Report from the Night Shift

Last night The McClusky Sisters besieged my sleep with a brutal one-two punch. With Mark gone to wait in endless taxi lines at CES in Vegas, I’m running solo on the ‘renting. And hanging on by a thread to tell the tale.

So, is it just me, or is waking from a deep sleep to find a small child silently standing inches from your face scary as shit? I mean, maybe I’ve watched The Shining a few too many times in college, but I can’t begin to fathom how parents of twins survive seeing two kids standing in a hallway in the middle of the night. Horrific on so many levels.

The suddenly-standing-right-there kid is one thing, but the plaintive cry of, “I don’t waaaaaaanna sleep!” called across the albeit small house–and a look at the digital clock revealing it’s 1:32AM–is quite another. Even if you know every other time you’ve heard this lament The Whiner has successfully been marched back to bed with some threat like, “It’s the middle of the night and yes, you WILL sleep!” hissed into her ear–even knowing that’s probably how it’ll go down, the vision of what your night could turn into if the little beastie did refuse to sleep is just unspeakably ugly.

Waking up this way is less than ideal, but half of what I’m all pissy about is that Kate’s sleep issues are something I realized–how to say this?–I blame totally on Mark. Since he still can’t lactate (damn it) the natural division of nighttime labor has been Mark serving as Kate’s night nurse and me tending to Paige’s milk-swillin’ needs. Mark’s just such a softie. He ambles out of bed and gently ushers Kate to her
room instead of blowing a whistle loudly in her face as I might do in
order to, you know, break the cycle.

With sleep being my Super Power (along with parallel parking), I’m usually able to snooze through most of Kate’s creepy suddenly-standing-there late-night visits to our room. And I drown out her vocal requests with the patented pillow-over-the-head approach.

So while Mark’s slumming in a luxury hotel, getting buttered up by every hi-tech trade show gadget pimp, and eating out at Bouchon, Craft, and the best Thai restaurant this side of Chiang Mai, I’m home wrangling with the wretched nighttime duet that he and Kate sometimes dance.

I mean, I don’t mean to sound bitter.

But maybe my lack of REM is actually mustering in me a wee bit of co-parenting empathy on this subject. In the past, when I’ve stretched, smiled and offered up a well-rested morning greeting to Mark, commenting on how Paigey “slept through, God bless her,” he’s often looked back at me through bloodshot eyes muttering slack-jawed that Kate “was up four–or mabye it was five–times.” It’s not that I don’t feel bad for the guy, but when he adds that from 1:30 to 3:00 he “couldn’t sleep at all,” he loses me.

As a professional sleeper I know there’s some good shut-eye to be gotten between those 30-second back-in-your-beddie-bye jaunts. It’s always baffled me that between these quick promenades Mark’s often in bed wired and wild-eyed.

But now, like some Scrooge who grew a heart overnight, I’ve come to understand Mark’s plight. The thing is, after the girl cons you into thinking she’s ready to doze off at the first tuck-in, you foolishly climb back into bed, and just when your body temp’s returned to duvet-level warmth and you’re drifting off into a dream about having had a really popular prom date, SHE’S BACK. This time wailing loudly near the baby’s bedroom door. “MAMA!!! I. Can’t. SLEEEEEEP!”

Suffice it to say, it’s jarring.

If it weren’t for fear that she’d disturb The One That Insists On Drinking Milk From Your Boobies If Awoken, you wouldn’t be springing out of bed in a flash to hush hush hush her and direct her back toward her room whispering a strained aren’t-your-blankets-so-cozy-honey pep talk in her ear.

If it’s not already clear, we’re quite religious about not solving this problem by inviting her into our Child-Free Zone, I mean bed.

So, more soporific promises from Kate and another walk back to my own bed, but this time I can’t help but be wary. Why get cozy when the other shoe could drop at any moment? She could be back again before I even have time to lament the oh-so-wretched hour. And when the rattle of the heater cranks up I find myself straining to listen, thinking I’m hearing her door crack open again. It’s like that one ring on the Motorola RAZR phone that always had you thinking it was ringing when it wasn’t. (Admit it. You always fell for that too.)

So, not one to be rooked into nodding off again, this time I’m on ambush alert. I’m almost wanting her to get up and just get it the hell over with. Will she do the spooky silent child by the bed move, or the bellow from down the hall? What’s it gonna be, Kate?! BRING IT ON, SISTER.

But eventually enough time passes, and I let go, roll over, and well, you can guess what happens when I just drift off. “MOMMY!!”

Digital clock now says 2:53AM.

To anyone who may have seen me carrying a child fireman-style over my shoulder while growling “No more getting up, and I MEAN IT!” threats under my breath, thanks a bunch for not calling Child Protective Services.

I think this process took place five times last night. Or maybe four. I lost count some time after losing my will to live.

And once Kate lost interest in seeing how far she could push me before I’d put her up for bid on eBay, her World Wrestling Federation partner, Paige, tagged in.      

It was like Paige was perched in the corner of the ring waiting for the bell to sound so she could pounce on my last 3 hours of sleep like a rabid monkey. (I know this is mixing a metaphor, but on such limited sleep this is the best I can muster, people.)

And what a show Miss Paige put on! The baby who generally gets up once at night–if that–squawked first at midnight, prior to Kate’s onsalught, then came at me with two additional awake-itudes spaced out for maximum snoozing interference at 4:00 and 5:30.

At 5:45 I crawled to bed. Cold. Tapped dry of milk. Frantic for sleep but gun-shy about giving into it. And desperately, miserably missing my partner in parenting, our family’s fearless father, my dear sweet Mark.

He who was alseep in some hotel bed. Likely a bit boozed up after some work party or dinner. Stretched out solo in a huge king bed, maybe with another one like it nearby just for throwing his books and clothes and cell phone on.

Hopefully getting a deep restful night’s sleep to fortify him for the family life awaiting his return. At which point I will never again doubt, question, or criticize any of his middle of the night sleep shenanigans, because I’ll be so damn happy happy happy to just have him back.   

No Place Like Cards for the Holidays

The most socially acceptable medium for showing off one’s kids seems to be the holiday photo card. I mean, it beats the expense, travel, trauma–and let’s face it, limited exposure–of the child pageant circuit.

My sister Judy always calls in any feedback she’s gotten about our cards, which is nice. She covers off on some of the “what cute kids!” compliments that I might otherwise miss out on.

Judy’s best friend Lindelle, who lives on the East Coast, apparently called her last year at 5AM California time squealing about Kate’s posed-by-the-fir-tree innocent beauty. (Despite the two plus decades Judy’s been out here Lindelle has not yet caught on to–or simply decided to ignore–the time difference.) Good Auntie that Judy is, she was willing to take the call despite the early hour, in order to thoroughly process and discuss all elements of the card. (And that’s just one reason why they’re from-womb-to-tomb friends.) 

Judy called in her report about this year’s card a couple weeks ago. Blah blah blah Kate is pretty. And apparently word on the street is that Paigey’s a ringer for our mom. When I shared this with Mark, he claimed he’d been hearing that Paige is a wee version of him.

In either case, both these comments set off my internal awww meter.

But then with further reflection–and a dash of neuroses–it got me wondering. If Paige looks like my mother and Mark, then Mark looks like my mother, right? So does that mean that in some short-circuited Electra-like Complex I married my, uh, mother? And then, did my mother and I give birth to a female baby who looks like my shoulda-been husband?

It’s all just too frightening and confusing.

Maybe next year we’ll just send out cards with pictures of Santa. 

Mama’s Little Girl

My mother used to make up crap constantly. I mean, it was all in the service of urging one of her four daughters to do something, and as the mother of one child who’s turned the unbearable age of three, I can feel her pain. At one point the poor woman had a newborn, an 11-month old, and a 22-month-old. (Then ten years later I happily hit the scene. Surprise!)

Anyway, knowing what I know now, whatever the woman went through to get through the day is totally fine by me.

Her specialty was outlining elaborate reasons why things should be done. Often she’d add some statistics to back-up her argument. And I’m not talking about the classics like “you have to wait at least an hour to swim after eating.” She’d bust out much more detailed data. And although she’s not around to ask the origins of her plentiful stats, I have every reason to believe that based on how convenient they were to her–and the fact that with re-use the numbers sometimes changed–I’d wager she made them up on the spot.

“95% of household accidents happen from untied shoes!” she’d bellow after me as I ran through the house.

Throughout the winter months I’d hear some variant of:
“If you don’t wear a hat you lose 85% of your body heat through your head.”

And of course there was:
“70% of kids who sit that close to the TV develop vision problems, you know.”

Her: “Do you know how many kids who ride their bikes without helmets get into accidents and turn into vegetables?
Me: “Uh… sixty-five percent?”

Who knows. Maybe in Reader’s Digest or whatever women’s magazines she was reading at the time they had entire sections devoted to citing maternally-weildible stats like these. Perhaps she really did have primary sources for it all.

She also had an arsenal of other warnings. They were statistic-free but still rife with veiled health threats: “Drinking coffee will stunt your growth” was one of her evergreens, though I don’t remember ever wanting so much as a taste of her coffee when she was having a cup. Maybe the sum-total of her maternal sleep deprivation by the time I was born led her to preemptively fend people away from her coffee. And again, who could blame her?

Even later in her life when she was so sick that her body could barely process food, she’d insist we stop at Dunkin’ Donuts on the way home from chemotherapy. Something I argued fruitlessly with her about until, requesting the doctor back me up one day, he pulled me outside the exam room to gingerly advise me that if coffee was something she enjoyed “at this point in her life” I should just let her have it.

Hello gut-wrenching reality check.

But anyway, where the hell was I? Mom. Coffee. And most importantly stunted growth–believe it or not, that being the little nugget that I was making my way toward. (Still happy you’ve come along for the ride?)

The thing is with Paige–the gal I’ve been trying to get to through all this Mom memory blather–is that she’s so utterly delightful, delicious and unbearably baby-like still. It devastates me to think of her growing up. Truly! If only I thought the coffee could stunt her growth, I’d give it a shot. (Then I’d just need to figure out how to administer it, since at the ripe age of 11 months beverage-wise the gal’s still exclusively about the boob.)

When Kate was a baby I did one of the smartest things a new mother could do. I got a sitter to come over one day a week–the neighbor’s part-time nanny who wanted extra hours. She watched Kate on Friday nights too so Mark and I could go on dates, ultimately talking about how much we adored (and missed) Kate.

I’ve said it before and no truer words have I spoken: Better to pay for babysitting now than marriage counseling later. (Copyright, 2005-2008 McClusky)

Aaaanyway, it was that nanny, Blanca, who dealt me my first eye-opener about Kate’s growth. I was looking through some larger-sized baby clothes and commenting on how darling they’d be once Kate fit into them. And in her sweetest, non-confrontational, most respectful way, Blanca looked me straight in the eye and said, “Uh, Kristen? She’ll fit into those now!”

And sure, it turned out that maybe I was infantilizing ole’ Kater Tot a wee bit. I realized that maybe we were shimmying her into the 3 to 6 month clothing when really, heck, those 9-month duds weren’t exactly big on her. (Or maybe even fit.) It was just…she was my baaaby! If she was fitting into these bigger clothes it meant–absurd as it is to consider when it’s a matter of months–she was growing up.

This brought into perspective the crying jag a friend told me about years earlier when her husband assembled their first-born’s crib. The baby wasn’t even three-months-old, and was just making the move out of the bassinet. As her husband toiled over the assembly directions, Lisa threw herself on their bed for a dramatic “she’s growing up sooo fast” bawling sesh.

Today I think this is not crazy-lady behavior at all.

Well, whatever psychological force was holding me back from Kate’s move away from babydom seems to only be amplified with Paigey Wig. With Kate, I think it was that she was my first. But with Paige, she’s my last! And such a dumpling, that one! A living doll, I tell you!

Isn’t it okay for me to still dress her in snap-crotch onesies when she’s in high school? And really, what 8-year-old needs treads on their shoes when a soft hand-knitted booty is so much comfier? And say what you will about the independence kids get from walking about on their own. Isn’t there something to be said for the cozy warmth and security that a sling could provide a preteen during those often awkward and trying pubescent years?

Of course, taking the worst possible opportunity to do it, when she’s pushing herself backwards around her room (her brand of crawling) and sobbing dramatically because she needs a nap, I decided to go through Paige’s drawers today and purloin all the obviously outgrown clothes.

Alas, there’s no future sib to get another round of wear out of the burgundy Catamini romper, or the brilliant NASA shirt our friend Kenneth gave Paige. Gone for good is the peach cashmere cable knit cardigan that made both Kate and Paige’s cheeks look flushed and utterly edible. And even the threadbare but darling Carter’s standbys–the now-pilly footy PJs with the lamb and giraffe appliques. I’d think twice about putting them in a thrift store pile based on their condition alone, but can’t bear to rid myself of the outfits my sweet girls wore curled up like angels asleep in their cribs. (Sleep has so many rich positive memories for mothers.)

For weeks–maybe months–now, Mark has emerged from dressing Paige remarking that he’d had to “wedge a leg” of hers into a certain pair of pants or had to “stuff her into” her pink hooded coat. (His none-too-subtle cues to me to get the girl some new clothes.) And half-heartedly I’d mumble something to appease him for the moment.

Well Miss Paige, today you’ve officially made the transition to 18-month-old clothing. (The fact that baby clothes are often sized older than the wee ones themselves is particularly cruel to me and my type.) May your plump little ham hock thighs never strain beneath the pressure of the 0 to 6 month pea green Zutano fleece pants again. And know that even if we don’t have the good fortune that you somehow acquire coffee, devise a way to consume it, and it actually results in retarding your growth–even if that never comes to pass, just know that you’ll still always be my little girl.    

“And a chick-eh-en in a pear tree…”

A few weeks ago while getting a mani/pedi I picked up some should’ve-been-too-ashamed-to-read-it-in-public mag. You know, something that makes Us read like The New Yorker. And nearly instantly all of my being was sucked into a story about how Mariah Carey–a celebrity I’ve utterly NO interest in (or so I thought)–spends Christmas.
  
Since I know you too are now desperate to hear just how Mariah rocks around her Christmas tree, I’ll share some highlights.

The girl says she’s all about traditions. Every year when her jet lands in Aspen, she insists her waiting limo has Christmas tunes cranked, and she pops some bubbly for the ride to her home, which Martha-like elves have already decorated. Then off to the slopes? No, no! Too chilly there! Instead she spends at least one day lolling about trying on clothes–figuring out just what she’ll sport on Santa’s big day. (Though I think even Kate could tell her it’ll be some variant of her Spandexy micro-mini ‘n stilettos uniform.) She packs the house with all manner of joyous relatives and friends, and her shopping is both excessive and last-minute, leaving her up nearly all night Xmas Eve wrapping the pressies old school, yo. Unfortunately her personal hand-wrapping results in her sleeping through most of Christmas Day, which she admits is hard on the children. Despite her pleas otherwise, her posse waits for her to wake up to open presents. (“Okay kids! It’s 4PM and Auntie Mariah got out of bed. Now you can open your stockings!”)

There was more, but really. It was all I could do to not to lean over, spread my knees, and barf into the warm water basin my feet were soaking in.

I mean come on, people. Who doesn’t give their limo driver Christmas off?

Despite me not getting my diva on with quite the same excessitude as Mariah, Christmas Chez McClusky this year was indeed quite splendid.

It being a time of wonder and such, here are a few of my own holiday discoveries. (Best for me to jot down some reflections before a Woman’s Day writer tracks me down for a big story next year.)

It’s amazing the impact one mention of Jesus from the old neighbor lady can have on a 3-year-old from a non-religious family (i.e. us). “Is Baby Gee-ziz sleeping in that little box, Mama? Is there birthday cake for Baby Gee-ziz? Does Baby Gee-ziz have a lamby?” For the love of God, Kate!

Odds are we’re the only family with a chicken mask as an angel on top of our tree. Which may be a good thing.

Even after 9 years my husband can write something in a card that makes me cry. (Happy tears, that is.) What’s staggering is he pulled this off twice this Christmas.

Paige sat by the tree on Christmas morning laughing and clapping her hands like a little tin toy monkey. It’s incredible that I’ve managed to resist devouring her.

New friends who feel like old friends are a gift indeed. We spent a warm wine-drenched Christmas Eve with dear friends who we didn’t even know last year.

You know your the-economy-sucks plans to hold back on shopping failed when you find yourself imploring your child to stop playing with her new toys so she can unwrap her scads of remaining pressies.

Sometimes the cheap-o stocking stuffers–like the clear rubber ball filled with water and sparkly green glitter–are the super-fun sleeper gifts that even the adults can’t help but obsess over.

Thanks to a Christmas-gift book, we’ve all fallen in love with a duck named Lemon, who we’re now corresponding with via email. Go figure.

I helped Paige tear the paper off a gift from Mark’s sis and her family. A hardcover book entitled Until Proven Innocent: Political Correctness and the Shameful Injustices of the Duke Lacrosse Rape Case. Now, I hold out every hope that Miss Paigey will be an early and avid reader, but the subject matter of this particular volume seemed a bit, well, off for the wee gal. (She’s much more a tennis person than lacrosse if you ask me.) Anyway, turns out Amazon screwed up, leaving us to imagine a 65-year-old attorney opening a Fisher-Price plush bowling set and wondering what the fuck his brother had been thinking.

My husband can cook circles around your husband. Proven once again by the amazing pork roast he prepared sous-vide. 

Hands down the best bad Christmas song is Dominick the Donkey. Thanks to the streaming holiday music channel, Mark, Kate, and I are all possessed by the verses, “Hey! Chingedy ching. (hee-haw, hee-haw) It’s Dominick the donkey! Chingedy ching. (hee-haw, hee-haw) The Italian Christmas donkey!” Sheesh.

Our friend Dave carried Kate on his shoulders for much of our yearly Christmas hike–running in circles, bumping her up and down, and causing her to screech with non-stop glee despite the whipping winds and Arctic-to-us cold. You can’t help but love your own children, but watching your friends treat them with silly gregarious happy love is a deeply good tonic indeed.

And with no relation to the holiday whatsoever, yesterday I managed to solve the damned Changing Table Problem, whereby once you lay Paige down she grabs the stack of clean diapers and starts winging them across the room like a Frisbee-throwing machine (or the paperboy in that old video game you maybe used to play). Yesterday, in what turned out to be a “the obvious answer ain’t always the most evident” situation, I simply moved the wipes to where the diapers were and the dipes out of reach where the wipes used to be. (Duh!) I’m not sure what’s more troubling: that it took weeks of Mark and I running interceptions on flying diapers before I cracked this case, or the fact that this New Changing Table World Order will improve the quality of my life to a staggering extent. (Just more clues that it might be time to go back to work.)
 
Mariah be damned. Our homey Oakland Christmas was divine and I wouldn’t change a thing about it. My only regret being that now that it’s over I won’t be able to leverage good “Santa’s watchin’” behavior out of Kate any more. At least not for another 10 months or so.

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.

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.

Birth Announcement Breeds Confusion, Resentment

My friend Geri, who I see and talk too far less often than I should, called yesterday.

Geri: “Okay, so first off I have to say that when I got this red envelope in the mail from you I thought, ‘Oh God, she’s already sent out her Christmas cards. And it’s just days after Halloween.’ “

Me: “And you were disgusted by what a super organized stay-at-home mom I’d become? You were ready to totally write me off as a friend?”

Geri: “Well, not quite write you off… That’s a bit extreme.”

Me: “But then you opened it? And realized it was just a really really late birth announcement?”

Geri: “Exactly. And my faith in you was restored.”

Yes, last week, just days after our beloved newborn Paige turned, well, nine months old, we popped her birth announcement into the mail.

We figured that years from now, when she and Kate are in their thirties and looking through old shoeboxes of family photos and memorabilia, Paige will care more about ever having had a birth announcement than she will about the fact that we got around to sending it out so bloody late. In fact, if she doesn’t look too hard at how very large she was in the pictures, perhaps she’ll never even make the connection.

Speaking of lost connections, on an online video chat with my Dad and Joan last week, I mentioned that they’d be getting a birth announcement in the mail from us soon, “just in case you were wondering if I was still pregnant.” Which caused my dad to lean distortingly close to his computer video lens and say, “What’s that? You’re pregnant?!“

Ah dear. Perhaps sending this card out now did more harm than good.

Well, despite what anyone else says, we still want to shout it from the rooftops:
“Paige Victoria McClusky is here! She is a supreme addition to our family, and we love love love her more than you’d ever know!”

Take that! We’ve announced it. Even if she did make her entrance nearly a year ago.

Ack! There’s somebody in there!

Last week, while Mark was in Neuva York slumming  his way through dinner at wd-50 alongside Gourmet Magazine editor Ruth Reichl, food critic Geoffrey Steingarten, Chef Grant Achatz and other foodie luminaries, our neighbors took pity on the girls and me and had us over for pumpkin-carving and pasta.

In a rookie-level tactical error, I fed Paige before the rest of us sat down, then realized I’d dashed any hopes of her sitting out our meal patiently from her high chair. Employing an Italian-American approach to problem solving, I looked for some more food I could stuff into her.

Did they possibly have any Cheerios, I asked. “I think so,” said Jennifer. But then looking at the box, “Oh, but they’re the sugary Honey Nut ones. Will those work?”

Mark and I fully embrace the No Sugar for the Kids so There’s More for Us patented approach to childrearing. So, I paused for a brief moment before my own desire to eat uninterrupted won out and I succumbed.

At nine months, Paige is proficient at swiping Cheerios off her tray and even picking them up with her pincer grasp, but she still hasn’t had the I-can-put-these-in-my-mouth-all-by-myself realization. So after I inserted the first-ever dose of sugar into her innocent little bouche, her eyes widened, and she excitedly tapped her fingertips together, signing “More! More!”

It was the first time she’s signed! I’ve only been trying to teach her a few signs–more, all done, milk–seeing as, well, seeing as I only know a few myself.

And earlier in the day when she got all babbling arm-waving hopped up looking at some pumpkins I asked her if she’d like to touch them, and wonder of wonders she reached right out and she did!

Call it parental goofballness, but it is amazing to get those first hits of two-way communication with your little bundle of chub. It’s not like you don’t expect it to ever happen, but after nine months of feeding and bathing and diaper-changing marked only by intermittent smiles and laughs–which don’t get me wrong are akin to a narcotic for a sleep-deprived Mama–after all that it’s still thrilling and freaky and somewhat unbelievable when you suddenly get confirmation that there is in fact someone in that baby body. And that they are listening.

Jennifer and I encouraged Paigey to sign “more” a couple more times to validate that, yes, she was in fact doing it. Woo hoo! I gave her a million proud kisses all over her head like she was some prize-winning Basset Hound at Westminster.

Of course, it’s been nearly a week and she hasn’t signed a single time since. Granted, she also hasn’t had any more Honey Nut Cheerios.