Food for Thought.

A good article in The New York Times regarding kid's menus. Give it a read - Don't Point That Menu at my Child, Please.

Ode to a Non-Mediocre Mother

This was just so good I had to share.

I got a call from my big sister yesterday, Jomama, and she had a wopper of a story. While spending a lovely afternoon on the beach with her 1 year old, nephew Number 2, she watched him dancing around the beach, picking up seashells and bottle caps. Oh, and a big ass knife. Did Jomama let him explore his universe and pick up the pretty object? Hell no. Like the un-mediocre mother she is, she ran toward the big ass knife and picked it up before he got there first. Good thinking, Jo. Despite Number 2's protests, Jomama chucked the item in her bucket and trotted up to the front desk at her beach club to complain about all the knives lying around on the beach.

Apparently her second good call of the day.

Jomama says - Look what I found lying on the beach.

Front desk lady says - Oh my god, the cops have been out with metal detectors and looking for that bad boy all day!

Turns out there was a little stabbing in the dark of night. Nice beach club. Jomama turns over the knife and is fully expecting to be contacted by the police.

I know that shit happens and naturally violent thugs are not going to keep our environment any safer, but it does make it that much harder to be a mediocre parent when folks are leaving knives around and screwing it up for the rest of us. Therefore, Jomama gets my first ever MeMo award, for getting off her ass in the nick of time to save Number 2. Kudos, babe.

Riding in cars with noise.

Given all I've had to say about the Captain's high energy levels, you would think that the Dad and I would, say, avoid things like 30 hours worth of road tripping within a 3 week period. But since I am (a) mediocre at this job and (b) a glutton for punishment it should come as no surprise that I am doing just that. So next week begins

The Mediocre Family's Epoch Battle to Travel (once again)

This time, it's personal.

First stop, southern France.

Now this should be fun. My very good friends, I'll call them the Scottish-Argentinian-Italians or the Satalian family for short, have been kind enough to open their luxurious French countryside rental to us. Now, I must be careful, as they are reading this, but I will admit that I have one or two worries. First, it is a rental villa with, um, nice stuff in it. In fact, the website describes it as a "superbly imposing 9th century domaine." If there's one thing the Captain could easily wipe out with one swift hand, it's a superbly imposing 9th century domaine. Not sure that childproofing is a big factor when designing a domaine. Second, the Satalian's are contemplating parenthood, and though the sweet Captain of last summer who visited them in Scotland and convinced them that parenting is the bee's knees is still at times good, I have great fears that he's liable to put them off parenting permanently. For more information, see my cousin's comment in yesterday's post. But for real, they were hooked when they spent time with him last summer and by all accounts will be as good at parenting as we are, as evidenced by this photo of them making him pound Scottish Whiskey.








I guess I just don't want to do anything to ruin that enthusiasm.

Now, our second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth stop will be a few days later when we tour southern Spain. This is where we've clearly gone crazy.

The Dad planned a fairly aggressive itinerary which includes Granada, Marbella, Gibraltar, Seville, Cordoba and Garrucha. This is a trip he has wanted for some time, despite my constant worries that it's too much for the Captain, and therefore us. So yesterday we came up with a compromise - we dropped Cordoba from the itinerary. Woo hoo, 2 less hours of driving. So all said we're going to be doing about 16 or 17 hours of driving on this trip, including days of touring hilly cities where the Captain will be trapped in the stroller. Thinking about getting one of those Hannibal Lecter devices. I'm not so worried about the beach days we've planned, it's the rest of it that scares me. First, I'm still suffering from Post Traumatic Chunk Syndrome from our little mishap a few weeks ago. Second, not exactly the comfort-mobile...it's a Ford. Third, we're trying to figure out what would be more irritating - listening to him scream for a 4 hour stretch or listening to kids music for a 4 hour stretch. I'm deeply conflicted.

Which brings me totally off the topic (as usual)...why is kids music so friggin irritating and why does it always pop into your brain at the wrongest of times? It is supremely hard to mourn at a funeral when you've got "Bob the Builder" title music running through your brain. Even worse is during sex. I assure you, nothing can ruin a sexy "moment" like suddenly hearing Goofy in your head singing out "Hot dog, hot dog, hot diggidy dog."

But alas, I do believe it's going to be a 4 hour loop of "Free to Be, You and Me" in the car. Which isn't all bad. Except when you're trying to make it with your man and you keep singing "William wants a Doll" in your head.

Hyper-drive.

Today I actually got off the bus two stops early because I was so mortified by the Captain’s kicking, bucking, ranting, screaming tantrum that I was happier to walk the extra distance than endure the uncomfortable glances from well-meaning Spaniards. Well, it was a combination of factors: (a) he was behaving satanically and (b) some helpful grandmother had a bag from a local toy company in her hand and naturally he was reaching for, and so she thought it would be cute to dangle it in front of his face and wag her finger saying, “no no no!” I wish I was so cruel as to taunt other people’s kids when they were acting up. Of course, if you thought I had trouble with the Momtourage before

So this is actually my second act of desperation in the last week on the subject of the Captain’s tantrums. Last Friday after weeks of visitors, sleepless nights, Dad at work for weeks on end, I finally lost it. Having spent two and a half hours chasing him at an aquarium, followed by 3 sessions of fighting his shoes on while he bucked in my lap and smacked me in the head, followed by 3 hours of chasing him around Dad's office event, followed by 2 glasses of red wine and a glass of champagne, it finally dawned on me...I am in over my head. I thought I might be when I started this blog, but I’m really now convinced of it. I have now come to understand that managing the Captain is akin to performing in the biathlon. Sure, I don't have to shoot at a target after running cross country to chase CK, but I feel there should be some points earned for finally catching him and then wrestling him into his stroller.

Incidentally, who the fuck came up with that kooky sport? I’m going to invent a sport where you have to chug two liters of scotch and then shoot at a moving target like a pickup truck or something…oh wait, I think such a sport might already exist in Alabama. What’s that called, a regular Saturday night?

So, as I was saying, my little Friday night act of desperation resembled any other Friday night act of desperation. No, I didn’t drunk dial anyone; but I did do some creative googling. Did you know that if you google hyper kids over one-and-a-half-million hits come up? Which is all very comforting in the abstract, but not terribly reassuring when you are the mediocre parent of a very hyper child. And so I did find some sites and poured over those parenting manuals that I so handily tossed to the back of a closet. No, after all that I don’t think he’s ADHD (more likely I was just PMS) and I would hate to label him even if he did present such signs, and furthermore I do think Ritalin is the devil's tool. However, I think I do understand why so many parents, teachers, doctors and strangers on the bus get tempted down that path.

Now of course the whole thing seemed worse because in addition to the Captain’s insanity on Friday my cousin and I were chit chatting about kids and he said that personal exposure to several nameless kids have made him less keen on the idea. Umm, you mean my kid? Guilty.

Don't you hate it when you're so drunk that...

you forget what the hell it was that you wanted to say?


Wednesday night, while celebrating with a group of friends our pending homecoming (or commiserating perhaps?) I came up with a drunken stroke of brilliance for my next post. The next morning, all I could remember was maybe a conversation about shoes. Weird.


So my faithful readers will have to forgive both my absentmindedness and my lack o' posting. First, it's rather irritating typing without this shift key. For the sake of clarity and posterity I am going back through and shifting/editing where I need to. Second, I'm on week 10 of nonstop house guests and have run out of steam for cleaning, typing, touring, planning, cooking, restaurants, the Captain...


So since I have painfully forgotten my fabulous post topic, I now present, for your amusement...

Doorknob, Part Trois

Payback's a bitch, bitch.

How much would you pay for this doorknob? $25? Maybe $50? Well, apparently with the current exchange rate, I would pay $135. Anyone else recall that I'm up to officially 4 broken doorknobs? So with simple math, 4 x 5 is 20, carry the 2, hit my broken shift key and return 4 times....Yep, I spent $1,000 on new doorknobs! Did I mention I was mediocre in math, too?


So, I finally got the call from the doorknob repair mechanic guy and he says he's downstairs, comes up and does a lousy installation job and demands cash payment, then and there. Did I mention that because he showed up without warning I was still in my PJ's? He installed 2 and I managed to beg borrow and steal 200 euros from my cousin, but it still wasn't enough. To make matters even more fun the guy said that unless I gave full payment (214 euros) he wouldn't give me a receipt. I call the property managers and I'm absolutely going nuts and we work something out, blah blah blah. Although now obnoxious useless doorknob installation guy refuses 5 of my euros because it's in change. I say, "but it's money?!" Apparently my money is no good here?


Well, I told the management company that I refuse to pay for their extravagant doorknobs and they told me I could come to the office with my receipt for reimbursement. Today I drag a moody and exhausted Captain to the management company and their response was, "Well, we need to submit it to the owner." Excuse me? Didn't you tell me to drag my ass down here and get reimbursed?


So then the conversation goes like this...

Me - Maica told me to come down.

Them - Well, we're not responsible and we're not the owner.

Me - You hired a guy who did a horrible job, was a complete jerk, and who wouldn't leave my apartment without money, even though he showed up with absolutely no notice.

Them - Well, we're not responsible that the doorknob repairman was a jerk.

Me - You hired the guy.

Them - We are not the owners of the property so we can't pay.

Me - Funny, I'm not the owner of the property either and, amazingly, I did have to pay.


Then, the Captain starts to pull out some rather nudgy and irritated behavior, which was just about perfect timing, because, much like the asshole doorknob repairman, I was not leaving without my 195 euros. Finally they cough it up.


So now we're faced with the following question...should we even bother paying the last month's rent or let them keep the security deposit? If I were in the State's I'd be less likely to take the risk, but I'm in Spain and living on Spanish time and I understand it takes about 6 months to evict someone and so they're probably too lazy to go after us for the money. Based on all the dinks and doohickeys around the apartment that the Captain left I am certain they're going to take the security deposit...maybe I should just make this easier on all of us. Plus, with $300 more dollars worth of doorknobs to install, anyone else think they'll find a way to make us pay for it?


Ah well, I suppose I could always hock some doorknobs to make up for the loss.

shift happens.

today we're going to talk about capital letters and punctuation. why is that, oh mediocre teacher? because without two shift keys it is hard to make many of your capital letters and equally a pain in the arse to make particular punctuation.

Observe...

the girl exclaimed loudly, "what an asshole1"

My e-mail address is meciocremama2hotmail.com.

I've lost 35 of my total body fat.

You see. definitely reduces clarity. which is why I was so pissed that the captain felt the need to swipe it off my machine in a desperate fit of...boredom. every time the little bugger doesn't get my attention right away he runs over to the computer and makes a point. such is the problem with the dog being gone and, therefore, the dog crate being gone where my computer cleverly sat, protected from swiping fingers and other unnecessary assaults on my machine. Not the first time he's busted a key off, but the first time he's busted it off permanently. Now we've got a large tv box tied to the tv stand, the new home of my computer, but it seems to have some lacking anti-child qualities.

I was fine yesterday, but the little green nub that's left which allows me to still shift has now fallen off too. the end result is that I CAN'T TYPE A MOTHERFUCKING EXCLAMATION POINT1

Mama if that's moving up then I'm...

Moving out.

As I sit here typing (minus one shift key thanks to a mild temper tantrum the Captain had yesterday), I can't believe I've lived in Spain almost a year to the date and that, sadly, I'll be back stateside in a little more than a month. The Captain was just a wee-Private when we left home and had literally just started to crawl.

Why is that, by the way? Is that the Murphy's Law of toddlers...if you are packing up your entire house and not baby proofed then your toddler is certain to start crawling? It was fabulous.

Anyway, though our departure will be soon, I am certain that our next adventure will give me mucho to blog about (assuming we can get Internet connections where we're heading). This is how the plan is shaking down if we can swing it...

1. Dad works for the next couple of weeks;
2. We attempt a meet up with friends in the south of France for about 5 days;
3. Back to Valencia to pack up, rest up, work and chill;
4. Two weeks traveling around southern Spain by car;
5. Fly home or possibly to my parents house a few hours from home to steal their automobile in the night, seeing as how we sold all our worldly possessions when we moved;
6. Move back into house (which is rented out until June 30th);
7. Dad goes back to his home office; and finally
8. The Mediocre Mama finds a job.

Eek.

My Country Western Day.

I lost my dog, lost my race, might have to move soon. Therefore, instead of whining and moaning, I'll just hang out a sign until I'm feeling the posting love again...

Play-doh!

As I said before, I don't do play dates, playgroups and have an overwhelming fear of too much regularity at one playground. This may come as a shock to many, particularly those who always say to me, "why don't you and the Captain join a class or something? You'll meet people. It will be fun!" Humbug. I know what fun is and unless I’m playing scrabble or seeing a play, the word play shouldn’t even be in the equation.

Captain Kid can be a really remarkable child. Naturally he's mine, so he's remarkable, but honestly, there are some kick ass awesome things about the Captain. So as much as I spend this blog grumbling, I feel I should focus on the positives. Sort of like a performance review of the Captain (Here are the areas I feel you’ve excelled as a kid…yet, there are many areas in which I feel you could improve…). So here they are, in no particular order, my favorite things about Captain Kid:

1. He was sleeping through the night at 6 weeks and has rarely given me a bad night’s sleep since;
2. He's always been rather precocious. Whether walking (9-1/2 months), eating grown up food, sorting by shapes (around 15 months) or climbing stairs he's always taking things on a little early and with full force; you have to admire his resourcefulness;
3. He's a hugger. Me, Dad, random stranger's in the park, small animals, trees. You name it he's hugged it;
4. He has a healthy fear of plants. Huh? I assure you, particularly around Christmas, a healthy fear of plants is not a bad thing; and
5. The funniest noises come out of him. Sort of those intangible things that you have to be there for, but among his best impersonations are Mediocre Mama yelling and Marlon Brando.

So I've done it? Woo hoo. I love my kid, I'm a good Mama. La dee da, la dee da.


Now I dish.

The basic reason I don't do play dates, playgroups and vary up my playgrounds is that I'm deathly afraid of being mortified. The Captain can't sit still to save his life. The more open the space, the more likely he'll go nuts. The smaller the space, the more bored he gets. He pushes ahead of other kids at the park. If a child won't back away from the steps up to the slide, he'll step on the other child to get passed. He runs away, all the time, to the street or to the hills. We tried one of those harness things; he just sort of dangles off the end of it like a worm on a hook. He steals toys; he throws tantrums when you take the items away. He steals food. He steals mothers from unsuspecting kids and then gets shoved for being so impertinent.

But there’s another, and possibly more substantive reason why I don’t do play dates, playgroups and vary up my playgrounds. I don’t like other mothers! Oh, don’t get me wrong, I like my friends who already are mothers or who are future mothers. And I certainly don’t mind meeting women independent of having kids, hitting it off and then saying, oh goodie, we both have kids…let’s disco. But I have a block against forming a friendship with other women simply on the basis of having kids. I mean, really, what do we have in common? We both have kids? Bullshit, anyone can have a kid. That’s not a commonality, that’s a basic life function. Sort of like saying I’ll get along with another woman because we both have a nose and two eyes.

Example. I’ll never forget this one time I was studying for one of my law classes; I decided to take a friend to one of our local coffee bars for a little liquid brain power. Whilst there, a mommy group decided to pop in. I eavesdropped on this group (it was sort of hard not to) and for 15 minutes they discussed bleeding nipples. Now I had no problem with loudly discussing bleeding nipples in a cafe (let’s face it, I passed “inappropriate” sometime between getting pregnant and starting this blog), but to me I just couldn’t fathom paying a group to meet and discuss the status of my nipples. My nipples, despite evidence to the contrary, are not what I am about.

The end result is that I’ve made a small handful of friends while in Spain versus the mass mother-entourage I see some of these women with at the playground (thus, my fear of spending too much time at the same playgrounds). It does seem, in a sense, a bit like high school because Momtourage seems very good at putting up a road block to any Mama, particularly a Mediocre Mama, who is outside of the social schema. Hence, I feel this big around Momtourage and it would seem that when Momtourage's toddler thumps the Captain, there is very little intervention.

Maybe that’s the other thing that I don’t like about the play dates, playgroups and playgrounds…there’s too much damn pressure. All it takes is one bad move by CK or by their children and too soft a hand in correcting behavior for it all to go to hell. Maybe it’s that I feel judged (and subsequently I judge) by Momtourage.

And let’s face it, the thought of loosening up and joining in on play dates, playgroups or the Momtourage bandwagon is akin to discussing my bleeding nipples because I’ve noticed that Momtourage has nipples too…

Enemy, thy name is Doorknob.

I realize that oh but a few weeks ago I was espousing the virtues and wonders of the doorknob. But a few days ago, it all changed...

I honestly don't know how to feel about this. Betrayed, bewildered? The very object I had come to count on is now laughing in my face. At this point my only saving grace is that he can't quite do it with shoes off, so we've instituted a strict barefoot policy...

But let's face it, how long will it take him to grow that extra half inch, a week maybe? It's a wonder that something that was once so implausible, that he could possibly reach the door knob before we moved out of the apartment, is now a reality.

That's the thing about raising a baby. Yesterday's saving grace is tomorrow's death trap. One day he's happily sitting in a bouncing chair and the next day he's lying there with the thing tipped over, clawing his way out like he's in a coyote trap. Which leads me all to a bigger problem - how can I possibly justify buying gates when I'll probably be moving in the next month? That is why I am grateful that the doorknob repair guy has yet to show up ("Mañana, mañana!"). And better yet, two more doorknobs have broken since the last incident, which means that you have to turn the knobs up instead of down. So tonight we'll be swapping our knobs around, making sure that the real death traps are protected (i.e., the kitchen, my bedroom, the bathroom, and of course, Deviant Dad's Office of Death).

In the meantime, we're putting the Captain on a strict diet of cigarettes and coffee to stave off anymore growth.

Buzzed

It has come to pass that the Captain, in addition to being afraid of doctors, nurses, chiropractors and bearded men, is now also afraid of the barber. He had always been a bit wary, which is both why I waited 3-1/2 months to get him a trim and why we were contemplating getting him an audition for a baby Beatles tribute band…




So when the Dad finally got a day off last week, we decided it was time. We brought him to the local mall, plopped him in the little kid’s haircut seat and then faked my way through the most painful conversation in Spanish that I have ever had.

Just cut it short, I tried to explain in broken Spanish.

The hairdresser was afraid. Suddenly he disappears and pops back with style books.

No no no. He’s a baby, just short, don’t worry about style, I whined in English, all the while noticing the Captain was getting antsy.

This guy must have thought I didn’t like the style, so he brought out another book.

Now the Captain was getting crazed, so I just belt out Cut it Now!

He does. Gets perhaps 3 snips into it when the Captain goes ballistic. I take him on my lap and just keep telling the guy to cut.

So he gets in maybe 4 more snips and the Captain is completely hysterical. Dad and I look at each other, knowing full well what’s inevitable. Dad points at the electric trimmer and that’s how the Captain joined the army.





It does bring up some logistical issues. First of all, the Captain was so hysterical that he couldn't even finish the haircut, so it's sort of like a crew cut with long strands around the edges. Second, the Captain refuses to wear a hat and in this hot Spanish sun I’m not exactly sure how to handle it. I bought a spray on lotion and tried to spray it on his head, but pretty much all it did was stick to his hair, giving him a grayish sort of hue. Third, the bigger problem is that as scared as he was before of the barber, he’s now got barber phobia and I think it will easily be another 6 months before I have the courage to get him in the chair again. The Dad wanted to buy a flowbee, but seeing as how he’s as afraid of the vacuum as he is of the electric trimmer I’m just not sure that it’s a good solution. That and every time I vacuum the floor he’s going to go running the other way. …

Ah well. There's always that baby Beatles tribute band.

Food fights.

I've never understood the big fuss over food. Oh, I admit I was initially one of those Mama's who read the guidebooks and fed the Captain exactly as the food nazis dictated. But when I moved here to Spain I decided that Americans are nuts and that I should embrace the Mediocre me. Baby food in Spain is interesting. No single pureed fruits or veggies, meat is introduced to the diet pretty early, fish is recommended from 8 months onward. The baby food labels included ingredients of salt, sugar, olive oil, etc. Bland baby food is simply not an option. So why are Americans so stringent on their food guidelines?

It's the same thing with pregnancy. As a girlfriend of mine, I'll call her "J," has repeatedly pointed out, it is impossible to get a consensus on what you're allowed to do. Go to any European cafe and you're likely to see a pregnant woman having a glass of beer. Consider having pate in some places and you're killing your fetus.

As J has also queried, why is it that we're so freaked out about feeding our baby spices and herbs? I mean, Indian babies must get Indian seasoning in their diet, so why shouldn't American babies? I couldn't agree more. Which is why I took a page from J's book and took the Captain for Indian food last night.






And guess what. He loved it! Not the only interesting food he loves, too. He's had foods with curry, turmeric, cinnamon, nutmeg; he likes garlic, ginger and onion seasoning in his food. In fact, he pretty much eats everything we do, save extremely spicy bits. I know, he's likely to change his ways in the future. But won't it be fun, as he's begging for chicken nuggets, to hang over his head that he used to love tepanyaki, chicken curry and hummus

As for me, the best part isn't just that he's getting a well-rounded culinary experience. It's that I'm getting a well-rounded culinary experience.

Have a Mediocre Day.

I love Mother's Day! No special treatment, no breakfast in bed, in fact, the Dad is at work as I type this. No, the reason I love Mother's Day is the bootie. You see, as between late May and early June I get to celebrate my wedding anniversary and birthday respectively. So now that I am a Mom it's like the Holy Trinity of gift giving.

This year I got a Tous messenger bag and it's fabulous! The Dad tried to come up with something unique and interesting to get me and was thrilled when I walked in the door one evening saying, look, it's my birthday-mother's day-anniversary gift. I love that I can saunter back to the State's with something that hardly anyone back home can get, save those who live in Soho or Houston or at any of the other cities that have a Tous store. For more info, check the website link.

So what am I doing with my Mother's Day? Well, at the moment I'm quietly sitting by myself, the in-laws are out, baby asleep and I quietly nurse a hangover. Not a bad way to spend a Sunday. Oh come on, what are you doing with your Sunday? Truth is, why is this such a special day? Doesn't seem that hard to be a mother. I mean, they let nearly anyone be a mother. What's hard is being a good mother and since I'm not sure I've mastered that either I guess I'll just have to live with having a Mediocre Mother's Day. So since this is a holiday that praises so many, some more or less deserving than others, I leave you with a tribute to some of the mothers that make our lives more entertaining...

Reading is fundamental.

A couple of articles that ran over the last week that are well worth checking out.

1. My sister forwarded this one from USA Today. It's about this whole "Slacker Mom" movement that I seemingly am writing about. I resent being labeled a slacker, however. I work very hard to be mediocre.

2. An important article from The New York Times on some groundbreaking research being done on the "5 second rule." I wish I had read this a few days ago because my theory is that this was the cause of the Captain's "episode" in the car the other day.

Enjoy.

"Captain Chunk"

The Dad has secured 2 whole days off from work, which is why I've been somewhat out of writing commission the last few days. We took a great drive to the beach, followed by a horrifying ride back. After a day of hot dogs, milk, eating sand and running on the beach, it was inevitable. A mere 5 minutes from home, the Captain projectiled all over the back seat of the car.

For me, the worst part is avoiding that compulsion to run and hide. Kid or no kid, no one wants to be anywhere near that. I remember back in college I had a particularly bad bout of food poisoning and had to funk up the bathroom I shared with 5 girls. I taped up a skull and cross bone on the door and put up a friendly message. Stay away, but if you could just occasionally open my bedroom door and make sure I'm not dead that would be great.

So last night our entire evening off turned to disinfecting and fabric cleaning. And try though I might explain to my in-laws that the only thing that will get the odor out of the car is time, they are still on a vigilante mission to disinfect. Like I hadn't already tried that.

This is not the first time the young Captain blew his chunks, but the last time ended with a rage and prayer for the downfall of Iberia airline. Back in November, the Captain and I had to return to the East Coast to spend some time with my grandmother before she passed away. A dear friend had been visiting me and accompanied me on my travels back. Though the Captain is a handful, he was incredible on the 8 hour flight and over the first 6 hours had managed to enchant all of coach class. But two hours before landing the vomiting started and it just went on and on.

After the first round of vomiting I brought him to the back of the plane to change his clothes, where I was greeted with a friendly flight attendant who asked me to take my seat due to light turbulence. I mean, what the fuck, can't I just clean my child? They refused to let me clean him or myself off and made us take our seats, puke covered and all. Then it just continued and he got sick 4 more times. Dear Friend graciously removed her shirt from under her vest so that I would have something less funky to wear and I changed right there in my seat. As for the Captain, I changed him out of his outfit 3 times until I had no more clothes. We had airline blankets covered in his puke and carry on luggage had cooties. Finally, friendly flight attendant made his way back over to me. Noticing the desperate situation, he did what any friendly flight attendant would do and flung a stack of airsick bags at me. What the fuck am I supposed to do with these, tell him to aim it?

In the end I dragged the Captain off the plane and had him wearing nothing but a diaper and an airline blanket. He spent an additional 4 hours throwing up, miserable and shaking and I naturally caught the bug 2 days later. But upon leaving the airplane, I blissfully left 4 puke covered blankets on the floor so that when they said, "You have a good day now," I could reply, "Oh, I will."

The Theory of Relativity

There is nothing more irritating than having your parenting choices questioned, especially when you know in your heart that you are a Mediocre Mama. Having to explain your choices or decisions and the behavior of your child can make you really defensive. And having it come from family really puts your back up against the wall. So why is it that it is family that always questions your parenting?

When I was oh but a few months pregnant, a family member, aka “Supermom,” posed the following question to me: “What kind of mother do you want to be?”

While standing there and contemplating how my body would change, where to buy my maternity wear, just how much bigger my friggin boobs were going to get, the kind of mother I planned to be was a very distant thought from my mind.

Umm, a good kind? A laid back kind? A drunk kind?

As I noted the stern look in her face it became clear to me that sarcasm and evasive maneuvers would get me nowhere. That’s because you can’t be sarcastic to Supermom, as she may run you down with her minivan and sick her Superkids on you, one performing karate (which he studied on Tuesdays and Thursdays after Hebrew School and T-Ball Practice) and the other whacking you in the head with a soccer ball (which she studied Mondays and Wednesdays between ballet classes and origami sessions). I swallowed down and pulled out the biggest bunch of crap I could muster from my already spreading ass.

Um, well, I believe you need to give kids, um, choices…I could feel my answer whimpering “clueless” from the moment I spat it out of my mouth.

She smiled gently and explained, “Well, you can’t really give them choices because (insert Charlie Brown’s teacher’s voice here) blah blah blah.”

I blanked out pretty much all of what she was saying and I thought the inquisition was over until she turned to Superkids and said, “Superkids, what kind of mother am I? Am I a nice mother or a mean one?”

Superkids dutifully and quickly answer, “A mean one. But that’s good because it means we’re safer.”

Safe from what? I felt dumbfounded. Safe from having five free minutes in their schedule to do something other than beef up their resumes at the age of eight so that they can get into Yale? Or maybe it’s something deeper, some actual physical danger that I will be creating by not being a “mean mama.” Would my mediocrity in life that would inevitably carry over into my parenting style be a certain recipe for chaos and danger?

The whole parenting world was such a mystery and here I was, only a few months pregnant, now worrying whether I would be good enough or mean enough. I had no “plan” for my mothering style, hadn’t read any parenting books and it was clear that I was simply unprepared.

I mean no disrespect to this person (well, maybe a little because this would be a very boring blog otherwise). She’s a very commanding woman, a good friend, and an incredibly competent mother. But this moment was my first bit of clarity on the battle that was to come. This is when I realized that parenting is a war, an “us versus them” situation and that because I entered this fight without a parenting plan, I was almost certain to be a “them.”

Looking back I should have known that I could never be that mean mama, which means I will constantly question my judgment and feel like an ass when the Captain falls on his ass. He climbs on stuff, he puts his hands in Dog’s mouth, he jumps off things, he rams his head into crap (see all other blog posts for more information). Does my mediocrity mean that my child isn’t safe?

Well perhaps he won’t always be safe. But at the same time I like to think he’s bound to experiencing life in a tactile sense and not just through soccer camp and sitting still when told. But maybe that means that the world (and by the world I mean my well meaning and loud relatives) will question the sanity of a woman who lugs her kid all over Europe and won't bother with play dates. So here I am, defenses up, not being mean, and occasionally watching the Captain jump off that cliff. Maybe I don’t have a plan, but at least no one will ever call me mean.

Traveling through Europe with Toddlers and Other Fairly Stupid Ideas.

After traveling around Europe with the Captain over the last year, I've learned a thing or two. First, it often sucks. Second, you better be damn sure before you take it on. But if you're like me and the Dad, there is very little that can deter you from giving into that wanderlust. You may have the absolute worst time of your life, but pride and desire makes you believe "I think I can" and you don't care just how bad a time you might have. So I offer the following tips for anyone else out there who is stupid enough to try:

1. There is no such thing as a high chair in Europe. If you want one, better lug along your own. I recommend this handy Eddie Bauer seat;


2. Milk is a luxury in some places. If you are still bottle feeding your baby or even if you're on sippy or straw cups, bring a fresh bottle down to breakfast, fill er up at the cereal bar and put it in your room's mini-fridge. Bring small boxed milks (a la irradiated kind) and buy them at any market you find them along your travels. You would be shocked how hard they are to find;


3. Strollers and ancient ruins do not mix well. I cannot stress this one enough;


4. Watch out for ugly Americans. They are the only one's giving you dirty looks when your toddler is going bonkers;


5. If you are able to, bring your own portable crib. You will be shocked at how many of these hotels put out death traps on wheels and how badly that can fuck up your night's sleep as you worry that Junior Mint won't make it out alive. Also, beware of hotels that charge you extra for the portable crib;


6. Make your own cocktail hour! Inevitably you will discover that when all those fancy European-types are sitting at cafes and bars, you will be sitting in your hotel room giving Junior Mint some much needed playtime. Why be left out? Bring your own bottle opener, borrow some hotel wine glasses and get blitzed whilst the kiddo is tearing apart the Gideon bible;


7. Tipping, it's not just for Americans anymore. Nothing can smooth over a really bad dinner out like a nice fat tip. It will also alleviate your embarrassment about all the food he's thrown on the floor;


8. A solution to that toddler who pulls off his shoes...just bring a pair of dad's stinky socks. Chuck them over Junior's shoes. They will make it harder for him to get his shoes off and provide the proper level of embarrassment to Junior for his/her malfeasance;


9. Invest in a white noise machine. Not only will it diminish the noises outside your hotel room it will provide some nice cover noise for Mama and Dad to get busy; and finally


10. If all else fails and you find yourself losing your sanity, find a nice naval war museum and put him in front of a firing squad...

Of Dogs and Boys

It is with great sadness that I now must write an ode to my dog. I shall call her Dog. She is moving back to the States in but a few weeks, 2 months ahead of the rest of the family. And she puts up with so much bullshit that I feel she deserves her own post. Please note that it probably helps your amusement if you start envisioning a guitar strumming in the background and maybe narration by Johnny Cash or perhaps the narrator from The Dukes of Hazard.

"DOG"

Dog was a kindly sort of dog and very excited when the Mediocre Mama and Dad told her they were bringing home a baby. Though confused at first and worried about all the new noises, Dog loved the new baby.











And as the baby grew up, he came to appreciate Dog more and more. The Captain loved Dog.

Now one fine day the Captain learned to crawl and realized he had a little rivalry in Dog. So hoping to quell all that he decided to show her who's boss.

So the Captain likes to throw things at Dog, steal her food, sit in her crate, hit her, pull her ears, play in her water, tease her with food, present a fist-full of "fake" food so that she'll chase him and generally make her feel inferior and stepped on, regardless of personal consequences, time-outs or punishments, simply for his own amusement and Dog is a saint because she let's him do whatever the hell he pleases.

So the next time you think of a door mat or a punching bag, the next time you step over a homeless person on the street, the next time you step in dog shit I hope you'll think of our Dog. If you don't remember what she looks like, she's the yellow lab, packing her bags and thanking god that she's getting the hell out of town!

Just some quick update shots. Other than the fact that he obviously needs a haircut, here are some before and after shots of his ear...

Pre-bite Pic

After-bite Pic

:-( :-( :-(

Once bitten, twice shy.

Unfortunately, the Captain is neither. Which is why I got a lot of dirty looks from mothers at the park today. I submit...





This is the second time that the Captain has been terrorized by an evil Spanish mosquito (yes, just one), which left him with 20 bites this morning. He was whimpering in the middle of the night and naturally I figured he'd just gotten too much sleep yesterday. Little did I know that he was being accosted.

So today we get to play fun with antihistamines. No really, it's sort of fun watching him slug around as though drunk. And boy are these good napping days. Mama's going to get some housework done today, that's for sure.

The worst part is that I can't lock this child in the house, meaning I have to endure the uncomfortable stares and pulling away of small children who's parents look at me with horror, thinking that I've brought a chicken pox infested child to the park. And have I mentioned that the Captain loves flirting with mothers and willfully runs away from me to hug strangers? Probably something for another post, but let's just say that not many people want typhoid toddler giving them a big smooch. Poor kid.

How Mama got her groove back.

It's amazing how you can watch your own sanity slowly dissolve to the size of a pea when you live abroad, have no family to assist you and have a husband who's worked 30 days straight without a weekend. The simplest errand, the most mundane of activities that you count on suddenly come saddled with a 2-1/2 foot noisemaker, batteries included, some assembly required. And since the Captain is clearly cruising on the path to ADHD, I cannot count on him to sit still for a chiropractor appointment, a haircut or even a simple cup of cafe con leche with a friend. It is for this reason that I took decisive action last week while hanging out at the park.

A young and very fit young woman who clearly had never given birth in her life was playing with a little boy, probably a month or so younger than the Captain. From her New Zealand flag tattoo I decided she was an English speaker. From there, I started feeling her out. How long has she been a nanny? How much work does she have? What day is she free? Whoop, there it is.

So today, for the first time in months, I got out for 2-1/2 precious hours all by myself. I decided to trim the bird's nest on my head and even sprang for the half hour leave in treatment. I have no idea what was in it, but dang if it didn't seep into my head and relax my brain as well as my hair. All-in-all, a very fine day for the Mediocre Mama.

The only pill that was a tad hard to swallow was watching my 56 euro haircut go to 76 euros once I'd paid the babysitter. I also realized all the hidden costs of the leave in treatment as I got tabbed for a hair washing, twice. Leave it to me to get hit with hidden fees like a typical stupid American. Frankly, I didn't care. When you are overworked on motherhood, it's funny how your brain forgets how to do new math the minute someone brings a little relaxation on a silver tray.