Why Can't My Babies Grow Up to Be Babies?

The X-Man is turning 6 next month. I ordered some cute invites and got them ALL sent out right on time (you may or may not know I am an epistolary loser, English degree and all). And then one of our lovely friends pointed out that the invites are for the X-Man's 5th!!!! birthday party!!!! Oy.

The thing is, I'm not that sentimental about milestones or the kids growing up and flying the coop or any of that. I failed baby book 101, I never teared up with them outgrowing the crib (or in the X-Man's case, getting kicked out). First day of school I get the teensiest bit verklempt, but for the most I'm just not that sentimental. I mean my job essentially is to work myself out of a job. So if I'm doing my job well the birthdays they keep a-comin', the kids they keep a-growin' and it's all blowin' in the wind. My conclusion--this says more about my last birthday (4-0) and the sieve-like container that used to be my brain.

Save the Daylight

I've heard some complaints lately about springing forward into Daylight Savings--it messes with the household routine, kids not going to sleep, my dh bemoaning that lost hour of productivity. I want to go on the record as a lover of daylights savings--I couldn't be happier with it.


First of all there's the simple novelty of the time changing. In the same way I look forward to the mail everyday to break up the tedium of a a long afternoon, the fact that something in my day or week is different delights me.


The bigger bonus though is what it's done to the kids. Morning wake up was getting earlier and earlier--those damn birds, I wish they'd tweet back to the Disney movie from whence they came. But now wake up is back to where it should be--7a.m. most days. Yesterday the X-Man slept until 7:20. By some incredible mom-alchemy I can still get everyone in the van and on the way to school by 7:51, so there's nothing to sweat. It's all early morning, reading the paper in peace and having a second cup of coffee goodness around here. Or, as of this moment, blogging. Ahhhhhhhhh.

Let's See if I Can Remember How to Do This

I got a friendly little grey nudge to get back over here and post something. So here I am. It feels a lot like dropping my journal for months then sauntering back, trying to act casual and make up for lost time. Or what I do to my good buddy Sara frequently--daily emails then I vanish in a puff of smoke for days on end.

Now, where were we? We've moved--had we moved last I was here? (I should read my own blog). We are farther South by a little and comfier by a lot. The kids are squared away school-wise. The house is coming along decorating-wise (albeit slowly). I am still fairly lazy and accomplish much less than I should.

I just poked my head over to my last post--duh. So, the house is done. It's beautiful and we're very happy with it. We are now trying (not always successfully) to keep the kids from destroying it. The X-Man ended up in our local public school and it looks like the best fit all around for him. We are thrilled--love his teacher, love the principal. The other families are great, the vibe is relaxed but involved. Missy Z is in a co-op. I never in a million thought I'd be a co-op mom, but it's not so crunchy it sticks in my teeth and she's very happy there.

I'll break it there and try not to let this poor blog languish again.

Woman on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown





And yeah, that would be me. Which is why: I haven't been here lately; I've had two panic attacks in as many weeks; I've spent the better part of this weekend burning my eyes out looking at lighting websites; my back is killing me (okay, Miss Z probably gets some credit for that too); I'm not sleeping well; the house we occupy is even more drunken and disorderly than usual.


Ah, how the mighty have fallen. I was so on a roll with New House. I was making decisions right and left. I was on fire. Then it came time to choose lighting fixtures and I've buckled like a cardboard box in a hurricane.


I think that I am way over thinking this. I was trying to describe it to The Mr. last night (who, bless his heart, tried to look interested and comprehending). It goes something like this: I've been pouring over and clipping photos from shelter magazines for months to ready myself for these decisions. I'm trying to solve for: the house itself and the style that's inherent in the architecture; my preferences as they fit in with said house; The Mr.'s preferences and weird quirks as they relate to the house itself; what we can actually find in the time frame we're working in; and ultimately really, who we are collectively. But what creeps into all of this is something else--some sort of "should" that muddles my thinking. We should be cooler than we are. We should be fancier than we are. It's what leads someone who really like a very ordinary tap to pony up for something much chicer or hipper--and usually more expensive--really to keep up with the imaginary Joneses in their heads (disclaimer--we know two lovely Jones families IRL and I'm not talking about them). It sounds stupid, but it's there. I think the shelter magazines--for all their ideas and inspiration--are partly to blame. It's a bit like a teenage girl looking at Vogue. She's a perfectly wonderful teenage girl who looks fresh and great and cute. But then she looks at Vogue and starts the "I'm not thin enough, chic enough, blah blah blah enough and I should do something about it" (anorexia, shopping, plastic surgery).

So perhaps the above rant is the punchline to "when is a lighting fixture not just a lighting fixture?"

X-Man 5

No, I don't have the scoop on the latest Wolverine feature--my little boy, my first baby is turning 5 today. I can't even believe that I'm writing that. I remember the first time I held him--all 3 1/2 pounds of him--like it was yesterday.

So here's my ode to my oldest child.

* You have the best laugh ever--somewhere between a snicker and a giggle, with some other nuances thrown in. Your shoulders hunch up and that crazy sound comes out and it always makes me smile.

* I love that when I take you to the candy store you are completely thrilled to pick out one tootsie roll. That when we go to Talbot's Toyland, you never complain about leaving empty-handed. That instead of asking us to buy you that super cool fire fighter helmet with the flashing light, you simply say "I'll save up my allowance for it."

* The way your mind works constantly amazes me. On the way to school yesterday you did your customary shut-down (due to your "no talking at school" policy) and said to me "Mom, my answer machine is broken." I replied "well, you still may need to ask some questions." Your rejoinder? "nope, that's broken too--there's a tube connecting the answer part and the question part so when one's not working the other doesn't too."

* And my all-time favorite, "Mom, Mr. Penis wants to do everything what I do, but he can't because he doesn't have opposible thumbs."

* I love that when I ask what your favorite food is you answer "tofu." And as weird as it is to have a kid who doesn't eat Peeps at Easter, I respect your position on not eating anything shaped like an animal. And your request that we not anthropomorphize your food (I'm talking about you, Mr. Hot Dog), because then you can't cook or eat it either.

* Did I mention your big, melty brown eyes? The twinkle in them? That spark of mischief that's been there from day one?

* And the maddening qualities, of course. Your insane stubbornness? Honestly, is there another child as strong-willed as you? I truly doubt it. And there's the really advanced level of selective hearing you have--or maybe it's not so selective. You told me the other day "Mom, I can't hear you when I'm busy thinking." At any rate, it's a quality you share with your father and it drives me crazy in both of you.

* Nothing pleases you more than "work" of some kind--whether it's shepherding a younger child through a new activity, hounding your baby sister while she careens through the world, or making one of your wild systems of tubes, wire and cat scratching posts. It's like watching a border collie on steroids.

* I love how you shake your little tushy to a really good riff of music.

* You seem to get the essence of people right away--not in so many words, but in your interactions I can see your assessment happening. And there's a special twinkle you reserve for especially funny women.

* Five years is a big chunk of change, and a whole lot of growth and transformation has happened in that time. But there's the essence of you that was there from day one--a tenacity I saw when you took out your breathing tube at ten days old. A combination of doggedness and caution that governed the way you approached a big milestone like walking. A sweet snuggliness that still pops up at bedtime. I love you, little man, and I'm blessed to be your mom.

Brand Me

Perusing this month's Domino I saw an article about these gals and was instantly intrigued with the idea of what they do. In a nutshell, they interview you for one hour and then they give you your own brand concept. It's a two word tag in an 80/20 format--meaning you are 80% the first word/concept and 20% the second one. Examples: Creative Natural, Classic Genuine.

All of this of course leads to the big question--what's my brand? Am I Passionate Kooky? Chic Comfort? Suburban Lassitude?

I am so incredibly tempted to try them out. With a house to decorate and a major birthday milestone to face down, I think this could be an incredible help. Anyone want to try their hand at it and save me $500?

Boys Will Be Boys

This is the kind of stuff you're supposed to photograph and put away to trot out on prom night to your child's utter mortification. I don't have photographic evidence yet, but the X-Man is going through a heavy princess phase. It's priceless.

We've watched some of the old school princess movies. I confess I love all of it and welcome an excuse to visit the weirdly violent and distorted world of Sleeping Beauty and Snow White. Fairy tales are just so macabre and bizarre--even the cleaned up Disney versions (although Angela Carter is more fun). And I can see why a kid--any kid, boy or girl--would be more drawn to the princesses. Despite all the cultural critique against Disney and the princess market, any princess in any story is more compelling and interesting than the prince. I don't care who saves whom with a kiss--does anyone remember the name of the prince in Snow White? But I digress.

So ages ago I snapped up a few well-worn princess dresses from a thrift store. They are pretty tatty but X has been donning them every day for the past week to get his princess jones on. I felt sorry for him squeezing into the too-small, faux-Cinderfella gear. So yesterday at the consignment store I found a really nice, fully Disney-branded Snow White ensemble (with detachable collar and cape) for him. I have to say, it's gorgeous. I would wear it--if it were in my size and I had dark hair. Yes, I am living vicariously.

So last night he put on a "princess show" for the whole family. It doesn't consist of much yet, although he's working in a bit with a poison comb and poison apple and his fainting is getting quite impressive. He clomps around on the purple plastic heels ("it's kind of hard but I can manage") and tap dances a bit, then faints. Mr. sat smiling at X and rolling his eyes at me muttering, "must you encourage this?" under his breath.

Tonight we were all piled in the car heading home from the new taqueria (La Corneta--very good by the way) and X in the back seat says "I'm going to paint my nails with a pen. They'll look so pretty" and then began humming "dum, de dum, dum dum." If he broke into something from West Side Story the whole scene would have been complete.

Here's the thing I keep trying to get across to the Mr.--wearing princess clothes when you're almost five doesn't mean you're gay. It might--it could be that X will grow up and fly the rainbow flag. Or he could grow up to be an executive transvestite. But most likely he'll grow up to be a kid who used to wear princess dresses when he was little. My big brother dressed up in my sister's patent leather shoes and hula skirt and cried when our mom had his curls cut off. At the heart of the whole thing is that I don't give a damn, and I don't think the Mr. should either. Yeah, yeah, I'm imposing my perspective on the Mr., but in this case I'm right. Gay, straight, purple, spotted--it doesn't matter to me as long as my kids are happy. What does matter? Can the X-Man go off to college and do his own laundry? Do his culinary skills extend beyond the microwave? Is he a gracious winner and a graceful loser? Can he do the fox trot? Make someone laugh? What he's wearing when he does all that? I don't give a flying fig.