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.

Caved

“There's where you went wrong, sweetheart.” said my mom.

My mom, dad, brother, LL and I were on our way home from a Tigers game. Lakeland had entertained us for the almost three hour trip to Detroit, was perfect through nine innings, and had finally lost her shit once we were in the car headed home.

I knew she was tired, and I knew that she was going to continue ramping up the level of cranky until she either a) fell asleep or b) I could distract her.

And so...I caved. I did. I gave Lakeland my phone to play with and man OH man, was she happy. Day in and day out, Lakeland begs to play with my phone, only to be rebuffed. But not this time! This time, mommy caved.

I let her play with the phone for a few minutes, and then, gingerly, I took it away. “All done, peanut.” I cooed at her. And she looked at me as if I'd ripped off her ear and started screaming. And screaming. And screaming. She screamed bloody murder for the next 15 minutes. Which is a long time when you are in a car. I tried talking to her in a soft, motherly voice. I sang her favorite Ella Fitzgerald songs to her. I stroked her hair. Not impressed with my efforts, she continued screaming.

Lakeland finally screamed herself into dreamland, and I looked at my mom, seated on the other side of LL's carseat, and shrugged. “I never give her my phone”, I said sheepishly.

“There's where you went wrong, sweetheart.” said my mom.

“I know, I know. I caved. And I never cave!!” I declared. “I seriously haven't caved since, well, the last time I caved.”

Similar situation. We'd been out to dinner with friends, and LL was tired and stuck in the car. Seth and I were traveling back to our friend's house, and somewhat unfamiliar with the area. Which is why I busted out the GPS. And then Lakeland started to cry and I promptly handed over our navigation tool. Duh.

Happy as a clam in the backseat, Lakeland worked on rerouting us to the nearest Gymboree, absolutely delighted with the constantly changing screen, the arrows, and the woman that repeated “recalculating”. How fun for her!

Behind the steering wheel, Seth's face was kind of steely. I figured out waaaayyy too late that it was a horrible idea to give LL the GPS, but I couldn't help smirking at the “beep, beep, beep, 'recalculate', beep, beep, turn left in 200 feet” ,combined with Lakeland's absolute squeals of joy from the backseat.

Here's a kind of breakdown of the conversation between Seth and I:

Seth (with a touch of sarcasm): It might have been wise to not give her the GPS.

Me (outright sarcastically): Well, she's not crying.

Seth: Right. And...we don't know where we're going.

Me (hopeful): You kind of know where you're going, right?

Seth: No, not really. Can you get the GPS back from her please?

Lakeland (reconfiguring our route): Weeeeeeeee!!! Oooooohhhhhhhhhh!!

Me: Nope.

Seth (mumbling what sounded like a transcript from the dad on "A Christmas Story"): AUGH, you blurt rattle trash camel flirt, you blawter prattle sheet gerbil! Omma bomb sack botta saratta, bottom cotta botta, rotta! Billy wam wadger! Drop dom fraud hostical!

Me (because I'm an asshole): Are we there yet?

Full Name Invoked

the sad, soggy faces of lakeland's friends after being fed an unexpected lunch...

Two months ago (it's taken that long for me to mostly recover from the following experience), I invoked, in that unmistakable "mom tone", my daughter's full name. I could hear my mother's voice feathered in my own as I blurted out "Lakeland J Weinburger!".

I could hardly believe what I saw. I was astounded. Shocked. Appalled. All that. What had happened was so awful that, as soon as Seth got home that afternoon, I wordlessly took my laptop to my room, closed the door, loaded up old episodes of Roseanne (shut up, I love that show - don't judge), and ate ice cream.  Straight from the carton.

I thought it was just my good luck that Lakeland was taking a 3 hour long nap - a rookie mistake. There wasn't a peep from her room for so long that I had started to worry. I finally, slowly turned the door knob and peeked my head in, expecting to find my little angel asleep. And there she was. Covered from head to toe in "the majority of my diet for the last 7 days has been blueberries" poop.

Covered. There was black poop on and in: her mouth, hair, nose and ears. It was between her fingers and her toes...all twenty digits caked. Stuck in nail beds as if she'd been giving herself a manure manicure and a poop pedicure. She'd fed feces to Curious George, Winnie the Pooh, and Mr. Goatface, spread shit on Dr. Suess's beloved Whaley. She'd bookmarked each of her favorite reads. She'd flung dung on her gorgeous, treasured quilt. She'd defiled sheets and super fluffy shaggy WHITE lamb shaped pillow. Smudged each rung of the crib and surrounding walls.


I just stood there. Mouth agape. Lakeland was completely naked, though highly decorated in what looked like Native American war paint, having figured out that she could have a great time finger painting with blueberry poop if she could just get her cloth diaper off, and if she stayed very, very quiet.

I was frozen. I couldn't even move past the doorway. I had no clue what to do. After several mute minutes, I took action. In what my aunt deemed the "Mommy Hazmat Suit", I stripped down naked, knowing that as soon as I got within 3 feet of Lakeland, I'd be covered in poop myself. I lunged toward my little darling and swung her out of her crib, holding her with my arms straight out in order to leave the widest possible berth between her crap-caked body and me.

A thorough scrub of two girls, and everything in between the nursery and the shower, along with the passing of two months, and I am able to impart the following wisdom/lessons:

1. It only takes one phone call to cancel cloth diaper service.
2. It only takes one blueberry poop story to get out of a "two weeks notice" contract from said diaper service company.
3. One child, with developing digestive system, should not be fed raw blueberries for 20ish consecutive meals.
4. Quiet child does not equal sleeping child.
5. Oxyclean is the shit.