Penis Envy and Playing Favorites

I'm not sure whether it's a blessing or a curse to be the favorite parent. Oh wait—sure I do; the correct answer is curse. To which I add: “Bahahahahaha!” That's the prize of being loved best, Hubbo!

I don't let it hurt my ego (much) that my husband has been Boss' favorite since almost the beginning. At least I had the edge during my maternity leave when Boss and I were home all day together for three months, taking walks, nuzzling and becoming bosom buddies, so to speak. In fact, I may have kept the lead even longer since I nursed for eight months. And let's not forget pumping, whipping out the udders twice a day at my desk, e-mailing single-handed while holding those cozy plastic funnels in place. True, Boss didn't know about that, although I did my best to tell him via a few loud nursery songs and stick figure diagrams.

Anyway, whatever status I had as tops faded fast when I got pregnant with Stinker. The fertility docs banned me from picking Boss up for three long months, and told me to limit heavy lifting until Stinker arrived. While I threw in extra cuddles and only cheated as needed (which was a lot; I mean c'mon—not pick up my kid?), Hubbo ramped up his parenting duty. He was already very hands-on, and Boss lapped up the added dad time like an eager little puppy. I didn't sulk or pout—any more than any normal stressed-out, bloated pregnant lady would have. Ahem.

Once Stinker joined our family, I was nursing again and, well, Hubbo and Boss may as well have been immersed in poker games, Fantasy Football and testicle scratching with all the male bonding going on. But for each sliver of my envy, I was a thousand times more grateful. After giving birth, it was a rough stretch with Stinker—he was losing weight, crying nonstop, and the effects of his shoulder dystocia (he got stuck coming out) weren't clear. Without dad, I would have tripped over my own toenails and limped back to the hospital to check MYSELF in. On purpose!

That's the back story. The current story is: During the weekdays, Boss, Stinker and I enjoy our own brand of bonding—blowing bubbles, playing tug-o-towel, reading books, licking sandy Popsicles, enduring time-outs, grocery shopping, finding a “venture” outside the house, and searching for other fun stuff to fill our time. Life is like a lollipop—wonderfully sweet (candy in mouth), and only rarely a sticky mess (candy in hair).

Then come nights and weekends when it's DAD time! Because DADDY's home. Marcia! Marcia! Marcia! I mean, DADDY! DADDY! DADDY!

I say that with a grin, though, as it also means break time for momster! Who cares if Boss's first words every SINGLE morning are: “Where's Daddy?” I get to snicker at Hubbo when I try putting “Bob the Builder” on, and Boss yells, “No, DADDY have ma-mote!” Or I try pushing the stroller, and he shouts: “DADDY do it!” During dinner, it's Hubbo's “yap” he wants to sit on, not mine. (Tee hee hee.) And tonight when I tried horning in on tuck-in time, I got blasted out of the room with some mattress kicking and a, “Noooo, DADDY tickle back!”

Oh, fine, fine, fine, my sweet little nutball. I'll take the extra “me” time quite happily. Because when I hear you inadvertently call Hubbo “Mommy,” which happens to be about three or more times a day, I know where I really stand.

Ramen Noodles in My Veins

I've been known to be frugal at times—OK, downright cheap. During my first job after college, I commuted to Philly from Delaware and parked for free in the middle of Broad Street, about 15 blocks from work. I don't know if it was legal, but I figured if BMWs and Mercedes were taking the risk, then I could wedge my old dented Honda in, too. Mr. Car and I survived just fine, although when it started getting dark at 5 in December, hauling A through the sketchy areas of the city wasn't for me. Plus, brr!

Soon afterward I found another parking steal—Enoch's Garage for $40 a month. It was an odd place run by Father Divine followers. I remember a sign on the wall listing various rules, including, “No excessive talking with people of the opposite sex.” It was good while it lasted, but still a hike to my office, and the garage closed at 11 p.m. One time I arrived just after “curfew” and the doors were locked. Thankfully, someone was there to let me in, but it was too risky for happy hours. Plus, I didn't want my tires slashed if they caught me flirting.

During that job, I remember making peanut shells after taxes—I don't know how I survived. Oh yeah, my cheapness! I'd sneak a brown bag out to restaurants so I could order a side salad and still be social. Or, I'd get a $3 pint (boss gave the nod) and $2.75 cheese fries at The Irish Pub. A fulfilling lunch and kind to the wallet.

You could possibly credit (blame?) college for polishing my penny-pinching skills. Like many resourceful students, I survived just fine on the traditional menu of mac n' cheese, hot dogs, The Beast, an occasional pantry raid from home and, of course, the acclaimed Ramen noodles--getting my lifetime supply of sodium in just five lunches.

But the truth is, I was thrifty long before dorm life and all-nighters. As a tween, my grandma would treat us to a fancy dinner every year when she was up for the holidays. All I could think was, “How about cash instead of this overpriced chicken? I could eat Salisbury steak at home with Gilligan and the Skipper, and score $20 for a new Aigner belt.”

To this day, I still spend as much time ogling menu prices as I do the fare. I don't know how I got this way. Maybe it's so I could save on the little stuff to buy something expensive once in a while.

Since I was laid off in November, I've been embracing my frugality even more. But it's a challenge, especially when you hit the grocery store for muffins and spend $100. Who put all that crap in my cart anyway? Those damn grocery gnomes get you every time!

As much as I try to ignore the allure of catalogs and ads for things I'll never need like designer toilet paper holders, it's tough when you like to shop. It's a conflict I'm working on. In high school, I listed the following quote in the yearbook as my fave: “What's money for if you don't spend it?” Yet, the other day I pored through five cookbooks in search of a muffin recipe so I wouldn't have to fork over $5 at the market. (As you can see from the above, that didn't work out.)

More recently, in efforts to be budget-savvy, I've started wondering if all this scrimping really matters. So what if we croak with less money under the mattress? As long as we don't swim in debt, how about I pay to have the mulch blasted around the yard, rather than lug the wheelbarrow to and fro for hours and hours?

Something in me resists, though. Right now, I'm painting the basement, a few strokes at a time when my mom is up to watch the kids. Yesterday, I stuffed my pockets with coupons for groceries, and earlier this week I bolted straight to the sale rack at the shoe store. Sixty bucks for toddler sneakers? I don't think so.

Meanwhile, I'm fantasizing about wallpaper for the stairwell, new bar stools, a bistro set for the deck, new tile—the list is as long as ... well, the ways that I am cheap.

Me Time, Gourmet Meals and Other Myths of Motherhood

A lot of how I pictured stay-at-home motherhood is spot on. I spend tons of time with the kids, do more chores than a monkey flings dung, and am much less stressed than I have been in years. But even more of how I imagined being Henrietta Homemaker is way off the mark—for better and worse.

Myth 1: I'd have more “me” time. Ha! In my “child-free” years, I remember when a good pal of mine traded in her dress flats for flip-flops after having a baby. I asked her about nap times and she said the baby slept two hours in the morning and one more in the afternoon. “So, three hours of spare time!” I concluded, trying not to purse my lips in envy. “Nice!”

That's right; guffaw goes here. There is no “free time.”

While technically nap times are spent alone (at least for me), it's incredibly hard to grab a book and cozy up on the couch unless you have a live-in maid, on-call handyman, personal chef and and part-time back-scratcher. I've actually been jealous of Caillou's mom for pleasure reading—and she's a CARTOON character! In another episode she lies down because she has a cold—slacker!

Honestly, even the most Type B momma would have trouble soaking in bubbles or painting her toenails during every snooze-fest if she wanted to get anything done—even the most mundane things like fetching the mail, eating a sandwich or using the hopper. Little tasks add up, and the next thing you know the great time-suck machine has swooped down from the sky and vacuumed an hour away with an evil roar. Before you can tighten your ponytail and wipe crumbs off your lips, baby is clamoring for some luvin.

In my case, the kids' nap time (if they have one together) is often spent on still-mundane-but-a-step-above-crapping things like unloading the dishwasher, stuffing laundry in drawers, calling a tree service guy (or other home repairman to haul away money one pillowcase full at a time), paying bills, emptying the trash/cat litter/recycle can and exciting stuff like that. Glamorous, I know. Am I complaining? No. Spoken like a true elf: I love chores. Chores are my favorite!

But, really, let's not be a martyr. I make time for blogging (thank you, television), get exercise in during walks, check e-mails and Facebook when I can, see a friend now and then, and most of all, I'm eternally grateful to have this time with my stinky, adorable, demanding, amazing little honey buns.

And don't hate me for this: I also have an ANGEL of a mom who comes up once a week, driving an hour each way, to watch the boys while I do whatever I want. So yep, I need to shut it.

Myth 2: I'd cook home-made feasts all the time, complete with garnishes and candlelight. (Bahahaha!) But you know what? Mashing Play-doh or hitting the park with the boys is more important to me than candying walnuts and zesting limes for a kick-ass recipe. Once in awhile, yes, but a ball of pizza dough with a few toppings goes a long way. Pasta, too. Also: bag o' salad is king! Add some grape tomatoes, Newman's dressing and it's yum-easy-cheap-nutritious!

Now that the weather is nice, I wouldn't mind eating on the deck a few times a week (month, even), but don't let me get carried away. One fantasy at a time.

Myth 3: Everything would be easier (than it actually is). In my naive little mind, I pictured motherhood like life in Pleasantville before knowledge knocked on the door and colored the town red, black and blue. Everything was peaceful, fun and easy-going, and then BAM! Paint explodes all over the walls, the streets, the cat, my muffins.

With two little ones, it's impossible to avoid tantrums, sudden tears at 2 a.m., and big brother sitting on little brother's head now and then. It's gross getting poop under your nails when checking a diaper. It's hard to haul both kids off to an early doc appointment and arrive on time. It's tough getting enough sleep.

So, easy? No, not really. Frustrating? On occasion. But worth it?

Does the diaper pail stink like rotten eggs and vomit? Is a giggling baby not the best sound on earth? Is an unsolicited toddler hug even better than coffee?

Well, that last one is a tie, but you get where I'm going.

It's the trip of a lifetime.

A Mother's Day Roll in the Grass

The other day, Boss was trying out his new finger paints, which are colorless until smeared on special paper. He dipped his fingers in the containers, then wiped them around into a beautiful (IMHO) pastel blob. As he watched the colors take form, he exclaimed in a Tinkerbell voice: “It's just like magic!”

Any Grinch's heart would have grown three sizes that day—I know mine did.

As I'm writing this blog, Boss is practicing more cuteness. He's at his train table, scooting little engines around in a precious world of make-believe.

“Guys, what're you doin' down dere?” he asks the choo-choos, playing on the once-complicated track reduced to scattered bridges and stations with a sweep of his arm. “Percy and Rosie, go back to work,” he orders, muttering something about an 'an-mal' shelter. “BUST MYYYYYY BUFFERS!”

Next, he's singing the Thomas the Tank Engine song in da's and dum's. Then: “Stop dat Toby, you can't come wif me!” accompanied by a derailment and some good old-fashioned train smashing.

Ahhhh, these are the days, just like that Natalie Merchant song. The sun is bright, a breeze is tickling the wind chimes, birds are chirping, my son is adorable, we had reasonably good grocery store outing--and I'm not even going to say it won't last.

I'm grateful to be a mother on days like these, but who am I kidding? I'm grateful to be a mom any day. After six years of infertility fun to finally hatch Boss in 2008, that's one of many lessons I vowed to remember. Throughout that time, I also remember thinking that if I ever had a baby, I'd never (or seldom) complain about being a mom--that somehow I wasn't even allowed to groan after wanting it so bad for so long. 

Those notions lasted about two hours into delivery. Boss was 2 feet long and nearly 10 lbs.; I could only take so much.

I confess that for a while I was indignant about breeders who complained about their kids. “How DARE they whine about being tired?!” I'd scoff. “They should be KISSING the ground that baby crawls on! FRENCH kissing!”

I remember once shopping at a clothing store in a failed-IVF stupor when a frazzled mom was gathering items near me. She was trying to navigate a double stroller while holding clothes and keeping her kids from fondling a display of sunglasses and jewelry. I don't know who was grumpier—her or me. We both needed a box of kittens or a stiff drink.

A little while later when she was behind me in the check-out line, she ran out of patience, slapped her items on the counter and took off. I was ready for her to screech, “Thanks for letting me go first, jerk! Couldn't you see that my hands were full with these kids, and I was about ready to explode?!”

To which I was ready to shout back, “At least you HAVE kids, so shut your cake hole, and be grateful, you beeeeeeoooooocccchhhhh!”

I'm not proud to say that I had regular conversations like that with myself during the hard years. I even got to muttering under my breath, a dangerous habit. At least I didn't run down any grumps at the grocery store with my cart. Well, OK, I did that once. But only once, and I did apologize for my “accident.” Poor lady, her Kotex pad was probably yanking her pubes. Or, I dunno, maybe she just blew $8,000 on a botched IVF cycle!

Now, several years later, I'm on the breeders' side of the fence and the grass is definitely greener. A beautiful shade of shamrock, actually. Of course, I'll huff at weeds now and then, but that's OK, I've given myself permission.

Speaking of grass, Mother's Day was yesterday and one of the best parts was one of the simplest—rollicking on a blanket in the yard with Hubbo, Stinker and Boss. I learned a lot during my infertility saga, chief of which was to enjoy the moment and life's little things. Blooming azaleas, children laughing, fresh bread, a kiss under the dogwood tree.

And maybe just one big thing: being a mom.

I Inherited My Grandma's Butt

Every year while growing up, my grandma would come up from Florida to spend a week with us during the Christmas holiday. Along with her giant green suitcase on roller-skate wheels (an innovation long before its time), she'd bring bourbon balls and boxes of home-made cookies. It was heaven. Mostly.

She also packed up plans—lots and lots of plans. The shoe-shopping plan was fantastic. My brothers and I loved the day-after-Christmas excursion to the mall for our annual footwear spree. Sneakers for the brothers, something girly for me--unless it was the '80s when Sebago campsides or docksiders were big. (Well, we all had to experiment.)

But the other plans ... suuuuuuuucked. Day two after Christmas was cleaning out the garage. Day three was the basement. Day four, the refrigerator. Day five, we may as well have been beating wool rugs with wooden spoons—or so it felt at the time. Our next-door neighbor even labeled her “the Drill Sargent.”

Let me clarify that we ADORED Grandma L, but to say she was a little Type A was like saying a shark was a little bit fish. She didn't sit still, and she bit those who did--with about 3,000 teeth.

One year, back when today's video was yesterday's cassette tape, we recorded some post-holiday activity. You heard laughter, silly banter about the latest Charlie's Angels' episode, and Grandma counting silverware.

“One, two ... J.J.! I mean Stephen! Shawn? Shawn! I'm trying to count, please. Please, honey, please … sigh … One, two, three, four … sigh ... J.J.! Steve! Stephen! Quiet! Shut that thing off for a minute. I'll give you a quarter, honey, please … One, two, three … sigh ...”

We were as hysterical in listening to that scratchy contraption as she was hellbent on ensuring no forks were accidentally chucked in the trash. She had her mission (Get work done!); we had ours (Have silly fun!).

It may have been the same Christmas that I recall seeing her round butt in the air as she bent over the orange family room rug that matched her curly hair. “I've been so busy I haven't had time to go to the bathroom!” she huffed, before bending back down to pick more fuzz off the carpet.

“What?!” I wanted to yell, but didn't dare speak out against the Sargent. “Who was telling her not to pee?! No one had a gun to her head making her pluck cat fur off the floor. Didn't she see she was her own worst enemy?!”

The answer was no. In her eyes, the perpetrator was the dirty floor, the messy garage, the pile of mending, the never-ending list of stuff that would continuously assault her sensibilities. But somehow, she stayed on top of it all, reminding everyone in the process: “Everything HAS a place, everything IN its place!”

And, 25 or so years later, my place, I've found, was in grandma's shadow. Yes, I had become my mother's mother. And I loved her little adage. I mean, I hated it. Loved it. Hated it. Loved it. Hated it. Who knows where I really stood on the issue, but I've been trying to live it ever since, butt in the air and all. In fact, I think of her every time I go up the steps and see fuzzies dotting the cream-colored carpet that was supposed to be beige to CAMOUFLAGE THE DIRT, PEOPLE!

So, yes, my confession, in case I haven't mentioned it before, is that I'm a little Type A trying to get my B on. But the trouble is that A is in my blood. Be it Nurture or Nature (probably both), I'm compelled to put things away until they're all in the right place. And with Stinker and Boss, things are never in their right place for more than 2 seconds.

Sometimes when they're napping together, a 50-50 shot, I lie to myself and bargain: “Fifteen minutes of cleaning, no more!” I chug some coffee, wind myself up and GO! I put toys in baskets, take the trash out, pick up leaves in the garage on the way out, scoop the cat litter on the way back in, decide to do laundry, head to the basement, forget why I was going to the basement, get annoyed, go back upstairs, realize I'm hungry, wonder what I can shovel in my cakehole in the next 2 minutes, pay bills while I'm shoveling, hear Stinker wake up, and marvel at why I'm tired all the time—and how Grandma managed to do it all before they even had TiVo!

And then it becomes clear when I think of her and her never-ending scurry mode: It must have been those bourbon balls!

Or, perhaps it was a little sweeter than that. Maybe it was all those boxes of home-made cookies.

Got Booger and Other Misfit Milestones

Most parents are familiar with the usual childhood landmarks: Baby rolls over by 4 months, sits by 6 months and walks by 12 to 14 months. Most breeders also know not to sweat it if their kid is a few months off—Boss, for instance, took his sweet time putting one foot in front of the other, finally toddling at 16-and-a-half months. We were almost ready to start sucking our thumbs, but knew he was close. Now he zooms around like a carpenter bee, bumping into into walls on his search for anything sweet or dirty to get his hands into.

But what about the OTHER accomplishments—you know, the ones that are best sequestered on their own Island of Misfit Milestones? Here are a few to beware of:

• Tossing objects from perches on high. Actually, this milestone is pretty cute—until it happens for the 7th time in a row. At 10 months, Stinker discovered the joy of jettisoning items over various edges—high chairs, couches, the like. It first happened at the grocery store in his basket seat when I gave him a box of macaroni to shake so he'd stop screeching. (I hadn't showered in three days; I didn't want the extra stares.) Oh, the glee when he heard the noodles hit the floor and saw me squat. The third time I crouched, it all came back to me—the drop-stop-and-grab-it games had begun. I smiled, chucked the box in the cart, and wondered if he was too young for lollipops.
• Diaper inspecting. Boss began examining doodie around 2-and-a-half. “Want see dirty diaper, Mommy,” he'd suggest. I'd oblige, figuring it was a sign he was nearing the joys of potty training, and that somehow seeing poop would help. Trying to avoid my walnut face, I'd unwrap the diaper as if it were a deli package (liverwurst anyone?), hoping the soiled wipes, or worse, turd mush, wouldn't fall on the rug. “See, there's your poop!” I'd say, forcing enthusiasm. “Everyone poops, and someday you'll poop in the potty!” Let's just say, it can't happen soon enough!
• Nostril fondling. Better known as nose picking. Eventually, around the 2-and-a-half mark, as toddlers continue exploring their bodies, the index finger will find the sniffer. In, out, examine booger, insert in mouth. I know, ew! But to kids, it's like scratching an itch. They have no idea how nasty it is; it's just a way to remove an irritant. Or so I keep telling myself. Boss recently went on his first dig when he had a cold and thought he could unplug his honker with some pipe-cleaning action. I'm not sure how many times a parent must plead, “Use a tissue, please!” before it works. My guess is 1,278.

Scads of other notorious events will pop up and pass—much like a fleet of pimples in adolescence, and even into our 20s, 30s and 40s to make us feel young again. If we're lucky, they'll arrive and part with nary a scar. You may even get a pained chuckle out of the madness; think third-eye zit square above the nose. It's not a milestone, but who can't laugh and cry at that?

Germs for Breakfast

A crawling baby is cuter than a puppy kissing a kitten. When Stinker crawls, I love the way his tiny hands slap the ground as he scoots his knees across the tile. Every few seconds, he sits up, scans the sights, then ventures off for five more feet. It makes me smile even before my morning coffee … as long as I don't think about the floor. Each time his hand smacks the ground, it's a high five to millions of microscopic monsters.

If adults crawled on the floor, we'd be a bunch of whiners, complaining about sore knees and the indignity of it all. But the first thing we'd do after getting up and cracking our backs? Sprint to the sink and scrub our hands like a surgeon.

Babies, however, love germs. Their hands enter their mouths the first chance they get, whether to gnaw on piggies and suck off grime, or insert dead carpenter ants using their exciting new pincer grasp. Babies hands are on the floor constantly—just like our dirty shoes. We may as well give them Clarks to chew on.

It's all pretty nasty, and that's from someone who's far from a germaphobe. Proof: Once as a teenager, I bought ice cream at the boardwalk. As I headed back toward the beach, my perfect round scoop flew off the cone and toppled to the ground. Splat! I swung down for the ice cream quicker than Serena Williams swats a tennis ball, placing it back on its throne. Then I licked furiously, eyes down (afraid of gasps and evil stares), until it was gone.

More proof: I was once told I treated Boss like a second child for violating the new-mom germ code. I forget my crime, but it probably involved a fallen binky, swipe on the pants and plugging the paci back in his pie hole.

More recently, we were grocery shopping, humming along in the race car cart that steers like a Zamboni, when out flew Boss's lollipop. That lollipop is my ticket to 15 minutes of peaceful shopping; no one messes with the lollipop. I picked it up, checked for witnesses, then passed it back to Boss, feeling only a twinge of guilt. Some goddess invented the five-second rule, and whoever you are, I love you for it. (And before you judge me too harshly, I did wipe the race car and basket seat with a germ-zapping towelette before we started shopping. So, five points for me there.)

I realize I'm hypocritical about germs. Yes, I open doors with my shirt sleeve, but share spoons and sometimes a toothbrush. I have antibacterial lotion in my car, in the diaper bag and next to the sink, but I let Boss play with street gravel. I'm plagued by dreams about dirty toilet stalls, but I don't rinse home-grown herbs before using them.

Whatever the case, it's probably a matter of split-second prioritizing with me and germs. Sometimes “Eh!” wins; sometimes “Whoa!” does. I do know one thing, though: My immune system rocks. I could suck on pocket change and not get sick. I'm sure genetics plays a part, as does luck. But the secret ingredient? A few immunity-building germs for breakfast.

I hear the floor serves up some tasty bites.