or, my dinner at the Residence Inn this evening.
Apparently the Residence Inn likes to create a homey atmosphere. I guess since some of it's patrons are long-term guests (like the Amish people we see in the elevator daily or the old washed up rock-star guy who was unloading an 18-wheeler into the elevator the other day), they want to foster a sense of community--a kind of Armistead Maupin-esque Tales of the City: The Residence Inn Years.
Along side our door is a calendar with a mixture of local activities and hotel sponsored social events; tonight's community-building activity was a free spaghetti dinner in the lobby/dining area.
I've only ever been down there for the complimentary breakfasts, which have always been civil and laid-back in nature. No one is hovering possessively over the coffee urns or elbowing someone out of the way to get a spoonful of scrambled egg. So I was wholly unprepared for the near melee that broke out tonight over some overdone spaghetti noodles and watery pasta sauce.
The only reason Husband, Ethan and I even bothered with the hotel orchestrated dining experience is because Ethan can no longer be trusted not to act out in restaurants in such a way as to cause managers to ask us kindly to never, ever return. Why they give kids crayons to play with at restaurants is beyond me. All they do is eat them. And when they're riding high on that wax-induced buzz, the crayons become projectiles, missiles aimed at a bowl of chili the next table over. We are so popular.
We figured since we're already paying this place for a week (at the least) of living large in our suite, they could just tolerate his royal obnoxiousness and spare us the horror of having to take him out in public. Mind you, this is after an hour of "We don't hit mommy!" and subsequent time outs, all which elicited hysterical tears and profuse apologies, followed by more hitting mommy.
Because he is so wonderful, Husband took over the care of the beast as soon as he came home and down to the lobby we went. Had I known what mayhem was about to occur, I'd have thought twice about subjecting my child to such a scene; I mean, we do change the station whenever anything remotely violent or overly "action-y" is on the TV, why would I allow it to happen right in front of us?
The problem? The vats of limp, water-logged spaghetti noodles and equally runny tomato sauce were all but empty. Only four or five end pieces of garlic bread were left and one measly oatmeal raisin cookie languished on the dessert plate. While a good number of people sat at their tables with heaps of spaghetti and actual meatballs, not to mention a veritable pile of cookies awaiting their fate at the hands of these grubby hoarders, the rest of the diners waited impatiently for the vats to be refilled. They were not pleased.
Please bear in mind that the salad bowls--chuck a' block full. So too, the chicken noodle soup. But no. People, tapping fingers on empty bone china plates, patting their feet anxiously against the floor and fidgeting from one foot to the next, were waiting for spaghetti and meatballs! The little calendars by all of our doors said "spaghetti and meatballs" damn it, not "browning iceburg salad and chicken noodle soup"!!
Husband and I had procured a bit of the remaining spaghetti for Ethan and managed to scrape up a bit of what was left for ourselves. We watched the crowd of hungry Residence Inn residence grow increasingly restless. Every time the kitchen door hinges squeaked open, people at their tables lurched forward in a walk-run to be sure they didn't miss that first plate of steamy overdone goodness as it was brought to the sterno trays. Those who had hoarded piles of food during the last wave watched in smug gluttonous confidence as the hungry masses faded away in hungry anticipation. People were sighing heavily and blowing hair off of their forehead. Arms were crossed angrily. It was insane.
There was one guy working the whole show. I won't lie; there were moments I feared for his safety. You know there was one woman back there stirring spaghetti in a massive pot of boiling water, furiously popping open jars of generic spaghetti sauce and ripping open bags of Costco brand frozen meatballs as fast as she could. And then this poor bum had to go out, work his way through the crowd to get the empty tray so he could return it for a full one--all without being pummelled by the increasingly crazed crowd.
At one point, I swear I heard him say, "Can I please get through?! Please," as he came through with a new batch of spaghetti. I kid you not that they swarmed him from the moment the kitchen door squeaked. And once he extracted himself from the situation, they descended on the tray like flies on...well, you know what flies love. Gradually they formed a line, but only in the most "fine, whatever. so you were here first. pppfffft," grudging way, you'd have thought it was free diamond day at Tiffany's.
I understood where the hoarding came from after that. Watching these previously deprived diners select their meatballs lovingly from the vat of sauce, I marveled at how they walked away from the serving area to their tables with 5, 6 or 7 meatballs heaped on their plates. Not to mention the piles of cookies chosen from the replenished dessert plate. Husband went back up to the trays after the initial rush of diners subsided to find only the sparest of choices left.
Anyone who showed up after three or four minutes of that rush were left to wonder where the hell the food went, why everyone seated had mountains of food on their plate and thus, the whole thing started over again.
I think we'll go to California Pizza Kitchen tomorrow.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Sunday, June 29, 2008
And now for something completely different...
from my whining and stressing about my life.
How about some Ethan pictures from this month to remind us what this blog is supposed to be about (you mean my angst isn't our top priority here?! whatever).
The Kiss--I know I already posted this, but it's my blog and if I want to post it again, I will.
Ethan sporting the latest in oversized prison wear. It's actually Husband's polo shirt, but wow. Please also note how the polo clashes with the eleventy billion toys strewn about the living and dining rooms.
Ethan contemplating the wonder that is the plastic CVS boat at the beach in South Carolina.
Should I listen to my tunes or take this important call? All he needs is a latte, and he's Husband.
The last Mr. Skip performance we attended; Ethan mans up one last "high five" for Mr. Skip. *sniff sniff*
The last playgroup *portrait*. Not sure how it ended up looking like a bad shot from Sears. I think the flash reflected off of the blue wall giving it that ethereal backdrop look. Either way, these are the cuties Ethan's left behind. Fat chance of finding such charm, beauty and pretzel Goldfish chowing abilities out here.
Speaking of out here--Ethan in our hotel room. Bending it like...Beckham in drag?
How about some Ethan pictures from this month to remind us what this blog is supposed to be about (you mean my angst isn't our top priority here?! whatever).
The Kiss--I know I already posted this, but it's my blog and if I want to post it again, I will. Ethan sporting the latest in oversized prison wear. It's actually Husband's polo shirt, but wow. Please also note how the polo clashes with the eleventy billion toys strewn about the living and dining rooms. Ethan contemplating the wonder that is the plastic CVS boat at the beach in South Carolina.Should I listen to my tunes or take this important call? All he needs is a latte, and he's Husband.The last Mr. Skip performance we attended; Ethan mans up one last "high five" for Mr. Skip. *sniff sniff*The last playgroup *portrait*. Not sure how it ended up looking like a bad shot from Sears. I think the flash reflected off of the blue wall giving it that ethereal backdrop look. Either way, these are the cuties Ethan's left behind. Fat chance of finding such charm, beauty and pretzel Goldfish chowing abilities out here. Speaking of out here--Ethan in our hotel room. Bending it like...Beckham in drag? Saturday, June 28, 2008
First Impressions...
Or, "Why is there a Colon Hydrotherapy Salon on every corner?"
So far, I guess I can't complain. The weather has been blissfully beautiful--mid 80's and not a trace of humidity. Ethan fell asleep last night before 7pm and slept until almost 7am, and I did almost as well, for the first time in 90 days. These are basic things that tend to make one feel like they can cope, no matter where they are (within reason, I guess)--nice weather and a decent night's sleep.
The other thing assuaging my anxiety is the fact that, well, there are a lot of the trappings of "home" here, at least in the way of retail therapy. In the past 24 hours I've been to Target (twice. shut up. It's an illness, people), Old Navy, Macy's, and California Pizza Kitchen. Amazingly enough, we did avoid Starbucks today in favor of trying out the Coffee Beanery, an establishment that, locally, is almost as sickeningly ubiquitous as Starbucks. But really, it's just a coffee shop dreaming of being Starbuck, same as Caribou Coffee; you've seen one, you've seen them all.
It's hard to feel like a stranger in a strange land when you can walk into a Target you've never been to, 3000 miles away from the Targets you've frequented for the past eight years and, after a few seconds of getting your bearings, know where everything is located from the toys to the dish soap. I saw a bag in Virginia a few days ago and told myself that if I found it out in LA, I could buy it. I found it. It's mine. How's that for feeling at home?
Speaking of feeling at home, our child has fallen truly, madly, deeply in love with our house. Probably because it's empty and echo-y and he can run around it now without bumping into anything except a cat desperately trying to avoid him. Oh, and while Husband was living there a few weeks ago (with nothing but a few towels and an air mattress), he happened to buy a package of popcicles which currently remain the only form of sustenance in the house (with the exception of cat food). So now when we pull up to the house, Ethan bellows from the backseat, "Bicycle!! Bicycle!!" This is how he says, "popcicle". Take a minute to imagine how fun it was for us to try to figure out what the hell he was talking about when he first started saying that. "What do you mean, bicycle??!! We don't have bicycles!! You dont' know what a bicycle is!!! What are you talking about, for the love of God!!!"
Anyway, with all that space to roam and a freezer full of bicycles, Ethan thinks our new house is heaven on earth. This is lovely while we're there or on our way there. It is, however, not so lovely when we are trying to leave the house or when we dare to mention the hotel. "NO hotel! NO hotel!" he insists, increasingly weepy, from the back seat. Um. Sorry, kiddo. That's where they've got the beds. And our suitcases of stuff. So hotel it is, my love.
So far we've basically only shuttled back and forth between Studio City and Burbank and I"m convinced that everyone within these two towns must have perfect fingernails and immaculate colons. And they work in film production in some way, shape or form. And they eat almost exclusively Mexican food and donuts (perhaps hence the need for the colonic cleanings?). The streets from our hotel to Studio City are lined with nothing but (okay, I'm exaggerating, but not by much) nail salons, donut shops (from the airplane yesterday I actually saw us flying over a giant donut atop a donut shop), Mexican eateries, video production companies and "colon hydrotherapy salons". One salon front sign even claims "private, gentle cleansings". Um. I think when the issue at hand is a hose up one's butt, the word "gentle" has NO place in the description. I know they say you can lose up to five pounds from one cleansing alone, but you know what? I think I'll just try to run those pounds off. Running is far less frightening to my ass.
That's about it from me tonight; at this time last night I was drooling on my hotel couch and had to haul my butt (un-high-colonic'd, thank you very much) to my hotel bed. This evening, I feel far more prepared to see 9pm PST. We'll see how it goes.
So far, I guess I can't complain. The weather has been blissfully beautiful--mid 80's and not a trace of humidity. Ethan fell asleep last night before 7pm and slept until almost 7am, and I did almost as well, for the first time in 90 days. These are basic things that tend to make one feel like they can cope, no matter where they are (within reason, I guess)--nice weather and a decent night's sleep.
The other thing assuaging my anxiety is the fact that, well, there are a lot of the trappings of "home" here, at least in the way of retail therapy. In the past 24 hours I've been to Target (twice. shut up. It's an illness, people), Old Navy, Macy's, and California Pizza Kitchen. Amazingly enough, we did avoid Starbucks today in favor of trying out the Coffee Beanery, an establishment that, locally, is almost as sickeningly ubiquitous as Starbucks. But really, it's just a coffee shop dreaming of being Starbuck, same as Caribou Coffee; you've seen one, you've seen them all.
It's hard to feel like a stranger in a strange land when you can walk into a Target you've never been to, 3000 miles away from the Targets you've frequented for the past eight years and, after a few seconds of getting your bearings, know where everything is located from the toys to the dish soap. I saw a bag in Virginia a few days ago and told myself that if I found it out in LA, I could buy it. I found it. It's mine. How's that for feeling at home?
Speaking of feeling at home, our child has fallen truly, madly, deeply in love with our house. Probably because it's empty and echo-y and he can run around it now without bumping into anything except a cat desperately trying to avoid him. Oh, and while Husband was living there a few weeks ago (with nothing but a few towels and an air mattress), he happened to buy a package of popcicles which currently remain the only form of sustenance in the house (with the exception of cat food). So now when we pull up to the house, Ethan bellows from the backseat, "Bicycle!! Bicycle!!" This is how he says, "popcicle". Take a minute to imagine how fun it was for us to try to figure out what the hell he was talking about when he first started saying that. "What do you mean, bicycle??!! We don't have bicycles!! You dont' know what a bicycle is!!! What are you talking about, for the love of God!!!"
Anyway, with all that space to roam and a freezer full of bicycles, Ethan thinks our new house is heaven on earth. This is lovely while we're there or on our way there. It is, however, not so lovely when we are trying to leave the house or when we dare to mention the hotel. "NO hotel! NO hotel!" he insists, increasingly weepy, from the back seat. Um. Sorry, kiddo. That's where they've got the beds. And our suitcases of stuff. So hotel it is, my love.
So far we've basically only shuttled back and forth between Studio City and Burbank and I"m convinced that everyone within these two towns must have perfect fingernails and immaculate colons. And they work in film production in some way, shape or form. And they eat almost exclusively Mexican food and donuts (perhaps hence the need for the colonic cleanings?). The streets from our hotel to Studio City are lined with nothing but (okay, I'm exaggerating, but not by much) nail salons, donut shops (from the airplane yesterday I actually saw us flying over a giant donut atop a donut shop), Mexican eateries, video production companies and "colon hydrotherapy salons". One salon front sign even claims "private, gentle cleansings". Um. I think when the issue at hand is a hose up one's butt, the word "gentle" has NO place in the description. I know they say you can lose up to five pounds from one cleansing alone, but you know what? I think I'll just try to run those pounds off. Running is far less frightening to my ass.
That's about it from me tonight; at this time last night I was drooling on my hotel couch and had to haul my butt (un-high-colonic'd, thank you very much) to my hotel bed. This evening, I feel far more prepared to see 9pm PST. We'll see how it goes.
Friday, June 27, 2008
So wait, "moving to LA" means I actually have to...move to LA?
I'm not entirely sure how it came as a surprise to me this morning at 5am, when I woke up at the Holiday Inn at Dulles Airport and it hit me...."holy shit, I am moving to Los Angeles today. What the hell is that about??!!"
Don't ask me how three months of discussions and planning, and a week of big burly packing men, followed by big burly moving men traipsing through our house didn't cement this idea into my brain.
And obviously, on some level it did; there were fabulous "going away" dinners and tear-soaked hugs with loved ones, and tons of frantic "oh my god, life is going to be so different in 83, 60, 37, 26, 10, etc days..." running through my brain randomly throughout the past 90 days since we made this decision. I have google-searched moms groups in Studio City, although I am loathe to join an organized group of already-know-each-other moms. I have done research on what types of plants grow in Southern California as I day dream about actually being able to keep a potted plant alive longer than a hot second. I took the cats to the vet's for extensive vaccinations and physical exams to make them "air worthy". We've had a contractor ripping various parts of our house to shreds over the past three weeks, preparing it to be good enough to rent in this market.
Clearly I've been preparing myself for this move. Right??
Then why did I wake up this morning and feel like Husband had just broken the news to me?
As I was guiltily trying to trick my cat's into the bathroom so they'd be in an enclosed area from which they couldn't escape, thereby making it possible for me to, A.) shove 1/2 a benadryl down their gullets (not successful) and then, B.) cram them into their teeny tiny carriers (successful), I almost didn't remember why I was doing this crazy thing. I thought...."why are we taking the cats with us on vacation?! This is a lot of work just to take them with us for a....oh. shit. "
Thank goodness our flight and the preparations leading up to it (which is a whole other blog entry in and of itself) took place at the crack of dawn. I'm not at my emotional peak that early; it's hard to muster a feeling about much of anything before 10am for me. This was a blessing today, as I pretty much went through the motions of carrying cats, toddler and diaper bag through the terminal, and stepping onto the plane that would take me away from the life I've loved for the past eight years. I managed a few tears as the plane's front wheels left the ground (but I usually do that anyway, what with the anxiety of flying I have since watching the first episode of LOST).
I guess there are two sides of understanding something like a major life change; the rational part that can make lists of preparation and schedule appointments that get things done to make said changes possible. That's the side that organizes each room for the packers and makes sure the cat's get their shots. That's the side that puts dinners with friends on the calendar. But then there's the emotional side, who might show up here and there for a brief moment during all that rational stuff. That side cries while standing outside of restaurants after the last dinner with people she loves. That side has a vague sense that something huge is around the corner.
But that side doesn't really "get it" until faced with the actual moment. This morning, I finally "got it". I think. I dont' live where I used to live. My house is empty. I won't be taking Ethan to play group next Thursday. Okay. I get it.
But even still, I'm fairly certain that in a few days' time, I'll be absent-mindedly asking Husband what time our return flight is. Emotional side is so not going to like the answer to that question...
Don't ask me how three months of discussions and planning, and a week of big burly packing men, followed by big burly moving men traipsing through our house didn't cement this idea into my brain.
And obviously, on some level it did; there were fabulous "going away" dinners and tear-soaked hugs with loved ones, and tons of frantic "oh my god, life is going to be so different in 83, 60, 37, 26, 10, etc days..." running through my brain randomly throughout the past 90 days since we made this decision. I have google-searched moms groups in Studio City, although I am loathe to join an organized group of already-know-each-other moms. I have done research on what types of plants grow in Southern California as I day dream about actually being able to keep a potted plant alive longer than a hot second. I took the cats to the vet's for extensive vaccinations and physical exams to make them "air worthy". We've had a contractor ripping various parts of our house to shreds over the past three weeks, preparing it to be good enough to rent in this market.
Clearly I've been preparing myself for this move. Right??
Then why did I wake up this morning and feel like Husband had just broken the news to me?
As I was guiltily trying to trick my cat's into the bathroom so they'd be in an enclosed area from which they couldn't escape, thereby making it possible for me to, A.) shove 1/2 a benadryl down their gullets (not successful) and then, B.) cram them into their teeny tiny carriers (successful), I almost didn't remember why I was doing this crazy thing. I thought...."why are we taking the cats with us on vacation?! This is a lot of work just to take them with us for a....oh. shit. "
Thank goodness our flight and the preparations leading up to it (which is a whole other blog entry in and of itself) took place at the crack of dawn. I'm not at my emotional peak that early; it's hard to muster a feeling about much of anything before 10am for me. This was a blessing today, as I pretty much went through the motions of carrying cats, toddler and diaper bag through the terminal, and stepping onto the plane that would take me away from the life I've loved for the past eight years. I managed a few tears as the plane's front wheels left the ground (but I usually do that anyway, what with the anxiety of flying I have since watching the first episode of LOST).
I guess there are two sides of understanding something like a major life change; the rational part that can make lists of preparation and schedule appointments that get things done to make said changes possible. That's the side that organizes each room for the packers and makes sure the cat's get their shots. That's the side that puts dinners with friends on the calendar. But then there's the emotional side, who might show up here and there for a brief moment during all that rational stuff. That side cries while standing outside of restaurants after the last dinner with people she loves. That side has a vague sense that something huge is around the corner.
But that side doesn't really "get it" until faced with the actual moment. This morning, I finally "got it". I think. I dont' live where I used to live. My house is empty. I won't be taking Ethan to play group next Thursday. Okay. I get it.
But even still, I'm fairly certain that in a few days' time, I'll be absent-mindedly asking Husband what time our return flight is. Emotional side is so not going to like the answer to that question...
Thursday, June 26, 2008
"Spoon Inside"
So, one of the perks of living in this hotel is that the gift shop sells Hagen Daz ice cream. This, when one is in full-on stress out mode, is a life-saver, an OTC anti-anxiety, if you will. A no prescription required anti-anxiety drug (take that, voice of reason therapist!) So of course, I had to partake last night after leaving dinner at Karen's house for the "last time". It's been a week of "lasts" because I'm a drama queen and because my "sentimentality" engine is running on all cylinders these days.
As Husband is getting Ethan ready for bed, I decide to head down to the lobby for the ice cream. As crappy luck would have it, I share the elevator with a bevy of 105-lb teenage girls, clad in bikinis and sarongs. Normally this would send racing back to my room in a fit of chubby-girl self loathing, but not this time. It's not food, people; it's medication. At least for the next few days.
I walk into the gift shop and over to the little freezer which is humming away happily in the corner, keeping my chocolate flavored not-Xanax cold for me. That's what I love about Hagen Daz; there's no brain-hobbling decision like what flavor to get; I love Ben & Jerry's but they have about a gazillion flavors and each one is more convoluted and tempting than the last. I don't know if I want Phish Food or Chubby Hubby or Half Baked. It's just too much. With Hagen Daz, you've basically got your chocolate, vanilla and strawberry. Maybe something like a Dulce de Leche or something like that, but more often than not, it's pretty basic. Hello, Chocolate.
One problem with buying a pint of Hagen Daz at the hotel gift shop is that I am eating utensil-challenged. The only complimentary utensil in our hotel room is a plastic stirrer for the "coffee" beverages they let you brew in your own room...as if. And that's clearly not going to work on a pint of hard-as-rock chocolate ice cream.
I am not yet *quite* desperate enough to just mash my face into the cold creamy chocolatey goodness (give me a few more days), so as I'm pulling out my cash to pay for the $6 pint of ice cream, I ask the nice lady behind the counter "Where could I get a spoon to eat this with?"
Her response? "It's inside". Um. So I ask again. "There's a spoon inside the pint of ice cream?" She nods vigorously, "Yes. Yes. Spoon inside."
So, clearly I'm thinking either we have a serious language barrier issue and "spoon" really means "chocolate" in Eritrean, or I have stumbled upon a special, hotel gift shop, spoon-included edition of Hagen Daz. I envision prying off the lid and finding a cute mini-spoon lodged in the top of the ice cream--a completely self-sufficient tummy full of heaven in the making.
Apparently "spoon" means "chocolate" in Eritrean. Because the only thing that was inside my chocolate ice cream, was, care to guess? Chocolate ice cream. Sigh. So now I have to go back downstairs to the fancy steak restaurant and say, "Excuse me. I just purchased food not from your establishment. Can I have a spoon, please?" And I'm sure they're going to love that.
I leave Husband dealing with an overly tired toddler who is fully aware that there is ice cream in the room that I have no intention of sharing with him (evil mommy). The door closes behind me to the sound of "I-keem! I-keem!" and I take off for the aforementioned fancy restaurant.
Fortunately it is almost 10pm (hence the over tired toddler, but that's a whole other blog entry), so the business at Fancy Pants Steakhouse has quieted down and there's no one other than the hostess there to hear me meekly request a spoon so I can go eat my Hagen Daz in peace (this ice cream is turning out to be more trouble than it's worth---how can that be???!!!).
She skulks away knowing she's about to put forth effort, however miniscule, that will garner her absolutely no monetary reward, and reappears a light year later with a little plastic-wrapped set of plastic utensils. I bolt back to the elevator and with all 12 'bings' of the floors going by I say two silent little prayers to the universe. "Please don't let it be all melted" and "Please let the kid be asleep so I don't have to share it." Because I'm just that good of a person.
Do I have to tell you that lying in my bed, sliding my little plastic spoon around the outer edges of that melty little pint of chocolate ice cream was the most peaceful and satisfying feeling of the entire day? I thought not.
As Husband is getting Ethan ready for bed, I decide to head down to the lobby for the ice cream. As crappy luck would have it, I share the elevator with a bevy of 105-lb teenage girls, clad in bikinis and sarongs. Normally this would send racing back to my room in a fit of chubby-girl self loathing, but not this time. It's not food, people; it's medication. At least for the next few days.
I walk into the gift shop and over to the little freezer which is humming away happily in the corner, keeping my chocolate flavored not-Xanax cold for me. That's what I love about Hagen Daz; there's no brain-hobbling decision like what flavor to get; I love Ben & Jerry's but they have about a gazillion flavors and each one is more convoluted and tempting than the last. I don't know if I want Phish Food or Chubby Hubby or Half Baked. It's just too much. With Hagen Daz, you've basically got your chocolate, vanilla and strawberry. Maybe something like a Dulce de Leche or something like that, but more often than not, it's pretty basic. Hello, Chocolate.
One problem with buying a pint of Hagen Daz at the hotel gift shop is that I am eating utensil-challenged. The only complimentary utensil in our hotel room is a plastic stirrer for the "coffee" beverages they let you brew in your own room...as if. And that's clearly not going to work on a pint of hard-as-rock chocolate ice cream.
I am not yet *quite* desperate enough to just mash my face into the cold creamy chocolatey goodness (give me a few more days), so as I'm pulling out my cash to pay for the $6 pint of ice cream, I ask the nice lady behind the counter "Where could I get a spoon to eat this with?"
Her response? "It's inside". Um. So I ask again. "There's a spoon inside the pint of ice cream?" She nods vigorously, "Yes. Yes. Spoon inside."
So, clearly I'm thinking either we have a serious language barrier issue and "spoon" really means "chocolate" in Eritrean, or I have stumbled upon a special, hotel gift shop, spoon-included edition of Hagen Daz. I envision prying off the lid and finding a cute mini-spoon lodged in the top of the ice cream--a completely self-sufficient tummy full of heaven in the making.
Apparently "spoon" means "chocolate" in Eritrean. Because the only thing that was inside my chocolate ice cream, was, care to guess? Chocolate ice cream. Sigh. So now I have to go back downstairs to the fancy steak restaurant and say, "Excuse me. I just purchased food not from your establishment. Can I have a spoon, please?" And I'm sure they're going to love that.
I leave Husband dealing with an overly tired toddler who is fully aware that there is ice cream in the room that I have no intention of sharing with him (evil mommy). The door closes behind me to the sound of "I-keem! I-keem!" and I take off for the aforementioned fancy restaurant.
Fortunately it is almost 10pm (hence the over tired toddler, but that's a whole other blog entry), so the business at Fancy Pants Steakhouse has quieted down and there's no one other than the hostess there to hear me meekly request a spoon so I can go eat my Hagen Daz in peace (this ice cream is turning out to be more trouble than it's worth---how can that be???!!!).
She skulks away knowing she's about to put forth effort, however miniscule, that will garner her absolutely no monetary reward, and reappears a light year later with a little plastic-wrapped set of plastic utensils. I bolt back to the elevator and with all 12 'bings' of the floors going by I say two silent little prayers to the universe. "Please don't let it be all melted" and "Please let the kid be asleep so I don't have to share it." Because I'm just that good of a person.
Do I have to tell you that lying in my bed, sliding my little plastic spoon around the outer edges of that melty little pint of chocolate ice cream was the most peaceful and satisfying feeling of the entire day? I thought not.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
The one in which I recount the last traces of my sanity slipping away....
So, I'm living in a hotel. That's for starters...
The cat's mouth? At some point I'm hoping she'll let me get a peak in there at what had better be her mouthful of gold crowns. I expect a serious grill on this kitty considering that paying for her "dental procedure" got us enough points on our American Express to fly us somewhere exotic. My cat's got one expensive mouth.
Also? I spent 9 hours in the car with Ethan on Thursday last week. Followed by two rain soaked, and therefore activity-challenged, days in South Carolina with my parents, and then another 9 hours in the car with not only Ethan, but also my father (who all but turned right around and drove my car back down to South Carolina so that my parents can drive my car across country). All to return home fifteen hours before the packers were scheduled to arrive. To a house full of dirty laundry and confusion.
And no wine.
Sense my stress level, please.
On Monday morning, with construction workers taking a sledge hammer to my bathroom floor and cats running around, belly to the floor, in search of a hiding place, the packers knocked on our front door. Husband, Ethan and the contractor were at Home Depot picking out shiny pretty things for our new bathroom and I was in desperate need of a paper bag to breathe into.
Which reminds me of my therapist and how she said she didn't think I needed to be medicated because everything I am feeling is completely normal and within the range of acceptable anxiety given the circumstances. Whatever, voice of reason! I want some drugs!! I know she's right. I know it. Even though I am a strong believer in therapy and taking medication when truly warranted, I don't really want to numb my life's experiences just because they aren't 100% pleasurable 100% of the time. Really. But when the sledge hammer upstairs is making the recessed lighting in your newly renovated kitchen vibrate and there are three big men in your living room expecting you to boss them around, the pressure's a bit much. A little Xanax would really have come in handy.
Fortunately Husband was my Xanax in human form and returned shortly, handing me the child and relieving me of my "Um, I don't know; just pack everything," duties and I scurried from the house in much the same fashion as the cat's hand bolted for the basement--without looking where I was going and letting instinct take me away from the loud noises and scary men.
Since then, I've only been to the house once or twice, to drop Husband off or to pick him up and to spend a few moments with the kitties who are living in the basement until tomorrow morning when we bring them to the hotel with us. I can't quite bring myself to look around the house, as it is such a shell of it's former self. Just like I can't look at an open-casket funeral, I have a hard time with empty houses--the overwhelming "devoid of life" feeling hurts, especially if it was a life I was attached to (or in the case of the empty house, MY life). So I stay outside and keep Ethan in his car seat.
The one time I did bring Ethan to the house, we spent most of our time fielding the panicky "Where's the toys??" question that broke our hearts into eleventy billion pieces. "Going to California!" did not seem to be a favorable answer, so we've decided to keep E away from the house now.
I am currently sitting in my darkened hotel room while Ethan naps next to me, wondering how I'm going to fit play-group, a follow-up visit to the vet's, checking out of one hotel and into another near the airport, a trip to the dayspa, and dinner w/ the inlaws and some of our best friends into one day. I'm not sure it's possible, so I guess it'll be my eyebrows that pay the price in that scenario, because nothing else can give. At this point, I am almost looking forward to the five and half hours on the plane because then, no one can ask me to do anything or say goodbye to anyone else. I can just be.
The cat's mouth? At some point I'm hoping she'll let me get a peak in there at what had better be her mouthful of gold crowns. I expect a serious grill on this kitty considering that paying for her "dental procedure" got us enough points on our American Express to fly us somewhere exotic. My cat's got one expensive mouth.
Also? I spent 9 hours in the car with Ethan on Thursday last week. Followed by two rain soaked, and therefore activity-challenged, days in South Carolina with my parents, and then another 9 hours in the car with not only Ethan, but also my father (who all but turned right around and drove my car back down to South Carolina so that my parents can drive my car across country). All to return home fifteen hours before the packers were scheduled to arrive. To a house full of dirty laundry and confusion.
And no wine.
Sense my stress level, please.
On Monday morning, with construction workers taking a sledge hammer to my bathroom floor and cats running around, belly to the floor, in search of a hiding place, the packers knocked on our front door. Husband, Ethan and the contractor were at Home Depot picking out shiny pretty things for our new bathroom and I was in desperate need of a paper bag to breathe into.
Which reminds me of my therapist and how she said she didn't think I needed to be medicated because everything I am feeling is completely normal and within the range of acceptable anxiety given the circumstances. Whatever, voice of reason! I want some drugs!! I know she's right. I know it. Even though I am a strong believer in therapy and taking medication when truly warranted, I don't really want to numb my life's experiences just because they aren't 100% pleasurable 100% of the time. Really. But when the sledge hammer upstairs is making the recessed lighting in your newly renovated kitchen vibrate and there are three big men in your living room expecting you to boss them around, the pressure's a bit much. A little Xanax would really have come in handy.
Fortunately Husband was my Xanax in human form and returned shortly, handing me the child and relieving me of my "Um, I don't know; just pack everything," duties and I scurried from the house in much the same fashion as the cat's hand bolted for the basement--without looking where I was going and letting instinct take me away from the loud noises and scary men.
Since then, I've only been to the house once or twice, to drop Husband off or to pick him up and to spend a few moments with the kitties who are living in the basement until tomorrow morning when we bring them to the hotel with us. I can't quite bring myself to look around the house, as it is such a shell of it's former self. Just like I can't look at an open-casket funeral, I have a hard time with empty houses--the overwhelming "devoid of life" feeling hurts, especially if it was a life I was attached to (or in the case of the empty house, MY life). So I stay outside and keep Ethan in his car seat.
The one time I did bring Ethan to the house, we spent most of our time fielding the panicky "Where's the toys??" question that broke our hearts into eleventy billion pieces. "Going to California!" did not seem to be a favorable answer, so we've decided to keep E away from the house now.
I am currently sitting in my darkened hotel room while Ethan naps next to me, wondering how I'm going to fit play-group, a follow-up visit to the vet's, checking out of one hotel and into another near the airport, a trip to the dayspa, and dinner w/ the inlaws and some of our best friends into one day. I'm not sure it's possible, so I guess it'll be my eyebrows that pay the price in that scenario, because nothing else can give. At this point, I am almost looking forward to the five and half hours on the plane because then, no one can ask me to do anything or say goodbye to anyone else. I can just be.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Oh, It's Not All About Me???
Who knew?
We've spent the last week trying to prepare ourselves for the circus that is preparing pets to move across the country with us. I have had two cats for as long as I can remember. I adopted Abby from an old farm in Lee, New Hampshire during my senior year of undergrad, and I rescued Penny from the Manchester, New Hampshire Humane Society my first year out of graduate school. So, basically, they're old as dirt as far as cats go. Being somewhat nomadic in nature myself, I have lived in....fourteen apartments or homes since my senior year of college. That means poor Abby has been shlepped to fourteen different homes and Penny is close behind, at eleven. When Husband and I moved into this house just a few months shy of our wedding, I made a silent promise to the kitties that this would be their last move and they could live out their cranky old lady-kitty days in peace.
Which makes me a BIG FAT LIAR.
Because now, in their twilight years, I am not only making them move again, but it will be the most traumatic move ever. They were truly not thrilled by the 8-hour drive they had to take eight years ago in the back of my Honda Civic, crammed between and air conditioner and a TV. I cannot wait to see how they're going to LOVE being crammed into tiny cat carriers and shoved under the seat in an airplane. That should be a wicked good time for them, right?
And it's not just the plane ride. It's a myriad of cat-friendly fun leading up to and following the actual aviation adventure as well.
The packers and movers are coming on Monday and Tuesday of next week. We don't leave until Friday, therefore the human-types in the family will be staying at a hotel. The cats? They'll be biding their time in a big empty house. Think that'll freak them out? I'm going to go with "hell, yes!" on that one. They know what moving is--they're far too well acquainted with boxes and bubble-wrap. That alone is going to give them nightmares and I'm likely to find little puddles of pee about the house. What they don't know is being left behind. I'll be coming back to feed them during those few days, obviously, but that's probably it. Poor girls are going to wonder...."hey, where did everyone go?!" That should be awesome for them.
Then as if that weren't enough, when we get off the plane (assuming they survive that thrill ride intact), they get to go live in our new house....alone. While we wait for our lives to catch up to us in big moving vans, the human-types will again be set up in relative luxury at a hotel. The cats? Not so much.
Right now? Penny is at the vet's. Getting her teeth cleaned. Last week when I took them to the vets to get their shots and exams to make sure they were "air worthy", the vet let me know Penny's mouth was a hot mess and she needed a good cleaning. Now, what self-respecting cat owner would take her kitty to the land of the beautiful people (and thereby beautiful pets) without making sure her teeth were at their shiniest and most fabulous? Considering her age, a few extractions are most likely in the cards for her. I can't wait for all the "purr...purr...thank you for throwing a surgical procedure into the mix right now. Purr...purr."
I'd be subjecting Abby to the same procedure, but the vet detected a heart murmur at her last exam, so she has to have a full cardiac work-up prior to having her teeth cleaned (I'm thinking that plane ride should be super good for her heart, right?). So my first order of business upon getting to LA (aside from dropping my cats off in an empty house) will be to find a feline cardiologist. Seriously.
Let's see...lying, abandoning, torturing...what a good kitty mommy I am. I'm grateful cats' brains are the size of cheerios because if they truly had the capability of existential musings, they'd need serious therapy.
We've spent the last week trying to prepare ourselves for the circus that is preparing pets to move across the country with us. I have had two cats for as long as I can remember. I adopted Abby from an old farm in Lee, New Hampshire during my senior year of undergrad, and I rescued Penny from the Manchester, New Hampshire Humane Society my first year out of graduate school. So, basically, they're old as dirt as far as cats go. Being somewhat nomadic in nature myself, I have lived in....fourteen apartments or homes since my senior year of college. That means poor Abby has been shlepped to fourteen different homes and Penny is close behind, at eleven. When Husband and I moved into this house just a few months shy of our wedding, I made a silent promise to the kitties that this would be their last move and they could live out their cranky old lady-kitty days in peace.
Which makes me a BIG FAT LIAR.
Because now, in their twilight years, I am not only making them move again, but it will be the most traumatic move ever. They were truly not thrilled by the 8-hour drive they had to take eight years ago in the back of my Honda Civic, crammed between and air conditioner and a TV. I cannot wait to see how they're going to LOVE being crammed into tiny cat carriers and shoved under the seat in an airplane. That should be a wicked good time for them, right?
And it's not just the plane ride. It's a myriad of cat-friendly fun leading up to and following the actual aviation adventure as well.
The packers and movers are coming on Monday and Tuesday of next week. We don't leave until Friday, therefore the human-types in the family will be staying at a hotel. The cats? They'll be biding their time in a big empty house. Think that'll freak them out? I'm going to go with "hell, yes!" on that one. They know what moving is--they're far too well acquainted with boxes and bubble-wrap. That alone is going to give them nightmares and I'm likely to find little puddles of pee about the house. What they don't know is being left behind. I'll be coming back to feed them during those few days, obviously, but that's probably it. Poor girls are going to wonder...."hey, where did everyone go?!" That should be awesome for them.
Then as if that weren't enough, when we get off the plane (assuming they survive that thrill ride intact), they get to go live in our new house....alone. While we wait for our lives to catch up to us in big moving vans, the human-types will again be set up in relative luxury at a hotel. The cats? Not so much.
Right now? Penny is at the vet's. Getting her teeth cleaned. Last week when I took them to the vets to get their shots and exams to make sure they were "air worthy", the vet let me know Penny's mouth was a hot mess and she needed a good cleaning. Now, what self-respecting cat owner would take her kitty to the land of the beautiful people (and thereby beautiful pets) without making sure her teeth were at their shiniest and most fabulous? Considering her age, a few extractions are most likely in the cards for her. I can't wait for all the "purr...purr...thank you for throwing a surgical procedure into the mix right now. Purr...purr."
I'd be subjecting Abby to the same procedure, but the vet detected a heart murmur at her last exam, so she has to have a full cardiac work-up prior to having her teeth cleaned (I'm thinking that plane ride should be super good for her heart, right?). So my first order of business upon getting to LA (aside from dropping my cats off in an empty house) will be to find a feline cardiologist. Seriously.
Let's see...lying, abandoning, torturing...what a good kitty mommy I am. I'm grateful cats' brains are the size of cheerios because if they truly had the capability of existential musings, they'd need serious therapy.
Monday, June 09, 2008
In Most Loving Memory...
Last summer, I posted asking for prayers for my cousin's little daughter, Lindsay, who had been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. I am so sorry to have to say that Miss Lindsay lost her battle this morning, and she will be so very missed by all of us who loved her. Please send your thoughts and prayers, if you are so inclined, to her parents, younger siblings and whole family as we try to get through this unspeakably painful time.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Oh, Happy Day!
Finally, Ethan has stopped kissing pretty girls long enough to master the "tr" sound, so now he can actually say the word "truck".
While this doesn't seem like a major milestone, along the lines of first tooth or first steps, it is MONUMENTAL when you consider what word he was saying, nay SHOUTING, in lieu of "truck" whenever the situation called for such an outburst. You might recall his word for "truck" sounded horrifyingly like a word used to name male genitalia.
You'd be amazed at how often a child has the need to shout the word "truck!!!" (keep in mind, if it was my son, prior to today, he would be shouting "cock!!")--on the street, when a "cock" drives by; when the siren of the "firecock" is wailing down the street; in the toy section of Target, where there are "big cocks! big cocks!" And the list goes on.
I'd keep coming up with examples, but reliving it all is pretty traumatic, as you can imagine. We endured several months of either dirty looks or snickering, and our constant need to apologize self-deprecatingly to the parents of toddlers with virgin ears anywhere within a 5 mile radius of our child.
So it was obviously a huge relief today when I heard Ethan say, loud and clear, in the aisle formerly called the "cock aisle" of Target, "TRUCK!" Sweet Jesus, I think I might have shed a tear!
We can go out in public again without fear of people thinking our child has Tourettes. It is a happy day in the Land o' E, my friends.
While this doesn't seem like a major milestone, along the lines of first tooth or first steps, it is MONUMENTAL when you consider what word he was saying, nay SHOUTING, in lieu of "truck" whenever the situation called for such an outburst. You might recall his word for "truck" sounded horrifyingly like a word used to name male genitalia.
You'd be amazed at how often a child has the need to shout the word "truck!!!" (keep in mind, if it was my son, prior to today, he would be shouting "cock!!")--on the street, when a "cock" drives by; when the siren of the "firecock" is wailing down the street; in the toy section of Target, where there are "big cocks! big cocks!" And the list goes on.
I'd keep coming up with examples, but reliving it all is pretty traumatic, as you can imagine. We endured several months of either dirty looks or snickering, and our constant need to apologize self-deprecatingly to the parents of toddlers with virgin ears anywhere within a 5 mile radius of our child.
So it was obviously a huge relief today when I heard Ethan say, loud and clear, in the aisle formerly called the "cock aisle" of Target, "TRUCK!" Sweet Jesus, I think I might have shed a tear!
We can go out in public again without fear of people thinking our child has Tourettes. It is a happy day in the Land o' E, my friends.
Friday, June 06, 2008
Lock Up Your Daughters...
I might have mentioned my son's penchant for the smooching, no? Behold.
Well, hello, Miss Lily. Would you care to share my bowl of Trader Joe's snap peas with me?
Snap peas are apparently an aphrodisiac among the 2 year old set...who knew??
Please check out the Hugh Hefner-like smugness. Seriously? I am in so much trouble with this one.
Lily's mother and I? Speechless. All we could do was giggle like little girls and snap pictures of our children making out. Lily's father? Probably not giggling like a little girl.
Well, hello, Miss Lily. Would you care to share my bowl of Trader Joe's snap peas with me? Snap peas are apparently an aphrodisiac among the 2 year old set...who knew??Please check out the Hugh Hefner-like smugness. Seriously? I am in so much trouble with this one.Lily's mother and I? Speechless. All we could do was giggle like little girls and snap pictures of our children making out. Lily's father? Probably not giggling like a little girl. Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Cheating...
Yes, that's right. I'm teaching my son to cheat. on tests.
This Friday we are heading to the pediatrician's office for a "final" weight check test before heading off to the left coast, and the doctor said she really wants to see him putting on the pounds. No pressure, though...
This means that Ethan is living on a steady diet of butter, ice cream, chocolate milk and assorted other fat-based foods.
He's on his 3rd cookie of the day and I've no intention of letting up. Please keep in mind that he'd still rather eat his body weight in blue berries and their 10-15 calories per million. So when I say I'm feeding him a steady supply of cookies, don't be alarmed. He's also eating veggies and protein.
Fortunately his appetite seems to have picked up, as I mentioned in the last post. Husband and I have sat in stunned awe at the dinner table (read: coffee table) while Ethan puts back 2-3 chicken tenders, a dozen potato wedges (smothered in ketchup, apparently the elixir of the toddler gods) and a bowl of "broci" and "flowers" and then asks for more.
So we have high hopes that he'd be gaining weight, even based on a healthy diet based on the food pyramid (whatever it might be these days). But that doesn't stop me from fattening him up with the treats, just to be sure.
This Friday we are heading to the pediatrician's office for a "final" weight check test before heading off to the left coast, and the doctor said she really wants to see him putting on the pounds. No pressure, though...
This means that Ethan is living on a steady diet of butter, ice cream, chocolate milk and assorted other fat-based foods.
He's on his 3rd cookie of the day and I've no intention of letting up. Please keep in mind that he'd still rather eat his body weight in blue berries and their 10-15 calories per million. So when I say I'm feeding him a steady supply of cookies, don't be alarmed. He's also eating veggies and protein.
Fortunately his appetite seems to have picked up, as I mentioned in the last post. Husband and I have sat in stunned awe at the dinner table (read: coffee table) while Ethan puts back 2-3 chicken tenders, a dozen potato wedges (smothered in ketchup, apparently the elixir of the toddler gods) and a bowl of "broci" and "flowers" and then asks for more.
So we have high hopes that he'd be gaining weight, even based on a healthy diet based on the food pyramid (whatever it might be these days). But that doesn't stop me from fattening him up with the treats, just to be sure.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Been There, Chewed That
Or, "What Not To Do On A First Date"
Ethan has a new, erm, charming eating habit. He's developed a tendency to put something in his mouth, chew it for a considerable amount of time and then casually open his mouth and either go in for it himself, ever so generously handing it over to us, or he waits patiently for one of us to get the hint and pluck it from his mouth ourselves. This is not an attractive new table manner, obviously.
I don't know if he's part bird and acting out some ass-backwards instinct to provide US with his half digested food (let's take a moment to be grateful that he doesn't regurgitate, shall we?) or if he's simply trying to keep his lithe boyish figure and he's been watching too much America's Next Top Model for pointers, or what. Either way, ew.
I think the more likely explanation for this new "development" (and it's only occasional, really) is that in the last few weeks, Ethan's become more adventurous as an eater (read: is willing to eat more than frozen french toast and blueberries). In the past week, he's actually eaten entire sandwiches without stripping them for parts (meaning, the cheese) and leaving the rest. Thanks to his Monday and Friday mornings hanging out with Lilly, he's discovered a love of tater tots. There was also a mulberry picked off the ground incident (surprisingly he didn't try to get rid of that mid-chew). We have found that as of yet, there is no nasty reaction to peanut butter and he's a fan of salsa--apparently the spicier the better. He's also eaten entire plates full of steamed vegetables and last night our little shunner of all things meat took his first, second and third bites of a hamburger, to which Husband says, "Ha! Take THAT vegetarians everywhere!!"
So I guess it's not surprising that every once in awhile he's going to go out on a limb, chew something for a few minutes and think, "Um. Yeah, this is not food. Let's get this out of my mouth now." Think Tom Hanks in Big at the Christmas party, minus the frilly-shirted tux.
Sometimes, like tonight, I think he just gets a bit ahead of himself, now that he's also insisting on eating everything with a grown-up fork. On more than one occasion he's estimated the size of his mouth to be something just shy of Grand Canyon-esque and ends up with a bit more food in it that perhaps he should. So of course, some of it has to come out.
We're not encouraging it, but as long as there's more food making its way to his tummy than my hand (and he doesn't do it in public too much) I'm happy to wait out this food phase. I just hope it lets up before his first date--otherwise, can you say "awkward!!"
Ethan has a new, erm, charming eating habit. He's developed a tendency to put something in his mouth, chew it for a considerable amount of time and then casually open his mouth and either go in for it himself, ever so generously handing it over to us, or he waits patiently for one of us to get the hint and pluck it from his mouth ourselves. This is not an attractive new table manner, obviously.
I don't know if he's part bird and acting out some ass-backwards instinct to provide US with his half digested food (let's take a moment to be grateful that he doesn't regurgitate, shall we?) or if he's simply trying to keep his lithe boyish figure and he's been watching too much America's Next Top Model for pointers, or what. Either way, ew.
I think the more likely explanation for this new "development" (and it's only occasional, really) is that in the last few weeks, Ethan's become more adventurous as an eater (read: is willing to eat more than frozen french toast and blueberries). In the past week, he's actually eaten entire sandwiches without stripping them for parts (meaning, the cheese) and leaving the rest. Thanks to his Monday and Friday mornings hanging out with Lilly, he's discovered a love of tater tots. There was also a mulberry picked off the ground incident (surprisingly he didn't try to get rid of that mid-chew). We have found that as of yet, there is no nasty reaction to peanut butter and he's a fan of salsa--apparently the spicier the better. He's also eaten entire plates full of steamed vegetables and last night our little shunner of all things meat took his first, second and third bites of a hamburger, to which Husband says, "Ha! Take THAT vegetarians everywhere!!"
So I guess it's not surprising that every once in awhile he's going to go out on a limb, chew something for a few minutes and think, "Um. Yeah, this is not food. Let's get this out of my mouth now." Think Tom Hanks in Big at the Christmas party, minus the frilly-shirted tux.
Sometimes, like tonight, I think he just gets a bit ahead of himself, now that he's also insisting on eating everything with a grown-up fork. On more than one occasion he's estimated the size of his mouth to be something just shy of Grand Canyon-esque and ends up with a bit more food in it that perhaps he should. So of course, some of it has to come out.
We're not encouraging it, but as long as there's more food making its way to his tummy than my hand (and he doesn't do it in public too much) I'm happy to wait out this food phase. I just hope it lets up before his first date--otherwise, can you say "awkward!!"
Friday, May 30, 2008
It Was the Best of Times, It Was the Worst of Times...
First, my sincerest apologies to Dickens for stealing his most famous literary line for my measly little blog. I have no doubt he is, as I type, spinning wildly in his grave that I should compare my week as a (somewhat) single mom (without that pesky supporting myself part) to the horror of the French Revolution, but truly there is no other way for me to describe this past week (okay, there are probably countless more appropriate, less over-the-top drama queen ways for me to express it; but that's who I am. Forgive me.), so there it is
First--let's do the worst of times, shall we?
The bi-polar baby I spoke of last week? Still here. I am seriously considering looking into some sort of exorcist to see if we can release the demon that is taking over my sweet little boy and forcing him to throw things at my face and grab hold of other toddlers' cheeks, squeezing until he leaves finger marks.
I can only say I am so relieved that the women in my playgroup have known Ethan since the days in which he was a red, screaming, shaking, swaddled mess in our "mom & baby yoga class" so they, in some ways, see him as an extension of their own families (as I do them and their kids) and therefore, they love him in spite of this new-found persona of Ethan the Destroyer. And thankfully, they don't look at me like a horrible mother or cluck their teeth in my general direction when my child, yet again, smacks one of theirs on the head. We sort of all accept that this is part of a toddler's quest to find boundaries and express frustration when the words simply can't come. We also realize that a toddler rarely learns what the boundaries are on the first test.
Unfortunately, random bitchmoms at the Thomas Train table in Barnes and Noble apparently have PERFECT toddlers who never misbehave and therefore they feel the need to humiliate us moms who dare to bring our imperfect spawn out into public. Yesterday, as Ethan played happily by his lonesome at the Thomas table, the 4:30 rush began and in a matter of moments, the room had all but filled up with wobbly toddlers looking to get their grubby paws on a train.
This is always a tough transition because imagine the bliss of having that train table all to yourself, 4-5 trains at your disposal, all tunnels and bridges yours for the conquering. Then suddenly, a bunch of kids you've never seen before come looking for a piece of the action. As much as I know Ethan needs to learn to share, my heart always breaks a little bit for him when a bigger kid (because if they're over a year old, they're bigger than him) walks up and claims dominance, and half the trains.
One woman (I will refrain from describing her, but let's just say she has good reason to be bitter at the world, based on her appearance alone) stood along side the table, ever vigilant and watchful (a Thomas table Madame DeFarge, if you will---see, Dickens?! I really read the book, so it's okay to use the line for petty little problems) as the kids played. I, on the other hand, sat in one of the tiny green adirondacks and chatted with Karen. I have made a conscious decision not to helicopter parent, so unless there is trouble brewing, I let Ethan have a fairly long leash to figure the world out.
At one point, I saw Madame D's child swat Ethan (unprovoked--just because I'm not on top of him doesn't mean I'm not watching...) TWICE in the head. Nasty ugly mom--does nothing. Ethan did little but look at the kid like, "Dude, what the hell was that for?" and he walked to the other side of the table, so I took a few deep breaths and let it go. They worked it out on their own. No big deal (although a little "it's not nice to hit. I need you to apologize to the little boy" would have been a nice gesture, right?)
Moments later my child is seized by the demon and he hucks a train in the general direction of another child (please note: not her child). You would have thought, from her reaction, that my child had opened up his jacket to reveal a bomb. Please imagine the biggest, most dramatic gasp you can. I'll give you a second. I swear, had the woman been wearing pearls, she would have been clutching them.
Given the rousing reaction he got from her, Ethan, amused, picked up yet another train and threw it. Again, NOT at her child. Nor did it hit anyone or anything on it's trajectory to the floor. But of course, Madame DeFarge lets out a "gasping back to life after an epi pen to the heart" gasp and CLUCKS her FUCKING TEETH AT ME!!!
Obviously I collected Ethan up, made him apologize to the little boy whose direction the trains were hurled in and I apologized to the kid's father before putting Ethan in the stroller to leave. Fortunately the man was sane and rational and said, "eh, no problem. It happens. He didn't him anyone," and let it go. Meanwhile Madame DeFarge is over there shaking her head; if she'd had her knitting, you can be damn sure my child's name would be on her list.
Every fiber of my being wanted to say something to her about her own child hitting mine and why the need to mortify and humiliate another mom like that? Aren't we, in some way, all in this together?? Did she not see (I know she did!) her own child swat Ethan on the head not once, but TWICE??!! But I was shaking with anger too much to form a thought besides, "BITCH!!!!!" and truly, that's not really appropriate talk for the Thomas table, now is it?
My heart breaks for Ethan because I know so much of this aggression is related to Husband's being out of town so often and sensing our stress about this move. And, you know what? He's two. It's tough being two with all the emotions and so few words to express them with. I know it's not "okay" for him to throw his hands at kids or to pinch or throw things. But I also know he is overwhelmed with everything going on right now.
So we start time outs and read our Hands Are Not For Hitting book eleventy billion times a day. He thinks time outs are hoot right now, but hopefully he'll catch on soon.
And now to the best of times. I have a few things in that department as well....
1.) He pooped on the potty!!! This will probably only be of interest to the grandparent-types reading the blog, so everyone else can feel free to skip down to the other items, but when Grandma's in Africa, this is the only way to spread the news. Last night, there was much pointing to the bum and pointing up the stairs saying, "poo poos. potty. poo poos. potty." This has been a regular occurrence for months with no poo poos materializing in the potty as of yet, so I put little to no stock in it, but what the hell, let's climb the stairs, go through the whole riggamaroll; it's almost bath time anyway.
So I got him ready for the potty, handed him his favorite barnyard animals book and went fold some laundry. Wouldn't you know it, he came running into the bedroom two minutes later, a piece of toilet paper hanging out of his bum (I may never stop laughing about that; gotta love him for trying) saying, "Poo Poos!! Poo Poos!" and sure enough, there it was in the Elmo potty.
I have never done a happy dance over poop before, but I figured it was in order. He was literally aglow with glee. I do believe that particular poop was his life's masterpiece, as far as he's concerned. We could not fall asleep last night until thirty minutes after our usual too-late bedtime because he had to keep telling me the story of how he pooped on the potty. (It's a short story..."poo poo on potty!" over and over again pretty much sums it up).
We shall see what else happens. I am not rushing to potty train my 25 month old boy, especially with the move coming up. He can use the potty whenever he wants and that's fine with me.
2.) Why I continue to love co-sleeping: Ethan, out of deep sleep last night, laughed. I was lying next to him watching Leno on closed captioning (see, I do still read before bedtime) and he gaffawed right out loud with a huge smile on his face. Then, without ever waking up, went back to wherever he was in dreamland. It was truly one of the sweetest things I've ever seen and I was so happy that even though he's having such a tough time during the days right now, that he is having happy dreams at night.
3.) And let's just file this under the "so funny I think I might have peed a little bit" category. Yesterday while standing in Starbucks waiting for my grande skim, no water, extra hot, six pump chai tea latte, I overheard this.
Scene: Two drinks sit on the barista bar. One, an white cardboard cup, complete with heat-absorbing sleeve and opaque white plastic cover. The other, a clear, plastic cup, with clear plastic lid, obviously containing some sort of iced latte. Make no mistakes, the ice cubes are visibly floating around in the latte.
Woman to barista: "Excuse me. Which one of these is the iced vanilla latte?"
Barista: "Um. The one with the ice in it."
There are no words, my friends. My two year old might beat the crap out of everyone at
playgroup, but you bet your ass he could figure out which of the two cups had the ICE in it.
That is all. Carry on.
First--let's do the worst of times, shall we?
The bi-polar baby I spoke of last week? Still here. I am seriously considering looking into some sort of exorcist to see if we can release the demon that is taking over my sweet little boy and forcing him to throw things at my face and grab hold of other toddlers' cheeks, squeezing until he leaves finger marks.
I can only say I am so relieved that the women in my playgroup have known Ethan since the days in which he was a red, screaming, shaking, swaddled mess in our "mom & baby yoga class" so they, in some ways, see him as an extension of their own families (as I do them and their kids) and therefore, they love him in spite of this new-found persona of Ethan the Destroyer. And thankfully, they don't look at me like a horrible mother or cluck their teeth in my general direction when my child, yet again, smacks one of theirs on the head. We sort of all accept that this is part of a toddler's quest to find boundaries and express frustration when the words simply can't come. We also realize that a toddler rarely learns what the boundaries are on the first test.
Unfortunately, random bitchmoms at the Thomas Train table in Barnes and Noble apparently have PERFECT toddlers who never misbehave and therefore they feel the need to humiliate us moms who dare to bring our imperfect spawn out into public. Yesterday, as Ethan played happily by his lonesome at the Thomas table, the 4:30 rush began and in a matter of moments, the room had all but filled up with wobbly toddlers looking to get their grubby paws on a train.
This is always a tough transition because imagine the bliss of having that train table all to yourself, 4-5 trains at your disposal, all tunnels and bridges yours for the conquering. Then suddenly, a bunch of kids you've never seen before come looking for a piece of the action. As much as I know Ethan needs to learn to share, my heart always breaks a little bit for him when a bigger kid (because if they're over a year old, they're bigger than him) walks up and claims dominance, and half the trains.
One woman (I will refrain from describing her, but let's just say she has good reason to be bitter at the world, based on her appearance alone) stood along side the table, ever vigilant and watchful (a Thomas table Madame DeFarge, if you will---see, Dickens?! I really read the book, so it's okay to use the line for petty little problems) as the kids played. I, on the other hand, sat in one of the tiny green adirondacks and chatted with Karen. I have made a conscious decision not to helicopter parent, so unless there is trouble brewing, I let Ethan have a fairly long leash to figure the world out.
At one point, I saw Madame D's child swat Ethan (unprovoked--just because I'm not on top of him doesn't mean I'm not watching...) TWICE in the head. Nasty ugly mom--does nothing. Ethan did little but look at the kid like, "Dude, what the hell was that for?" and he walked to the other side of the table, so I took a few deep breaths and let it go. They worked it out on their own. No big deal (although a little "it's not nice to hit. I need you to apologize to the little boy" would have been a nice gesture, right?)
Moments later my child is seized by the demon and he hucks a train in the general direction of another child (please note: not her child). You would have thought, from her reaction, that my child had opened up his jacket to reveal a bomb. Please imagine the biggest, most dramatic gasp you can. I'll give you a second. I swear, had the woman been wearing pearls, she would have been clutching them.
Given the rousing reaction he got from her, Ethan, amused, picked up yet another train and threw it. Again, NOT at her child. Nor did it hit anyone or anything on it's trajectory to the floor. But of course, Madame DeFarge lets out a "gasping back to life after an epi pen to the heart" gasp and CLUCKS her FUCKING TEETH AT ME!!!
Obviously I collected Ethan up, made him apologize to the little boy whose direction the trains were hurled in and I apologized to the kid's father before putting Ethan in the stroller to leave. Fortunately the man was sane and rational and said, "eh, no problem. It happens. He didn't him anyone," and let it go. Meanwhile Madame DeFarge is over there shaking her head; if she'd had her knitting, you can be damn sure my child's name would be on her list.
Every fiber of my being wanted to say something to her about her own child hitting mine and why the need to mortify and humiliate another mom like that? Aren't we, in some way, all in this together?? Did she not see (I know she did!) her own child swat Ethan on the head not once, but TWICE??!! But I was shaking with anger too much to form a thought besides, "BITCH!!!!!" and truly, that's not really appropriate talk for the Thomas table, now is it?
My heart breaks for Ethan because I know so much of this aggression is related to Husband's being out of town so often and sensing our stress about this move. And, you know what? He's two. It's tough being two with all the emotions and so few words to express them with. I know it's not "okay" for him to throw his hands at kids or to pinch or throw things. But I also know he is overwhelmed with everything going on right now.
So we start time outs and read our Hands Are Not For Hitting book eleventy billion times a day. He thinks time outs are hoot right now, but hopefully he'll catch on soon.
And now to the best of times. I have a few things in that department as well....
1.) He pooped on the potty!!! This will probably only be of interest to the grandparent-types reading the blog, so everyone else can feel free to skip down to the other items, but when Grandma's in Africa, this is the only way to spread the news. Last night, there was much pointing to the bum and pointing up the stairs saying, "poo poos. potty. poo poos. potty." This has been a regular occurrence for months with no poo poos materializing in the potty as of yet, so I put little to no stock in it, but what the hell, let's climb the stairs, go through the whole riggamaroll; it's almost bath time anyway.
So I got him ready for the potty, handed him his favorite barnyard animals book and went fold some laundry. Wouldn't you know it, he came running into the bedroom two minutes later, a piece of toilet paper hanging out of his bum (I may never stop laughing about that; gotta love him for trying) saying, "Poo Poos!! Poo Poos!" and sure enough, there it was in the Elmo potty.
I have never done a happy dance over poop before, but I figured it was in order. He was literally aglow with glee. I do believe that particular poop was his life's masterpiece, as far as he's concerned. We could not fall asleep last night until thirty minutes after our usual too-late bedtime because he had to keep telling me the story of how he pooped on the potty. (It's a short story..."poo poo on potty!" over and over again pretty much sums it up).
We shall see what else happens. I am not rushing to potty train my 25 month old boy, especially with the move coming up. He can use the potty whenever he wants and that's fine with me.
2.) Why I continue to love co-sleeping: Ethan, out of deep sleep last night, laughed. I was lying next to him watching Leno on closed captioning (see, I do still read before bedtime) and he gaffawed right out loud with a huge smile on his face. Then, without ever waking up, went back to wherever he was in dreamland. It was truly one of the sweetest things I've ever seen and I was so happy that even though he's having such a tough time during the days right now, that he is having happy dreams at night.
3.) And let's just file this under the "so funny I think I might have peed a little bit" category. Yesterday while standing in Starbucks waiting for my grande skim, no water, extra hot, six pump chai tea latte, I overheard this.
Scene: Two drinks sit on the barista bar. One, an white cardboard cup, complete with heat-absorbing sleeve and opaque white plastic cover. The other, a clear, plastic cup, with clear plastic lid, obviously containing some sort of iced latte. Make no mistakes, the ice cubes are visibly floating around in the latte.
Woman to barista: "Excuse me. Which one of these is the iced vanilla latte?"
Barista: "Um. The one with the ice in it."
There are no words, my friends. My two year old might beat the crap out of everyone at
playgroup, but you bet your ass he could figure out which of the two cups had the ICE in it.
That is all. Carry on.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Bipolar Baby...
Um. What has happened to my child? I'm not digging this whole "hey, check me out! I'm two!" thing he's got going on right now. Today I was slapped no fewer than two dozen times, one time so forcefully across the face that my contact popped out of my eye.
Good times.
See, I'm one of those "I'll never spank my kids" people. Just am. No need to go into the litany of reasons why Husband and I have made that choice, nor is there any reason for anyone to tell me why I *should* spank my child. It ain't gonna happen, let's move on.
But that doesn't mean I don't sometimes WANT to spank my child. And this new "I am toddler, feel me smack...and kick...and pinch." crap he's rocking is a true test of my resolve to keep my own hands to myself. It has not been easy in the past 12 hours, of which he was awake for...12 hours, as he solidly refused to nap this afternoon (attempt #2 at nap time is what lead to the face smack which send my left contact flopping from my eyeball).
I am taking more deep cleansing breaths than a zen yoga master and putting on my calmest "hands are not for hitting" voice---I could so utilize this voice for dj'ing on an easy-listening station, but instead I spend what amounts to hours of my day saying, "Ethan, we don't hit. Hitting hurts and we don't want to hurt people. Please say you're sorry." I have walked out of the room with my hands shaking and stared out the window, counting to 10...or 110, in order to regain my composure.
Yes, this is toddlerhood. It's not like I'm blazing some new trail. No one is going to read this, clutch their pearls and say, "Oh my god! This is brand new behavior! What a fascinating case study!" But, though the behaviors may be as old as the hills and deeply rooted in a toddler's quest to establish boundaries and find an appropriate means of self-expression, it is NEW to me. It shocks me when my child strikes out at me and I take it way too personally; like crying in the bathroom, "wh...wh...why doesn't he like me????!!!" personally (irrationality, thy name is Sarah!).
And then, of course, there is that moment when I walk back into the room, the room where mere minutes before my child has pummeled me, and there he is, smiling as innocently as the day he was born and says, "Hi, Mama." (cue: Mama melting into puddles of lurve). Then we talk about why we don't hit---we talk about how hands are for clapping and patting the kitty and hugging, but not for hitting. Then he says, "Sorry, Mama," and more puddles and melting.
I know ten minutes later, he's more than likely going to haul off and smack me upside the head again, or pull the cat's tail (for which he received some impressive war wounds yesterday) and that we'll have to do this whole thing all over again. I know he won't learn the first time, or the second time even (or the 100th??!!!), and there's a tiny little part of me that fears to my core that he's going to grow up burning ants on the sidewalk with magnifying glasses or finding some other way to inflict pain on vulnerable living things. But most of the time I realize he's just being a toddler and going through these motions is how he learns how to manueveur his way through this world and his relationships with people.
I just wish it didn't leave me searching for one contact lens on the bedroom floor.
Good times.
See, I'm one of those "I'll never spank my kids" people. Just am. No need to go into the litany of reasons why Husband and I have made that choice, nor is there any reason for anyone to tell me why I *should* spank my child. It ain't gonna happen, let's move on.
But that doesn't mean I don't sometimes WANT to spank my child. And this new "I am toddler, feel me smack...and kick...and pinch." crap he's rocking is a true test of my resolve to keep my own hands to myself. It has not been easy in the past 12 hours, of which he was awake for...12 hours, as he solidly refused to nap this afternoon (attempt #2 at nap time is what lead to the face smack which send my left contact flopping from my eyeball).
I am taking more deep cleansing breaths than a zen yoga master and putting on my calmest "hands are not for hitting" voice---I could so utilize this voice for dj'ing on an easy-listening station, but instead I spend what amounts to hours of my day saying, "Ethan, we don't hit. Hitting hurts and we don't want to hurt people. Please say you're sorry." I have walked out of the room with my hands shaking and stared out the window, counting to 10...or 110, in order to regain my composure.
Yes, this is toddlerhood. It's not like I'm blazing some new trail. No one is going to read this, clutch their pearls and say, "Oh my god! This is brand new behavior! What a fascinating case study!" But, though the behaviors may be as old as the hills and deeply rooted in a toddler's quest to establish boundaries and find an appropriate means of self-expression, it is NEW to me. It shocks me when my child strikes out at me and I take it way too personally; like crying in the bathroom, "wh...wh...why doesn't he like me????!!!" personally (irrationality, thy name is Sarah!).
And then, of course, there is that moment when I walk back into the room, the room where mere minutes before my child has pummeled me, and there he is, smiling as innocently as the day he was born and says, "Hi, Mama." (cue: Mama melting into puddles of lurve). Then we talk about why we don't hit---we talk about how hands are for clapping and patting the kitty and hugging, but not for hitting. Then he says, "Sorry, Mama," and more puddles and melting.
I know ten minutes later, he's more than likely going to haul off and smack me upside the head again, or pull the cat's tail (for which he received some impressive war wounds yesterday) and that we'll have to do this whole thing all over again. I know he won't learn the first time, or the second time even (or the 100th??!!!), and there's a tiny little part of me that fears to my core that he's going to grow up burning ants on the sidewalk with magnifying glasses or finding some other way to inflict pain on vulnerable living things. But most of the time I realize he's just being a toddler and going through these motions is how he learns how to manueveur his way through this world and his relationships with people.
I just wish it didn't leave me searching for one contact lens on the bedroom floor.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
A Case of Mistaken Identity...
Apparently a two year old's brain is a busy place. Lots of circuits connecting and synapses firing and whatnot. Imagine the amount of information a toddler takes in on any given day. It's pretty staggering. No wonder they are such crabby pains in the ass half the time (and I mean that in the most loving way); they are still trying to process the phenomenon that is play-dough when they have to understand why banging on a toy drum is okay, but banging on the cat is, um, not.
So I guess it's not really a surprise that Ethan's got some confusion going in terms of the people in his life. After all, he knows a LOT of people. There's Mommy and Daddy, Lilly, Lily, Chloe, Chloe, Ava, Piper, Katherine (even though she went and moved away), Jacob, Grammy, Grampy, Grandma Judy, Grandpa Harry, Tio Pete, Tia Emi, Sofia, Mr. Skip, Auntie Karen, Sammy, Chris, Jackson, Izzy, and the list goes on.
It's come to my attention in the last couple of days that when he's happily muttering along about the people he knows (bedtimes are scattered with thoughtful commentary on our day--I generally hear a lot of "Lily" and "Piper" amongst the jibberish), he might not always have the right names associated with the people they go to.
I was excited at his birthday party when it seemed that he clearly "got" the difference between Grammy and Grandma. My mother is Grammy. Husband's mother is Grandma. Or so we thought. He knows the difference between my mother and Husband's mother. BUT he clearly has a tough time differentiating between Grandma Judy and Grandpa Harry.
This weekend we had brunch with said grandparents and Ethan decided to start calling his Grandpa, "Judy". Over and over again. Complete with pointing and giggling. Like he knew he was playing with us, but couldn't help himself because "damn it if those grown ups don't laugh every time I do it! They're too easy. Watch this....Judy!!!" (cue: adults crumpling into fits of laughter because we really are that easy).
For a nanosecond I considered being freaked out that it was some sort of developmental issue and Ohmygod, he used to know who Judy is and now he's not sure and WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN???
And then I had another sip of my mimosa and giggled at my kid.
So I guess it's not really a surprise that Ethan's got some confusion going in terms of the people in his life. After all, he knows a LOT of people. There's Mommy and Daddy, Lilly, Lily, Chloe, Chloe, Ava, Piper, Katherine (even though she went and moved away), Jacob, Grammy, Grampy, Grandma Judy, Grandpa Harry, Tio Pete, Tia Emi, Sofia, Mr. Skip, Auntie Karen, Sammy, Chris, Jackson, Izzy, and the list goes on.
It's come to my attention in the last couple of days that when he's happily muttering along about the people he knows (bedtimes are scattered with thoughtful commentary on our day--I generally hear a lot of "Lily" and "Piper" amongst the jibberish), he might not always have the right names associated with the people they go to.
I was excited at his birthday party when it seemed that he clearly "got" the difference between Grammy and Grandma. My mother is Grammy. Husband's mother is Grandma. Or so we thought. He knows the difference between my mother and Husband's mother. BUT he clearly has a tough time differentiating between Grandma Judy and Grandpa Harry.
This weekend we had brunch with said grandparents and Ethan decided to start calling his Grandpa, "Judy". Over and over again. Complete with pointing and giggling. Like he knew he was playing with us, but couldn't help himself because "damn it if those grown ups don't laugh every time I do it! They're too easy. Watch this....Judy!!!" (cue: adults crumpling into fits of laughter because we really are that easy).
For a nanosecond I considered being freaked out that it was some sort of developmental issue and Ohmygod, he used to know who Judy is and now he's not sure and WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN???
And then I had another sip of my mimosa and giggled at my kid.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Ethan Overload...
Okay, I realize this month has been mainly about me bitching and moaning about my own dramas and really, that is so not what this blog is supposed to be about.
But if you know me, you know it's a compulsion and alas, I have to give in; otherwise I fear one day I will be pushing a shopping cart down the street, full of plastic bags, pots and pans and a cat carrier with 4 mangy cats fighting over a chicken bone, muttering to myself about all that's wrong with the world. So trust me, it's better for all of us if I just bitch and moan here every once in awhile (read: daily).
But, having gotten all of that out of my system for the time being, how about a healthy dose of cuteness? We've got everything from birthday to Nashville this month--and we're only half way through....
A little tough to find the gas pedal when you're only 33 inches tall...
Excellent blind-spot checking...
A kiss for the birthday boy...
Ethan interrupts the festivities to take an important call...
There was much paper ripping...
Walk w/ daddy, Grampy and goldfish...
Rocking it old school with the sit 'n spin...
Ethan's new kick-ass scooter...
Sporting the personalized Sox cap (that he will apparently be able to wear until college)...
Cousin Sofia is ready for her close-up...
Ready for some communing with nature...
mmmmm, melon....
Cheeky monkey!
I've heard the kid's menu here is delish...
Ethan had some important shopping to take care of at Whole Foods...
Ethan & Tio JP
If there is a playground structure to be scaled, we will find it...
Tia Emi & Sofia
Husband & Ethan trying to escape...
Ethan checks out the newest gadgets in the Space Mall magazine...
But if you know me, you know it's a compulsion and alas, I have to give in; otherwise I fear one day I will be pushing a shopping cart down the street, full of plastic bags, pots and pans and a cat carrier with 4 mangy cats fighting over a chicken bone, muttering to myself about all that's wrong with the world. So trust me, it's better for all of us if I just bitch and moan here every once in awhile (read: daily).
But, having gotten all of that out of my system for the time being, how about a healthy dose of cuteness? We've got everything from birthday to Nashville this month--and we're only half way through....
A little tough to find the gas pedal when you're only 33 inches tall...Excellent blind-spot checking...A kiss for the birthday boy...Ethan interrupts the festivities to take an important call...There was much paper ripping...Walk w/ daddy, Grampy and goldfish...Rocking it old school with the sit 'n spin...Ethan's new kick-ass scooter...Sporting the personalized Sox cap (that he will apparently be able to wear until college)...Cousin Sofia is ready for her close-up...Ready for some communing with nature...mmmmm, melon....Cheeky monkey!I've heard the kid's menu here is delish...Ethan had some important shopping to take care of at Whole Foods...Ethan & Tio JPIf there is a playground structure to be scaled, we will find it...Tia Emi & SofiaHusband & Ethan trying to escape...Ethan checks out the newest gadgets in the Space Mall magazine...Sunday, May 11, 2008
SouthWorst...
Remember when flying Southwest was fun? Not only did it cost mere pennies if you booked far enough in advance, but their federally-regulated safety shpiel was a veritable stand-up comedy routine, complete with flying packets of peanuts and sarcasm. It was good times.
Sure, if you were flying from Manchester, NH, to Baltimore, you could almost always be 100% assured that your flight was going to be delayed by no fewer than 3-4 hours due to "weather". But damn it, you just couldn't stay mad at them when they finally got you into the air, cracked you up in spite of your angry-ass self, and managed to somehow get you there 15 minutes earlier than expected because they are totally the wreckless drivers of the air highways.
I used to love Southwest. I was one of those crazies who go to the airport hours ahead of boarding so I could be NUMERO UNO in the A line. Pack some magazines, a bottle of water, and plant myself on the floor right at the head of that line. That was the only way I could tolerate their cattle call boarding process and being the first in line meant that I was basically their one and only first class customer. There is very little in life as irrationally and fleetingly satisfying as being the first one down the jet way and on to an empty airplane, any "leather" seat yours for the taking.
If I were in any way delayed (I'm looking at you, idiot in the security line who has been living under a rock and doesnt' know that metal detectors detect....um, METAL!) and found myself third or fourth in line in the A group, or God in heaven forbid, relegated to the B group, I can only use the word "surly" to describe my demeanor for the next several hours.
So you can imagine my sheer glee the first time we traveled on Southwest with Ethan and found that we got to board BEFORE the A group. This alone was reason to keep popping babies out like a Duggar if it meant I could always be guaranteed that "first on board" rush. I loved me some Southwest.
Until yesterday. Yesterday it all came tumbling down around us (okay, so initially I used the word 'crashing' and then I freaked myself out a bit, because you dont' really want to use the word "crash" about air planes--that's got to be bad ju-ju, right?).
We woke up a bit late (dear Husband, please stop booking us on flights that leave at the crack of dawn. Thank you, your loving--and sleep deprived--wife), and it was pouring rain out. If you've driven in or near DC, you know that when it rains, otherwise sane drivers lose all sense and go about 20 miles an hour. On I-95.
There were two lines at the SouthWest check-in; one was about 100 people deep, the other only a handful. As we approached, we were asked if Ethan was a lap baby; the correct answer to this question would have apparently gotten us into the tiny line. We gave the wrong answer and wound up standing behind 99 of our fellow travelers.
The line moved quickly because Husband and I proceeded to fill the time with a....erm, discussion about whether or not we should have lied to the gentlemen and said that, "yes, he's a lap baby,". This is what Husband thought we should have done. It would have gotten us into the shorter, faster moving line. However, the reason lap babies end up in that line is because they require birth certificates to prove that they're "under age" (2) and thus qualify to squirm on a parent's lap for the duration of the flight.
Husband assumed that were we to tell the little white lie, once we got to the front of the line, they would just roll their eyes at us, process our baggage and let us through with a "you crazy customers! ha ha ha!" shake of the head. He suggested that perhaps we say that gentleman just assumed Ethan was a lap baby and let us through to the short line without asking the actual question (which, in Husband's defense, Ethan is small enough to look under 2. It could happen). Husband like to, shall we say, "massage" the system.
I thought--A.) When we get to the front of the line and do not have the appropriate paper work to prove Ethan's "lap-worthiness", they would NOT shake their heads in 1950's style, "you crazy kids!" and send us on their way. They would scowl at us and sending us packing, back to the line 'o 100+. And then what would have accomplished but missing our plane due to all that extra standing in line? B.) I so did not want to screw the guy directing traffic by rolling him under the bus to his peers for a mistake he didn't even make. Please. I watch My Name Is Earl--I don't need karma kicking my ass, thank you very much. And C.) What the hell do we do with this hulking Britax carseat we're planning on strapping Ethan into on the plane if we are supposedly toting a lap baby?
So, long story long, we waited in the ginormous line, followed by the ginormous security line. We hustled our way to our gate to find them already knee-deep into the A group. My pulse quickens. I knew they would be at this point and I was prepared for it--we didn't even have A tickets. We've grown complacent about our online check in since Ethan, considering we know we will get to pre-board, so our tickets say "B" on them anyway.
We figure that we can just walk up and board NOW because "Look! Carseat! Fidgety toddler! We're a FAMILY WITH A SMALL CHILD UNDER THE AGE OF FIVE! Let me on the plane!!"
(Cue the sound of screeching breaks and breaking glass)
Southwest has changed their "family boarding" policy.
They now let families with small children under the age of 5 on the plane only AFTER the "A" group boards. So we had to wait until the rest of the A people got on board before we and 3 other families with squirming children were allowed down the jet way.
Of course, that means there was a back up on the jet way. Ethan squirmed to get down. Then we had to hold our breaths as we came around the corner into the plane in hopes that we'd find 3 seats together. Husband hit approximately three or four fellow passengers with aforementioned hulking Britax car seat before we found our family-friendly row and then proceeded to hold up the entire "B" boarding group behind us as we finagled the carseat out of it Go-Go Babyz wheel-set and into the window seat.
We were by far the plane favorites. When we asked the flight attendant what the deal was she said, "If you don't like it, you can write the company,". Okay, lady and what's your name exactly so I can be sure to express my pleasure at your attitude while I'm at it? Hmmmm?
Sure, they tried their little comedy routine on me before take off, but you know what? I'm over it. It was funny in 1999. Now? Not so much.
After settling in, I realize we've not had food or drink yet this morning and there is nothing on this plane but complimentary soft drinks and tiny packs of peanuts. Those of you who know me know that if I get too hungry, what Husband calls "the beast" comes out. It is not pretty, and nothing keeps her at bay.
So I was super thrilled when I learned of some of their other "new" policies. NOTHING can now be stored in the seat back pockets except SouthWest materials. No bottles of water, none of your own books, no sippy cups. Nada. So basically they are a giant tease of a storage space and don't touch, you dirty, stupid passenger. What???!!
Also? We had to turn the volume on our computer off when trying to let Ethan watch Bee Movie. Mind you I was sitting in the aisle seat while the computer was on Husband tray next to me. I could not hear the audio enough to even make sense of what Jerry Seinfeld was blathering on about. But the flight attendant came over and told me I could "look it up in our policy" and that I had to turn the volume completely off OR put headphones on my 2 year old. So I turned off the volume. And then noticed that I could hear EVERY LOUD OBNOXIOUS word and gaffaw of snorty laughter coming from the gaggle of women three rows behind us. And our Bee Movie on volume level 3 was what was going to disturb everyone on the plane.
After the whole "plane inspection?! We don't need no stinking plane inspection!" fiasco they just weather in the national press, you'd think Southwest would be bending over backwards to appease their customers and prostrating themselves in gratitude that people are still willing to fork over money, no matter how little, to ride in their heaps of tin (which shimmy too much for my liking, thanks). But instead, they are changing policies into utter nonsense and giving their flight attendants license to bitch-at-will to harried customers who just want to keep their kids from kicking the person in front of them by giving them a little entertainment.
Seriously, we are SO done with Southworst. And even though it is generally not in my nature to complain in an official capacity, I do think I will be writing a letter.
Sure, if you were flying from Manchester, NH, to Baltimore, you could almost always be 100% assured that your flight was going to be delayed by no fewer than 3-4 hours due to "weather". But damn it, you just couldn't stay mad at them when they finally got you into the air, cracked you up in spite of your angry-ass self, and managed to somehow get you there 15 minutes earlier than expected because they are totally the wreckless drivers of the air highways.
I used to love Southwest. I was one of those crazies who go to the airport hours ahead of boarding so I could be NUMERO UNO in the A line. Pack some magazines, a bottle of water, and plant myself on the floor right at the head of that line. That was the only way I could tolerate their cattle call boarding process and being the first in line meant that I was basically their one and only first class customer. There is very little in life as irrationally and fleetingly satisfying as being the first one down the jet way and on to an empty airplane, any "leather" seat yours for the taking.
If I were in any way delayed (I'm looking at you, idiot in the security line who has been living under a rock and doesnt' know that metal detectors detect....um, METAL!) and found myself third or fourth in line in the A group, or God in heaven forbid, relegated to the B group, I can only use the word "surly" to describe my demeanor for the next several hours.
So you can imagine my sheer glee the first time we traveled on Southwest with Ethan and found that we got to board BEFORE the A group. This alone was reason to keep popping babies out like a Duggar if it meant I could always be guaranteed that "first on board" rush. I loved me some Southwest.
Until yesterday. Yesterday it all came tumbling down around us (okay, so initially I used the word 'crashing' and then I freaked myself out a bit, because you dont' really want to use the word "crash" about air planes--that's got to be bad ju-ju, right?).
We woke up a bit late (dear Husband, please stop booking us on flights that leave at the crack of dawn. Thank you, your loving--and sleep deprived--wife), and it was pouring rain out. If you've driven in or near DC, you know that when it rains, otherwise sane drivers lose all sense and go about 20 miles an hour. On I-95.
There were two lines at the SouthWest check-in; one was about 100 people deep, the other only a handful. As we approached, we were asked if Ethan was a lap baby; the correct answer to this question would have apparently gotten us into the tiny line. We gave the wrong answer and wound up standing behind 99 of our fellow travelers.
The line moved quickly because Husband and I proceeded to fill the time with a....erm, discussion about whether or not we should have lied to the gentlemen and said that, "yes, he's a lap baby,". This is what Husband thought we should have done. It would have gotten us into the shorter, faster moving line. However, the reason lap babies end up in that line is because they require birth certificates to prove that they're "under age" (2) and thus qualify to squirm on a parent's lap for the duration of the flight.
Husband assumed that were we to tell the little white lie, once we got to the front of the line, they would just roll their eyes at us, process our baggage and let us through with a "you crazy customers! ha ha ha!" shake of the head. He suggested that perhaps we say that gentleman just assumed Ethan was a lap baby and let us through to the short line without asking the actual question (which, in Husband's defense, Ethan is small enough to look under 2. It could happen). Husband like to, shall we say, "massage" the system.
I thought--A.) When we get to the front of the line and do not have the appropriate paper work to prove Ethan's "lap-worthiness", they would NOT shake their heads in 1950's style, "you crazy kids!" and send us on their way. They would scowl at us and sending us packing, back to the line 'o 100+. And then what would have accomplished but missing our plane due to all that extra standing in line? B.) I so did not want to screw the guy directing traffic by rolling him under the bus to his peers for a mistake he didn't even make. Please. I watch My Name Is Earl--I don't need karma kicking my ass, thank you very much. And C.) What the hell do we do with this hulking Britax carseat we're planning on strapping Ethan into on the plane if we are supposedly toting a lap baby?
So, long story long, we waited in the ginormous line, followed by the ginormous security line. We hustled our way to our gate to find them already knee-deep into the A group. My pulse quickens. I knew they would be at this point and I was prepared for it--we didn't even have A tickets. We've grown complacent about our online check in since Ethan, considering we know we will get to pre-board, so our tickets say "B" on them anyway.
We figure that we can just walk up and board NOW because "Look! Carseat! Fidgety toddler! We're a FAMILY WITH A SMALL CHILD UNDER THE AGE OF FIVE! Let me on the plane!!"
(Cue the sound of screeching breaks and breaking glass)
Southwest has changed their "family boarding" policy.
They now let families with small children under the age of 5 on the plane only AFTER the "A" group boards. So we had to wait until the rest of the A people got on board before we and 3 other families with squirming children were allowed down the jet way.
Of course, that means there was a back up on the jet way. Ethan squirmed to get down. Then we had to hold our breaths as we came around the corner into the plane in hopes that we'd find 3 seats together. Husband hit approximately three or four fellow passengers with aforementioned hulking Britax car seat before we found our family-friendly row and then proceeded to hold up the entire "B" boarding group behind us as we finagled the carseat out of it Go-Go Babyz wheel-set and into the window seat.
We were by far the plane favorites. When we asked the flight attendant what the deal was she said, "If you don't like it, you can write the company,". Okay, lady and what's your name exactly so I can be sure to express my pleasure at your attitude while I'm at it? Hmmmm?
Sure, they tried their little comedy routine on me before take off, but you know what? I'm over it. It was funny in 1999. Now? Not so much.
After settling in, I realize we've not had food or drink yet this morning and there is nothing on this plane but complimentary soft drinks and tiny packs of peanuts. Those of you who know me know that if I get too hungry, what Husband calls "the beast" comes out. It is not pretty, and nothing keeps her at bay.
So I was super thrilled when I learned of some of their other "new" policies. NOTHING can now be stored in the seat back pockets except SouthWest materials. No bottles of water, none of your own books, no sippy cups. Nada. So basically they are a giant tease of a storage space and don't touch, you dirty, stupid passenger. What???!!
Also? We had to turn the volume on our computer off when trying to let Ethan watch Bee Movie. Mind you I was sitting in the aisle seat while the computer was on Husband tray next to me. I could not hear the audio enough to even make sense of what Jerry Seinfeld was blathering on about. But the flight attendant came over and told me I could "look it up in our policy" and that I had to turn the volume completely off OR put headphones on my 2 year old. So I turned off the volume. And then noticed that I could hear EVERY LOUD OBNOXIOUS word and gaffaw of snorty laughter coming from the gaggle of women three rows behind us. And our Bee Movie on volume level 3 was what was going to disturb everyone on the plane.
After the whole "plane inspection?! We don't need no stinking plane inspection!" fiasco they just weather in the national press, you'd think Southwest would be bending over backwards to appease their customers and prostrating themselves in gratitude that people are still willing to fork over money, no matter how little, to ride in their heaps of tin (which shimmy too much for my liking, thanks). But instead, they are changing policies into utter nonsense and giving their flight attendants license to bitch-at-will to harried customers who just want to keep their kids from kicking the person in front of them by giving them a little entertainment.
Seriously, we are SO done with Southworst. And even though it is generally not in my nature to complain in an official capacity, I do think I will be writing a letter.
Friday, May 09, 2008
Wherever I lay my hat...
Well, it is officially official, if it wasn't already. Husband has found us a home to rent in Los Angeles. Actually, he found it last week, and there was a frenzy of uploading and downloading pictures, rental agreements, and scanned photo IDs. And then, **poof**! It was ours. Did I mention that I spent much of last week breathing into a brown paper bag? Again.
When Husband first went out to LA, when we were still in the "feeling out the situation" stage of this process, I told him to take a mental snapshot of our neighborhood/community and to go find it out in Los Angeles. And what do you know? He did.
Here, I can walk to Barnes & Noble and Starbucks. There, I can walk to Barnes & Noble and Starbucks.
Here, we can amble our way to several eateries with cute little outside patios. There, we can amble our way to several eateries with cute little outside patios.
Here, we have friends with a kid Ethan's age, right down the street. There? Can you believe I'm going to say it? We have friends with kids around Ethan's age, right down the street. One of Husband's co-workers found a home for his family in the same neighborhood.
I have to hand it to Husband--he did exactly what I asked him. The house itself is bigger, has a white-picket fence, thank you very much, AND a lemon tree in the back yard. I don't really know how a girl can ask for much more than that, right?
When Husband first went out to LA, when we were still in the "feeling out the situation" stage of this process, I told him to take a mental snapshot of our neighborhood/community and to go find it out in Los Angeles. And what do you know? He did.
Here, I can walk to Barnes & Noble and Starbucks. There, I can walk to Barnes & Noble and Starbucks.
Here, we can amble our way to several eateries with cute little outside patios. There, we can amble our way to several eateries with cute little outside patios.
Here, we have friends with a kid Ethan's age, right down the street. There? Can you believe I'm going to say it? We have friends with kids around Ethan's age, right down the street. One of Husband's co-workers found a home for his family in the same neighborhood.
I have to hand it to Husband--he did exactly what I asked him. The house itself is bigger, has a white-picket fence, thank you very much, AND a lemon tree in the back yard. I don't really know how a girl can ask for much more than that, right?
Monday, May 05, 2008
Two Years Ago...
This time two years ago, I was fairly hopped up on narcotics, going in and out of wakefulness, only vaguely aware that I no longer had a baby in my belly. I had yet to lay more than a cursory, bleary, weepy eye on Ethan, as he was holed up in the NICU. With Husband attending to and gushing over our newborn, and my belly, which up to this point had been home to my little one, empty, it was probably the loneliest night of my life. Go figure.So tonight, as Husband, mom and I watched Ethan running back and forth across the living room, screeching at decibels that were making neighborhood dogs twitch, I was awash with joy at the fact that I'm as far from lonely as I've ever been in my life. How could I be lonely when I have this??
Friday, May 02, 2008
The One Where Mama Dials 911...
Well, we've had a good run, right? He'll be two years on Monday and we've had no late night trips to the ER, no major scares or anything like that. So that's something.
Today, however, that run came to an abrupt halt when I found myself separated from my child a layer of glass and steel. Because I locked him in the car. In 80 degree weather. Because I am AWESOME.
It wasn't intentional (duh), but that doesn't do much to assuage the "oh, how do I suck? let me count the waysiness" of it all. While Husband has been out gallivanting in LA (read: working and finding housing for us), I've been driving his fancy "buy this car and get a free iPhone" car as a treat. And it was a treat until about 3:30 this afternoon.
Here's the situation. Ethan's birthday party is tomorrow morning, bright and early at 10am and while the house was clean beyond reproach (no, I didn't suddenly learn how to keep house; my mom's been here for days), it was not festive-looking. It neeeeeeeeeded balloons. So I decided to put the child in "daddy cars", as he calls it (see? not a treat just for me), and head to the nearest party store specializing in garish plastic trinkets and mylar-coated elmo balloons. I needed my cell-phone charger from my own far less fancy car, so I put Ethan in his carseat, turned on the A/C for him and closed the door. Upon returning from my own un-fancy car, I found all the doors of Husband's Audi locked. locked. locked.
Each door handled I tried, and found locked, shaved easily 2-3 years off of my life. Good times.
I have a distinct memory of literally spinning in circles, trying to figure out what to do, and muttering "oh my god. oh my god. oh my god." I am so cool under pressure. I tripped on my own feet running back to the house to get the phone to call 911. Thank GAWD Husband insists on keeping his shiny car key separate from all other keys (Audi can't go slumming with basement keys, dearlord!), so my house keys were still in my bag and not dangling from the ignition inside of said locked car.
I considered calling the "non-emergency" number, but then I thought, "MY BABY IS LOCKED IN THE CAR AND I CAN'T GET TO HIM!" Nevermind that he was playing with his Elmo doll and jabbering away to himself, totally unaware of the...um, secure, air-conditioned peril in which he was enmeshed.
After hyperventilating to the 911 dispatcher (I have NO recollection of that call), I went and tried all the doors again. Because, you know, perhaps by force of sheer will I had opened them with my Jedi-mom mind (Husband will be so proud of a Star Wars reference). No such luck, which is sort of okay in hindsight, because can you imagine the embarrassment if the fire department had shown up to me saying, "You know? It's the funniest thing...."
Fortunately my next door neighbor was outside in his back yard and came over to keep me calm and to make silly faces at Ethan through the window. I am eternally grateful for his calming presence, or I may have gnawed my own arm off waiting the 5 minutes it took for the fire trucks to show up. He suggested that perhaps I call the Audi dealership and see if they had any idea of how we might open the car w/out a spare key--some sort of Audi cryptex. Worth a shot, no?
I did indeed call the fancy Audi people. I explained the situation, and asked the man if there was any way to get into the car without breaking a window. I guess a car salesman is a car salesman is a car salesman because the answer I got was more of a sales pitch than a response showing concern for my child's well-being on an 80 degree day, trapped inside his product. While I cannot recall what I said to the 911 operator, I distinctly recall Smarmy McAudi saying, "Ma'am, our cars are so well-built and burglar-proof, you're just not getting into that car. You'll have to break the window."
I'm not 100% sure, but I think he was smug.
My response to him as I heard the fire truck pull up to the front of the house? "Awesome". Prick.
I shared that information with the four firemen who stroll into my backyard (and I can say in hindsight--what a bunch of hotties. Is there a calendar I can buy? You know, to support the force? ), and their reaction? "We will see your smug, Smarmy McAudi and RAISE to full-on invincibility." See, on them "smug" looks good. Not so much on the guy who's telling you it's a shame your kid is trapped in the car, but damn that car is well-built.
Tall burly fireman informs me with a laugh that perhaps the people down at Audi aren't familiar with them. I swear, all he needed was a cape and he would have been a super hero. Is there already a super hero equipped with every type of lock jimmie known to man? Because that could be him, if there's an opening.
After a mere 3-4 minutes of futzing around with this jimmie and that, Ethan's car window magically slides down. My blood pressure goes back down below the "red alert! red alert! Explosion emminent!" line. Fireman #2 reaches in from Ethan's window to the front door and unlocks and opens the front passenger door. I am finally breathing again.
After I fall all over myself gushing thanks to the firemen (again, don't clearly remember what I said, but definitely said stooopid things like, "You are such heroes," and other embarrassing triteness), I dared not even walk to the other side of the car to get into the driver side (yes, I still had to get balloons for my kid's birthday party!), so in front of my neighbor and the firemen, I got into the passenger side of the car and climbed over the gear shift (sexy!) to the driver side. At the time--seemed totally normal. Now? OMFG, how stupid did that have to look???!!!
So yeah. The first ever 911 call by Sarah, both a raging success AND embarrassment. Good times.
When Husband gets home from the airport, I tell him this story. He saunters over to the mail sorter hanging on the wall by our front door. He reaches up into a small compartment and the top. And pulls out the spare key.
Classic.
Today, however, that run came to an abrupt halt when I found myself separated from my child a layer of glass and steel. Because I locked him in the car. In 80 degree weather. Because I am AWESOME.
It wasn't intentional (duh), but that doesn't do much to assuage the "oh, how do I suck? let me count the waysiness" of it all. While Husband has been out gallivanting in LA (read: working and finding housing for us), I've been driving his fancy "buy this car and get a free iPhone" car as a treat. And it was a treat until about 3:30 this afternoon.
Here's the situation. Ethan's birthday party is tomorrow morning, bright and early at 10am and while the house was clean beyond reproach (no, I didn't suddenly learn how to keep house; my mom's been here for days), it was not festive-looking. It neeeeeeeeeded balloons. So I decided to put the child in "daddy cars", as he calls it (see? not a treat just for me), and head to the nearest party store specializing in garish plastic trinkets and mylar-coated elmo balloons. I needed my cell-phone charger from my own far less fancy car, so I put Ethan in his carseat, turned on the A/C for him and closed the door. Upon returning from my own un-fancy car, I found all the doors of Husband's Audi locked. locked. locked.
Each door handled I tried, and found locked, shaved easily 2-3 years off of my life. Good times.
I have a distinct memory of literally spinning in circles, trying to figure out what to do, and muttering "oh my god. oh my god. oh my god." I am so cool under pressure. I tripped on my own feet running back to the house to get the phone to call 911. Thank GAWD Husband insists on keeping his shiny car key separate from all other keys (Audi can't go slumming with basement keys, dearlord!), so my house keys were still in my bag and not dangling from the ignition inside of said locked car.
I considered calling the "non-emergency" number, but then I thought, "MY BABY IS LOCKED IN THE CAR AND I CAN'T GET TO HIM!" Nevermind that he was playing with his Elmo doll and jabbering away to himself, totally unaware of the...um, secure, air-conditioned peril in which he was enmeshed.
After hyperventilating to the 911 dispatcher (I have NO recollection of that call), I went and tried all the doors again. Because, you know, perhaps by force of sheer will I had opened them with my Jedi-mom mind (Husband will be so proud of a Star Wars reference). No such luck, which is sort of okay in hindsight, because can you imagine the embarrassment if the fire department had shown up to me saying, "You know? It's the funniest thing...."
Fortunately my next door neighbor was outside in his back yard and came over to keep me calm and to make silly faces at Ethan through the window. I am eternally grateful for his calming presence, or I may have gnawed my own arm off waiting the 5 minutes it took for the fire trucks to show up. He suggested that perhaps I call the Audi dealership and see if they had any idea of how we might open the car w/out a spare key--some sort of Audi cryptex. Worth a shot, no?
I did indeed call the fancy Audi people. I explained the situation, and asked the man if there was any way to get into the car without breaking a window. I guess a car salesman is a car salesman is a car salesman because the answer I got was more of a sales pitch than a response showing concern for my child's well-being on an 80 degree day, trapped inside his product. While I cannot recall what I said to the 911 operator, I distinctly recall Smarmy McAudi saying, "Ma'am, our cars are so well-built and burglar-proof, you're just not getting into that car. You'll have to break the window."
I'm not 100% sure, but I think he was smug.
My response to him as I heard the fire truck pull up to the front of the house? "Awesome". Prick.
I shared that information with the four firemen who stroll into my backyard (and I can say in hindsight--what a bunch of hotties. Is there a calendar I can buy? You know, to support the force? ), and their reaction? "We will see your smug, Smarmy McAudi and RAISE to full-on invincibility." See, on them "smug" looks good. Not so much on the guy who's telling you it's a shame your kid is trapped in the car, but damn that car is well-built.
Tall burly fireman informs me with a laugh that perhaps the people down at Audi aren't familiar with them. I swear, all he needed was a cape and he would have been a super hero. Is there already a super hero equipped with every type of lock jimmie known to man? Because that could be him, if there's an opening.
After a mere 3-4 minutes of futzing around with this jimmie and that, Ethan's car window magically slides down. My blood pressure goes back down below the "red alert! red alert! Explosion emminent!" line. Fireman #2 reaches in from Ethan's window to the front door and unlocks and opens the front passenger door. I am finally breathing again.
After I fall all over myself gushing thanks to the firemen (again, don't clearly remember what I said, but definitely said stooopid things like, "You are such heroes," and other embarrassing triteness), I dared not even walk to the other side of the car to get into the driver side (yes, I still had to get balloons for my kid's birthday party!), so in front of my neighbor and the firemen, I got into the passenger side of the car and climbed over the gear shift (sexy!) to the driver side. At the time--seemed totally normal. Now? OMFG, how stupid did that have to look???!!!
So yeah. The first ever 911 call by Sarah, both a raging success AND embarrassment. Good times.
When Husband gets home from the airport, I tell him this story. He saunters over to the mail sorter hanging on the wall by our front door. He reaches up into a small compartment and the top. And pulls out the spare key.
Classic.
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