The day started out well. There was a morning dance party to Gaga (Evvy's favorite is "Edge") and of course Beyonce's "Single Ladies" (her hand doing the "If You Like It Then You Better Put A Ring On It" part is priceless) and then there was the homemade smoothie, reading some stories, the baby eating three pieces of paper (one a residual check from How I Met Your Mother) a walk around the neighborhood yada yada yada...but then this heat took over and we were all zombies. So we had popsicles. And then it was nap time. And at some point during nap time Meesh left the house to go to some meetings.
The baby woke up. So cute until she ate a stray piece of a rug. I pulled it out of her mouth and she was cute again.
Then Evvy woke up. I went to get her and she looked at me and basically said "YOU ARE NOT MOMMY. GET THE FUCK OUT MY ROOM!" (this is how it goes these days. if Mommy doesn't get her from her crib then ain't nobody gettin' her from no crib)
I try everything: we can play "purple tea" or "go to the park" or "have a playdate." NOTHING. Well, not nothing, an indescribable, tone i've never heard anywhere else, cry/scream...sort of a low octave but extraordinarily torturous. Then I pull out the big guns: Beg and Plead. Nothing. I say "I'm going to leave your bedroom so just call for me when you want to come out of your crib."
The wailing goes on for 48 minutes. And the baby, who has taken to twinning her big sister, can't keep it together. I go in and ask her to please come out of the crib. I promise she will have the best time ever if she does. MORE WAILING. Mommmmmmyyyyy, Mommmmyyyyy....
Finally I hear silence. Then I hear "Daddy. Dada. Dad." I go in to her room. "I get out of the crib." I smile. I reach for her. "But I have a popsicle." Uh-oh. I say "Ev, we already had popsicles today." The screaming starts again. She cries one long "Mommy" that seemed to last a proper fortnight. I say "I can't do this anymore. You can have a pop." Cold turkey the crying stops and she laughs "thank you. uppy. uppy." She reaches for me and we leave her room.
I get her a popsicle. She sits at the table to eat it. All is well in our world. Meesh walks in from her meetings. "You gave her another popsicle?" I explain: "I had to. You don't understand. If I didn't then I may have left the house...like left without the children and..." Meesh says: "But you giving her another pop means she has the upper..." I say: "She can have the upper, the lower. She can have my hands. I can cut off my hands for her. I...I...I..." I walked out of the house and stood on the front lawn and wondered what it would be like to be in a space shuttle.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Almost Nothing Matters And I Forgive You
Wow, I understand my inner Catholic. Or is it my inner Christian? Maybe it's just my old, boring inner Jew...but the point is folks...I understand forgiveness now. I done forgive my captors, my oppressors, my abusive bosses. I FORGIVE YOU. I REALLY DO. And why you might be aXing? BECAUSE I DON'T GIVE A FUCK and ALMOST NOTHING MATTERS including you (the aforementioned captors/oppressors/abusers...sidenote sally* I never had captors but you catch my drift)
And how have I stumbled upon this Godly gift -- the gift of forgiveness and the knowledge that don't nuffin really matter....MY CHILDREN. My kids. My little babies.
Sure, I haven't slept in a millenia...and no I've never taken a phone call in my own home because, well, there's simply no point to even attempt a proper conversation that has a "lighty, button mine phone" in the mix...but I'm onto something here (you're thinking, Matt...the people who get intervened on Intervention think they're onto something too...to that I say touche)
I spend the majority of my time pleading with my kids to sleep or not jump off the top of the couch/bookshelf/car...I tried doing Yoga today and two things were using my downward dog as their tunnel (hey, one person's d-ward dog is for sure another person's Holland Tunnel)...and I get mad/upset/frustrated when my two year old screams for Mommy knowing full well that Mommy just left the house (btway, and you know this, they totally agree to and kind of love that Mommy is leaving until she actually leaves and then it's Tripoli up in this bitch)...but I don't have time to hold that grudge anymore....you are simply not that important. And if you stole from me, fucked me in business, plotted against me, prayed for my failure....S'all good mothafucka...I forgive you cuz it don't matter...ALMOST NOTHING DOES.
Don't have the time to care too deeply about outside noise...for there is soooooo much noise right here, inside m'house.
Having children grows you up unless, of course, you are Amber Portwood from 16 & Pregnant/Teen Mom stardom...then having children didn't grow you up (how could it, you had em when you were...well...16 and you're in jail sooooo...)
But these beautiful kids we are so lucky to have shine some kabbalah light right down on our Catholic/Christian/Jewish selves (aren't we all Kabbalists at the end of the day...i mean, kabbalistically speaking)
Be good. I forgive you. Please forgive me. Or don't. I don't give a fuck.
And how have I stumbled upon this Godly gift -- the gift of forgiveness and the knowledge that don't nuffin really matter....MY CHILDREN. My kids. My little babies.
Sure, I haven't slept in a millenia...and no I've never taken a phone call in my own home because, well, there's simply no point to even attempt a proper conversation that has a "lighty, button mine phone" in the mix...but I'm onto something here (you're thinking, Matt...the people who get intervened on Intervention think they're onto something too...to that I say touche)
I spend the majority of my time pleading with my kids to sleep or not jump off the top of the couch/bookshelf/car...I tried doing Yoga today and two things were using my downward dog as their tunnel (hey, one person's d-ward dog is for sure another person's Holland Tunnel)...and I get mad/upset/frustrated when my two year old screams for Mommy knowing full well that Mommy just left the house (btway, and you know this, they totally agree to and kind of love that Mommy is leaving until she actually leaves and then it's Tripoli up in this bitch)...but I don't have time to hold that grudge anymore....you are simply not that important. And if you stole from me, fucked me in business, plotted against me, prayed for my failure....S'all good mothafucka...I forgive you cuz it don't matter...ALMOST NOTHING DOES.
Don't have the time to care too deeply about outside noise...for there is soooooo much noise right here, inside m'house.
Having children grows you up unless, of course, you are Amber Portwood from 16 & Pregnant/Teen Mom stardom...then having children didn't grow you up (how could it, you had em when you were...well...16 and you're in jail sooooo...)
But these beautiful kids we are so lucky to have shine some kabbalah light right down on our Catholic/Christian/Jewish selves (aren't we all Kabbalists at the end of the day...i mean, kabbalistically speaking)
Be good. I forgive you. Please forgive me. Or don't. I don't give a fuck.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Stay Present Or Bust
You know when you have those flashes of your babies as young adults and you force yourself to shake the image because you're not being present and even the thought of them growing up makes your chest cave in (and makes you realize your own age and the age you will be when they are grown up and then you think about your parents and then you are suddenly in a k-hole and you want to steel yourself and never love anything or anyone ever again because it's too heartbreaking?????) Just had one of those flashes.
Our babysitter, a sweet girl in her early 20's, just came over to take-over baby duties from me. She is a student, working her tail off to live her dream and when she has time, we are lucky enough to have her sit for us. Today she arrived with a quivering chin and tears in her eyes. She was having, as a good friend of mine said, an "End Of The World Day." Nothing was going her way. I asked her to sit down and share what she was going through. And she told me the details, I saw in her my two daughters and soon enough my chin was quivering. I had tears in my eyes.
It was interesting. She watches my children and Meesh and I watch her. Not in a patronizing way. But her family is far away (which if you love your family, fuck...if you like your family, is a terribly painful thing especially as you get older) and so our instinct is to just keep an eye out and make sure she is okay.
And today she wasn't okay. And in thinking of ways to help her I simply couldn't help feel that global i'm-somebody's-dad-so-i'm-urrrrrrybody's-dad.
As we talked things out, she said "Life is hard sometimes. I look at your girls and can't help but think...don't grow up." PETER PAN...table for two!! I mean, hells to the yeah, life is hard (sometimes) and being an adult is (if you're actively pursuing being an adult) very complicated (sometimes). sidenote sally: for those of you out there escaping adulthood...we might judge but it's only cuz we mad jealous.
I left the house and she started babysitting my kids. She's someone's kid. I'm someone's kid. And as I drove off I thought about how often I call my parents (who are too far away which is...remember...terribly painful) for an ear, a shoulder to lean on and by lean I mean cry, and an overall, unconditional heart to be loved by.
When I get home tonight I will do my best to stay present, collect "purples" to put into strawberry cake tea and just enjoy what is happening right in front of my eyes...which will likely fill with tears.
Our babysitter, a sweet girl in her early 20's, just came over to take-over baby duties from me. She is a student, working her tail off to live her dream and when she has time, we are lucky enough to have her sit for us. Today she arrived with a quivering chin and tears in her eyes. She was having, as a good friend of mine said, an "End Of The World Day." Nothing was going her way. I asked her to sit down and share what she was going through. And she told me the details, I saw in her my two daughters and soon enough my chin was quivering. I had tears in my eyes.
It was interesting. She watches my children and Meesh and I watch her. Not in a patronizing way. But her family is far away (which if you love your family, fuck...if you like your family, is a terribly painful thing especially as you get older) and so our instinct is to just keep an eye out and make sure she is okay.
And today she wasn't okay. And in thinking of ways to help her I simply couldn't help feel that global i'm-somebody's-dad-so-i'm-urrrrrrybody's-dad.
As we talked things out, she said "Life is hard sometimes. I look at your girls and can't help but think...don't grow up." PETER PAN...table for two!! I mean, hells to the yeah, life is hard (sometimes) and being an adult is (if you're actively pursuing being an adult) very complicated (sometimes). sidenote sally: for those of you out there escaping adulthood...we might judge but it's only cuz we mad jealous.
I left the house and she started babysitting my kids. She's someone's kid. I'm someone's kid. And as I drove off I thought about how often I call my parents (who are too far away which is...remember...terribly painful) for an ear, a shoulder to lean on and by lean I mean cry, and an overall, unconditional heart to be loved by.
When I get home tonight I will do my best to stay present, collect "purples" to put into strawberry cake tea and just enjoy what is happening right in front of my eyes...which will likely fill with tears.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
The Itsy Bitsy Pider
Do you like tripping over Diapers.com, Ebay and Gap boxes and then eating a spider web before walking into your house? I don't.
Meesh went out to dinner last night. We fed the kids. We bathed the kids. Night time dipes, pajamas, baby massage for the baby, some Ipad VIVEOS for Evvy (she calls videos VIVEOS which I like very much, however what I don't like very much is the Ipad, originally gifted to me for my birthday and shortly thereafter discovered by Evvy who can now launch a missile from it...that said we are thanking all the Gods that she has lost interest in Barney and moved on to Dora and a VIVEO of a Kate Gosselin-ish mom singing The Itsy Bitsy Spider in a grotesque, high school theater-y kind of way).
Then Meesh leaves for dinner at 7:45 and that baby, beautiful and chin-dimply as she is, waits (I know she has decided that 15 minutes is long enough for me to settle onto the couch and short enough for me to not say fuck off when she starts screaming horror film style). I do check ins. She laughs in my face. I try rocking her back to sleep. I can hear her thoughts, like Sookie Stackhouse, and they go like this: "seriously, you dumb fuck? you ain't gonna get my ass back to sleep so long as you keep me in this room muthafucka..." (sidenote sally: Meesh has read in a million books that it is not good to remove the child from the room because it establishes yada yada yada..) But Meesh out to dinner bitches...so the baby is coming out the room right quick.
As I cross the threshold from baby room to hallway she falls asleep. So pretty. So little. So innocent. As a test I step back into the baby's room. She goes into a Mariah Carey octave scream...the one where Mariah has to hold one of her ears.
I dim the lights. We sit on the couch. She is so asleep that if a friend popped over they would say "She's been asleep for a long time huh?"
When I feel confident enough to remove her from my arms which have lost circulation, I prepare a makeshift bed for her in our bedroom. I'm not stupid enough to bring her back into that evil, awful dungeon of hers. And...she...sleeps.
I turn on HBO. It is the Gloria Steinem documentary. I watch and learn. Brilliant woman, that Gloria Steinem. Brilliant life she has lived. I wait for the part where she talks about her kids. She didn't have any. In a jealous rage I burn Meesh's bras. J to the K.
Meesh comes home all adult and kick-in-her-steppy. Asks how it went? I say "when the boob's away the cat will play." (I said this in Meesh And The Belly, but without a nursable teet, I am as useless as everything in a hoarder's house).
Meesh goes to sleep. I, in a sick reversal of fortune, am wide awake. I try reading. I watch the Ricky Gervais episode of Curb. Finally tired enough to go to sleep I get in our bed. Me, two dogs, the baby and Meesh. And a sound machine A.K.A. waterboarding.
I get out of bed. Prepare a makeshift bed for myself on the couch. Eyes close. They pop open when a spider bites me. I kill it. I break out in a rash. I itch myself like a heroin addict. I go to the medicine cabinet and pop a Benadryl. In time I stop itching. I am feeling woozy. I think the Benadryl will combat the sound machine, two dogs and baby. I walk into our bedroom and trip over the Glider which is piled sky high with boxes from Diapers.com, Ebay and Gap.
Meesh went out to dinner last night. We fed the kids. We bathed the kids. Night time dipes, pajamas, baby massage for the baby, some Ipad VIVEOS for Evvy (she calls videos VIVEOS which I like very much, however what I don't like very much is the Ipad, originally gifted to me for my birthday and shortly thereafter discovered by Evvy who can now launch a missile from it...that said we are thanking all the Gods that she has lost interest in Barney and moved on to Dora and a VIVEO of a Kate Gosselin-ish mom singing The Itsy Bitsy Spider in a grotesque, high school theater-y kind of way).
Then Meesh leaves for dinner at 7:45 and that baby, beautiful and chin-dimply as she is, waits (I know she has decided that 15 minutes is long enough for me to settle onto the couch and short enough for me to not say fuck off when she starts screaming horror film style). I do check ins. She laughs in my face. I try rocking her back to sleep. I can hear her thoughts, like Sookie Stackhouse, and they go like this: "seriously, you dumb fuck? you ain't gonna get my ass back to sleep so long as you keep me in this room muthafucka..." (sidenote sally: Meesh has read in a million books that it is not good to remove the child from the room because it establishes yada yada yada..) But Meesh out to dinner bitches...so the baby is coming out the room right quick.
As I cross the threshold from baby room to hallway she falls asleep. So pretty. So little. So innocent. As a test I step back into the baby's room. She goes into a Mariah Carey octave scream...the one where Mariah has to hold one of her ears.
I dim the lights. We sit on the couch. She is so asleep that if a friend popped over they would say "She's been asleep for a long time huh?"
When I feel confident enough to remove her from my arms which have lost circulation, I prepare a makeshift bed for her in our bedroom. I'm not stupid enough to bring her back into that evil, awful dungeon of hers. And...she...sleeps.
I turn on HBO. It is the Gloria Steinem documentary. I watch and learn. Brilliant woman, that Gloria Steinem. Brilliant life she has lived. I wait for the part where she talks about her kids. She didn't have any. In a jealous rage I burn Meesh's bras. J to the K.
Meesh comes home all adult and kick-in-her-steppy. Asks how it went? I say "when the boob's away the cat will play." (I said this in Meesh And The Belly, but without a nursable teet, I am as useless as everything in a hoarder's house).
Meesh goes to sleep. I, in a sick reversal of fortune, am wide awake. I try reading. I watch the Ricky Gervais episode of Curb. Finally tired enough to go to sleep I get in our bed. Me, two dogs, the baby and Meesh. And a sound machine A.K.A. waterboarding.
I get out of bed. Prepare a makeshift bed for myself on the couch. Eyes close. They pop open when a spider bites me. I kill it. I break out in a rash. I itch myself like a heroin addict. I go to the medicine cabinet and pop a Benadryl. In time I stop itching. I am feeling woozy. I think the Benadryl will combat the sound machine, two dogs and baby. I walk into our bedroom and trip over the Glider which is piled sky high with boxes from Diapers.com, Ebay and Gap.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Meesh And The Belly Ain't Got Nothing On This
For those of you who read my blog Meesh And The Belly...HIIIIIIIII!!!!! Those extra I's are really expletives. If you were in my head you would be reading ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME BITCH ASSHOLE DICKFACE FUCK SHIT OH MANNNNNNN I AM SOOOOO FUCKING TIRED. That said....Hi.
Listen mofos...I am a second child. I go to therapy for being a second child. For being a bit shorter than my older brother. For being the one who did not get the natural, and very unusually Jewish sixpack, that my older brother had when he was twelve. I know what it is like to feel less than...shit, I can relate to Marilu Henner...talkin' bout she rememba every day of her life and shit. I, too, remember every day. Bitch must have been a second child. We done remember shit. (For those of you new to my child blogs, i speaks Jack (Jewish Black).
I have been having buyer's remorse. Probably not the most accurate phrase but I like it, so fuck it. (I have become very FUCK IT since the Meesh And The Belly, oh my God I am having my first kid and it is sooooooo amazing, days). Why the remorse? Well, I wrote an entire, heartfelt and oft funny blog about my first daughter...from womb to gigggles....and I have to write about my second daughter...the six month old who is beautiful, amazing...let's get honest...the bitch crawled way too early so she can PLAY WITH HER BIG SISTER...her teeth done come in before they suppose to...she is standing and mocking us (swear to God, she understands irony) and to cherry the cake or ice cream or whatever...she likes to...drumroll....NOT SLEEP...but wait...drumroll...AT ALL!!!!!
I have a Jewish twitch in my forehead (my accupuncturist is working on it) and I might be developing a lazy eye...who the fuck wouldn't when your ass is up at 5 am and forbidden to sleep until never pm.
I love you all...all y'all that have already done what we are doing. I love you, the ones who haven't and question if you should??? I will not answer that for you.
I am one blessed kid. I have in my humble opinion, two stellar girls. They are funny and sweet and huggable as all get out. But I is one tired muthafuc...
But back to the point...oh yes, the point...this is a blog for my second child (and she probs already knows that I was late to the game writing about her)...I will be documenting (if i can remember, because I am sooooooo tired) the trials and tribulations of Meesh And The Kids. Oh, I didn't mention Meesh (the namesake) yet. Here goes: She told me that I should mind my levels regarding laptop time. She was right, I would go on it (to escape) at inopportune times...I surrendered and promised not to do that again. I mean, I was Facebooking and shit like that. Not cool when your kid(s) is hollering at you to have a tea party with invisible cups filled with "purples." The next morning, after i threw my flag in the ring, Meesh is on Gilt Group nearly pushing our 2 year old away.
HIIIIIIIIIIII guys...here we go...MEESH AND THE KIDS.
xoxoxo Gossip Girl
Listen mofos...I am a second child. I go to therapy for being a second child. For being a bit shorter than my older brother. For being the one who did not get the natural, and very unusually Jewish sixpack, that my older brother had when he was twelve. I know what it is like to feel less than...shit, I can relate to Marilu Henner...talkin' bout she rememba every day of her life and shit. I, too, remember every day. Bitch must have been a second child. We done remember shit. (For those of you new to my child blogs, i speaks Jack (Jewish Black).
I have been having buyer's remorse. Probably not the most accurate phrase but I like it, so fuck it. (I have become very FUCK IT since the Meesh And The Belly, oh my God I am having my first kid and it is sooooooo amazing, days). Why the remorse? Well, I wrote an entire, heartfelt and oft funny blog about my first daughter...from womb to gigggles....and I have to write about my second daughter...the six month old who is beautiful, amazing...let's get honest...the bitch crawled way too early so she can PLAY WITH HER BIG SISTER...her teeth done come in before they suppose to...she is standing and mocking us (swear to God, she understands irony) and to cherry the cake or ice cream or whatever...she likes to...drumroll....NOT SLEEP...but wait...drumroll...AT ALL!!!!!
I have a Jewish twitch in my forehead (my accupuncturist is working on it) and I might be developing a lazy eye...who the fuck wouldn't when your ass is up at 5 am and forbidden to sleep until never pm.
I love you all...all y'all that have already done what we are doing. I love you, the ones who haven't and question if you should??? I will not answer that for you.
I am one blessed kid. I have in my humble opinion, two stellar girls. They are funny and sweet and huggable as all get out. But I is one tired muthafuc...
But back to the point...oh yes, the point...this is a blog for my second child (and she probs already knows that I was late to the game writing about her)...I will be documenting (if i can remember, because I am sooooooo tired) the trials and tribulations of Meesh And The Kids. Oh, I didn't mention Meesh (the namesake) yet. Here goes: She told me that I should mind my levels regarding laptop time. She was right, I would go on it (to escape) at inopportune times...I surrendered and promised not to do that again. I mean, I was Facebooking and shit like that. Not cool when your kid(s) is hollering at you to have a tea party with invisible cups filled with "purples." The next morning, after i threw my flag in the ring, Meesh is on Gilt Group nearly pushing our 2 year old away.
HIIIIIIIIIIII guys...here we go...MEESH AND THE KIDS.
xoxoxo Gossip Girl
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