Category Archives: Pure bliss

We now interrupt your regularly scheduled…

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Taking a rare shower this morning, I forgot where I was and got lost in the warm rainfall.

Then the door banged open and the toddler (whose father was watching, perched on crutches, just out of view) padded into the bathroom over to the stepstool by the sink.

“Tookatookatooka,” he said, pointing at the empty playdough container and Green Toys tea-set bowl full of mutil-colored fist prints he had just put there. Then he marched back out.

A few moments later he was back, with another empty playdough container. He poured the contents of the bowl into the canister. Then from one trademark yellow cup to another. Then he grabbed the lavender, recycled milk jug bowl and scooped some water from the cat’s dish. He poured that water into the playdough sculptures. Seven tiny, newly competent scoops, seven dumps. In silence.

And then he was gone.

Come on, now. How can I long for solitude when there’s that much cuteness in my house?

Now that’s just delicious…

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Five year old put on the toddler’s socks this morning.

They don’t tend to be in the same moods or on the same planet most of the time; and they are almost never smiling in stereo. So this was, for us, a small moment of indescribable success and joy.

Tack it on yesterday’s mellow morning, full toddler nap, and awesome creek-exploring playdate in the nirvana weather of a Bay Area summer, and we’re building some serious reserves for the next few weeks.

Just in time for Spouse’s surgery and the post-surgical reality of three children in my care.

Wish us more sock and creek and sunshine moments, for we wish you the same!

Open Letter to My Greys

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Dear Grey Hairs,

It’s nice to see you.

No, seriously. I’ve been waiting for you.

Most people express horror in meeting their pigment-free hairs. Not me. I’m excited. I’ve always felt like a fraud. A little kid sneaking into high school. A tween who tricked her way into college. A teenager posing as an adult in jobs. An adolescent playing house and pretending to be married.

A friend and I always joked that ordering furniture was the milestone after which you became a genuine grownup. I ordered an armchair, a rich purple velvet and gold brocade lounge-singer-y armchair in 1998.

Still no grownup.

Once I had children, though, I felt pretty damned grownup. Paying the bills wasn’t a ruse any more. We needed heat. Buying groceries wasn’t for fun. It’s really really seriously to feed small, growing, helpless creatures. And seriously, lactating feels pretty damned mature. (Let’s ignore for a moment that 13 year old girls can do this. Don’t interrupt my revery, grey hairs. This is for you.)

It was after having children that you, my sweet greys, arrived. I rejoiced. I even thought about having a potluck in your honor. You’re invited to a “Welcome to My Head, Expired Hair” Extravaganza. Please bring a side dish or salad.

Since you first appeared, you’ve been reproducing REALLY quickly lately.

Maybe it’s the sleeplessness.

Maybe it’s the constant struggle to stay patient in the face of such blatant illogical hysterics as those acted out by tiny people.

Maybe it’s the worry. Not just the “oh my word, please don’t fall down the stairs” worries, but also the “will the world be cruel; will he be bullied; will he follow the wrong crowd” worries. Even the “will he tell his therapist this” worries.

Maybe it’s the total lack of breaks. Maybe my hair pigment decided to go on vacation.

Whatever it is, dear greys, I honor you. I totally dig seeing more of you each time I look in the mirror. Sure, that’s about once a week on average, since I just don’t care rarely have time to check my appearance. But you are coming on fast and furious.

And I dig that about you, grey. To the point that I’m promising you I will not color you. I will not hide behind chemicals, greys. I can’t afford it, honestly. I respect you too much. So much, in in fact, that I’m willing to risk the British spelling in defiance of the American disdain for gray. For you, my rime, are the evidence of my adulthood.

Grey means I’m old. Grey means I’m free to stop trying to look young, act young, feel young. With grey hair I’m allowed to complain about my aching back, refuse to go out late because “I just can’t do this anymore!” With grey hair I can stop trying to keep up with technology and can adopt slightly antisocial behaviors. Because we have enough friends, don’t we, greys.

With you, grey hair, come all the possibilities for what I can do and be when I no longer focus on the nonsense I’m supposed to as an American woman. No longer caring about being “nice” and thin and measured and muted seems quite freeing. I can let go of the trying to look in favor of trying to be. I can finally nurture my eventual curmudgeon.

And I owe that release to you, my greys. You are the wind beneath my withheld flying fig newton.

It might be wrong

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It’s considered poor taste in our society to gloat about success, to allow repeated surfacing of a good-luck inspired grin, to trumpet joy. We seem more comfortable when people say they’re “fine” or “hanging in there” or when they shrug off their day as better than a stick in the eye.

And collectively we seem to have a superstitious sense that tooting our happiness horn will make it all come crashing down. The spectre of the jinx often keeps us mum about satisfaction.

But I can’t hold back, dear readers. Things are just going really well over here at The Naptime Looney Bin.

You know this blog as a repository for the snarky, the sneering, the angry rant of a woman barely hanging on. My days are often bumpy: four parts joy, fourteen parts status quo, and seventy parts hanging on by the skin of my teeth.

But for this moment—this lull in the roller coaster I’ve come to accept as normal—most moments are quite pleasant.

Though it will change, Peanut is being a remarkable little creature. Kind to his brother, polite to me, reasoned in his debate, logical in his requests. Funny. Creative. Spirited. Dare I say: himself.

Though it will change, Butter is silly and adorable and interested in everything, which makes him quite fun to be around. This morning he even signed to me that pulling Mommy’s hair hurts and that biting Mommy’s face hurts. Yes, dear boy, it does. Glad all the repetition is having effect.

We’re moved into the new house and it’s amazingly wonderful. We all seem happier and calmer in more space. I’m nervous about coming school changes that spurred the change of address, but I’m not panicked as I once was. We chose the best possible public school for Peanut. And if it works, we’re set. And if it doesn’t, we have clearly identified options and changes and whatnot.

And aside from the temperamental groove we’re in, big and (semi)permanent changes are afoot. My clever and delightful nieces are home. They’ve moved 3,000 miles and are nearby. I watch them now with that casual easiness borne of the knowledge that I’ll see them next week, too. No need to memorize their faces, their voices, their interests. They’re here. That alone would have set my mood for the year. I have two perfect boys and two perfect girls and their every joy is my only real job.

.

But there’s more. I have located a babysitter, whom I will pay a bit of my retirement savings each week to gently and thoughtfully play with my boys for two hours twice a week so I can get some work done. I will edit a project this week. I will edit my book next month. I will finish my journal submission next month. I will submit it all for publication by June and move on to other projects that have been boring holes in my brain and soul for a year. The worms of creative and intellectual projects eating me alive will get to wiggle their way out.

It feels that for a moment the tide is out. I can see the waves, see the shore, see the intersection of the two. I can gaze off toward the horizon without a white-knuckled fear of the undertow. I can absorb the ebbs and flows without feeling bodily pounded by surf. I can hear and taste and feel the water and salt and air and sunshine.

I can breathe, y’all. And when everything changes and the tide comes back in, I hope I remember how to be this way. Because I’m spending my days practicing this feeling. This joy, this calm, this near-constant tiny grin. And this breath.

I wish you all moments like this. And not in tiny blips. I wish from now until any realistic milestone of your choice that you can watch the ocean and just be. Come on over and stand with me. We’ll watch together.

White banana

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My mom tells a story about a child who, when asked what color a banana is, replied, “White.”

True that.

I took Peanut and Butter to the playground as part of a whirlwind “let’s get out of the house even in the rain because I might kill both of you if the whining and the hitting and the jumping off couches continues” morning. Long walk, quick grocery trip, and playground. Peanut romped all over like a madman while I introduced Butter to the finest pleasure of all time: Acme sourdough baguette with Cowgirl Creamery Cheese. I selected a Mt. Tam because nothing says rainy day at the park like a ripe, triple cream brie.

Peanut got wind that we were basking in Bay Area deliciousness and joined us. Both boys would take a bite, then run off to climb or slide or play. Then come back for another bite. We must have had 7 or 8 minutes of bliss before it all went to hell again. That almost-ten is pretty good ’round these parts. See the rest of this blog if you doubt that assertion.

And after the spell was broken, we were all full of organic, local fat and carb-y goodness, a handful of kids from the nearby middle school came running over. Three grabbed empty swings and another started to mount the swing next to a land-based Peanut.

One of his friends reprimanded him, saying, “Hey, I think that kid was using that.” The boy, startled, asked Pea if he was, in fact, using the swing. Peanut shook his head, “no,” and the boy recovered his momentum into the saddle.

And as my five-year-old watched these teenagers swing, I listened to them.

“Don’t rob a green banana!”
“Don’t kill a green banana!”
“What’s a green banana?”
“Well, old people are brown bananas.”

I looked at my boys. One is a very, very green banana. One is barely an apple banana (the teeny tiny bananas that are so cute you want to just keep them in your sock drawer and coo at them).

And as I digested the bliss that came from the previous moments of culinary and parental joy, I realized that I’m neither a green nor a brown banana. I’m neither underripe nor overripe. Probably freckled with brown but not splotchy yet. Yellow. Somewhere between tomorrow and yesterday on the ripeness spectrum. And maybe, when I make it out from under the weight of all that is life, when I and step out for a moment or two as my own person in 20 years or so, maybe I’ll still have enough yellow left to do a few things, say a few things, and change a few things in this world.

You feeling green or brown or yellow today?

I feel quite like a white banana, under my peel.

Making people into Santas

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I wrote two years ago about how Christmas is different in our house. We celebrate every December holiday we can think of: Hanukkah, Solstice, Nana’s birthday, Christmas…

And we try to temper the gift receiving with a lot of giving. When Peanut was almost two he focused on giving to animals at the shelter. When he was almost three he chose to give to the hungry and to animals at the shelter. At almost four we brought toiletries to the homeless, toys to shelter animals, and human toys for toy drives.

And this year he spent almost an hour with me at the Heifer International site, making people we love into Santas.

See, we’ve taught him that the myth of Santa is a story about a man who, a long time ago, gave a lot to people who need. (Yup, we’re the jerks whose kid told your kid that Santa is dead. Cuz he is, yo. His story of selflessness and charity is what’s important and if you’re still pretending that’s your business but I ain’t playing along.) We talk about how the pretend Santas around this time of year are roaming the scenes of capitalist excess to remind people to give to others. Our Solstice-tradition pine cone bird feeders give to animals who need food when it’s cold; and this year our gifts of animals and education to families all over the world make each of our loved ones feel that they can be part of the Santa myth of love, peace, and charity.

Because the more Peanut thinks Christmas is about giving, and the more he thinks about people who need, the better our holidays feel.

Happy Almost Nana’s Birthday, everyone!

Ode to Six Months

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Oh, how I love this age.

The excitement of being able to follow a pointing finger. The thrill of having clean sheets flapped over your delicious little head. The shock of new flavors as you finally get to taste those things other people eat.

The sitting, the rocking on all fours trying to crawl, the babbling, the laughter, the unadulterated joy of bathtime, the more deliberate efforts at making needs known…and the cuteness. Oh, my the cuteness.

Ah, six months.

Even the hard bits are easy because this age is so wonderful. Six months was a welcome eye in the storm with Peanut that allowed me to appreciate him rather than constantly struggle to keep from drowning.

And Butter is just as delightful at six months, which reinforces how much I adore this age. He won’t play alone much, but he will sit on the kitchen floor and play with his dearest love—the metal colander—long enough for me to chop one vegetable. That’s more than I could chop for the first five months of his life. He doesn’t sleep well because he’s teething, but he’s awake a lot less than Peanut was through his teething year. Butter has such a temper, and its perfectly adorable because what he gets mad about, usually, is gravity. And what fixes is it cuddling me.

Sign me up, six months, for I’m willing to accept those terms.

Dear, sweet six months. No separation anxiety yet. No social frustrations yet. No struggle to individuate. Yet. No talking, no walking, no chasing the cat, no refusing to do what Mama asks, no hitting, no coloring the carpet, no whining, no demanding, no slamming doors. No nuances. Six months is just adorable, cooing, babbling, drooling, nuzzling infant perfection.

Gotta go. Teething means he’s up every hour all night the past two nights. Isn’t that adorable?

Busy, busy, busy

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It’s Peanut’s half birthday, so we’re making half cupcakes (tinfoil folded into each well in the tin) and half wrapping a half present (a toy that got lost or broken gets replaced on half birthday).

And Peanut is going around writing his half name. “Pear,” it turns out, is exactly half of Peanut. Or so he has declared.

See what I learn while inventing reasons to bake and serve chocolate in a month with no holidays except a long-distance uncle’s birthday?

Now THIS I could get used to…

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Peanut was sick today. Poor lamb. Went to school but had them call me an hour in because he wanted his Mommy. Brought him home and he spent all day on the couch, quietly, after telling me “no t.v. because I just need to settle down.”

So he ate quietly at dinner, crawled into his jammies while Butter had a bath, and waited politely for stories. Butter fell asleep during storytime, Peanut didn’t battle us over anything. After bathroom and teeth and songs, he went sweetly to bed. Butter woke up to nurse one last time before…well, before the next time…and I asked Peanut if I could nurse the baby on his bed.

Sure.

So I sang to both boys as I nursed the tiny one. I told the older boy stories about when he was a baby. I changed Butter, put him to bed, and closed the door on two adorable, sweet, quiet, sleepy, well loved children.

Internet: if this was our night every night, I would have dozens of children. I’m not saying I want easy kids, because easy kids scare me. Spunky children plus supportive family equals interesting grownups.

But seriously, I could take one of these nights every week without being worried. As it is, this is a semiannual event. At best.

Dearest Butter:

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Want to know how we can tell that you are loved?

Every sling and wrap that you ride in is covered in food stains. We don’t put you down, Butter bean, because you don’t like it. And we’re too selfish to put our hunger second to your comfort. That’s why the pesto on your blanket and the marinara on your Moby and the CheeseBoard crumbs on your Hotsling. You had beans and rice nestled in your neck when you were three hours old because Mama needed a burrito after 47 hours of labor but wouldn’t put you down even for a minute.

Your brother declared today that he’s tired of Mom and Dad being with you, and that he wants you to be just his. So he has plans to move to a house where it’s just the two of you. And even though he refuses to feed or clothe or wipe me, he said he will dress you and wipe your bottom and feed you candy sometimes. And, “if he looks like he’s going to die I’ll feed him something with protein, like a sandwich with almond butter.”

Mama invented something for you. Because the sounds you hear all day—chewing, typing, and occasional yelling—aren’t on the white noise machines available for purchase, she made a loop of the noises that help you sleep. She recorded tortas de aceite and blogging and cursing at your brother to play near your sleeping places. So you feel all comfy. You’re welcome.

You’ve actually had a few baths. Tonight you even had your first experience with Dr. Bronner’s soap-like substance. Don’t know why. You’re not dirty (except for the aforementioned burrito, but Mama dug those beans out of your neck weeks ago when she was in search of a snack). But you are just over the moon for warm water, so we bathe you. More often than we thought we could cram into our crowded weeks.

Tonight you went to bed with chocolate on your head. Not from mama, which is a first. No, tonight you had a small, four-year-old sized chocolatey lip print on your balding melon.

That’s how we know.

Birth announcement

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Here’s the announcement a hypothetical mama might send:

The Naptime Writing Family blissfully welcome Hazelnut Nutella Naptime to the world! He made his entrance March 23 weighing 7 pounds 3 ounces and measuring 19 1/4 inches. Mom, Dad, Peanut, and Hazelnut are all doing well and can’t wait to get to know each other.

But here’s the announcement a hypothetical mama really wants to send:

The Naptime Writing Family joyously announce the arrival of Hazelnut Nutella Naptime! He reluctantly joined our family March 23 after 41-plus weeks of gestation and 47 hours of labor. His mama made it through 41 hours of unmedicated labor and arrived at 10 cm dilation just in time to pull a muscle in her back. She lost all ability to cope and sobbed for two hours about acquiescing to an epidural. Hazelnut’s ginormous melon was facing posterior and get stuck under mama’s skeletal structure, so five hours of pushing wasn’t enough to get him to join the air-breathing lot of us. Mama Nappy’s doc offered several unacceptable options and Hazelnut got forced into reality with heroic pushing and expert, though traumatic, vacuuming.

Unfortunately, that mode of birthing left mama in shambles, and she bursts into tears every time someone says, “well, at least he’s healthy” or “you’ll heal” because she knows that and really wishes you’d say something supportive instead of dismissive (unless you, too, are currently sporting more than two dozen stitches in your lower body, twenty pounds of active volcanic rock on your upper body, and have made it seven days on approximately 20 hours of sleep).

Mama and Hazelnut are resting at home, where Peanut is as sweet as can be to his baby brother, and as terrible as he can be to his parents. Hazelnut is perfectly delicious, opinionated, and ravenous. His doting family are surviving just on nips of his sweet breath and heavenly sounds and hoping things get a bit easier.

But we’re not holding our breath.

Bigger than the sun.

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“Mommy? If you attached our car to Daddy’s truck and attached Daddy’s truck to our house and attached our house to grandma’s house and attached grandma’s house to Jupiter and attached Jupiter to Saturn and attached Saturn to the sun…I love you bigger than that.”

Damn. That’s a lot of love, boy.

I’ll wait until you’re bigger to tell you I love you infinity plus one.

Also, the Sun so completely dwarfs all those other objects that it’s silly to waste all the breath attaching them when you could shortcut with “I love you bigger than the Sun” and be done with it. But I won’t tell you that, because who doesn’t need that tiny, wee bit of bonus, Jupiter-sized love? Great Atlas-buoyed heavens, I know I do.

Valentine love

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You know how sappy I am? Those to whom I send huge gobs of Valentine love this year are the select awesome and thoughtful people who sent my son a Valentine. He got five or six this year, and he’s over-the-moon thrilled. If they had *any* idea what getting a glittery card in the mail meant to him, I know they’d be pretty proud of how happy they made a wonderful little person.

What sweet, thoughtful people. Thanks, family and friends. It doesn’t take much, and you are so freaking cool to have thought of this.

Happy VD to all, and to all a good night.

Ben and Jerry’s newest flavor

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I would buy two gallons of B&J’s newest flavor if they sold it out here.

It’s called “Spouse and Child Go to Santa Cruz So I Can Work on Major Revisions to My Novel (Near a Well Stocked Fridge)”.

It’s pure heaven. I got the only pint they ever made, and I’m savoring every teaspoonful.

Seriously, if Ben and Jerry made an ice cream called “Silence” I would buy it without checking the ingredients. And that’s saying a lot for the Michael Pollan in me.

(I do know, as a copyeditor and English professor that the period should go inside the quotation marks, but that doesn’t make sense to me. The punctuation applies to the sentence, not the flavor name, so I want it outside the quotes. Call me British, but I’m over fabricated American grammar and punctuation rules I don’t agree with. Yup. Prepositional end to that idea, baby. Cuz I’m wacky and wild while the men in my life are gone.)