Wordless Wednesday: The Real Deal

My Latest Hang Up

You know how when you bring home all those teeny tiny itty bitty onesies and Jon-Jons that are so cute when your baby is the size of a sprinkle? You know how the outfits are so dang small that your husband couldn't wear them as mittens, much less snap the things? You know how you so gently washed them and folded and hung them on those precious little hangers that are impossibly adorable and fit for a pixie?

Remember how small they once were?

Being small equates to so much more than size. The utter smallness of a newborn son nestled in his Moses basket or better yet, upon your chest, is love and mortality and family and goodness at their finest. The simplicity of smallness. That smallness means miracle, responsibility, opportunity, potential, glory, dedication, future. That smallness is the starting line for the growth of a family and the bonding of a mother. The first drop of immense love that fills you up a thousand fold over. That smallness is larger than life.

And then they grow.

And grow.

I was almost awash in tears last night as I was putting away Bird's laundry. Yes, his laundry nearly drove me to tears. Granted, I hate laundry so it often drives me to whining hissy fits but this is not what I'm talking about. I caught a fat salty drop before it fell to my cheek. You see, Bird's teetering on the cusp of seven.

7. Years. Old.

His clothes aren't so small anymore. His clothes aren't even all that cute(sy) anymore. His shirts could pass as mine, and in fact, Mac Daddy often questions whose T-shirts are whose when he folds the laundry (Yes, I have a husband who folds laundry. I told you he is a keeper.). What made me weepy was that Bird's big boy clothes don't fit on the baby sized hangers anymore. Those tiny hangers that have been in his closet since the day we started stockpiling a baby wardrobe are now too small. My little Baby Bird is becoming a Big Bird. All that means to me is that he's slowly growing wings. To fly.

Away.

And all I can do is watch, beam, love, applaud.

And maybe shed a tear.

Fly, Bird, fly.

Wordless Wednesday: Melt

Wordless Wednesday: He's here to stay.

Interrogation

I spend a lot of time with my sons. I'm a chatty one so we talk. I figure I've got a captive audience until they're at least eight so I babble and ponder and regale. Plus both boys are chatty, so we all fight for air time. We are in the car running to and fro an awful lot. And when we're not staging a singalong to Hit Me With Your Best Shot, Hawaiian Roller Coaster Ride, Robot Parade, Shake Your Booty, or anything by Barry White, we are chatting. Mostly I tell them stories, real tales or fabrications of what strike me as better antidotes to the truth.

And there are the questions. Geesh, the constant questions that boggle my mind, wrench my gut, tickle my funny bone, squash or propel my inner cynic, depending on the inquiry. The questions range from the deep to the absurd and back 'round again.

And it all starts with, "Hey, Mommy?"

There's the God/Jesus/Bible line of questioning:
Whom did you talk about school, Jesus or God?
Is God the same as Jesus?
How old is God?
Was God poor?
Where does God live?
How old is Jesus?
Why does the Lord want to take us away and keep us?
Why don't we have a Bible? Why don't we read it before bed?
Did those gods really have all those arms and blue skin? (a nod to the Indian folktales we read)
Who hears our prayers? Is someone listening?
Who are the angels?

And the baby questions that offer no easy way out:
How does the baby get out of your belly?
How did the baby get in your belly?
How does the baby know when to come out?
What does the baby eat?
Where does the baby poop?
Do daddies have babies?
Did you know that we start out the size of a sprinkle? (my personal favorite quip)

Biology, the body, and the like:
Why is Daddy hairy? (not on the back, mind you, for that's a deal breaker)
Do you really have eyes in the back of your head?
Why does your belly touch your belt buckle when you sit down? (badge of motherhood, I say)
Why do we have a belly button? Can it do anything?
Babies drink milk from there?! (guffawing ensues)

And the random deep thoughts, Jack Handey style:
Will our next pet die?
Who's the oldest person on earth? (for a while the boys' debate was between my dad and my brother until I squashed that)
When will I die?
Who invented seeds?
What was the first seed? (Adam's?)
What language would people speak if everyone from around the world met?
How long ago was "back in the day?"
You mean we don't just take some meat and sew up the cow?
Do we kill animals when we eat them or are they killed before they're on our plate?
Why does hair grow crooked? (perhaps because it's cut that way to begin with)


I entertain Mac Daddy every night with tales from the car. We lie in bed cracking up, feeling the oozing warmth of love and pride and amazement that the mantle of parenthood carries. For some reason Bird and Deal don't pepper Mac Daddy with such questions. I guess they realize that Daddy is the fun, wrestling, Super Hero, magic epee wielding playmate, while I am the erudite omniscient one. Or they're simply trying to get me to stop singing Can't get Enough of Your Love off key.

Krispy Kreme Coma: Wordless Wednesday

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Wordless Wednesday: And Then There Were Two

Wordless Wednesday: Yum Thumb

Time Travel

When my babies were tiny, I used to spend hours gazing at their slumbering faces. Little nostrils flaring, breath setting a hypnotic beat, eyes twitching in dreamland, itty bitty fingers swatting away invisible itches on a scrunched up nose. Their little faces contorted this way and that. Their gaze so fixed on me upon waking. In their faces I would imagine them as toddlers, boys, grown men. It was an involuntary slideshow running before my eyes.

In a flash I would catch a glimpse of them as their older selves.

Now that my boys, my babies, are teetering on the cusp of six and four, I see time reeling backwards and forwards in a cruel teasing tango. In a random giggle I see them as their infant selves. Perhaps it’s in a pensive moment while chilling out in the back seat. Perhaps it’s while they rest their heads upon each other, a scrambled mess tucked onto the beanbag chair.

At other times, I see my boys as men. When Bird glances at me sideways and snickers in jest at some silliness, I see him as a high schooler, rolling his eyes at my latest faux pas. When Deal perches on the couch with a toy catalog in hand, knees crossed, fist tucked beneath his chin, I see him as a contemplative adult. His gestures already too grown up for his three years.

Time is at once a thief and a jester. We want more of it, we want it to clip along at a faster pace, we want to switch it to slow motion, we want to hit the pause button, and sometimes we want to rewind. Yet Time controls us. We simply live to its ticking. It’s infinite and eternal beat.

And so, at night when I am restless, I slip out of the comfort of my quilt, kneel beside my sleeping boys, and watch them sleep. Inhale, exhale, twitch, rub, toss, flutter, turn, sigh. And I watch Time travel before my very eyes.

Wordless Wednesday: The Case of the Disappearing Baby Cheeks

Wordless Wednesday: What I Miss

Wordless Wednesday: Brothers

A Special Birthday Toast for 5:00 Fridays

I'd like to start by wishing my Bird a HAPPY 5th BIRTHDAY!!!

Five years ago I was still drinking milk at every meal and sipping on non-alcoholic sangria at block parties and weddings. Note, alcohol-free red wine blows. Alcohol-free alcohol blows. I drink neither milk nor non-alcoholic wine anymore.

Five years ago I went into labor at 8:00 PM, went to the hospital after downing some noodles and a burrito (yeah, I know, weird combination), barely missed getting an epidural since I was already dilated 8 cm, got comfy, joked with the nurse about not wanting to poop while pushing (I didn't for the record), freaked out, watched Mac Daddy share a chocolate bar with the nurse, stared in a trance at the monitors, pushed 3 times for a total of 20 minutes, and there was Bird, squealing and squinting in my arms.

As for me? A puddle. Emotion that I don't even have the words to express. My baby. My son. A first generation American. A family.

Bird and I are exactly alike, minus the 35 year age difference and gender discrepancy. He is the apple to my tree. We butt heads often because we are so much alike: stubborn, passionate, nitpicky, dramatic, emotional, and always think we're right. Mac Daddy and I like to say that Bird feels life passionately. His tantrums break the sound barrier while his laughter would make the palace guards bust a gut. Just like me. He puts hot sauce on everything and has a dentist's dream of a sweet tooth. Just like me. He loses himself in books and doesn't forget a thing. Just like me. He is meticulous, and perfection rules his world. Just like me. When he is older, I will explain to him that no one in the world understands him better than I do. I totally stole that from my friend Shan who says that to her son.

Bird is my first baby, my oldest, my guinea pig, my eyes to my childhood. He is inquisitive to a fault (consider this a warning Miss Ross!) and is a rather deep thinker.

Just yesterday Bird informed me that horseradish is named so because it's a radish with a strong flavor and since horses are strong, they called it horseradish. Well wallop me upside the head with a rolling pin and pop me under the broiler! Makes total sense, doesn't it? Find me a better explanation for the etymology of horseradish. I'm telling you, Bird put a lot of thought into that and likely had many a silent debate in his head before nailing down the goods. Smart boy, that Bird.

Oh, have I mentioned that he also drives me crazy? That's because he's me. I live with a mini me who enlightens me to my faults and I don't like that much self exploration. Mac Daddy gets particularly wired because he has to live with two little people with such big personalities. Cue violin music here.

So today's cocktail is for my Bird. My first baby who has started kindergarten. My baby who is one shoelace away from being self sufficient. My baby who still nuzzles into the warmth of my chest and caresses the inside of my arm. My Bird who gives extraordinarily wet kisses, a thousand at a time. My Bird, who giggles at eskimo kisses and butterfly kisses while begging for just one more. My Bird, whose time to fly the coop is thankfully years away.

Cheers to my Bird!

Baby Blue Martini

Pour one shot of each into a martini shaker loaded with ice:
Hendricks Gin (my personal fave!)
De Kuyper Blue Curaçao
pink grapefruit juice
pineapple juice

Pour into a chilled martini glass.

Garnish with a sliver of lemon peel.

Sit back, admire your parental accomplishments, squeeze your kids, and take a long, slow, deliberate sip. End with an audible "ah."

Kindergarten Tears and Triumphs

Cesar Chavez. Jim Henson. John Lennon. Jane Goodall. Albert Einstein. Pablo Picasso. Mahatma Gandhi.

Those are the faces peppering the halls as you enter my son's school. An international studies magnet school (public! free!) in our homogeneous neck of the woods is a dream. Five foreign languages taught starting in kindergarten. My Bird's gonna learn French! Curriculum designed to cover a global perspective. Again, a dream, considering my children say the words for grandma and grandpa in three different languages. We are the UN of families, and we are not alone as soon as we walk through the brick corridors of my son's school. My. Son's. School.

I have no reason to feel such trepidation. No reason to be anxious. No need to be so scared. So sad.

Millions of parents do it every fall. Most live to tell about it. I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.

I couldn't.

Let me get one thing out in the open. I cried. More than tears welling up in my eyes with a dumpling stuck in my throat but less than Niagara Falls. I'm saving up my boo-hooing for Tuesday, when school officially starts full time. Five. Days. A. Week. Oh, and when I have Mac Daddy at my side to mop me up. I treated today as a test drive. Denial. They say admitting it is the first step to recovery.

Bird, my Baby Bird, started kindergarten today. A milestone indeed. I suppose this is the stuff that makes people hate and doubt "mommy bloggers." I say fuck you. This stuff is important and has an impact on the human spirit, certainly a mom's spirit. Sending your child to spend more hours with someone else than you is a giant step. We spend so much time wishing away the time that we often forget to enjoy the ride. "I can't wait for him to talk. I can't wait for him to walk. He's making me nuts. When will school start?" Well folks, school has started, and I miss my Baby Bird already. Day One.

I have arranged my work schedule to eat three squares a day with my boys. I also take them to school and pick them up everyday. Now Bird is sitting in some cafeteria eating a ham sandwich and edamame out of his Batman lunch box with rowdy 5 year olds talkin' smack about Star Wars and Bumble Bee. Oh, and some little bully's gonna tease him about eating edamame and other stuff like snap peas and hummus. Bird told me that he met a bully today, in fact. I guess the kid headbutted Bird in the belly. When I asked Bird what the kid's name is, he responded, "I didn't ask, Mommy. I don't care what his name is because I don't want to be his friend." Then he asked me if I thought the bully would beat him up for not being his friend. Gawd, I can't handle the social pressure at the tender age of 5 (technically 4 til Friday!).

Yes, that's right. Bird will be 5 in two days, making him the youngest kid in kindergarten. Yet he makes the cut off. And you know what, he's totally ready. I know he's ready. I know Mac Daddy and I made the right decision to send him to kindergarten. No waffling here. The simple truth is, I'm not ready. As one feels intimate with one's mortality after a tragedy, I feel time slipping away more briskly than I thought possible. I never understood the whole time flies speech from seasoned parents when my guys were newborns. Now I've been initiated into the club. I get it. Every second is palpable. I hear the sands' of time grainy count down. My heart beats to the tick tocking of the clock. I get it. Time is the elusive beast.

My Bird, in the end, fared exceptionally well today. He took a good 10 minutes to let go of my leg and squeeze past the book shelves in the library to join the throng of kids. He refused to sit at a table with other kids, choosing an empty table instead (totally unlike his gregarious personality). Bird and Deal (who was also stressed, sensing it from us, no doubt), proceeded to color and draw rocket ships, aliens, and such. When it was time to get in line, Bird grasped my legs again. I silently willed him to break away lest I cry. My tears would have exacerbated an already tender situation. Alas, I realized I left my keys by the bookcase and had a legitimate excuse to step away. Those wily teachers took that opportunity to whisk him away. I took an extra long time to gather my keys (and umbrella that I would have forgotten on this soggy day) so I could do some quick yoga breathing and put on a happy face for Deal.

Deal and I spent the day as we usually do: gym, Starbucks, Target (2 1/2 hours!). In fact, at Starbucks, Deal insisted I buy an extra Horizon vanilla milk for Bird to enjoy when he gets home from school. That's my sensitive boy. I'll be too much of a wreck to blog when my baby goes to kindergarten. Now I know what my mom means by the "baby of the family" mess she blabbers on about when she refers to me. Even pushing 40, I'm still a baby.

My poor Bird spent 30 minutes of his first day of school with his head under a desk because we had tornado warnings in our county. Apparently the teachers and staff operated with aplomb. Teaching is tough enough without Mother Nature stumbling in the path. And let's face it, all the other mothers are probably more challenging to deal with.

When I picked up Bird from school, he greeted me with a gigantic grin and an ecstatic, "Mommy, my day was awesome!" At dinner his thank you for the day was that he got to go to kindergarten.

And so it goes. Once again my children are the ones teaching me a life lesson: Children are way more flexible and resilient than we give them credit for. Moms are another story. At least this mom is. I'm torn between tears of sorrow and tears of pride.

Green babies aren't scary.

I just discovered this great book that I wish had been around when I was hunting for baby gear. It's written by a very clever (and may I say lovely), talented, and creative classmate of mine from graduate school. We have kids about the same age, and she has eco living down to a science. Her tips and ideas are actually feasible, budget friendly, and she doesn't pretend to be perfect (for example, she doesn't compost...yet). This book would make an awesome baby shower gift with an organic cotton blanket used as the wrapping paper.