Sippycup

20 Years and Counting

This weekend marks 20 years from when I met Steve.  Yup, TWENTY YEARS! Man that's a long time. 

I can still remember the night I decided he was the one for me.  Not quite a Cinderella story but, in my book, as close as it gets.  I met Steve my freshman year of high school.  We all hung around the same circle of friends but he stuck out like a sore thumb.  He was so funny, always happy, always making me laugh.  I was hoping he would ask me to homecoming dance but the loser waited too long and instead his good friend Kevin Gallagher beat him to the punch.  I couldn't say no, I knew poor Kevin had worked up every last bit of courage to ask me by the deep red color on his face. Besides, he was a really sweet guy (not my cup of tea at all). 

Finally, homecoming dance came and I couldn't lead Kevin on anymore.  He gave me his blessing to talk to Steve after I confessed that I had huge crush on him (I thought honesty was the best policy).  So I worked up the courage, with the help of Kevin (I told you he was a nice guy), to talk to Steve.  Luck was on my side, he had gone stag (the cocky bastard).   And that was it.  We talked, and laughed all night long. 

His smile got me.  This is the one.  I knew then, twenty years ago on the bleachers in the St. Monica High School Gym, that this was the guy for me.  It was such an instant connection that it's hard to explain.  I just knew that from that moment on we would become best friends and it's been that way ever since.

He became my best friend and I became his.  We exchanged hundreds of notes.  Talk for endless hours on the phone.  This is my one (and only) apology to my sisters, because of me they never got to use the phone this was p.c.w. (pre-call-waiting).

Looking back on these last twenty years it's so comforting to know that he's still my best friend the one I can (and do) tell everything.  I know I won't be judged.  He's my security blanket. 

If there's an earthquake or thunder he instantly holds me because he knows I'm too scared to move.  He takes ice cubes out of my drinks because he knows I like my water room temperature.  He's my scuba buddy because hundreds of feet under water I trust no one else.  He's my running partner because he keeps me motivated and stays with me (even if it means going slower) so that we can cross the finish line together. 

The best way to describe how he makes me feel is safe.  It's like if I close my eyes and just let myself fall backwards he would always be there to catch me.

I can't believe it's been twenty years, I can't wait to see what the next twenty will bring (other than wrinkles).

Steve: I look forward to coming across more finish lines with you. I can't imagine my life without you.

Top 10 Best Things About Our Move to Valencia

1. Attached garage. Ah, the things I used to take for granted when I lived in the Midwest. It may seem like a little thing, but the attached garage improves the quality of life so much, especially when you have kids. I love that they can run out and get in the car and I can run back in to grab the baby or a diaper bag or the kid's lunches without running at the speed of light because I'm so worried that someone is either going to A: take off with my car and kids or B: see my kids unattended in the car and call DCFS. I can't tell you how many times I've endagered the baby by carrying him AND a diaper bag AND a stroller AND a pile of library books that need to be returned, all to avoid leaving him by himself in the car. Another bonus is that when Stewart falls asleep in the car, I can let him nap in there because it's not too hot or cold and he's right there where I can check on him. It's a beautiful thing.

2. Dishwasher. Enough said there.

3. Upstairs. Can I just tell you how much I love that the kids sleep upstairs and we sleep downstairs? I also love that when I tell Stew to go to his room when he's throwing a fit, I actually CAN'T HEAR the fit. That was always the idea of putting him in his room, however, when his room was only ten feet away, it didn't exactly work.

4. Washer & Dryer. Again, enough said.

5. Traffic. Or lack thereof. It's such a wonderful feeling of freedom, knowing that wherever I need to go, I can get there in five minutes.

6. Wal-Mart (and other big box retailers). I know, I'm supposed to love all those unique, over-priced boutiques and eateries that were available to me in Santa Monica and L.A. But I couldn't afford them anyway. And all I really need, I can get at Wally World. Or Target. Or KMart. Or Old Navy (and I don't have to deal with the frickin' Third Street Promenade to get to it).

7. Chain Restaurants. As I missed Wal-Mart, so I longed for Chili's, Applebee's, Outback Steakhouse, and The Claim Jumper. No, I do not have sophisticated, urban taste. I LIKE my baby back ribs, okay?

8. Parking. All hail parking lots. Big, suburban parking lots with plenty of room for all. No more having to PAY to park at the hospital, the doctor's office, the post office. No more twisting through parking garages and waiting for elevators just to go to Bed, Bath & Beyond. No more digging for change to feed meters which will probably turn out to be broken. No more enduring the mixed smells  of urine and citrus air freshener in the Third Street Promenade elevators. No more getting lost in the labrynthine Westside Pavilion parking structure at Christmastime.

9. Paseos. Valencia is criss-crossed with pedestrian walkways for biking, running or walking. There are miles and miles of trails to enjoy and I am totally loving exercising without worrying about traffic. On Mondays I run, on Thursdays I've been taking Stew out on my bike, and on Saturdays while Stew naps, I take Owen. They both love going over and under the major streets (big tunnels and big, big bridges). I love that it's SO EASY to exercise.

10. It's a Family Town. Everyone here is SO much nicer to me and my kids. It's most likely because everyone here has a family, too. In Santa Monica, people treated me like a leper for having three kids and being in the way. I dreaded going shopping because people were always brushing past me with annoyed looks and dramatic sighs. I hated walking through parking lots because I was certain to be honked at by some asshole in a Boxter. I've even had OLD PEOPLE give me 'tude, and they're supposed to oooh and awwww over babies, not tell me that my stroller is in their way, or that I should get in the elevator "on the double," or to "push the button for Chrissakes!"

My first trip to Ralph's here was so amazing I almost cried for joy. Every single person in the store, every customer, every worker- stopped to say hello and coo over Wilbur. No one gave me a dirty look or pushed their cart impatiently up against me. They treated me as if I had every right to be out shopping for groceries with my three kids- and guess what? I DO. I couldn't believe that I had even forgotten that. I had actually been treated so badly for so long that I actually kind of thought I deserved it, and was constantly apologetic in public. "Oh excuse me, I'm so sorry I'm in your way!" "I know, I'm slow, sorry, it's hard to push the stroller"- on and on and on, when I really had no need to apologize. If anything, they should have been apologizing to me for being complete DICKS.

A Word About Housework

Housework is important, we can all agree on that. Laundry, dishes, cooking, cleaning, shopping, scrubbing, sweeping. These chores are all as indispensable to our lives as breathing and yet as a society, we have the least respect for the people who perform them.

Maids, janitors, cleaning-women- whatever term you use, these are among the least paid professions in the country, averaging minimum wage or less.

Or, in the case of moms, much, much less. Our services are free.

Housework is undoubtedly women’s work, and I don’t say that because I believe it SHOULD be women’s work or because I don’t think women are capable of more. I say it because it’s a statistical truth.

Whether they work outside the home or inside, mothers STILL do more housework than fathers- even when they work as many hours or more than their spouses.

It’s important work and it’s hard. So why do we feel the need to shrug it off as it it’s no big deal?

The other day, I overheard two moms at the park who were both trying to prove that they did less housework than the other. “I don’t cook,” one said, somewhat boastfully. “We just order out, save time.”

“Oh, me too!” chimed in the other quickly, “I only cooked tonight cuz my husband’s parents are coming over and they all expect me to be a little Susie Homemaker type.”

“Oh GOD. As if.”

And I thought to myself- if we don’t value and respect the housework that NEEDS to be done- if we are constantly cutting it down and making it sound silly and worthless- then what kind of impression are our children going to have of the people who do such work?

Not only of our maids, cleaning-folk and janitors, but of US? The moms who perform an overwhelming majority of it?

I know the comments were innocent, and I’ve certainly made such comments myself from time to time.

What respectable person hasn’t scoffed at Martha Stewart’s suggestions for a “quick and easy" craft that requires more supplies than a trip to the moon, or gaped at the “simple” recipe in Parents Magazine for cupcakes that look like miniature maps of the UK (or some ridiculous thing)?

But now that I’ve given it some thought, I’m going to try to refrain from making comments that undermine housework and homemaking.

Certainly, I’m not going to turn into Bree (Marcia Cross) from Desperate Housewives. I’m not going to iron napkins or fret about streaks on my glassware.

But I don’t think housework is anything to be ashamed about either.

After all, isn’t it making life livable for everyone in the household?

And if I don’t treat that with importance and respect, why should anyone else? So from now on, I will.

Same goes for you dads that do pitch in and do a large portion of housework. You aren't "just" doing dishes or taking out the trash or mowing the lawn. You are making your home a wonderful place for your kids to grow up. Be proud.

THIS IS DYSFUNCTIONAL!!!!

I've realized that Owen and Stewart are in an abusive, dysfunctional, but completely codependent relationship.

All they do is find ways to hurt one another, whether it's Stewart hitting Owen's precious doggies (which he calls his "babies") or Owen running away with one of Stewart's favorite Thomas the Tank Engines.

They are currently locked in a life and death struggle to be the first one to wash their hands after a meal. They spend the entirety of dinner eying one another across the table like a couple of desperadoes. Then as soon as the first one finished swallows his final mouthful and tentatively slides a buttcheek halfway off his chair, the other will drop his fork like he's suddenly discovered it has herpes and push his plate away half uneaten in a mad dash to the sink.

The victor then gets to take an extra long time scrubbing each knuckle and cuticle while the loser is either crumpled on the ground, howling in absolute defeat about how they wanted to be "first" (Stewart) or standing grumpily with their arms crossed over their chest and their lower lip pursed into a pout, exclaiming that they are "gonna be mad at you ALL day, Stewie!" (Owen).

And then there are the toy-induced fights. We have hundreds of toys in this house, from junky little Happy Meal toys to elaborate systems like K'nex or GeoTrax. And yet, the only one either is ever interested in is the one that's in their brother's hand.

The majority of our toys sit dusty and unused, until the moment when one of them touches it and then suddenly it's like Leonardo DiCaprio after Titanic- worshiped, adored and followed around desperately.

They know everything there is to know about one another, and use it against each other in a pointless, bitter, War of the Roses style struggle that NEVER, EVER ENDS. Owen likes to anticipate what toy Stewart wants and snatch it before his chubby little legs can carry him there. Stewart waits until Owen is upstairs alone going pee-pee and lets out a long, ghostly "HOOOOOOOO!" which scares the crap out of Owen.

And the worst part is, they cannot just LEAVE EACH OTHER ALONE. Like adults trapped in a bad relationship with good sex, they cannot stop seeking each other out. They will not just step away from one another and take a break from all the tension and tragedy.

Until, of course, the moment the light goes out in their room and they're supposed to be sleeping. Then all of the sudden they are best friends, giggling and hatching plots.

Ah, this dysfunctional relationship does have its moments. I've heard Owen tucking Stewart in at night, giving him his blankie and his special elephant. I've seen Stewart give Owen the Sugar Addict the rest of his cookies, because he knows how much Owen likes them. I've seen them taking care of each other, loving each other.

But I have to wonder at the end of the day if it's all worthwhile.

All of the fights- are they worth that handful of giggles?

I won't attempt to answer that question, but I will venture to say that I would NEVER again consider having two kids as close in age as Owen and Stewart.

Awkward...

So I feel a bit awkward posting again because it's been so long.

As Marylou mentioned way back in August, Kyle and I bought a townhome in Valencia and have spent the last several months house hunting, doing paperwork, looking at new preschools, and finally moving.

It's been a long, crazy three month journey from that first day in July when we decided to "just check out" some open houses, which quickly turned into- "hey, the timing is good, the boys haven't started school yet, let's just do it now."

For me, the stress of moving isn't quite as exciting and fun as it is... well, stressful. I know some people like the thrill of starting over in a new home and having all kinds of projects to do, but that person is not me. I don't mind slapping some paint on the walls, but that's about the limit for me in terms of fixing up a home.

I feel like for the last three months my stomach has been in knots as I filled out change of address forms, transferred the kids to new doctors, dentists, and preschools, and tried to figure out all this homeowner's crap, like insurance and property taxes, impound accounts and escrow accounts and blah blah blah.

To compound all this stress, the mortgage broker who was doing our loan kept calling us and asking for more financial documents, even as soon as three days before we closed, which nearly gave both Kyle and I a heart attack.

Every time we talked to her, she'd soothe us with a "Everything's on track, everything's fine- we'll sign the paperwork as soon as it prints!" Then the next day, her assistant would call and say, "Um... do you think you could make a copy of the check you wrote for your good faith payment, just to make sure it went through?"

And I would freak out and call her back, peppering her with annoying questions and ejaculations like "I just don't understand why they need that! Why would I write a bad check for my good faith payment?!"

And she would go back into soothing mode... "Everything's on track, everything's fine..." and I'd calm down again. I think she might be a hypnotist... I wonder if she said "Constantinople" if I'd go all nutty and think I was in love with her, like in that Woody Allen movie.

But anyhow, the point is that the last three months or so, the rest of my life has been completely on hold and my Sippycup time has paid the price.

Consequently, I feel kind of like I can't just jump back into posting- I feel like I was in a relationship that was just picking up steam when I bowed out- and now I'm awkwardly calling again- "Um...hey...so- are you still single?"

I also feel like I've been silent for so long that I oughtn't post until I have something amazing to say.

But I don't. And the silence must be broken somehow, because while I have nothing AMAZING to say, I do have stories to tell- about preschool, feminism, my new city, and my being inspired by Adrienne and Marylou to attempt my first half-marathon this spring.

So while this has been a bit awkward... ahem... let's just pretend I never left, okay?

This Mom Wants a Sick Day

Really.  If ever there was a time I wish I could call in sick, today would be it.  But as you all know, there's no such thing as a sick day when you're a mom.

I have been recovering for the last week from what I thought was going to be a small procedure.  Little did I know that a hernia repair would hurt so friggin much.  For starters, I didn't even know you could get one on your back.  I did and it sucks.  The good news is the doctor found it.  I thought it was just a lump (a ball of fat if you must know the truth). 

My Dr. being as cool as she is caught it right away.  She said, "we can just go in there and stitch it right up.  It's an easy surgery, done with Lapriscopy (an eansie weensie camera)".  She failed to mention that she had to blow me up like a balloon to  insert this small miracle of modern science.  So what was pain in a small area of my back, has now been transformed into pain in all of my back.

Not to mention, the pain killers they give for relief would knock out a rhino.  So I have to wait until Steve comes home before I can take my little pink friend (aka Darvocet).  Oh yeah, and guess what else, no lifting anything over 5 pounds. FOR 4 WEEKS!  HA! HA! HA!   Yeah, I thought that was funny too.  How the hell can I follow orders like those?  You're right.  I can't. No mom can. 

Isn't it always the case too, that when you feel awful your kids choose that moment to shine.  It's like they can smell your weakness.  Or is it just mine? 

I have never had to put Sean in Time Out as often as this last week.  Not to mention the fact that he would pull the old 'limp noodle' trick because he knew I wasn't supposed to pick him up.  I also, had to change a record number of  diapers this week because, of course, Sean had diarrhea.  He probably freaked when he heard mommy had a boo boo.  What? Mommy? No. Never. It was probably too much for his little clingy self to deal with.

I've been trying to do what the Dr. ordered hoping that each day will be a little better, but it's hard to try and take it easy.  Today, for example, Emma accidentally sprayed Listerine in her eyes.  Yup, the little mouth freshener, really good for your mouth, not so good for your eyes.  What did I do?  Picked her up (36 pounds) and rushed her to the bathroom, flushed her eyes and carried her for another half hour till they no longer smelled minty and she stopped crying.

I was in so much pain by the end of today that I broke down and said "I need help" (there's nothing I hate more than asking for help).   Steve means well, but I swear, sometimes I just wanna slap him when he says things like "you shouldn't have carried Emma so much today".  Did you not hear that the child sprayed Listerine in her eyes? What was I supposed to do? Leave her on the floor?

I know that this is just temporary and that the end results will be well worth these last few days of discomfort.  At the same time, I can't help but think that getting old sucks.  I'm sure that if this  had happened ten years ago I'd probably be out dancing the Macarena by now.  Oh, yeah, did I mention, she found another hernia on the other side, so I'll have to do it all over again. Yippee.

Trick or Treat

Once again my sweet daughter Emma has found a way to humble me.  While discussing what we should be for Halloween, I found out what she really thinks of me.  The conversation went something like this:

Me: "So, what do you think you want to be for Halloween this year?"

Emma: "Oh, I don't know maybe some chopsticks and Rita (my  niece) can be soy sauce, since she loves it so much.  Or maybe I can be spaghetti and Sean (her little brother) can be a meatball.  OH, I KNOW!  I CAN BE A TRASH CAN AND YOU (her very own mother) CAN BE THE TRASH!!!"

Needless to say Steve thought this was hilarious. 

But don't worry, I got the last laugh.

When we asked Sean what he wanted to be he answered "I wanna be a puty pincess (pretty princess)".   

Kid Quotes: My First Love

Emma was quietly (very rare) entertaining herself with a puzzle of the world (won't put the damn thing down). She suddenly jumped up and said:

(All in one breathe) "Hey mom, look WALRUSES!  They live in Greenland right next to the puffins.  I JUST LOVE WALRUSES. I have since I was little.  What was my first word?  IT WAS WALRUS. Wasn't it? "

Tricks of the Trade

As a mom I come across annoying little problems everyday.  On some days, I feel like I have no idea what I'm doing (o.k. pretty much everyday). I'm constantly winging it. It's such a relief to know that other moms out there sometimes feel the same way.  Better yet, someone might already have an answer to a problem that has been keeping me up at night.

They say that necessity is the mother of all inventions.  It's so true.  There are moms out there that have invented (or stumbled across) certain tricks that can make all of our lives easier.  Think about the guy that invented Post-Its he was trying to invent a strong adhesive and instead invented a really weak one.  Post-Its were a total mistake. 

While you may not have invented the next Post-Its, you must have invented a couple Tricks of the Trade. 

Recently, our Sippycup mom, Sandra, asked: "How do you get the yellow stains from spit up out of baby clothes?  That stuff is harder to get off than bird poop on your car after a hot L.A. day...."

Come on moms out there...help the poor woman out.  Share your wisdom on Tricks of the Trade. 

Stumping for Dubya

So last night at dinner, Kyle and I were discussing birthdays with Owen and Stewart. We talked about how Stewart will be three on his birthday, and Owen will be five, because five comes after four.

Then we starting quizzing Owen about his NEXT birthday, trying to get him to understand the concept that he gets a year older on each one. "What comes after five?" Kyle prompted.

"Ummm, six," he said.

"And what comes after six?"

Owen paused, leaving just enough time for Stewart to throw his hands in the air and scream "W!!!!!"

I was a bit torn at this point because I wanted to be truthful but not dampen his enthusiasm.

"Actually, it's seven," I said, but I agreed that "W" does indeed come after twelve (the highest number he's counted to thus far). I figured 13 is so far out of his understanding at this point it might as well be "W." Why the hell not, after all?