Another use for Trader Joe's stickers

Since our trip to California, Dilan has taken quite a liking to my Baa, showing her affection through imitation.  She moves around like her with a fake walker.  I caught her speaking a colorful jibberish to a picture of my dad.  She told me she was speaking to him in "Indian*".  I went ahead and decided to just teach her some Gujarati (her accent's impressively close), but she stumped me when asking how to say "juice".  I told her it was just  "juice" with an accent but she doesn't believe me.  By the way, that's how you can speak my version of Gujarati really fast.  Just say things in English with an accent.  Immediately you'll know a quarter of the words I do.  

Like others her age, my Baa sports a dime-sized red felt bindi.  Dilan wants us to wear them too, and put her TJ's stickers to use. 

*She's four, so it's OK. But for you grown-ups out there, there is no such language as Indian. You sound ignorant when you ask if I speak it. But there is Indian food. I know; we people are so confusing.

What one little smack can unleash

I came home yesterday, and as our schedule typically is, Brett had been with the kids while I went to the gym after work (or more likely just stayed at work with an extra coffee to chip away at the email pile, as had been the case this time).  He told me about D's latest issues, for which he'd already punished her.  He's telling me this, while she's already sitting back in time-out for sass mouthing.  A mini-me she is, and my mother is loving this.

Then he tells me that she hit Ravi, although he had hit her first.  He's 1.  I flew off the handle.  Her sassing time-out was quickly taken up a notch by my laying into her till she was bawling.  "Good - CRY about it!" and I stormed off.

I totally overreacted, but I was LIVID.  Why?  This crap happens every day.  They're kids.  But still, I was just so angry and wanted her to KNOW it.   And then I was angry at my own temper.  And angry that Brett was telling me to calm down.  Angry because he was right.  Angry that she hit.  Angry at my own expectations that she not do things that kids just do.  As if this little sibling smackdown (which is not a big deal but emotions were in the way) somehow would not have occurred had I been there to parent more.  This is not even logical.

And then he said it.

"You know, I took care of this before you got home.  You don't have to overcompensate just because you weren't here."

Oh.
My.

You know you're with the right person when they floor you with a spot-on observation about yourself and render you speechless.  The guilt monster strikes again.


When I travel for work, I feel like Brett's doing me a favor for letting me.  This isn't helped when people ask "Aw, who takes care of your kids when you're gone?"   No one asks a man that.  "Letting" me.  Is my head in 1950?

When I go for a run or an evening out, it's like I'm taking advantage of him.  I have been skipping proper post-run stretches just so I can hurry in and relieve him.  And my calves are paying.  "Relieve" him?  WHO AM I?

To be clear, he doesn't see it this way.  And when the roles are reversed, I'm not doing any favors.  Zero guilt.  Men just don't do this.  You can blame him if you find this sexist.

This is all me.  It's woman behavior.  We apologize too much.  We don't ask for help for fear of looking incompetent.  We stay up till 2am to prove that we can work through the fresh produce from this week's CSA.  Because if you throw away that lettuce for lack of time to wash and dry, what kind of mother are you?

Go read this Newsweek article.  She pretty much says women don't rely on others enough and she's right.  This is in my own hands.

Starting now:  I pledge to be more conscious of how much guilt and pride drives my behavior.  If we have this in common, you should too.

I will leave the kids with Brett guilt-free.
I will not overcompensate.
I will take help from friends.

My current test.

Brett's out of town for the next four days.  A friend had offered to take Dilan for a play date if I needed some help.  My thought at the time:  "That's nice so of her.  I could go for a run with Ravi.  But no, that's so frivolous.  I can't ask her to do that.  What will she think?  I can only ask help if there's an emergency.  No help.  I am woman!  I can handle myself."

Is that the definition of woman strength?  If my mom lived here, I wouldn't think twice about asking for weekend help.  Asking a mom friend makes me feel indulgent.  This is DUMB.

I swallowed my pride and emailed her 5 minutes ago.  I already feel bad for asking.  But I asked and will now commence to hit refresh in my gmail 14 times.

The request for help is out there in the internet.  I did it.  I will go running.  And maybe stretch.  Hear me roar.

Flying solo with two -- check.

Two alone-with-the-kids milestones in one month? Pass the antacid*. 

We flew to California to surprise my mom for her birthday and see my aunt and grandparents. I'm happy to report both children are alive. I didn't throw either of them out of the plane. 


No worries - the baggage belt is off, a photo by kajal77 on Flickr.

This guy enjoyed mopping the airport floor with his knees and occasionally walked around to climb things. The other one took her brother's seat in the unoccupied stroller to relive her younger days.

And relive her younger days she did, when a surprise tantrum (full-on, death-scream, had-to-drag-her-body-down-the-aisle-with-1-year-old-strapped-to-me, DEATH-SCREAM) landed us hiding in the airplane bathroom. Anyone sitting outside that missed the body-drag would assume someone was getting murdered with a club in there. Or there was some raucous S&M mile-high-club action. Neither.

It was a 4-year-old screaming, trying to pound her way out. Me trying to wrestle with her. Me giving up. Me yelling at her to calm down (we all know this never works, yet the volcano still erupts and covers you in guilt magma). Me crying because I'm afraid it will never end. The 1-year old crying due to commotion. Me crying because the bathroom lighting likens me to a corpse. Me in disbelief. My final solution was to just hand her to the flight attendant, thereby proving that death screams are reserved for mama only.

Upon descent into sniffle mode, she just said she was tired and wanted to get off the plane. She slept for the next three hours, and I realized my mistake in never telling her this was a super long bedtime flight. Crap. This was my fault. I had not set expectations. I do this for a living but can't seem to apply useful work skills in my personal life.

As we boarded the flight back I could see the man in row 23 watching us approach.  I can see us exaggerated in his mind -- A wild-haired, devilish, flapping child attached to a lady, blinding her ability to walk straight, and a slow-poke booger smearing second child five feet behind on auto-whine, messily approaching in slow motion, swinging giant bags and knocking people in the head, shooting cheerios into their eyes.  Against the soundtrack of some loud and high-pitched Elmo song.  I can see his desperate wish that we're headed for a row before him,.after him -- any row but his, till we shatter his dream with, "Hi, so you're the lucky one." "All of you right here?", he asked meekly, as lines of worry deepened in his forehead.  But it was fine.  Lesson learned, I set expectations, I reinforced with a sleeping mask and magic sleeping lotion**, and we slept.

Friends have asked me, "Why would you do this to yourself? Why not just take one kid? Why not wait till Brett can go?" Part of it was so my family could see the kids, but lets be honest. I had too much pride to say that it's too hard to bring two kids by myself. I needed to prove I could do it. To myself, to them, whoever. It's just a solo flight. Thank God it's not my whole life. I appreciate that.

We had a wonderful visit. Dilan was obsessed with my Baa, who busted out one of my favorite laughs every time she got around the kids. My mom was surprised and excited. My cousin became D's BFF. My aunt squealed. My Dada made fresh carrot juice every morning and sternly reminded that I should be doing yoga. It was worth it.

*Speaking of antacid, they were selling care package baskets at the airport to support our troops.  The contents were 14 types of candy and junk food, a bottle of Pepto, and some baby wipes.  Nothing says "I love you service-man" than giving him diarrhea.  Really?

*My invention: Take any small bottle of lotion.  Tell your child it is a magic sleeping lotion.  Make a big deal about only using it in small quantities because it is so potent.  Carefully dab and rub in seemingly strategic locations.  Look child deep in the eyes and say, "Oh my goodness, I can see it in your eyes already.  You're getting tired.  Sooooo tired."

How I get my 4-year old to eat through our CSA veggies

double duty from our csa newsletter...

No, I don't have time to cut stuff into shapes and model into funny-faced animals.  Those magazine writers have some helpers.  I suspect you do not.  While I'm fortunate that my daughter's a decent eater, she's still four.  Worse, she used to be three.  With that, comes a base level of picky and a bipolar palate.  Here's what has worked:

1.  It's not a veggie, it's a (kale) chip!  She calls them salad chips and begs for more.

2.  Engage in salad spinning.  It's fun, and leaves get eaten along the way.

3.  Pass the salt and pepper to shake onto tomatoes, cucumbers, green beans, what have you.  Yeah, yeah, salt in moderation.  It'll be OK.  Sprinkling on flavor is fun.

4.  I'm lucky she loves beets.  That said, a 4-year-old's whim can turn them into the untouchable.   When that happens, toss in some honey and balsamic vinegar.  And remind them how cool it'll be to see pink pee pee in the toilet (never underestimate the value of something interesting in the bathroom).

5.  They must try a tiny bit of each and every thing.  Just a smidgen.  Only once.  You never know what you'll learn here.  For us, it was the discovery that cilantro is apparently the best food on the planet.  She jumps up and down for it.  She eats it like salad and picks it off her sandwich to eat first, because, "well it is my favorite, so I had to eat it first."  How else would you know this?

6.  Hide it in muffins and popsicles.

7.  There's always fruit.

Cuts like a cheap razor

When we try to invent ways to work for ourselves, good ideas are slim to none.  The bright idea that will one day unshackle us lurks somewhere in the folds between vacation daydreams and plans for my next meal (um, meals).  And we continue slaving for the man.

The one thing Brett has raised time and again is cheap basic razors for men.  I've never been supportive.  I said, "if that was viable, someone would have done it already."  And therein lies why I am not destined to be the woman behind a billionaire.  OUR IDEA WAS STOLEN.  (Note it's now "our" idea, and not his.  That's what marriage is all about.  Sharing.  Although ultimately it's his fault for not ignoring me.)

This dude surely heard us at a bar and owes us all his fortunes.  To add insult to injury, his commercial is damn witty.   I kind of love it.  I've watched it five times and like dancing with the bear at the end.




Clever, yes?  It's like when D told Brett that Mr. Bobby, her friend's dad, is funnier than him.  It hurts.  Now imagine that Mr. Bobby took all our money.  It really hurts.

I did it

My first full week (well, 5 days) alone with two children.  Check.  I even earned a badge, two of them -- they're nestled under my eyes and look like dingy gray sharpei puppy necks.

Brett had a work-trip and was gone all week.  I'd been dreading it since Ravi was born.  There is no question of how hard it must be to be a single parent.  I know my piddly 5 days doesn't even compare, especially given the promise of the husband's return as the light at the end of the whine-filled, crumb-littered tunnel.   It doesn't compare, but that doesn't mean it wasn't a challenge.

I yelled at D for the first three days at least once.  Her fault of course.  But I still felt terrible and apologized.

I slept 4-5 hours a night.

Ravi to add a 3am playtime to his schedule.

He also fell off the bed, sending D into sympathetic wails lasting longer than his.

But it was also a personal triumph.   I cut their fingernails.  This is Brett's job.  I bathed them three times due to excessive picnicking.  Three baths in five days.  Do you know how much bathing that is for us?  I only ordered in once.  We went places together on the subway. I didn't even cry.  Much.

Most importantly, I learned something interesting about my mother self.

When the husband's around, I expect his help so I can multi-task.  And he does it well, so I constantly wait for him or ask for him.  If he just deals with the kids, I can fix dinner, get that last email out, or whatever it is.

If he's gone all week, there is no choice.  Somehow with that lack of choice, strangely came freedom.  It had to be 100% kids and nothing else.  No multi-step meal cooking.  No real cleaning.  No emails or phone calls.  This forced-focus on the kids, and forced-delay of everything else, made things surprisingly low-stress.  Supremely exhausting, but lower stress.  Trying to do too much when he is here, and therefore always waiting for and needing him, created a constant hum of irritation and impatience.  I had put up with the kids instead of just taking care or playing.

After they went to bed, I did my stuff.  Fifteen minutes of speed-cleaning can get an amazing amount done.  But you probably already know this.  I didn't.

So, I learned a big thing.  I really should do it this way all the time, whether alone or not.  It would probably make everyone happier.

When Brett got back, I slept many many hours.  And I locked us all out of the apartment with salmon in the oven.  I guess my subconscious made me demonstrate I'm not the kind of girl he should leave alone with kids.

Because, why not

If you don't mind a couple of clicks, look for Shamu the Goldfish in this list and click to vote for me.  

Old shamu looks like a .txt file compared to the others.  And they probably write more than once a month, as 2012 has been.  I've been busy looking for my keys.  Seriously, for three weeks now.  Anyway, you like it here, right?  Let's see. 


 

Do you like yogurt? Me too. Try making your own.

To get out of volunteering at my CSA (sorry), I write for the newsletter.  Might as well share twice.  So, say hello to the first of several hippie-dippie posts.  Like this one about recycling your curds.  Hey, I know my audience.  The CSA one, that is.

Do you like yogurt?  Me too.  Try making your own. 

It's so easy*, reduces hard-to-recycle yogurt container waste (and the related guilt/evil that comes with each bite), and you can make it as sweet (or in my case, unsweet) as you like.   Also, my kids love it.

Growing up in an Indian house, there was ALWAYS yogurt.  Plain yogurt with some white rice was a tried and true comfort.  Walk into any Indian house**, and you will absolutely find a stainless steel container in the fridge, housing milky goodness with cultures from who know's how long ago -- cultures so precious, I keep a spare dollop in the freezer.  It's labeled "emergency yogurt" and gets called on and replaced frequently.  Because although making your own yogurt is easy peasy, it does require you to always have it, which isn't always possible when accidentally eat all of it.*** 

What you need:

- a pot

- container (preferably non plastic) with lid.

- towel

- several cups of milk (preferably 2% or fattier; if you ever have leftover half and half and don't know what to do, throw it in here.  Ooohhh goody goody.)

- a few spoons of yogurt (Preferably from someone else that has made their own, as I hear it works better.  If not, try store bought, although I'm not sure how it will turn out.  I'm lucky enough to have Indians that give me their starters.)

Steps:

1.  Put the milk on low to mid heat and let it heat up slowly, till it rises bubbly.****

2.  Turn of heat and let milk cool till it's not super hot, but still very warm.

3.  Mix in the yogurt. 

4.  Transfer to the container of your choice, cover tightly and make it cozy in a towel and warm place (e.g. microwave, oven, unairconditioned kitchen)

5.  Let sit for 4-6 hours. 

6.  Refrigerate.

Enjoy plain or with some jam/honey/syrup mixed in for sweetness.  Remember to save a few spoons to make your next batch and freeze a few spoons for your homemade yogurt emergencies!

*Really easy.  Not "easy" like my friend Brianna says, "Hey, you should make your own ravioli -- it's so easy.  You just buy wonton wrappers and then ... pwah pwah pwah" -- she lost me at requiring any kind of wrapping.

**Must contain someone female over 50.  Oh God.  I just compared myself to a 50-year old. 

***Or forget to eat it because you've been eating ice cream instead.

****This becomes a huge pain in the ass when you forget about your milk and let it boil over.  Of course, I never do that.  Ever.  

An Olympic sized ramble

The first Olympics I remember were the 1984 games in Los Angeles.  My parents watched, and since these were the days of only one TV in the house (the tragedy!), so did I.  My dad explained the sports and scoring rules.  I learned names like Greg Louganis and Carl Lewis.  Gymnastics were of course my favorite, and my mom reminisced about Nadia Comaneci's perfection.  Seeing Mary Lou score 10's and win gold -- at the time I didn't appreciate what an iconic moment that was.  I just wanted a patriotic leotard and to eat Wheaties.  My dad cheered for her, but he was conflicted, partial to Romanian silver medalist Ecaterina Szabo because he liked saying her name.  Ecaterina Shjah-BOH!, Ecaterina Shjah-BOH!, he'd repeat over and over with fancy shushing, gung-ho on the BOH!.  And she was very cute.  

The Olympic trials for swimming reeled Dilan in, making her ask every day when the Olympics were finally starting.  Imagine her disappointment when there were no shirtless men in spandex during the opening ceremonies, but instead dancing nurses and a weird giant baby.  She was hooked on the swimming (all strokes, "front reach and pull" being her fave), track and field (hurdles the fave), rowing, gymnastics, and diving.  This gave us a much-appreciated carrot for two weeks, one I sorely miss.

We especially enjoyed the 4-year old commentary. 

1. Oh, look -- they're doing the back reach and pull.  That's the backstroke.  No, it's the back reach and pull.  I like the front reach and pull, but that's OK.
2. Mommy, look - look - look!  It's Michael Phelps.  See Michael Phelps.  And your boyfriend too.  Ryan Lochte* is your boyfriend, right?  Michael Phelps is my boyfriend and Ryan Lochte is your boyfriend.
3. When I grow up I want to be in the Olympics.  But I need you to come with me, because I don't know where they are.  I don't know what kind of running I'll do.  What ever that man (Bob Costas) tells me to do.
4. (Gymnastics uneven bars) -- Oh no, she's going to get really sick because she's spinning too fast.
5. (100 meter sprints) Is this race only going to be 10 seconds?  Because they're not going to be very tired.
6. She's not doing very good.  (re: every pole vaulter, because falling just can't be a win to a 4-year-old)
7. (closing ceremonies, during Imagine by John Lennon).  Who's that?  John Lennon.  He looks like Harry Potter.

*We broke up.  But it's not because he peed in the pool.  Seriously ladies, you think he's the only guy who pees in the pool?  It's because he's a DWTS-Bachelor-aspiring-grille-wearing douche.  A handsome douche, but a douche nonetheless.  

And thank you to Kerri Strugg for eliciting my #1 favorite Olympic moment.  During the 1996 gymnastics flashback, they showed a clip of Kerri injured during the World Championships and going to the hospital.  It had to be replayed no less than 5 times.  My girl loves a good hospital scene, what can I say.  I guess she's half Indian after all.  Which means her only hopes of the Olympics are as a spectator.  I digress.  Two days later, she's talking to me an a super annoying mouse voice.  

Dilan, why are you talking like that?  Please talk normally or I'm not listening.

I am talking normal (as she squeaks on).

No you're not.

Yes, I am.  I'm that woman on the TV that got hurt doing gymnastics and went to the hospital.  I'm just being her, mommy.  So it's OK.  

And as the games shut down, we sadly let go of our nightly ritual of quiet time (well, as quiet as 5 comments/questions per minute about what's going on can get).  In realizing that our kids will be eight and five when the summer games return, we realize how long that really is.  It seems a lifetime away.  My ex, Ryan, told Fashion Police he'll be there in 2016.  That is, if he's not fat and happy with some Bachelor bimbo.  Who knows where we'll be and what we'll be doing.  It sure is nice to wonder.

Midsummer night

Last year I found the Great Gatsby for $1 somewhere and decided to finally do my high school homework.  Excellent book, now.  How on earth would this make sense in high school?  I was immature, but seriously?  Fake-reading that thing was the only option.  Or I'm cultureless.  Snoozefest, way over my head.  This time around this quote from Daisy stuck with me.  Probably because it wasn't in the cliff notes.

"In two weeks it'll be the longest day in the year.  Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it."

Me too, lady!  I want to mark it with something special, like a super long wine and cheese and ice cream picnic or some utterly carefree summertime activity that says "look at me -- I'm such a cool relaxing cat living the good life...you want to be me!".  Instead, it's July.  Thankfully we're taking a couple weeks to head south and smell the roses in the land of grandparent childcare. Or just try to breathe period, since it's 100 degrees.  Maybe I'll just sit around and fan myself like the Gatsby people.  Maybe I'll finally finish Shantaram.  I have packed my running shoes, in case I need something to smash a bug.

There's much to say about the kids, like how squishy and exploding-cute Ravi is right now, and how sweet and clever (and sassy attitude-filled) my girl D is.  But I've no inclination to gush at the moment and will just leave it at this.

1.  Have you had Trader Joe's dark chocolate with hazelnuts?  It has so many nuts.  Buy more than one at a time.

2.  I miss my hair.  This is going to take a long time.

3.  I went to Step class this week.  Step.  It's 1994.

Later.