Category Archives: Child Wrangling

Unsolicited parenting advice

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Over at Bad Mommy Moments there is a dumping ground for all your parenting advice, to enable who want to ignore another batch of well meaning parents a place to peruse and ignore.

I wanted, though, to put my two  cents here, because I can get my readers to add to Bad Mommy’s list of “lose your expectations,” “laugh at  yourself,”  “always apologize,” and the ever popular “don’t go to the indoor playground hungover” advice. And because if my readers don’t hit her comment section my invaluable and genius advice will go to waste. So I offer these points for your complete disregard:

1. Find the parenting book that agrees with you, and only read that one. The others are all full of crap. Clearly, since they don’t agree with you.

2. While you’re pregnant, you can get used to having a child by having a timer set in your house to go off every 10 minutes; and every time it rings, do the opposite of what you’re doing. while holding a gallon of milk under your arm. (Not by the handle. That’s too bloody easy.) You may not continue ANYTHING for more than 10 minutes.

3. Practice the following lines for advice that makes you want to smash your fist into something soft and tooth-filled:
“That’s an interesting way to look at it.”
“Hmmmmm.”
“Well, we’re going to try it this way for a while.”
“That’s what our pediatrician told us to do.”
That’s all you need. Any more polite than that and the idiots will think they’re right. I use “Well, you had your chance with yours, and now it’s my turn.” Be careful. This is only for advanced curmudgeons who enjoy putting people off.

4. You will find the most unusual advocates, and those who you expect to support you will turn on you. So test everybody out, and run screaming from the people who make you question yourself.

5. Breastfeeding is not easy but almost any problem can be solved, so get help. Really.

6. People will tell you to make sure you take time for yourself. You will nod, and think, “of course I will.” Yeah, well, schedule it now. Put an hour right around bathtime and dinner on the calendar for five nights a week. LEAVE THE HOUSE for that hour. If you’re single, get someone to come over and help. If you work outside the home, your time by yourself is the ride to work and the times you get to pee and eat alone. If you don’t get to pee by yourself at work, consider changing careers.*

*And if you have to pump while you pee at work, call the state office of employment, because that’s probably illegal.

7. Let go of the little stuff. For two reasons: one, you can’t do it  all, and two, if you don’t pick your battles, you will lose your mind. In our house we don’t care about bibs or stains or matching clothes or eating with forks. We don’t limit the number of band-aids we put on the outside of our clothes or the number of chores we willing hand over to someone who does them significantly less well but does them because he wants to be part of the family.Boy in pink sandals and toenail polish? Okay. Tricycle in the house? Okay. We hold the line firmly on the important things. Seat belts. Sunscreen. Hats outside. Hold hands in the street. Helmet. Only gentle touches. Thank you notes. That’s about it as far as rules go.  (Hush, all you fans of chocolate day who found out there’s a limit on the quantity that day.)

8. Nobody else has to raise your kid, so nobody else gets to tell you how to do it. The ONLY thing to listen to is your gut. They’re your children. You’ll know, if you’re really honest with yourself, what they need.

9. Invent milestones that they will always remember. There are a few major holidays, but do camping in the living room (and the backyard), and half birthdays with half cakes, and breakfast for dinner nights, and board game nights.

10. And the most important: Do not, do not, do not think that breastfeeding is birth control. Seriously, that’s playing Russian Roulette with the easy-bake baby oven, friends.

Moms gone wired

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Clearly, these people who accuse mothers of small children of being “at risk for Internet addiction” and who belittle the habit of switching tabs from Twitter to Facebook to blog to email and back until someone responds are not whip-smart blogging mamas. (Okay, yes, I read the article, and yes, she is exactly that. But she’s a quitter, too, because she dropped her four blogs because they were taking time away from her kids. Um, hello, that’s the point.) And the authors and publishers and contributors and  promoters have it  out for mom blogs. (Forget for a moment the article is written by a mom who spent as many as eight hours online a day while the kids were awake. Lady, do you know how much I could get done if I got to be addicted like that? Why can’t I have that personality instead of the “eighteen projects sitting half done because I can’t bear to ignore my child-rearing job” personality?)

They don’t understand that we have finally,  in blogs and twitter and facebook, found forums in which people who understand us and empathize flock to our feet to hear our pearls of wisdom. At home/work we’re ignored. Yelled at. Shat upon, literally. Online there are others like us, feces-covered and chagrined, wishing someone would hear us and tell us we’re worth a shower. Online we all respect each other. Dote on each other. Celebrate each other.  I think these people at CNN are mamablogga haters. And we don’t allow the word “hate” at our house, do we mamas?

People who bandy about the term “addiction” do so without acknowledging that it’s a relatively new term (twentieth century) that basically applies to any activity that takes you away from the socially mandated priorities of work and family. If we were a culture who valued laughter above all else, alcoholism would only be applied to nasty drunks. Silly drunks would be contributing members of society. Since we are Puritanical believers in work and family, online activities that take you away from work or family for one, two, or nine hours a day allegedly represent problems. (But somehow, work that takes you away from family for twelve hours isn’t a problem. Oh, right. That’s just for men. Work that takes women away from family for one, two, nine hours gets a big ol’ judgemental eye roll, too. Lady, do you know how much work I could get done…oh, wait, I’ve already pulled that in this post.) If we were just a society that valued Twitter (don’t hold your breath, for that would be an even more despicable society than we have, really), maybe then moms who spend one, two, nine hours online would be contributing members of society. You moms who Tweet every freaking thought, stacking seven posts on top of each other (which, for the record, is a blog, not Twitter, so stop it and compose your thoughts into something longer and more coherent) would be the superstars of our society, overpaid and overappreciated for your prolific online contributions.

So let’s be honest. We use/dabble in/devour facebook and Twitter and blogging and online shoping and email because it’s almost like being a whole person and having friends who can actually make it to the dates you’ve had to cancel three times, mutually, for sick kids or sleepless nights or filthy houses or school projects.

As one of my friends (whom I would not know without the glory of the Internet) said, she takes all the facebook quizzes just in case the results will reveal a deep understanding of herself she had never achieved by other means, and will save her in therapy and life coaching fees.

Being at home with a small child (or more, heaven help you ladies and gents ‘cuz I’m barely making it with just one) can be frustrating and anger-provoking and stifling and unwelcoming. Those of us used to doing eighty things in a day, being respected, being listened to, being creative and logical and articulate and productive have a hard time, since the product of our labor will be unpaid for twenty to thirty years. Not until we see who our children become, what they love and whom they love and how they love will we know if our work was done well. Not until our children send a Mother’s Day card like the one my brother just sent my mom, apologizing for every single hour of sleep he ever cost her, does the job pay decent wages.

So if we spend a few extra hours on our blogs, or spend one third of our otherwise billable Saturdays off scheduling seven blog posts to arrive each morning, just as though we were productive members of society (ah, crap, I just gave away the secret of my prolific blogging), maybe you’ll cut us some slack and not call us addicted. As long as we promised the padooter will only go on when the wee ones sleep, who does it hurt that we’re on facebook at midnight?

Ah, hell, what do I care if they call me diseased? As long as you’re reading my blog, I don’t care what they call either of us. Cheers, readers. Hope something on the padooter makes you feel a little less stressed at whatever issues your day brought.

*for the record, the CNN article is actually pretty gentle, even if it’s groossly sponsored by pediatric fiber tablets and full of links to sunshine and buttercup links about how to enjoy parenting.  Treacle. But mocking their gentleness is not as much fun as hyperbolic mamablogga hating.

Roller coaster of optimism

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Standing in shower, rushing, because there have been three solid minutes of quiet rather than shrieking and screaming and interruptions and fits.

In walks a thumping Peanut. Draws back shower door.

P: I’m eating cheese!
M: Heeey! That’s a big deal, buddy. You opened the refrigerator and took out cheese and opened it all your self?
P: Yep.
M: you should be proud of yourself.

And I close the door. And decide to brave shaving. He’s occupied, proud, and not screaming. I mentally wrote a blog post about lovely children and wonderful strides in growth and independence. A heartwarming “You go, Peanut!” post.

Stomping. Door opens again.

P: I’m eating one egg!

And he’s standing there, with a quarter-sized hole in the shell, licking a raw egg.

Oh, my god, I was thrilled with your independence for, like, one whole minute. Now I realize you don’t know very much, even though you can open doors, and with each development there’s a whole lot of hazard and a whole heap of nastiness in store.

Am I supposed to say, “At least I shaved?”
Or “how did you get just the corner of a raw egg opened”
Or “thank god you didn’t eat it like a mongoose?”

I think so.

Vacations are lovely

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It’s nice to have my patience back.  Thank you, Iowa and Missouri.

Seriously, there’s something about a family who fawns on your child (and a find-religion week of unidentified nausea [turned out to be the new glasses, thank goodness] and sheer terror about the future) to make me appreciate my sweet little goofball a bit more.

That, and a five-part familial chorus of “you’re doing a great job” (versus the one, rather loud, “you need to change everything because nothing you do is right”) to give one the boost one needs to dive into this job again.

Mmmmm. Welcome home.

Awesome children’s books

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After reading this AP story on gender-biased children’s stories, and after hearing a compelling feminist reading of the Berenstein Bears books at the Southwestern Popular Culture Association conference a few months ago, I’ve redoubled my efforts to find rocking children’s books. (I’ve already posted about how, in our house Ming Lo’s wife has a name, not just “Ming Lo’s wife” and dads appear in stories that are only written about child and mum.)

One new title in our library, after hearing friends’ laments about princess bullshit and distress over the Barbie dilemma, is The Paper Bag Princess by Robert Munsch. The short version? Princess rescues the prince, and when he criticizes the paper bag she had to wear to get there, she heads into the sunset without him.

Between thid princess and finishing Flux, which reminded me that, though Spouse and I negotiated roles before  getting married and before having Peanut, we need to revisit the discussion to readjust the “default” setting of mom doing everything related to anything. So I’m going to hand off all the domestic duties to Spouse (haven’t told him that yet) because I’m trying to raise a feminist, and that can only happen if I do more of my freelance work and less housekeeping. (You may TOTALLY borrow that justification for yourself. It’s genuinely why I’m slacking on housework [starting now; before this I was trying desperately to do a decent job because of social expectations] but intentional transition of work avoids being shirking and will teach the whole family a lesson *only* if Spouse actually picks up the slack.  Otherwise we just become a penicillin experminent gone awry. I’ll keep you posted.)

Perspective

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A sweet family member saw some pictures of Peanut on facebook the other day and said something to the effect of “I don’t understand how someone so cute can be such a terror…”  And I need to clarify, for my own sake (and for his grandma, who reads this blog and did a damned fine job raising Spouse)

Peanut is wonderful. Sweet, gentle, spirited, intense. But compounding that is the fact that he’s three. Before that he was two. Right there, ‘nough said, right? Two can be like having all the poles on your batteries reversed as they are attached to your watering eyeballs. And three can be like peeling off your skin and diving into grapefruit juice. And I just can’t take it. Doesn’t mean he’s actually a terror that Spouse and I talk, daily, mutually, about a 4:30 bedtime for Peanut. He’s not the problem. WE are the problem. We grownups who can’t seem to find the patience and willpower and energy to make it through 15 hours of this every day.  Without a break. Without formal training. Without the benefit of a spare in case we actually sell him to the gypsies. (Anyone know if they’re buying, btw? And where to find them? I know the economy is tough and I don’t know the going rate, but…)

He’s not a terror. We are terrified and terror-stricken and terrorized. But it’s not the boy’s fault. I wish I knew whose fault it is, because I’m all about the blame and the downside and the cloud within the silver lining. But until I find some perspective, my friend is right. It’s a good thing he’s cute.

I don’t mean to judge, but…

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I’m trying to plan our big family trip to Iowa this week (not a word; not a single word) and finding it a bit, um, challenging.

Between the town where we’re staying and the town where we need to be for Spouse’s cousin’s graduation, there is one park. Three hamlets, and one park. Now, I know that when the countryside is beautiful and people spend a lot of time outside, they don’t need designated parks and playgrounds and mini golf and whatnot. But I can’t bring a tricycle on the airplane (TSA regulations against liquids are loosening, but they’re cracking down on carried-on, three-wheeled  vehicles because the pilots are totally done with little people ramming the cockpit doors after a long ride down the center aisle [oh, wait, that’s me], and I don’t want to pay $25 both ways to check it). I don’t see just wandering the street(s) of a small town working out for my particular three year old. Maybe yours would tolerate five days of aimless sightseeing in towns where the population is smaller than Spouse and my ages added together, but mine won’t.

Maybe I underestimate his attention span, or our collective interest in Iowan architecture, but still. He’s awake and in need of activity (else he is a self-starter on the whole ‘breaking stuff in wild bursts of unguided energy” front) approximately 12 hours a day (meals and calm time take up at least 3 of his waking hours, for a grand total of “go to freaking sleep!”).

I did find a state wildlife area reasonably close, though the only online information (which was damned hard to find) involves how to not get shot at in a wildlife area. Um, maybe we’ll stick to walking the street (that’s not a typo) in the three nearest towns…

thinking makes it so…

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We spent last Friday  picking strawberries with a great group of families, and one woman said, “On days like these I think my husband got the raw end of this deal.”

She was, of course, correct. There are some days when screaming and tantrums and hitting and  illogic take place in the sun and fresh air, on which there are more cuddles than screams, more engaging interaction than battles. And then, yes, this job outshines others.

And there are days when fluorescent light and cubicles, steady pay and logical co-workers, and the chance to just think a thought through to completion and urinate when necessary, even when faced with terrible work conditions, lack of respect, a cruel boss, and crappy pay sound a whole lot better than this.

So I’ve been thinking of quitting. Or, rather, shifting careers. Before Peanut, when I worked in corporate America, I evaluated jobs with lists of pros and cons, and made decisions based on whether, in the balance a job offered more than it took from me.

So I took a deep breath and did the same evaluation about staying home to raise a child. Because it’s gotten challenging enough for me to spend more days in tears and screaming than not, and I am really, really talented at my previous, grownup jobs.

I think for my temperment, this job may not be a fit. I think I have too many conflicts with management, and I have too many skills that go unused in this role. But I also think that the boss needs me, the future of the company needs me, and the franchise will stand a better chance of making it in the long term if I keep my job.

So I’m starting each day with the attitude that I’m really lucky to be able to do this job. I may not be the best for the role, and this position may not be even close to what is best for me. I don’t even particularly like the job, though I love the company and believe in it. But the role will shift, the job will grow, and I will be able to say I made the right overall decision to stay instead of go, if only because in the balance, in the sun and fresh air of good days, this does beat shilling for multinational corporations, to whom I’m just a cog. Because to this tiny operation, I am the sun and the moon.

Real costs of having a child

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Several online calculators, such as the one at babycenter and reuters explain the cost of raising a child from birth to age 18. (You can adjust the results if you adopt a child later in its life, or get rid of the no good lout before it turns 18.) Never mind, for now, that the babycenter estimate for my location is almost double the national average. Or that we could buy a house with cash for what it costs to feed and clothe and attend to a small person (even if we don’t buy anything Disney, anything they ask for, or a wipe warmer.)

The calculations overlooked a few things, though, and I thought I’d help remind them of the necessary expenses of raising a child:

Booze: Includes the extra amount you’ll spend annually on alcoholic beverages purchased at grocery, convenience, and specialty stores; dining at restaurants and pubs, and bars due directly to the hell  that is life spent in the same house with people under the age of 18.

Clothing: Includes the extra amount you’ll spend annually on clothes as you eat yourself out of size after size, hoping that the cookies and booze will make your children more tolerable.

Entertainment:Includes the cost of finding anything, anything at all that your children will watch so they don’t keep opening the shower door and screeching that they need you the one stinking day a week you really want to shave; and the cost of porn purchased, rented, or paid-per-view to make the embers of your marriage spark for a moment or two.

Medical:  Includes the amount you’ll pay to ensure you never, ever, ever have more children.

Unoriginal post number 613

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Wouldn’t you know I thought this observation was somewhat original, and then I read at Salon.com tonight that Ayelet Waldman said it earlier, and more concisely.

“Another parent’s different approach raises the possibility that you’ve made a mistake with your child. We simply can’t tolerate that because we fear that any mistake, no matter how minor, could have devastating consequences. So we proclaim the superiority of our own choices. We’ve lost sight of the fact that people have preferences.”

In her lengthy article on everyone minding their own business, she notes that attachment parents, particularly the Berkeley, non-TV, organic, breastfeeding, co-sleeping, sling-wearing, word-for-word Searsing (guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty, not guilty, not guilty; phew this isn’t me [of course it is]), tend to be the most sanctimonius and in-others’-faces of the “my way is best why are you ruininng your child” set. Honestly, I think that’s because the hardcore Sears group works harder than the rest to make things harder for themselves, and feels pretty damned insecure because nobody else is having such a tough time. But what do I know? I only fit, like, half her criteria for the most annoying parent on the planet.

In fact, Salon notes that I’m way behind the curve.  I’ve been calling myself a bad parent for months on this blog, but apparently I was supposed to write a book about it.  This awkward joint review of totally different books shows why I should have penned a memoir about how totally I’m failing at this impossible fucking job.

You  know, I’ve been thinking of ditching the nighttime parenting, the bending over backwards not to do packaged food or television, the stay-at-home, offering options, respectful thing for the past week or so. It’s really just too much. So maybe I will ditch the surity that I’ve chosen the best path for us, get a T.V., get a babysitter, and have some goddamned Capt’n Crunch with my kid. Maybe I’ll like both of us better if I ease up a bit. [those who know me are laughhing right now. I havne’t been known to ease up a bit on anything in my control since my conception.] Because between “The Case Against Breastfeeding” and “Mind Your Own Kids,” I’m kind of feeling like, if they can justify letting their kids do some of that stuff, I can certainly make Pudding Day an everyday kind of thing.

Maybe.

And starting next week I’m Ferberizing my three year old. And circumcising him. With some fries from McDon*lds.

Dire consequences and desperate measures

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A discussion last weekend at the playground with a creative, lovely, and wicked smart lady yielded the following observation: we’re all desperate to protect and justify our choices. After reading Peggy Orenstein’s Flux and The Atlantic Monthly’s article “The Case Against Breast-feeding,” the glaring truth to me is not that one side of each debate is right or that each side despises the other’s choices, but that we each have a lot at stake in making sure our decisions were at least good, if not the best.

Breast or bottle, nighttime parenting or cry-it-out, stay at home or work and daycare—we all have the same secret fears that the choice we are making is costing us more than it should. Hanna Rosin’s “The Case Against Breastfeeding” really isn’t a case against breastfeeding. It’s a case against the all-or-nothing mentality that has parents segregating into those who chose wisely and those who are ruining their children. And the root of our belief in our own choices and our disdain for any different points of view is the hope that we’re doing what’s best for our families. And if we’ve chosen incorrectly, we risk not only breaking our children, but also having lost all the effort we poured into our choice. Rosin is not arguing that women should not breastfeed. After nursing three children, she’s simply wondering why she felt that was the only choice, why the pedants on each side of the debate swear the others have lost their minds (or feminism or chance at a healthy child). Why the black-and-white thinking? Because we’ve all gone through a lot (a lot a lot a lot) of trouble to do what we’re doing, so it had better be right.

I postponed (at least0 or gave up (at worst) two outstanding careers, one potential career, and a path toward a PhD to stay at home with my son because I thought, given my endless research that confirmed nothing except that I’d eventually have to make a choice, that staying home was most likely to give him what he needed to grow into a delightfully useful member of society. If I’m wrong, and I should have focused more of my daylight hours on myself and my career, then maybe I’ve wasted these years and he will blame his miseries and failures on me. Or, even worse, I will be an empty shell of a person, having subjugated my only self for a person who becomes a serial killer and about whom the history books will only write that I ruined his life and sense of what the world should be and that he stabbed his neighbors.

Conversely, the women I know who work outside the home, who decided that they needed to create a family in which each person’s work is vital, in which attentive, loving care can come from a paid helper as long as it’s consistent and supportive (they hope) made their decision to give their children what they needed to grow into a delightfully useful members of society. If they are wrong, and they should have focused more of their daylight hours on their children, then maybe they’ve missed the most important years, and their children will blame their miseries and failures on parents who worked their children into the margins of their lives. Or, even worse, these parents will be bitter, unfulfilled shells of people, having chosen empty pursuits and subjugated their children’s needs, resulting in a generation who become a serial killers and about whom the history books will only write that their mothers ruined their lives and sense of what the world should be. And that they stabbed their neighbors.

Wait a minute, that’s exactly the same outcome as the other moms! We’re all screwed!

Or we’ll all just fine.

But nobody is going around saying, “I hope I made the right decision so that my children don’t stab their neighbors.” (At least in my neighborhood. But I lead a sheltered life. Maybe your neighbors say it. Maybe about your kids. Wait, which choices did you make? Quick, tell me, so I can judge you.) Instead, we secretly hope that we made the right decision, missing a large chunk of our children’s or our adult selves, counting each mistake, tallying each proud and loving moment, and hoping it’s all enough.

Ah crap, I didn’t nurse long enough. My child will be obese, stupid, and chronically ill.
Ah, crap, I nursed at the exclusion of my own sanity. My every waking moment has been for someone who really didn’t get that much from it.

Ah, crap, I let my child cry it out and now she’ll have insomnia and a sense of abandonment as an adult.
Ah, crap, I lost years of sleep attending to my child at night and now they’ll get to college and cry for me in the dorm every night.

And so on, ad nauseum.

Because if we made the wrong decision, we’ve screwed not only ourselves, but our children, as well.

So we disdain the people who make decisions different than our own, and align ourselves with likeminded people because we need to know that others feel our pain and share our justifications; because, deep down, we suspect it might be okay no matter what we do. And all things being equal, we might like a do-over. Or a medal. Or both.

Crossroads

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I’m at a defining moment in my parenting career. I’ve espoused ideals about raising the next generation to do better—be better—than previous generations. To raise a thoughtful, intelligent, wonderful creature. And if that really is my goal, I have to step up to the plate now. Because it’s go time.

But I’m not sure if I’m up for it. Picking our battles, and all. Limited resources and energy, and all.

I mean, if I’m the only one in the house who wants the seat down, and there are 812 battles a day as it is, do I really want to fight a three year old over leaving the seat up? To tell him, patiently, every day for the next 15 years that it needs to be down?

Spouse, who has always put it  down, would prefer it up. Peanut uses the whole seated apparatus more than the rest of us each day, and is new to the gender politics of leaving it up. And is a pain in the ass to reason with. The twin male cats use biodegradable  litter that gets scooped right into the toilet, which is easiest with the seat up. Four to one, my friends, are not odds before which I wither. Four to one, ladies and gents, is nothing for a spitfire like me. Four to one, dear readers, is the odds I am playing against my summoning the reserves to pick this battle.

Seriously, I should put up or shut up. I spend my whole life railing about men who left the seat up. Who raised these insensitive, lazy louts, I wailed?

Well, it seems, maybe, possibly, probably—Me.

You’re kind of cute, you know?

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Woke up with a new pimple on my nose and Peanut grabbed my face:

P: Mommy. What is that on your nose?
M: Is it a sore?
P: Yes! A new one. Kind of red and kind of white.
M: Oh.
P: Mommy, do you need one Band-Aid or one hug?
M: Hmmm. A hug sounds very nice.
P: [hugs me] There you  go, Mommy.

I think that’s the first time in my life I was hugged specifically because I had a zit.

Damn, they sure do pay well when they pay, don’t they. That erased pretty much every pimple in high school, right there.

I think you can. I think you can.

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Peanut skated into the living room this morning with one foot in a box car from his 1970s hand-me-down train set, flipping socks into the air with a silicone spatula.

P: Mommy! I’m flipping pancakes and skating!

M: [actually looking; in fact marveling] Yeah you are.

P: I’m cooking on the train. It very hot! [realizes what that might mean…] Just the cooking part. This part [indicates the box car] not hot. Just right. A little warm, but  I’m being careful. Don’t worry. I’m skating!

M: You sure are.

P: And flipping up to the ceiling and everything gets cold and then we eat it up!

M: You’re cooking on a train engine and flipping pancakes and letting them cool on the ceiling and skating in a box car and eating the pancakes when they cool down?

P: Yes!

M: Wow.  Keep up the good work.

Sure, cute and all. But now I’m jonesing for pancakes, have no idea where to find a cooking locomotive, and not at all sure what to pack first for our move this weekend, because clearly anything in a box is something he needs for the “rolling out dough for a quiche in a tugboat” project he’ll invent tomorrow…

Just running the numbers now…

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Yup, my calculations support this thesis: sixteen hours a day is too long to spend with someone. Even someone who is wonderful, adorable, brilliant, creative, funny, and sweet, with a great perspective that makes life interesting.

Especially if that someone is human and has a few minor flaws, the most glaring of which is that he’s three. and that he’s here, every day, all day, for sixteen hours, seven days a week.

On a wonderful day, like today, where everyone is in a great mood, the weather is stellar, the universe cooperates, and everyone has joy in their heart and a smile on their face, by about hour thirteen, things start to devolve…