Born in California

The other day I was outlining Kate’s upcoming social engagements. This is one of my duties in my dual roles as Social Secretary and Chauffeur.

Me: “And on Saturday we’re going to Maddy, Elliot, and Cameron’s house. Their grandma, who Daddy and I know, is going to be visiting from Minnesota.”

Kate: “Oh. What’s her name?”

Me: “Bev.”

Kate: “Bev?”

Me: “Yes. Bev is short for the name Beverly. But… [thinking Bev was far too familiar for Kate to use with our friend's 80-plus mother] you can call her Grandma Bev.”

Kate: [furrowing brow and pausing mid mini-carrot munch] “Noooooo. I can’t call her that, Mama.”

Me: [digging deep into my New England roots, and trying to pass this idea off brightly] “Well, you can call her Mrs. Webb then!”

Kate:[in hysterics laughing] “That is so funny, Mama!”

Me: What?

Kate: “Mrs!! [drawing the word out] Saying Mrs!”

She dissolved into a pile of giggles then wandered off to stack more blankets on her shhh!-they’re-sick-and-sleeping dolls. Leaving me sitting at the table realizing that in her three-and-a-half years of life, including having multiple teachers at school and introductions to scads of people and friends of all ages, she’s never once addressed anyone using the title Mr. or Mrs.

As for me, growing up I never addressed any adult in any other way. My parents’ friends were Mrs. Tabor, Mr. Anguilla, Mrs. Froncillo. And anyone’s parents I’d meet for the first time would without question be a Mr. or Mrs. Whoever. (With little to no risk of their last name being any different from my friend’s.)  

It wasn’t until my late twenties, after living in California for a few years, that my then-boyfriend Mike’s parents helped break me of this habit. (Ironically, they were from the East Coast themselves.) I kept slipping into my Mr. or Mrs. comfort zone with them, but they persevered at using kind forms of classical conditioning to urge me to call them Hope and Michael. (You know, I could go to the salt lick after saying Hope all by myself with no prompting.)

Eventually I came around–even old dogs can learn–which greased the skids for future encounters with first-name-basis grown-ups.

Or maybe along the way I just became an adult myself.

Be that as it may, I still have to wait for Mark’s wonderful grandparents to make eye contact with me before speaking them. Calling them John and Lois seems so, well, peer-like.

I guess you can take the girl out of Rhode Island, but you can’t take the Rhode Island out of the girl. And Kate seems to be proving to me it’s just the same for California.

Garçon? A side order of surrealitié, please.

Most of my food festishist friends have been greenly awaiting my report on my dinner Tuesday night–a 20-course pas de deux prepared by none other than His Holiness Thomas Keller and Alinea‘s divine own Grant Achatz, and served at The French Laundry.

If I had to sum it up in three words I’d say: warm bacon donuts.

They were otherworldly, as was the rest of the meal. Though I’m not sure that Homer Simpson would have enjoyed the other superlative culinary delights quite as much.

Where to start? The small knot of olive “fruit leather” that was just one weensy element of a complex taste-of-this-and-that dish? The eucalyptus foam gracing a perfect cube of, uh, turbo, I think it was? (Hard to keep it all straight when the champagne and wine keep comin’.) The china pot of warm coals and anise-scented wood chips placed alongside one of the courses just to get yer nose sense workin’ too? Or the unforgettable spoonful of ravioli filled with an intense burst of black truffle sauce? Like the biggest best Chewel you’d ever be lucky enough to eat.

Then of course there was the translucently thin and crisp bacon slice wrapped in apple shreds and suspended from a kind of stainless steel tight-rope, not to mention an elegant long skewer with a mini gingersnap and kumquat primly balanced on its end.

My head nearly exploded when, after taking a bite of that last one, I sipped the cabernet it was paired with–leaving me pounding the table like a maniacal deaf-mute (or just someone with their mouth full) to get Mark to drink some of the wine–Drink it!! Quick!–right then too.

If it sounds like the eating of this meal was an experience both theatrical and physical, packed with over-the-top mini mouthful pleasures that Mark and I intentionally synchronized, well, it was. And we weren’t alone. Our neighbors at other tables who’d been seated at times slightly staggered from us were all doing the same.

But hey, it’s California. Instead of being embarrassed by the women next to me closing her eyes and whisper-moaning, “Oh, Maury!” to her husband after taking a mouthful of something, I leaned closer and grinned, “Pretty incredible, right?”

And all the food aside, there was a thrilling energy in the place that was enlivening in and of itself. This was a small group of diners who were willing to pay a silly amount of damn-the-economy money to eat this meal. The front of the house staff was caught up in it too. Their greetings from the moment we walked in were professional and impressively personal–”Good evening and welcome, Mr. and Mrs. McClusky”–while at the same time sparkly-eyed and genuinely gleeful, “What an exciting night we’re about to have!” It was as if we’d all be clapping our hands and squealing if it weren’t for the fact that we were gussied up and wanted to respect and blend into the intimate quiet elegance of the restaurant’s decor.

I mean, it was, after all, The French Laundry.

Plus, Mark and I added our own dose of joy to the scene. Celebrating Mark’s involvement in the Alinea book, the thrilling sense of his belongingness in this foodie-heaven scene, the anticipation of the epic meal stretched before us and, well, just the us-ness of us and life and happiness and the holidays.

Mind you, we didn’t spend the whole meal mooning over the food alone. Towards the end at least there was teen-like texting taking place with friends and some emailing photos of courses. And finally we ended up in the kitchen drinking champagne while the chefs and front of the house staff ate In-and-Out and drank what I saw to be at least one Pabst Blue Ribbon. Go figure.

If merrymaking behind the scenes wasn’t fun enough, I had to break the we’re-such-insiders spell temporarily and insist on having our picture taken with the two chefs. Was it not, after all, monumental to be chatting casually with none other than Thomas Keller?  And that gay Italian guy from Sex in the City–Mario something or other, I think–he was there for a bit too, grabbing Mark’s iPhone at one point and hooting that its red and white plastic case was “Soooooo gay!”

All terribly good fun.

The last thing I want to do is disparage a Tuesday evening around Casa McClusky, but let’s just say they usually aren’t on par with this particular night.

We stumbled giddily into the Surh’s at 1:45AM, me doing a not-super-sober loud whisper to Mark, “He asked me if we would come to their holiday party! Me! Thomas Keller personally invited ME!”

The girls were camped out asleep in the room where Mark and I were also crashing. No problem, since we bunked this way in Kentucky and all went swimmingly, right?

Well, first Paige got up, which I was okay with. I hadn’t fallen asleep yet, so I figured I’d feed her then she’d sleep through the rest of the night.

Uh, no.

Kate and Paige managed to do a remarkable tag-team of waking up and loudly demanding attention of one kind or another. “EH-EH-EH,” Paige’s nurse-me siren, followed by Kate’s, “Mama, are there monsters?” or some other such question or stuffed animal complaint. Rinse and repeat about eight times.

Like a speed-addled volley ball team the four of us rotated beds, with me and Kate on the floor at one point, Paige, Mark, and I in the bed, Mark and Kate on the floor. Statistically work out all the possible configurations we hoped would result in someone–anyone–getting some sleep, and we did it. With enormous lack of success.

At 4:30 Mark whisper-hissed, “This is ridiculous. Let’s just get them in the car and drive home.” So imagine us tossing armfuls of formal clothes, diapers, toys, toiletries and baby blankets into bags, trying to not wake up our host family any more that we were certainly already doing over the course of the prior three hours.

Finally, with the car packed and me in Mark’s t-shirt and a pair of jeans, we convened in the hallway by their front door. “I need shoes,” I said–it being freezing this time of year deep in the heart of a Napa night. Mark motioned to my stilettos by the door–a look I was unwilling to settle for even under these circumstances–prompting my memory that my clogs were by the back door in their garage. (It’s a shoe-free house.)

I handed a still happy clapping all-too-awake Paige over to Mark and said, “I’m getting my clogs in the garage.” A comment he told me later he never heard. In the frigid pitch black garage I also feel around for Kate’s yellow Crocs in a sea of the three resident children’s Crocs. And leaning down I move away from where I’m holding the house door open just enough for it to slide closed.

And of course, it locks.

So here I am in the cold cold cold dark, shoes on now, thank you, but having gotten so damn close to our get-away and suddenly trapped in the garage.

Light taps on the door to the house and my hoarse whisper, “Mark? Uh, Mark?! I’m locked in here!” Nothing.

Days go by. Or perhaps just five or so minutes.

And finally, the door opens with Mark holding Paige and Kate peering around his leg. “What the hell are you doing in here?” he hisses. As if I’d just wanted a few minutes of Me Time in their garage before we made our middle-of-the-night our-kids-are-possessed escape.

All I could do was laugh. I laughed for the first ten minutes of the car ride home at how utterly absurd it was that our amazing evening ended with an utter lack of McClusky Family sleep and we were leaving our friends with not so much as a kitchen table note to return to our own home where at least the girls had their own bedrooms to lie awake in, and there might be some slim ray of hope that familiarity would breed slumber.

Home at 5:30AM. I got a half-hour’s worth of shut-eye in the car, but by 5:45 when we climbed into bed Mark had not slept yet at all. Two hours later, Paige woke up, again in her irrepressible good humor, which by that point we found utterly obnoxious.

Mark staggered to the shower and heroically readied himself for work, as I went through the motions of changing Paigey’s diaper and dressing her for the day.

And man, could I have used a stiff pot of French press coffee and about a dozen of those mini bacon donuts.

Just another belated thank you

It’s so funny how some parts of the country find other parts of the country totally random. I mean, everyone in California who’s asked me what we’ve done for Thanksgiving–who I’ve told we went to Kentucky–has found that so utterly bizarre.

I’ve gotten everything from, “Kentucky, eh?” to “Who or what is in Kentucky?” to the more blatant, “Why the hell where you there?”

The thing is, to people living in Kentucky, it’s not random at all. And when you’re there, surrounded by verdancy and horse farms and nearly pickled in good bourbon, it seems like the only place on earth. Plus all the women do that great thing where they lambaste someone for gaining weight or being married to a loser or wearing the wrong lipstick color, then tack on a “bless her heart” to the end of their insult. It’s like this instant karmic re-do that takes away the meanness of whatever catty comment you hissed behind someone’s back.

It’s brilliant really.

So here it’s over a week past Thanksgiving and finally I’ve scrounged together a few minutes to reflect on all that this hand-tracing turkey-drawing stay-at-home mother is thankful for.

For all those who couldn’t imagine what we’d ever be doing in Kentucky for the holidays, the answer is attending the legendary Miller Family Thanksgiving (patent pending). Us and some 24 other attendees. This year it was hosted by Mark’s wonderful Aunt Terry, who we just love silly.

Early on in Mark and my relationship–back when my desire to stave of my pattern of serial monogamy made Mark fearful of using the term ‘relationship’ with me–we made an unspoken but gravely respected pact about holidays. July 4th was mine, and we spent it in Bristol. Thanksgiving was his, and we spent it with whomever from his mom’s family was hosting.

No exceptions. No substitutions.

Luckily, both events have never failed to offer exceptional family time and entertainment value, along with an excessive dose of food and alcohol. We both look forward to these holidays immensely even though lugging two children to them these days threatens to test our loyalty. (The fact is, kids or not, we’d walk across hot coals to get to there, though it’d be Mark who’d be humping all our luggage across his back and I’d just be pushing the girls along in the stroller.)

And after one week in Kentucky–yes, you crazy Californians we even spent a whole week there!–I’m not annoyed, bitter or resentful of the thing it is that Mark takes me to. In fact, I enjoyed myself thoroughly, thank you. And feel blessed to be part of such an amazing family as the Miller clan. (And please don’t take my use of the word ‘clan’ in the wrong way, people. Sure we were in the South, but these folks all voted for Obama, okay?)

So where was I? Oh, the Millers. Yes, even if they do like to look at a lot of pictures of themselves, then take pictures of themselves looking at pictures and play slideshows of those pictures (“Here we were yesterday after dinner, looking at the photo albums…”)–even with that, this is a rare breed of family who truly enjoys being together. And who makes a mean corn pudding.  

When in Lexington we stayed with Mark’s childhood friend Ewa (pronounced EV-ah) who is a brilliant doctor, wonderful mother, and a sheer delight–all this and she shares my Polish heritage, so what’s not to love?

Ewa and her also-a-doc husband recently completed construction on and moved into a lovely megalithic horse country mansion. We were thrilled not only to be able to see it, but to have our two daughters help them break it in.

Driving there late on the night we arrived was honestly a bit freaky to me. I mean, this is COUNTRY people. No street lights. Long silent horse pastures surrounded by those white wooden fences. Not a homeless man rattling past with a shopping cart for miles and miles–counties even. I mean, this was decidedly NOT Oakland.

But once I shook off my freak-out I settled in nicely to the regal splendor of pitch dark silent nighttimes in the manor. Ultimately the effect was as calming to my hyper persona as 75 deep-breathing and om heavy yoga classes. Though maybe it was all the bourbon that helped me sleep so well.

Despite all the house in the house we were in, we weren’t the only guests, so Mark and I and the girls were piled into one room together. Something I was a tinge fearful of in terms of our collective ability to get shut-eye, but which worked out swimmingly.

And one night, when we’d gotten back from Aunt Terry’s late, we settled both the girls down and Mark crawled into bed. I was taking my time brushing my teeth and such, even flipping through a Sports Illustrated of Mark’s, hoping to find some celebrity trash–enjoying a rare moment of aloneness. Finally ready to get in bed myself, I turned out the bathroom light and cracked the door into the bedroom to tiptoe in.

As I crawled into bed and snugged in, from the deep country silence I could hear the measured beats of Mark and Kate and Paige’s slow sleep breathing. It made me so happy–so supremely blessed and thankful for my wonderful little family–that I could have almost cried.

Here we were, surrounded by a mega mansion, but happily camped out together in one room. I thought of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, of how that poor family lived together in a wee cramped house–even all sleeping in the same bed. If we weren’t blessed with all that we have, and we just had each other and one room to sleep in, with this family of mine I’d be content. More than anything in the world, I am thankful thankful thankful for this sweet wonderful little family.

And now here we are a week later, with holiday madness well established and my ability to get back to that happy sleepy place often compromised. In fact, right now I hear Mark wrangling on the phone with a customer service rep about a tie and cummerbund that was supposed to arrive today. Although I know he’s in a fury over it, how silly lucky we are to have such problems.  

I know it’s late to the game to send my Thanksgiving reflections out to the universe. But I figure it’s in line with the timing of all my other thank yous these days. Despite how it tarnishes the good etiquette my mother beat into–I mean, raised me with–an ungodly amount of time always seems to pass these before I get my thank you notes out the door.

I’d use my two small kids as an excuse, but I know that’s really no reason for poor manners. Unfortunately I just haven’t been able to make giving thanks my priority these days.

Bless my heart.

Fine Young Cannibal

Yesterday when Kate was allegedly napping, I noticed her sitting in the hallway near her room intently hunched over a project. When I got closer I saw that what she was doing was removing the small plastic beads–the stuffing as it were–from her cherished, adored, irreplaceable, no-substitutes-accepted, God-help-us-if-we-lose-him dog, Dottie.

When she saw me she looked up to explain, “I’m taking these parts from Dottie and going to cook with them.” As if that were the most normal thing in the world.

Alas, Kate’s fervor for small seeds and pellet-like objects seems to have trumped even her maniacal love for Dottie.

Dismayed by her desire to eat her young, I managed to scoop up the small pile of Dottie innards from the floor and sprinkle them back into her worn out paw. All the while muttering some maternal drivel which managed to convince Kate that there were other more appropriate and ultimately less-beloved ingredients she could use in her kitchen.

Needless to say, I’m keeping an especially close eye on Paige now when she and Kate are playing together.

Drinking Games for Mothers

Little Miss Happy Pants Paigey serenely endured a temperature all weekend, maintaining her nearly impenetrable good nature. Then today all hell broke loose and she’s a clingy don’t-you-dare-set-me-down blubbering mess. Poor sweet thing.

And of course I can’t help but marvel at how adorable she looks when she’s bawling. Thankfully she doesn’t wail like this often so she’s not at risk for years of therapy to undo the trauma of having a mother who clucks delightedly and says, “Aw. How cute are you?” when what she’s desperately trying to do is communicate how utterly miserable she is.

Yes, I know. I’m that mother.

So I took her to the pediatrician this morning. And lest you think I let raging fevers go unchecked I called their office Friday and they said if she’s eating and sleeping and chipper, just keep watching her for any change.

After his examination, our friend-doc Dan leaned back, crossed his arms in that all-knowing doctorly way and declared that yes, good thing I brought her in, she does indeed have an ear infection in her left ear.

Now, far be it from me to be the mother who balks when her kid gets caught smoking pot in the alley by the high school, “Not MY Obedi! He’d NEVER do that!” But the fact is, Kate has never had an ear infection, and up until today nor had Paige. I mean, it’s not what my kids do. (Read: It’s something that plagues all those other common folks’ children.)

I mean, barring that there was some kind of shouldn’t-even-joke-about-it mix-up at the hospital, I guess it turns out that ear infections actually are something my kids–or at least one of them–do do. And I realized that I had to remove one small maternal point of pride from my unaware-I-was-even-keeping-track mental checklist. (My mother had much more outspoken bravado about these things. “My children go outside and play in all kinds of weather!” “My children never catch colds.” “My children all have excellent teeth.”)

Anyway, it got me thinking about what a game of I Never would be like today, played amongst a group of hardcore manic Mamas.

Here are a few things I wouldn’t have to drink to:

• I never took my kids’ temperature with an anal thermometer.
• I never gave my kids formula.
• I never dressed my children in a My-First-[Insert Holiday Here] outfit.
• I never had my kids in the room while I was watching TV.
• Post-infancy, I never had my child sleep in bed with me.
• I never tasted any of the bottled baby food I’ve fed my babies.
• I never saw the placentas from my pregnancies.
• I never put my kids’ names on our answering machine message after they were born.
• I’ve never had my baby cry into our answering machine, nor did I have my child leave the outgoing message when she was old enough to speak.
• I never got any of my offspring to take a bottle.
• I never thought I’d be the kind of parent who makes every effort to be home in time for naps to take place in the crib/bed. (But I am.)
• I never had any embarrassing leaky boob-milk incidents.
• I never obsessed over my kids’ poop.
• I never put one of those headband things that have a bow on them on my baby daughters.
• I never had the natural childbirths I hoped for.
• I never worried about safety issues with crib bumpers. (They’re too damn cute to pass up.)
• I never let the fact that they could lose their shit–literally and figuratively–prevent me from taking my babies out in public.
• I never understood how parents could go for years without spending a night away from their kids.
• I never spent a night with my husband away from our oldest child in her first two years of life.
• I never dressed my daughters in clothing that matched mine.
• I never tasted my own breast milk.
• I never made my husband drive like a chauffeur and sat in the back next to my baby’s car seat. (I never did that with my second child, that is.)

Did you have to drink for any of those? (Or to just get through the endless list?)

Until recently, aside from the ear infection, there was one other mini maternal point of pride that was on my list: I never encountered a floater while giving my kid a bath.

Unfortunately–and disgustingly–a couple months ago as Mark was bathing Kate one evening I heard him say to her, “Kate, is that—? Oh, God. Okay honey, let’s get you out of there.” And a minute later as I heard the toilet flush and the water gurgling down the drain he called out to me, “Can you please bring me some bleach?”

As I cracked the door to toss the cleaner in and make a hasty you’re-on-your-own-dude exit, Kate craned her neck towards me and yelled out proudly, “I pooped in the bath, Mama!”

Charming.

Since I did my best to sidestep the whole gnarly scene, maybe I wouldn’t have to drink for that one after all.

What is it that you have never done as a parent?

Forget John Malkovich. I want a portal into Kate.

I collect brother-in-laws named John. I currently only have two, but my sister Ellen is single so there is a chance that I could add a third to my set some day.

My one brother-in-law John–the Coastie who’s married to Mark’s sis, Lori–he and I have a long-standing joke about the Miller’s $30-spending-max holiday gift exchange. It goes back to when I wasn’t yet married into the family, as he was. He delighted in taunting me year after year about whether or not I’d be on the gift exchange list. Then he’d dangle his inclusion in my face by saying “Neener neener neener!”

It was clearly a very mature joke, and likely not funny to anyone other than John and me, but isn’t finding those perversely-amusing common grounds to laugh about when you’re flying on tryptophan and bourbon what brings families closer together?

So anyway, now that I’ve made the grade and am officially and securely part of the gift exchange, I got an email from Mark’s cousin Maggie’s fiance Josh. (You following that?) Due to his engaged status he’s in the mix this year (though frankly I think he was last year too and the Millers are growing a bit lax about the exclusivity of membership). He got Kate to buy for this year and wanted some ideas about what she might like.

Pondering what gift booty would delight Little Miss Kate made me realize the extent to which three-year-olds live in an altered LSD-trippy parallel universe. One where the most mundane everyday objects take on a fascinating sheen.

Like, we were at a toy store yesterday and amidst all the cool fun stuff and actual toys, Kate spotted a plastic placemat with pictures of something like goldfish on it. She woozily, adoringly clutched it to her chest like a diamond tennis bracelet from Tiffany.

“This placemat, Mama,” she whispered with reverence. “I love this placemat. Can I please get it?” Then, realizing there were others with different designs she started yanking them off the rack with delirious glee. “Oh look they have more! There’s this one? I love this too! I want all of them, Mama! Can I have all of them? Please?”

Invoking my well-honed powers of Resisting a Child’s Desire to Buy Crap, I heard myself say, “If you really want one you can ask for it for Christmas.” Then I thought what an absurd Christmas list item that is. Other kids want dolls, Legos, Thomas the Tank Engine. Kate wants a placemat. And she’d truly be BLISSED OUT to get it.

Before having kids I cracked up hearing that my friend Shelley’s son slept with his beloved Wiggles video. As in, clutching the actual video in the box, not having it playing while he slept. Well, joke’s on me when Kate spends a rainy winter night cuddled up with her stuffed dog Dottie and a placemat.

Kate’s other Christmas list items are barely better. Somewhere along the line she suddenly decided that scarves were the coolest things EVER and spent the better part of a 75-degree day pleading with me as if her existence depended on it–and how could I be so cruel as to deny her?–”I want a scarf, Mama. A SCARF! I need one right now!” The small plastic bowl with a snap-top lid that a friend recently left at our house became another object of lustful desire. They’ll be happy to know she had to hug it during several potty sessions. (I ran it through the dishwasher.) And truly I can’t think of any gift she’d love more than a package of seeds–poppy seeds, flower seeds, any type really as long as they are little and plentiful. I’d even wager you could wrap up a dust bunny in a little box and Kate would ceremoniously carry it to her altar–I mean her play kitchen–with the intensity and loving care you’d reserve for a baby bird.

Anyway, I hope all these things are providing Josh not only some good gift ideas but also the realization that, as a man on the brink of marriage, the next big plunge into parenthood could result in becoming the owner and operator of a small person who you love madly madly madly but whose passions and interests you can rarely make a whit of sense of.

But hey, it keeps things lively around here.

As for Paige, she’s also happily entrenched in her own trippy reality. Sadly we’re past the stage where she’d wave her arms around, catch sight of one hand, then slowly turn it over and back in front of her eyes, examining it as if this brilliant device was something she’d never seen before and wasn’t right there, attached to the end of her arm. God, Mark and I loved that.

If Paige was writing an online dating bio she’d add the fringe on the bottom of the couch to her list of interests. Despite whatever real toy she’s given to wrangle with on the floor, she’ll eventually roll herself over to the couch and flap one hand slowly through the tassley fringe with deep contentment.

And whenever I carry her in my front-pack and we walk under a tree, Paigey arches her whole body backwards to stare up at the leaves and the light and laugh and laugh and laugh. I mean, sure, leaves certainly are funny, but they’re not quite the laugh riot Miss P makes them out to be.

All this fascination with the mundane has made me realize how much being a mother is like working a crowd of drug-addled concert-goers. Most of the time I’m in a Stadium Security role, just trying to coral the happy trippers, and make sure it all stays mellow and fun and no one loses an eye. But inevitably somewhere in the course of the day I’m more like a Rock Doctor triaging bad trippers in a tent, helping them get through fits over inanimate objects they’re convinced have come to life to torture them. You know, managing a situation like: ” This sock is hurting me!!! It hurrrrrts meeee! Bad sock!! BAAAAAD!!”

Oh sure. A bad trip like that? I’d say I take on one of those–sometimes as many as three–nearly every day.

And to think I don’t even have a walkie talkie or a medical degree.

Halloween Hi-Jinx Chez McClusky

Our Halloween decorations this year included a large bag of black plastic spiders. Kate and I both spotted them amidst all the other spooky crap at Target and I’m not sure which one of us got more OMG-I-must-have-them-now fired up. Suffice it to say we couldn’t wait until checking out to bust into the bag.

My guess is this delightful sack o’ arachnids were meant to adorn the nearly suburban-mandatory big fake spider web that covers the pumpkins on the stoop or is stretched across the front porch. But at that point we hadn’t rigged our web yet. And when we got home, somewhere in the course of the day Kate had dropped one in the hallway by her bedroom. I have to admit that more than once I walked by the same fake spider sitting in that same place on the floor and had a momentary ick shiver. Which got me thinking that less truly is more.

So I stuck one on the soap bar in Mark’s shower.

After getting ready for work the next day Mark didn’t say a thing, and I later discovered our eight-legged friend on my pillow. And from there we went back and forth–it was in the medicine cabinet on his toothpaste tube, in my jewelry box, under the sheets on his side of the bed, yadda yadda yadda.

But of course, I had to think of the way to end this cat and mouse game with enough flourish to mark it as the grand finale. And also to assert my clear and evident spider-hiding domination. I mean, not that I’m competitive or anything.

As I pondered my coup, I was chagrined at the thought that in the few days leading up to Halloween Mark was going to be in New York. And then–duh!–I realized that having him find it there–while I was home in California–should be my genius next move. So, when he was  taking his pre-airport departure shower at the painful hour of 5:30AM, I sprinkled the entire bag of spiders into a section of his suitcase, reserving some for inside a pair of dress shoes he’d packed.

It sucked voluntarily getting out of bed in the wee small hours to do this, but I’m willing to make sacrifices like that to secure my place on the medal podium of pranksterdom.

The voicemail Mark left me after unpacking his bag at the hotel–and sending a bunch of spiders flying–was, “Well played, honey. Well played.”

Of course, when he got home a couple days later, I pulled back the sheets of our bed to see all the spiders come home to roost. Sure, it surprised me, and sure, gave me the proverbial willies, but we both knew that the game had really ended with my bold and brilliant suitcase move.

Or so we thought.

Today, Mark sent me an email from the office entitled “I don’t know if you’re teaching Kate tricks.” Turns out that when he put on his cycling jacket to ride to the gym at lunch he discovered that the pockets were filled with dozens of small wooden mushroom- and pepperoni-painted disks, part of the pizza-making toy Kate’s currently obsessed with.

Mark was fairly certain that this was my handiwork, or that I’d coached Kate to do it. But I’d undergo a polygraph to prove that the girl acted entirely on her own. I wasn’t even aware she’d done it. Though if I did happen to catch her red-handed, God knows I wouldn’t have stopped her.

Ah well. Just when I thought I had the last laugh, little Miss Kate comes in out of the blue and ends the game with a dazzling flourish.

Well played, Katie. Well played. 

Kate Walks the Catwalk

Tomorrow is the local kiddie Halloween parade, and Kate’s school’s Fall Festival and some pumpkin ho-down at a nearby cemetery of all places. Kate, Paige and I will be debuting our 2008 Halloween line of haute costumery. Tonight as I was double-checking every last detail of our ensembles like some OCD Project Runway contestant I told Mark I felt like it was the night before my thesis presentation.

Which is, needless to say, utterly pathetic. And perhaps an indicator that it’s time for me to rejoin the workforce. Either that or resign myself to housewife life and sign up for a Betty Crocker cook-off.

Though our costumes do rock so incredibly hard that we’re sure to stun and amaze all who see us. And if we don’t all I can say is poor Mark will have himself one brutally long ugly night of talking me down off the ledge of irrational female emotions. 

It’s weird that as hopped up as I am to trot the girls (and sure, myself) out on Halloween, in the very same week it became brutally clear how remotely not cut out to be a Pageant Mom I am. Which isn’t to say that I entered Paige into the Little Miss Fatty Legs Northern California Regional Semi-Finals. Though if there was such a pageant and I was the type to enter my nine-month-old daughter, I can assure you SHE WOULD KILL.

My encounter was actually a gazillion times more chill. My gargantuanly talented photographer friend asked if Kate would–well I don’t even want to use the term because it makes it seem like more than it was but–model for a shoot she was doing. No big thing–just some pics for a website (or catalog?) for a Brangelina’s kids level-of-schmancy children’s clothing line.

Of course, while knowing it was so not remotely a big deal there still was one wee part of my being that immediately interpreted the invitation to do this as my friend’s way saying that she’d truly never looked upon a more beautiful and luminous child than Kate. Ever.

And so, knowing Kate has the star power to be the next Brooke Shields but because we’re not the types to do anything about it other than leave a trail of love-struck 3-year-old boys in her wake, I happily agreed to help my friend out and do this it’ll-be-fun shoot. And immediately put Kate on a strict grapefruit and Tab diet… Okay, well not really.

So, two days before the shoot I noticed Kate had a dark quarter-sized bruise on her cheek that appeared in that way that little owies crop up all over 3-year-olds who engage in some sort of Ultimate Playground Fighting all in the name of good recess fun. One day before the shoot Kate and her friend Owen decided to give each other magic marker “tattoos” akin to a prison gang ritual. Kate’s cheek, neck, and the length of her arm were inked in what I was sure was wash-awayable marker, though Mark’s bath-time washcloth dermabrasion had no power over them. And the actual day of the shoot she get a big red ballerina stamp on her hand from dance class like some little raver club girl.

It’s not until you want your child to be free and clear of bodily markings that you realize what a typical week in the world of a preschooler serves up to their dermis. Sheesh.

And the fact that the thought did cross my mind that all these things could affect THE PICTURES scared me into wondering if there’s some latent Pageant Mother embedded deep deep inside me just waiting to bust out like an alien from Sigourney Weaver’s stomach.

Well, suffice it to say that Kate doesn’t seem to have the, uh, temperament to withstand a mellow photo shoot at our good friend’s house where she’s usually comfortable enough to frolic naked in the backyard kiddie pool and raid their selection of sippy cups.

A simple request to try on a pair of tights–this doesn’t even include the dress, boots, sweater and hat which were ultimately required–caused Kate to scream “NO!” in painfully close range of my face, then run off to pry the play cash register away from the hands of one of the other more serenely-natured girls.

Finally, miraculously, the entire outfit did get onto her body, despite the tricky Euro buttons up the back of the dress, and the hysterical crying fit that ended in a series of those hyperventilating quick intakes of breath, a snot-smeared face, and my promise to pack her to the gills with ice cream the moment we got home.

Thankfully the woman who was running the shoot was a mother too, and told me one girl/model recently wouldn’t even getting dressed. That left me feeling like my Ivy League-level aspirations that got knocked down to a good liberal arts school at least didn’t devolve into the community college outcome that that other poor mother walked away with. Misery no doubt loves company, but loves someone who is worse off even more.

I don’t know yet whether the pics of Kate were even use-able. My friend managed to tell little sweet stories to Kate while photographing her, brilliantly distracting her from her satanic crying spell. And since most of the other clothing ended up being too big for Kate, it turned out I only had to wrangle one outfit on her and then we were free to go. Of course, in writing this I realize that was likely the polite way to excise Little Miss Tantrum from the scene.

Whatever the case, as we headed out the woman actually asked if we’d ever want to do it again, remarking that Kate is “really beautiful” and kindly leaving out the “when her head is not rotating full circle and she’s not puking pea soup” part of the sentence. Perhaps she’ll bring some sort of kiddie sedative along next time. Or better yet, something mind-altering for the adults.

Driving down the mountain from my friend’s house I saw Kate in the rear view mirror looking worn out and gazing out the window. I asked her what she thought of having her picture taken and she said weakly, “Good.” Did she think it was something she’d want to do again I asked, mostly out of curiosity about what she’d say. She perked right up, leaning forward with a million-dollar smile (best one of the day) and chirped, “Yes, Mama! Yes, I’ll do it again!”

I’ve no idea what would make her want to re-enter the Zone of Wailing Misery which she was so entrenched in just moments before. Either modeling shoots are forgotten like the pain of childbirth, or the extent to which Mark and I restrict Kate from having sweets is so great it was a small price for her to pay to get an ice cream sandwich.

If we ever do decide to do it again, I just have to figure out what treat I’m going to allow myself to have at the end.

Shameful Legacy

Dear Kate:

I confess. Well, it won’t take long for you to figure this out on your own anyway.

My genes are totally responsible for how your hair looks when you wake up in the morning.

All I can say is I’m so very sorry.

xoxo,
Mama

My morning glory:

And yours:

Please Pardon Our Appearance While We Potty Train

Last night Mike, Myra, and the kids came over for dinner and I gave them a general warning about the current state of our bathrooms. It seemed easier for me to set expectations than to run around and check on them every so often like some OCD McDonald’s washroom janitor. While Kate masters the art of diaper-free life, you never really know what you could encounter behind the bathroom door.

Some scenarios include: Half the roll of toilet paper unraveled and strewn about the room like some poorly-executed small-scale Christo installation, or wadded into a ball in an equally fraught-with-failure attempt to put it back. Then there are the wipes–those flushable ones for kids that I refused to buy the Princess or froggy version of in hopes they wouldn’t be seen as a toy. Joke’s on me since the plain white container apparently holds some less-is-more allure for Kate. At any given time, anywhere from one to 30 of those wipes could be tossed about the room. Once they were even spread across the wall tiles like some sort of moist wallpaper treatment. (And to think she’s never watched so much as a minute of HGTV!)

Oh and if stickers are your thing, you may be lucky to find the toilet seat decked out in a fresco of the one-for-pee two-for-poop stickers reserved for the special potty chart. (One of these days I’ll actually move those out of reach.) You may think it sounds charming to find your toilet bejeweled this way, but when you’re standing in line at a store and feel a small something clinging to your butt cheek, only to discover later it’s a sparkly unicorn sticker, you may change your mind. As a stay-at-home mother I’ve found such experiences slowly chip away at my dignity, even if they are kinda funny sometimes.

The other thing that’s disconcerting is unwittingly sitting on the padded training potty seat when you lower yourself down half-asleep in the middle of the night.

You may be thinking that my staying with the girl when she “goes potty” would prevent any or all of these scenarios from taking place. The thing is, 80% of the time I am with her. It’s just those infrequent (but blessed) times she wanders in on her own, or that I need to do something mid-way through a seeminlgy endless poop sesh, that I return to see Kate’s bathroom decor handiwork. Bodily functions aside, when it comes to leaving her personal mark on the bathroom, the girl is fast.

I was going to mention that when I enter to see a maelstrom of wipes and toilet paper it’s all blessedly un-used. But I won‘t mention that, seeing as I’m a huge parental believer in The Power of Jinx. The moment I say anything, luck’s tide will no doubt turn on me.

It’s like this weekend at Ella K’s birthday party. I foolishly gloated to a friend that Kate was at long last potty-trained. Not even an hour later–at which point of course the backyard party had moved indoors–Kate announced at top vox “I’m peeing!” and I (along with everyone else at the party) looked over to see her in fact doing so all over our host’s lovely living room carpet. Last time I brag.

The other manifestation of the potty training thing that spares our bathrooms but is still disquieting is the pantie obsession. Mark and I are getting a taste of how the parents of those boob-flashing spring break co-eds must feel. When Kate’s feeling shy she balls up the hem of her dress, pulls it up revealing her little bod, and sticks it in her mouth to gnaw on. The alternative to that shy mode is the “Wanna see my princess panties?” mode. I can’t count the number of times people like our mail man have had Kate reveal her panties to them. It’s troubling.

Well, no more troubling than my having to continue to change diapers, I guess.