquitoes or treacherous parasites or viruses, in glowingly Photoshopped colors.

You know that it could happen for a nanosecond, that you may know one set of parents and child(ren) with whom a tenth of a second of idyllic circumstances may be possible.

But then there are the others.  Those "other" parents, to whom you are an other yourself.

The ones that ruin the teachable moment when their little mongrel(s) do exactly what you've spent the last half an hour telling your kid NOT TO DO, FOR THE LAST TIME AND FOR THE LOVE OF  SOMETHING SACRED, PLEASE. 

And when said little mongrel gets to do it, and keep on doing it, without getting an earful, or glares of reproach, and your kid eyes you with a mix of hurt and resentment that makes you feel old.

The kind of action that at the time is so very unfair that you're left scrambling for the right words to tell your kid that, basically, some people are total assholes who are raising their kids to be absolute troglodytes and that while right now it's your mother who looks like the tight-sphinctered harridan who is not letting you bash people over the head with the funnoodle that is NOT YOURS (is it?  No, right?  THE TOY IS NOT YOURS), well, that you might just look back on this incident twenty years from now with a little less seething rage and be able to appreciate your mother and her tough love.

Or perhaps they are the parents who are buying their kid the loud and obnoxious toy that you swore you would never get your kid, who is staring at you with what could pass as a poster face for the UNICEF.

Or perhaps they are the parents who don't tell their children how to behave; what is expected of them in social situations; why it's not appropriate to push or punch or cut in line or shove an adult, even if it's a stranger; why it's important to say please and thank you; and why it's a good idea to avoid stepping on other people's toes, shoes, hands, feet, and babies.

Or perhaps it's none of those things.  Maybe they are just the parents who seem to have their own utopia moment unfolding with their cool parent friends right before your very eyes, while you sit there and struggle with your own children and your own issues and your own oh-so-high-school issues, still feeling awkward and gawky and like the only one who got "does not play well with others" written on her permanent file and was never able to live it down.

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Now that I have this load off my chest, I frankly don't know what else to say.  I've spent so much time thinking about the little things I thought I wanted to say, such as,

• most people suck as parents most of the time (but then again so do I),
• hanging out with others' children is like a birth control opera, but with more snot,
•  your children are all ugly, except for the cute one and the one with good manners who just smiled at me,
• how can you do that/not do that to your child?
• who the hell dressed your kid?
• why don't you get off the phone when you're handling your kid?

that I am suddenly rendered mute.

And I am rendered mute mostly because it is a truth universally acknowledged that the more vitriol you spew --even if rightly deserved-- at the world (especially in a semi-public forum), the higher the odds that any or all the things you itemized during that vitriol will come back to haunt you.  Also, because while other people's children reveal truths about their parenting or lack thereof, I fully realize my own children are revealing my own fears and mistakes and announcing them to the world, for it to take it all apart and analyze it.  And while I love to analyze others, I don't like to be picked apart that much by strangers, myself.

Also, Herr Meow is slowly turning into Dennis Mitchell.  I find myself living in a glass house these days.

Tales From the Other End of the Chasm

Jesus Tapdancing Christ.

Apparently, you pop out a kid and miss a few days' worth of sleep while also racking up some massive cabin fever on account of the newborn and the snowstorm we had a few days ago, and suddenly you just don't feel like blogging anymore and you get all mopey and baby-bluey and even start thinking about shutting down your blog because what's the point?  You've been blogging for years and years and the blog, apart from a few wonderful and loyal readers, still doesn't register on the radar and it can't even buy you chewing gum in a developing nation.

But then things suddenly start getting easier --as they do-- and then Chris Brown beat up Rihanna (THAT IKE TURNER S.O.B.!  RIHANNA, RUN WHILE YOU STILL CAN!) and then I've been getting to know this new little guy and hearing from lovely people and notoriously NOT hearing from people, and I've been noticing how life is so very different and yet almost exactly the same when you lose almost 20 lbs in a crazily short period of time and gain a son.

So anyway, I thought it was appropriate to break the silence around here a little bit and shake off the drapes and all that good stuff.  Thank you to those of you who've hung about and left comments and perhaps have just been silently wondering where I've been.

I've just been here, pondering many things and thinking that one of the best things about a new baby is the sense of wonder and humility it seems to bring out in so many people.  Whenever I've gone out with little Don Meow snuggly against my body, it's been so very sweet to see people's happy expressions whenever they realize there is a baby inside the sling I'm wearing (typical sample question: "Is that a baby in there?") and hear some of their wistful memories of their own children or baby relations, and their awe at the baby's size (sample comment: "I can't believe they were ever so little!").

__________

I wish I could stop that fuzzy, delighted scene and leave it there so all that may come to this blog should read it and be glad and think, "Aww!  Babies!" and then go about their day.

Alas, a side effect of all this baby and sleep-deprivation business is that my misanthropic vein has been amped up, and I just can't help wondering about those who do not say anything.

I can't help but notice them as one would notice the sudden absence of sirens during a calm night and wonder what's wrong with the neighborhood: it's something that is easy to leave unnoticed, but when it captures your imagination it makes you wonder and it bugs you.

I wonder about the woman working at the children's store who didn't even think to ask what every single person who has seen me walking around with a sling that squeaks has asked me for the past two weeks or so.  I mean, if you have no child curiosity, why work at a children's store-- for torture's sake?

I wonder about the acquaintance who professes to love children but strangely stopped calling a week and a half before my due date, and when she met the baby she didn't even want to come close.

I wonder about those whose upper lips snarl ever so slightly when they see a foot poking out or, conversely, who don't even think about watching where they are going and clumsily walk into the pregnant woman/woman with the baby in the sling.

Finally, I wonder why I should even care about anyone who is less than genuine with me these days.  Because genuine feels good and right and time ebbs away far too quickly to focus on petty things.

_________

In like a lion this year, even if a little late.

Grace and Naps: Priceless

I am cross-posting here from Grace in Small Things, because while I have not been feeling like blogging lately--what with trying to sleep and recover, I have not been able to locate my inspiration-- I did feel like being a little grateful and catching up.  So here we are: a special slacker post, just for you!

Incidentally, I MUST post about a great book I've been reading while nursing Don Meow at 3 am: The No-Cry Nap Solution, by Elizabeth Pantley.  This book is a MUST READ, even if you have no kids-- certainly it's driven the point home that naps are not just necessary but they are a way of life.  I promise, this post will come soon!

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Yes, it's true: I am trying to catch up on a whole bunch of days all in one post (catching up on TWENTY-ONE days' worth of thankfulness, no less). It is a tall order for one blog entry, but I am confident this little post is The Little Post That Can.

First and foremost, I am catching up because I gave birth two weeks ago. It's true that some people are up and running marathons or walking the Victoria's Secret catwalk within two or three weeks of giving birth, but I am still just trying to take things in stride and get some sleep. So this will not be a conclusive list, but here is a good effort:

1. Little Don Meow, Herr Meow's baby brother and new love.
2. Having a quick labor (which did not seem so quick at the time).
3. The way the Wilson Bridge, the Washington Memorial and Old Town Alexandria looked all lovely and lit up the night I gave birth.
4. No traffic on the Capital Beltway-- this is, more than Grace, a miracle in itself.
5. Being able to laugh through vicious contractions.
6. Good hospital food. It exists, amazingly enough.
7. Nice nurses who truly care for their patients and trust their patients.
8. Lovely, kind people calling to congratulate and issue good wishes.
9. Family.
10. Noggin.
11. Sprout.
12. Cable, in general.
13. Sleep.
14. A baby bladder that works in proper order, even if it means getting sprayed with a generous plume of pee on an occasional basis.
15. Friends who help out or offer to help out.
16. Home-cooked meals.
17. Waking up weighing ten pounds less. The thrill is cheap, but it doesn't quite get old.
18. "Time Bomb" by Rancid.
19. Milk!
20. Being able to bend over without gasping for breath.
21. Celebrating five years of marriage.
22. Reconnecting with people you really, really like.
23. "Recuerdos de la Alhambra" by Tárrega.
24. Memories triggered by songs.
25. Wine, delicious wine.
26. Prosecco too.
27. Typos that make "prosecco" turn out like "prosexxo"-- which is quite a statement.
28. Windowshopping online.
29. Catching up and surpassing one's birth weight.
30. Being an inch longer than when we were born, too.
31. GOOD haircuts on the men in your life.
32. Naps.
33. Mothers who can cook well, and do.
34. Blankets and covers and pillows and warm things.
35. Newborn fuzz.
36. There can never be enough gratitude for Netflix in my heart.
37. Or for chocolate.
38. Or for food in general.
39. Or for blogging, really, even as much as I've neglected it lately.
40. Or for life in general, which is pretty thankfulness-worthy.

Postpartum Post-Game Post

Just Ducky, originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

Holy crap! It's been well over a week since I've blogged. And might I mention that it's been exactly a week since our new addition made its appearance --thoughtfully allowing his family (yes, it's a he) to watch Thursday night shows before turning our little world upside-down.

You can dread and you can cower, but you cannot hide: this is both the beauty and the horror of the living.

We now have a Herr Meow and a Don Meow. Much agonizing has gone into the second child's nickname (okay, not that much but a little), but in the same way that German conveys a measure of cool efficiency, driving performance, and minor puckishness, so the Spanish Don reflects a certain amount of flair and Zorroesque bravado.

Also, it's monosyllabic and foreign and it's better than referring to them as, say, Little Meows one and two, which would be a deeply unoriginal cop-out, non?
__________

I need to tell you about my labor. Let's rephrase that: I have the deep urge to write about my labor, and your eyeballs may or may not want to read about it. Let's just say for now that our Don Meow came into the world faster than I thought, and that it's been a hormonal, weepy, happy, delighted whirlwind of a week that I cannot believe has only been a singular one week.

It feels like ages, and yet life hasn't changed much. But it has changed everything.