Kinda bad news, or really bad news?

Here's what happened on my last night of kickball.

Yeah, I played kickball, and I got on base.  Once.  The entire season.  Count it!

The one time I got on base was the time that Seth and Lakeland came to cheer me on.  Just before I got up to bat, my cheering squad took off for a quick diaper change.  And that's when I kicked a heater right down the third base line, which is exactly what I'd tried to do every other time I was up to bat (and popped out to the pitcher). 

Anyway...they were gone a looooong time, and when they returned, Lakeland was not wearing the perfect kickball-watching outfit I had picked out for her.  She was in fact, not wearing anything at all.  Except her diaper. 

It's not abnormal, though, for Seth to change a diaper and not bother with redressing the child.  However, this being a public place, outdoors, I don't know...would he really do that?

Quizzically, I looked at my husband, who was slowly shaking his head from side to side as he shuffled toward me.  Here's what he had to say:

"So, do you want to hear the kinda bad news, or the really bad news?"

I was still on a high from getting on base.  How bad could this news really be? 

It turned out that Lakeland was unclothed for two reasons. 

#1:  She pooped through her diaper and onto her shirt and her pants.  Seth claimed no fault of his own.  He said (God, how many women have heard this??) "Babe, I think Lakeland must be sick or something.  That was NOT a normal diaper.  There was poop everywhere.  Her shirt and her pants are covered.

OK, how does this always happen?  I can change a shitty diaper, while Lakeland is squirming ON MY LAP, in a moving bus.  A moving bus that is going over speed bumps.  At 90 miles per hour.  And still not get poop anywhere it's not supposed to be.   

#2:  Somewhere in the process of flinging the dirty diaper round and round his head and then squashing it into her clothing (it's seriously the only way I can think of that poop got all over the inside and outside of the car, including a trail of chunks in the parking lot) Seth closed all of the doors, then picked up an unclad Lakeland, who had been playing with the car keys, from the back of the truck.  Then shut the door...the locked door...keys quietly lying on the floor inside, right where Lakeland left them. 

And this was the really bad news.

Mom wars are bullshit.

All I had to do was Google "mommy wars", and, oh, about 19 million websites popped up, referring me to various books and articles written about the "war".  Who started the "war", what fueled the  "war", feminism concepts and anthropological issues related to the "war"... I can go on...and on...and on.  Everyone else certainly has.

This idea of stay at home moms standing off against working moms has been discussed ad nauseum.  No.  Seriously.  I hear about it so often it makes me puke.  So earlier this week, when I was driving LL around in a gigantic thunderstorm (she was tired, I was bitchy...the situational details are boring), NPR was reporting about a college professor who breast-fed her baby during class.  And of course, the highly educated, bright, and accomplished women who made up the discussion panel brought up the ol' mommy war issue.  And I puked.

I also decided to share with you the life of a "stay-at-home-working-mother".  What?  You've never heard of us?  That's because we don't have time to argue about fabricated situations that will never benefit anyone.  We are too busy wiping orange juice from our work papers and scraping oatmeal off our laptop screens to weigh in on non-issues that, in the long run, don't really accomplish anything.

A "stay-at-home-working-mother", hereafter referred to as a "NoBS", is a woman who stays at home and raises the kid/kids while simultaneously maintaining gainful employment from her home office.  A NoBS usually has a pretty cool boss, somewhat flexible hours, tolerant co-workers, and super special abilities.  I can pretty much boil these special abilities down to two things.

1. Must be proficient at ignoring your child.  In infancy, this means typing, answering the phone, and doing other things work related, while breast/bottle-feeding.  In later years, it means being able to concentrate while there is a toddler sitting on your lap, with her face two inches from yours, saying "Mommy.  Mommy.  Mommy?  Mommy.  Mommy!  Can you HEAR ME?  Mommy!!!".
2. Must be able to work in a chaotic environment.  And by chaotic, I mean that your office floor (most likely your kitchen) is basically a fucking vat of crunched up cheerios, and sometimes you have to reply to emails while folding laundry, preparing snacks, or singing Itsy Bitsy Spider.  

It's really just multi-tasking.  It's doing two jobs at once.  Like driving a cab while editing a manuscript.  Or constructing a building while doling out financial advice.  It takes practice, but it's totally doable. 

A NoBS gets to experience all of the wonders and joys of full time motherhood.  She gets to take her kid to the park, go grocery shopping during off hours, and rock her baby to sleep.  She doesn't get stuck in rush hour traffic.  She knows exactly what and how much her child eats, because she prepares the meals and dines with the child.  She knows all the little daily details, and it really is magical and she really is grateful.

Of course, she hasn't had a haircut in 8 months, and hasn't been alone, even in the bathroom, for 68 days straight, and she has to take her kid with her to the dentist, and oh, right...she has a DEADLINE LOOMING.

When her kid is napping, a NoBS is working frantically, using that precious hour and a half to get as much done as humanly possible.  And after a 12 hour day of domestic bliss, when the kid is finally asleep, she still has 3 hours of business to conduct.  

I like to think we are all in the same proverbial boat.  We moms wake up in the morning with a long list of shit we have to do.  We do that shit and cross it off our list, hoping that we got enough shit done until it's time to do more shit tomorrow.  Why give two shits about who got what done on somebody else's list?  That's just another thing to write down on your list.  (#483:  Check to make sure Jenna helped her kids brush their teeth.)  Do we really need a longer to-do list?

Here's a little pictorial about my life as a NoBS. 

The situation:   I have to edit a transcription of a financial call, in real-time.  Meaning, I have to listen and read and make corrections super fast, and I have to do it for about an hour, and I can't stop or pause.  No. Matter. What.

Oh, and I have to entertain a toddler, so I come up with a "fun project" for her to do while I'm working.  I give her a spray bottle and a roll of paper towels right before my call starts, and hope for the best.  For the first 5 minutes of my call, I think how clever I am, getting her to clean for me.  She quickly humbles me by pooping her pants which, for the next 55 minutes, I can do nothing about except to breathe through my mouth. 

The situation:  Payroll is due and many emails need to be sent to get the numbers in order.
I figure I'll give Lakeland a snack, and she'll be trapped in her chair, rendering me capable of finishing my duties.  Within minutes, everything in her vicinity is caked in yogurt, and she is squirming to get down.  I can't stop the payroll process, and I can't have a yogurt-baby running around the house.  What to do?

Oh, I know.  I will just take my mobile office to the bathroom, throw her in the tub, sit backward on the toilet lid, and use a box of tampons for a mouse pad.  Done.

The point is this.  I'm thankful to have the opportunity to concurrently reach professional and domestic goals.  I get offered jelly beans by a two year old when I tinkle on the potty, and I get congratulated for a job well done by my boss.  My lunch buddy thanks cows for making cheese for her, and I get to learn about the quarterly financials and impacts of global companies.

I support every woman's right to choose her own path and do what works best for her, and for her family.  And for women that don't have a choice, and trust me, I realize there are many, I admire you.

Super special bed

This morning, as I was arranging my dish towel so that it lined up precisely with the edge of the counter, so I could start doing the dishes, I was simultaneously prepping Lakeland for naptime.

Prepping consists of me saying stuff like, "Hey LL, when you wake up from your nap, do you want to go to the park, or the pool?"

Today, she yelled out "POOL", then paused briefly before launching into a long diatribe about how she can't sleep, mommy, can't sleep, no, no, not tired, etc.

And then, because I like to try to reason with her, because I like to talk in circles and then pull my hair right out of my head, I asked her why she couldn't sleep.

Her response, simply put, was "I don't like my bed."

In a moment of brilliance, or stunning stupidity, I told her that I could fix that problem for her, and make her a super special bed.  Then, as I had no way to back up this remark, and no clever ideas in my back pocket, I wished I would think before making empty promises.  She was halfway down the hall, waiting expectantly for me to transform her bed, as I was reached for a spontaneous, miraculous plan.

Stalling for just a moment, I sat Lakeland down on my bed and told her I had to get her surprise ready, then grabbed a stack of tissue paper and a roll of tape from my closet before pulling the door closed behind me.

Low and behold, in 3 minutes, I had tissue papered the rails of her bed, creating not only a "Hey, it's like a giant present that you get to sleep in" bed, but also the ideal environment for a toddler to make a gigantic, ripped into tiny shreds, paper mess.  But as I sit here, writing and drinking coffee, I feel quite sure that I created for my daughter her own little miracle.  And if not, who cares?  I'm sitting here in quiet, writing and drinking coffee.

Now, if I could just figure out where she's getting all of these weird OCD tendencies and odd neuroses...

Bust it

The other day, I went to Victoria's Secret with Seth's mom, desperately seeking a nice, pretty and comfortable bra.

Having never been to VS, I wasn't aware of the protocol.  So when a sales associate approached me and asked me if I'd like to be measured, I was all "Um, what?  Yeah, I guess.  Do I have to take my shirt off right here?".  She laughed goodnaturedly (while rolling her eyes) and led me off towards the dressing rooms, advising me to relax and enjoy the experience.

Let me tell you what happened once I got in the dressing room.  It went something like this, and though this is not an actual transcript, it's close.  No joking.

Boob Expert (towing a girl in training):  Hi.  Here is our tester bra.  This style of bra fits nearly everyone, and assures that we've measured you correctly.  Once you have the bra on, please press this button (gesturing to a doorbell type button on the wall) and a light will come on outside so I'll know you are ready.  Okay?

Me:  Yep.

I put on the bra and stood there, staring at my boobs in admiration.  I haven't worn an actual bra since I was pregnant, only the nursing and then the trusty sports bra.  I literally forgot what wearing a real bra felt like.  And LOOKED like!  My reflection assured me that I did, in fact, possess two actual boobs, not the uniboob that's been squished into a sports bra for the better part of 2 years.  Shocking.  Anyway, then I pressed the button...

Boob Expert (to the trainee while shoving her into my dressing room):  Come on!  Get in here! (Silence as the expert examines the fit, while the trainee looks respectfully at her shoes.)

Boob Expert (to trainee, while simultaneously tugging on my straps and hoisting my breasts all about):  See this?  See this gaping here?  It's not bad, but let's see if a smaller bra would be a better fit.

Trainee (briefly glancing my way and then quickly diverting her gaze):  Oh...

Boob Expert:  OK, we'll be right back with a smaller size.

Then the trainee came back with a smaller bra, smiled meekly at me and told me to push the button once I had the bra on...which I did and then they both entered the dressing room.  And then the very shy trainee inadvertently said something so funny that I nearly shot snot out of my nose when I tried not to laugh. my. ass. off.

Boob Expert (to trainee, while shaking her head 'no' and waving her hands in the general direction of my boobs):  So, do you see what's wrong here?

Trainee:  Um...well...

Boob Expert (exasperated by the bashfulness of the trainee):  Well?  What do you see?

Trainee (suddenly becoming all brazen):  Her boobs is spillin' out all over the place!

Me (snorting, and seriously trying not to blow snot out of my nose in Victoria's Secret, and agreeing with her):  Yeah...what she just said.

Oh my GOD.. WHO SAYS SHIT LIKE THAT?  "Her boobs is spillin' out all over the place!"

Way funny, and totally made my first experience at VS worthy of repeat shopping.

Our new digs in DC

It's hard to believe that four months have passed since we uprooted from Michigan and landed in DC. 
The first month was filled with organizing and unpacking and struggling with Lakeland over naps.  Our apartment, on the 15th floor of a highrise, felt much more like a hotel suite than a home.  Also in the first month, Seth and I relished the joys of not sharing a bathroom with each other. 
The second month was less about organizing and more about exploring our new surroundings, like finding a grocery store that doesn't have bum barricades for their carts, which was no small feat.  Lakeland and I spent hours driving around, GPS in my lap, looking for parks, libraries, playgrounds and bike paths.  I had no idea how awkward everything would feel in a new place. 
Also in the second month and much of the third, we hosted family and friends, went on touristy outings and found the best pizza places in town. 
Months three and four consisted of me grieving for our little yellow house with the worn but full of character hard wood floors, the back porch that my dad and I tiled (but never quite finished), the yard that my mom and several friends helped us keep up, the bright kitchen my mom painted, with the sunny bay window, the french doors in the dining room and the dark wooden table where we shared so many fun evenings with good friends.  I also spent a chunk of time bemoaning the $15K that we forked over to the bank to complete our short sale.  Oh, yes...and the loss of my gorgeous, fantastic and extravagant washer and dryer, a gift from Seth's parents (which is in storage, not sold with the house).
Having lived my entire life in West Michigan, I found myself with a monumental case of homesickness.  I ached for the closeness of family.  I wept over friends' newborn babies that I wouldn't be able to see smile and roll and sit up and eat cereal, over the pregnancies and showers that I'd miss.  I longed for family dinners, lunches with friends, play dates for Lakeland, and cocktails with our crew. 
I started napping instead of vacuuming, watching Netflix instead of reading, crying instead of laughing.  And then I went home to Michigan.  The first week home, I read a little, laughed a little, and let myself soak up home.  The second week, I dove into the feeling of being surrounded by familiarity, family and friends.  The tug of awkwardness that I'd been fighting was slowly ebbing back to confidence. 
After a weekend camping with friends at our land, and almost three weeks in Michigan, Seth, Lakeland and I headed back to DC.  And I felt ready.  Peaceful even.  The anxiety had faded, the grief subsided.  Michigan is home, and will feel like home always.  We just happen to live in DC.  And that feels okay now. 
Check it out...

View of dining room...if nobody ever ate there...but since we do, here's what it actually looks like...

This isn't really a good representation of how it normally looks.  Just know that you can't walk barefoot on the floor without getting noodles stuck to the bottom of your feet and slipping on puddles of chocolate milk.

The kitchen...fresh fruit, towels folded, rug shaken, and floor mopped.  LL photo-bombing is the only realistic part of this shot.

Notice the fresh fruit replaced by crayon tupperware.  A million dishes.  Where's the towel?  I don't know, but there is some cleaning stuff on the counter that I probably used 5 days ago and never put back under the sink.

My little nook. 

Oh, right.  Here's what it usually looks like.  Or worse.

There is always at LEAST one surface in the living room covered in folded laundry.  Usually there are multiple. 

Yeah.  It NEVER looks like this in real life.  I had to lock her out to put the books on the shelves.

Foot, Mommy

Today, Lakeland sat on her potty for so long that her foot fell asleep. Of course, I didn't know that her foot was asleep, because...well, it's not like its eyes were closed. All I know is, I told her it was time to get off the potty, and she was all "Foot Mommy, FOOT MOMMY!", and pointing at her foot.

And I was like, "Yep, that's your foot. Now get off the potty".

And her face got all crumpled up and confused looking, and she said "FOOT MOMMY!", and then I pulled her off the potty, and she couldn't stand up on her own. Good thing I didn't think she had a stroke. Because I don't even know where the hospital is in Alexandria. Anyway, I finally figured it out when she said her foot hurt, and then I started laughing at her. Not a great move as far as parenting is concerned, but it was funny.

So I told her that her foot was sleeping (at least something around here gets a nap) and it would feel better soon.

Then I put her in the tub. And that's where she pooped.

Goodbye, Blue Devil. I hated you.

While I won't reveal all of the gritty details of the deal between Seth and I regarding The Blue Devil (to read about Seth's car, if you haven't already, click here), the gist was that, if he agreed to our acquiring a new car, then I had to agree not to "bitch about" or "make fun of" The Blue Devil.

Because we were driving a 12+ year old Honda Accord with so many cracks in the windshield that it seemed always like we were driving through a desert lightening storm, and because LL's carseat moved around in the backseat like it was an unsecured bag of groceries, and because it was always so freaking loud to drive, and because we had an opportunity to buy, at a great price, a very spiffy SUV, I swiftly agreed to Seth's plea.

After a swift shake of hands to seal our deal, Seth immediately gave a residential upgrade to The Blue Devil, promoting its position from the driveway to the garage. That was in mid-June. Presumably noticing my ferocious glare upon pushing (yes, pushing, because it has never started, not ever, since becoming a fixture in my driveway) The Blue Devil into the garage, he promised that once a snowflake fell, the garage would be all mine.

Let me just tell you that, in the 6 months that The Blue Devil resided in the garage, it had a transformation akin to that of a fetus developing in a womb. But instead of growing tiny hands and feet, The Blue Devil "grew" 2 kayaks and a hammock on its hood. Instead of developing an elaborate network of brain cells, The Blue Devil acquired a billion extension cords and various other types of plugs and electrical gadgets, their intended use and application unknown. Instead of lungs and a heart, The Blue Devil embraced an obscene number of soda cans and beer bottles. Instead of the gentle caress of a mothers hand on swollen belly, the Blue Devil snuggled with the lawn mower, some old license plates, several strollers, some camping pads, a plug-in cooler, an old diaper, a couple of ladders, and 4,687 various other items.

One noted difference. A fetus moves. All by itself. The Blue Devil? Didn't so much as budge an inch. In six months.

One of the problems with this whole scenario is that it's really, really difficult to not make fun of The Blue Devil. See the picture? See what I mean?

For instance, not long ago, I was thinking it would be nice to have a fire in the fireplace. The logs were in the back of the garage, teetering precariously on the rungs of a ladder. However, anything past the first 12 inches of the garage was virtually impassable. When I asked Seth if he knew how to get the logs from the back of the garage, I really wanted to follow that question up with a sarcastic dig about what a huge piece of shit the car was...something along the lines of "You know, I'd crawl over the hood and get them myself, but I'm afraid I'd set off your fancy car alarm." A great joke that I would have delivered deadpan and all. But, no. I made a deal. And that's just one joke out of a million that I had to hold back. I have scar tissue on my tongue, it's been bitten so many times.

Only when Seth actually had to move out of state (and, quite after the first snowfall), did The Blue Devil get pushed back out of my garage, down the driveway, and into the street (pictured above). It was never once driven. And now it's some other woman's problem. Hopefully she doesn't make a "no teasing" rule and is saved the bloody tongue.