Yay, I made it! Time for Wine.

I must thank you all for your kind comments about Mumu’s intellect. Given that she drinks her own bath water nightly, however, I remain unconvinced of her genius.

I am about to relax with an enormous glass of wine to celebrate the end of my 5 night solo parenting stint. It’s been a wild ride, as always, and it hasn’t just been Mumu pulling out the crazy stunts. This week Lulu started to make me regret my tough stance and smack talking on child harnesses. She is so small, but so damn FAST. The other day I brought the girls to the park, and a man was running around the perimeter of the park with a dog on a leash. I still kind of can’t believe this happened- but- Lulu took off after them, at top speed, and chased them at close proximity around the entire perimeter of the park. My jaw dropped to the jungle lawn. I had no idea that 1) she could run fast enough to keep up with a grown man and dog, and 2) that she could run that fast for an entire loop around the park. It was insane. The dude was well freaked out. I was well freaked out. Lulu? Barely winded.

Jungledad returns tomorrow, and is bound to be disappointed he missed all the girls crazy exploits this week. He sometimes complains that they only do cool things when he’s away. And before we had children, he used to complain that the cat only did cool things while he was away. Actually, that’s kind of true. Once, while he was at a telescope in Chile, I heard the cat gagging in the other room. I went in, and saw a piece of pink thread dangling from kitty’s mouth. I started pulling on it, and before I knew it, 6 ft had come out. Then I felt resistance, and she really started gagging, so I snipped the thread and wished her luck getting the spool out the other end. Cat was fine. Jungledad was inconsolable that he missed witnessing something so unbelievably cool (his words). “Dammit, why does nothing this cool happen when I’m around!?” I dunno, I’m just lucky I guess

Mumu’s Reign of Terror

Jungledad is back on the volcano, which means Mumu’s reign of terror is in full swing. It started innocently enough- she dumped an entire box of cornstarch on her sister’s head. Okay, maybe that’s not innocent per se, but it did have serious comedic value, as it made Lulu look like a hundred year old baby. Hilarious! Until I had to clean her up- then slightly less entertaining. At least husband was there to help. And laugh.

Once Daddy left, heartbroken (major daddy’s girl) Mumu sought solace in one of her favorite strictly-forbidden activities: the sugar shower. She scaled the kitchen drawer handles like a little mountaineer to retrieve a large container of sugar from the counter top. Yeah, you guessed it- she poured that sucker right over her head, and Lulu’s, gleefully licking the sugar as it cascaded down her chubby cheeks. Ecstatic. And of course this is my expensive, locally grown, large grain, minimally processed sugar (Jungledad and I buy to put on our crepes and never share with the girls) and the second time she’s done it.

Yet even this cannot compare with her recent exploits. For some time now, Mumu has been trying to escape her crib. She is not ready for a big girl bed, and more to the point, I am not ready for her to have a big girl bed, so I have started dressing both girls in sleep sacks to put the kibosh on climbing. No shame in that game, yo. I’d consider straitjackets if it came down to it.

Undaunted, Mumu has started a kangaroo campaign. She’s been trying for some time use her mattress as a launch pad to physically jump out of her crib. While I admire her chutzpah, and have frequently told others to, in the words of Johnny Cash, “break their rusty cage and run” when I’m asked advice on dead end jobs and relationships, that advice is not applicable for actual cages. She needs to stay in hers. Luckily, the kangaroo campaign has resulted only in stronger quads, and a mattress flat as a pancake.

Unfortunately, she didn’t give up. Sometime in the last few days, Mumu had an epiphany. She thought to herself- why do I really want to get out of my crib? Answer- to move around my room and mess with things. Epiphany- what if I could move around my room and mess with things WHILE still in my crib!? What an evil genius plan! So- I don’t know how she does it, but she drives that crib like a friggin golf cart. I kid you not. She’s found some way to throw her body weight just so (all 24lbs), to move entire large wooden crib in whatever direction catches her fancy. I entered the nursery on a recent morning to find that she had driven crib across the room, to a rocking chair which held on its seat, a brookstone baby lullaby maker. Maker is too fat to fit through slats of crib, so she grabbed hold and jimmied it hand over hand over top of crib, then preceded to meticulously disassemble. But this wasn’t enough mischief for one night, oh no. She then popped the crib in reverse (again, HOW is she doing this!? Will I find notebooks full of crayon calculus under her mattress?) backed that sucker all the way to the window, and tore down the darkening shade. GOOD MORNING, MOMMY! Look what I did

This afternoon I found the remains of a purple crayola crayon in my dryer- all over my white shorts. While I cannot prove this was Mumu’s handiwork (unlike the crayon on the walls, which was most definitely Mumu’s work) I am deeply suspicious, and slightly terrified as to what she may pull next. While I wait for her next attack, does anyone know how to get purple crayon off clothes?

Why my Children Won’t be Watching TV

It’s not what you think. It’s not about the violence, the brain-rot, the sex, drugs and rock n’roll. Not about bragging rights or childhood obesity, or even that obnoxious word, “principle.” It’s about 3 words, count em, 3: My. Little. Pony. What’s wrong with a little pony? A LOT. It won’t stop at pony; it won’t stop at little. Once they have little ponies they’ll need milliponies, then microponies and it won’t stop there. Soon there will be nano ponies, visible only through my-little-electron-microscope, and I don’t need to tell you all- the smaller the equine, the heftier the price tag. Accessories will follow, as they always do, and nano paddocks will need pico hay.  Before you know it we’ll be taking out a second mortgage to finance femto ponies, visible only through my-little-atomic-force-microscope, which I’ll have to sell the girls’ savings bonds, my saxophone, and my body to afford. It’s just not worth it, ladies.

Parenting: Team Sport or Individual Pursuit?

The last few nights I’ve been trying to make a dent in the massive backlog of New Yorkers piling up at my bedside. Now, as always when I read the New Yorker, my little brain is whirring away. The article most on my mind is one about the conception and evolution of “Parents” magazine, but on a wider scope, the concept and evolution of parents. The article points out that the whole idea of “parents,” is an invention of modern times. Previously there were “Mothers” and “Fathers” with very clearly defined roles; no team action, more of an individual pursuit.

This blows my mind. Since Jungledad and I are a team, and most everyone I know with kids actively shares responsibilities and general parenting practices with their partner, I’ve fallen into the mindset that this is how it is for everyone, and how it’s always been. Not so.

Last December I was well and truly shocked when I met a father in his 30s who did not subscribe to the team philosophy. I met him at an airport; it was in interesting encounter. A little background: Jungledad, myself, and jungletwins had boarded a plane at jungle airport, headed for Boston to visit family at Christmas. 26 straight hrs of travel and 2 more planes later (that’s what we get for living on a remote island in the Pacific), we still hadn’t arrived. By the time we reached the airspace over Boston, I was hanging on by a thread. I won’t even try to describe to you my state of mind at that point; suffice to say, it wasn’t pretty. So I was not amused when our charming pilot went in for a landing, then pulled back up at the last minute. Circled around endlessly, for over an hour, with no further attempts to land. Finally the pilot came on the intercom- said there was wind at the airport ,and he didn’t “feel comfortable” landing. He decided to fly in the opposite direction, to New York. Lovely. I don’t know enough curse words to express my frustration at that point. I was drenched in baby pee and formula. The girls were exhausted. All our ears were sore from taking off and landing over and over and over. We hadn’t slept in over 26hrs. My arms were shaking with fatigue from bouncing Mumu for hours on end. I just wanted to go to bed. At that point I really almost lost my shiz. I wanted to tell that pilot to be f-ing man and land the plane.

Okay, I’ve really digressed. Back to the parenting thing. Junglefamily sat in JFK airport waiting for the pilot to get some gumption. The girls had turned into miniature grizzly bears by this point, and I really couldn’t blame them. Lots of passengers sympathized, many spoke to us in the terminal. One guy in khakis who looked to be in his 30s approached my husband and asked him if it was he and Lulu the man had heard in the men’s room: Lulu shrieking and my husband begging her to stop. My husband confirmed it was indeed them. The man said he had 3 kids, I forget the exact ages, but they were somewhere in the 8-12 range. He was fairly shocked that Jungledad had changed a diaper in the men’s room, that he had changed a diaper at all. The man confessed that he himself had never in the course of 3 children changed 1 diaper. Whoa, really? I was appalled. I couldn’t imagine.

After that article I starting thinking, maybe his situation is not unusual, even in this day and age. Maybe more couples have a clear division of parenting and no overlap or team stuff. It made me curious. In your own family, do you subscribe to the team philosophy, or is your parenting style separate but equal, or separate and not equal? There’s no wrong answers, I’m just interested.

Oh, p.s, we did make it to Boston in the end. The original pilot had a huge row with the airline and refused to fly us back, so we had to sit for hours in the terminal until another AA flight came in and the airline could yank a pilot off of it and make him fly us back.

Summer is the Season of Passion

Fruit. It’s the season of passion fruit Boy do I know it. There are passion fruit seeds and pulp on pretty much everything we own, courtesy of the girls. It smells delish, but is sticky and gooey and looks a bit like snot. Not to ruin your fantasies of the tropics or anything. I’ll try my best to think of something else it resembles other than boogers. Passion fruit trees line the border of our park. They sprout gorgeous red flowers before they turn into little round yellow fruits. The girls can’t get enough of stuffing them in their months, especially the rotten ones covered with ants. Mmmmmm. Here’s Mumu holding one up, delighted:

I don’t have any of Lulu and passion fruit, which is kind of shocking because she’s rarely without it, but in the interest of time and fair play, here’s a pic of her laughing while walking at the park (probably thinking about how she’s going to smear passion fruit pulp all over my couch).

Last week was pretty crappy, yesterday was not promising, but today was magic. Glorious sunny day. The girls frolicked with abandon. Dragged around bamboo, picked orange orchids, ate passion fruit, and laughed, laughed, laughed.

My Daughter Broke my Toe yesterday; This Week Sucks

No joke, Lulu really did break my toe yesterday. I wish I could say that’s the worst thing that’s happened this week.

The week started with a lovely urinary tract infection. Mine, but I still blame the girls. I had never in my life had a UTI until I got pregnant. Then I had 2. Since the girls birth I have had, including this one, 3. My doctor says it’s from too much sex and not enough water. To avoid going back to his office and having to sit through another lecture detailing my skanky, dehydrating ways, I searched the web for home remedies. Had one night of total hell, then was pretty much cured. Yay for google, cranberry juice, and baking soda.

Then Mumu started acting up. Refusing to eat, being extra fussy. When she turned her nose up at raisins, her all time fav, I knew something was up. Thought it might be her throat, called the Pediatrician. He’s only working a half day. Drat. Off to the clinic. Mumu’s throat is fine. They look in her right ear, fine. Go in for the left ear and she fights like a vicious hellcat. Takes 5 attempts and 3 peeps holding her down. When doc finally gets a peek he says it’s really not that bad, just a little red, but obviously bothering her so we get the scripts. Made it 18 months with no ear infections, but now the streak is over. Wait in the pharmacy for 10 years to get prescription. What, penicillin? What is this strange new drug? Will take us hours to locate such an exotic substance. More smack talking on the island pharmacy later.

Took the girls for 18 month checkup a few days later, and this was almost the bright point of the week. Doc gave them an A+ for growth and health, all going well until he started going off about swine flu. Told us it was a full blown epidemic on the island. Everyone has it, and everyone who doesn’t will, and by the time he was finished with his little rant I was on the verge of a full blown panic attack and ready to go deeper into the jungle and never come out. He smiles and gives us an ear drop script to de-waxify Mumu’s recovering ear.

Back to dreaded pharmacy. The island pharmacy deserves its own post really, and this one is already too long, but I will say there is nothing like it on this planet. Its been around pretty much since the island was colonized and they have never felt the need to modernize or streamline procedures since then. It’s more of a town hall than a pharmaceutical distributor, and if I had nothing else to do all day I’m sure I wouldn’t mind waiting hours for ear drops, but I do so I do. While we waited we were accosted by another insane elderly woman. While I am grateful that this lady was not wearing a string bikini and dispensing unsolicited birth control advice in my general direction like the last older woman who felt compelled to bother me, I didn’t appreciate her unsolicited parenting advice and subtle implication that I am a bad mother. She was obsessed with Lulu, and the idea that Lulu was a boy, and cold. Lulu was wearing a red short-sleeve dress and very comfortable, but the woman, after grudgingly accepting that Lulu is female requested aggressively several times that I “go to the car” and get her a sweater. I politely declined, as it was literally 90 degrees outside. No sweaters. Then she insisted that the red stain around Lulu’s lips from the cherry tylenol I gave her before her vaccinations a few hours earlier was some sort of serious rash from a food allergy and that I was failing my daughter by not keeping better track of what she ate. Then we were back to the sweater issue, then I got a bollocking for taking Lulu out in the first place, when she was “obviously too young to be out.” At 18 months. Okaaaaaaaay. Longest, weirdest pharmacy line ever.

Then there was the weird business on the take-backs yesterday. Still scratching head over that one. No, said person is not shy and does not have trouble saying the words “loan” and “borrow.” Have exchanged DVDs many times with her. She specifically said her daughter had out grown the book she gave me and that she would like me to have it. If she meant borrow, I believe she would have said borrow. I think she changed her mind a year later. She changes her mind a lot. Has invited me to lunch at her house twice, and cancelled twice. It’s my blog, and I’m anon, so I’m choosing not to be diplomatic. But I am moving on.

Or rather, hobbling on, on my broken toe. So yesterday, the girls behavior was horrid. I hoped to distract them with some music. I was in the kitchen fumbling with a CD when Lulu managed to jimmy the largest, heaviest frying pan we own out of the cabinet and drop it, sharp edge down, on my little toe. I’m sure I scared every mongoose and wild boar within a 6 mile radius with all the obscenities I screamed, but darling Lulu didn’t even notice. Here’s hoping next week is better. I’ve stocked up on wine from the island pharmacy in case its not.

Take-backs?? There’s no Take-backs!!

I find myself in a peculiar situation I have not faced since childhood. The issue at hand: take-backs. Here’s the dealio. A friend gave me a gift, then a year later, asked for it back, hinting that it was not in fact a gift but rather a loan. I am floored and bewildered.

The circumstances of the gift were quite straight forward. When the girls were about ready to start on solid foods, I discussed the subject with said friend and she raved about a book she had used for her daughter when she was a baby. She has one child, age 4. The recipe book was geared towards infants, up to tots, and as her daughter had outgrown it, she said I could “have” it. Our next conversation about the book came up when we were having coffee at a bookstore and I mentioned that while I was there, I was going to buy the book she raved about. She hadn’t brought it with her, and I wanted to get started on the recipes right away. She said “No, don’t buy it, I want you to have mine.” “Have” was said several more times, never borrow. And she got it to me soon after. Have been using the book, and didn’t give it second thought until she suddenly, yesterday, said she needed back the book that I “borrowed.”

Errr, what? Take-backs, in adulthood? Seriously?

I have a theory that her sudden need for a book she gave away has to do with background as an only child. Not bad-mouthing only children, I swear. Just saying I’ve known a few who had difficultly, even in adulthood with regard to possessions. I remember one of my husband’s college roommates as a prime example. If anyone took a french fry off his plate, the man would have a cow. We would not be placated until he had stolen a french fry off someone else’s plate to even the score. Fine. What evs. Giving is not mandatory in adulthood. But if you can’t handle parting with possessions, then don’t volunteer to do so in the first place, right? Agghh, what frikin evs, yo. She can have the book back. No apologies to her for the food stains though.

Bust a Move

Recently Mumu has started laying down some dope moves, or rather,  move, on the dance floor. I will preface this by saying the move is entirely of her own invention; I don’t dance like that yo. I’ve named said move “the cape.” It looks like something from the pasa doble. She takes one arm and kind of flings it over the opposite shoulder like she’s flinging a cape, matador style. Then she holds it, like so. To Mumu, this move alone IS dancing. If anyone says the word dance, she immediately busts it out. Wanna see it in action? She won’t let me video (which is clearly youtube’s loss) so we’ll have to settle for still frames.

 

 

 

 

Ole! 

Lulu has not developed a signature move yet, but I will be sure to document it when she does.

Anyone else got youngsters who can boogie? 

From the Jungle. With Love.

 

 

 

The Most Heinous Bridesmaid Dress I’ve had the Privilege to Wear

Brace yourself ladies. While spring cleaning (there are no seasons in the jungle, spring is when I say it is) I found this:

Oh yes. I know what you’re thinking. That. Is. Breathtaking. But wait, there’s so much more. Above you see the back of the dress. The front of the dress is completely dominated by this:

Your eyes do not deceive you. That is indeed faux foliage, rhinestones, and orange feathers. I spent 100+ dollars for this baby. Money well spent.

The main body of the dress is constructed of a flesh colored floral tablecloth

covered with a kind of dark teal fishnet.

No, I do not have any photographs of myself in the dress. I threatened my husband with bodily harm if he tried to take any. He assured me that I looked great in the dress, that more brides should fashion their bridesmaids as “Poseidon’s Handmaiden,” but I didn’t believe him. I can tell you that finding shoes to match was no easy feat. I feel the task would have been made easier if I had access to a time machine to travel back to 1983, where no doubt teal pumps would have been more prevalent in the greater Boston area. I could also have given stock tips to my 4 year old self. Then I could afford to live on the resort side of the island. That might have made up for having to be seen in public, wearing THAT.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate wedding attire originality; I do. My wedding dress was a bit different from the norm. That bridesmaid dress isn’t even in the same universe though. On shrooms I couldn’t hullucinate such a thing.

So what did I do to the bride to deserve that charming garment? Nothing, I swear. A have a theory as to why she did this to me. At the time she was studying for her medical boards. I think perhaps all those hours of intense concentration led to a small undetected brain hemorrhage at the exact moment she was picking out bridesmaid dresses. Really, what other reason could there be? Then again, maybe it was chosen for practical reasons. The floral layer could certainly double as a tablecloth if needs be at the reception. And if the food ran out, we could run down to the creek and net some fish with the top layer, no doubt.

The dress was a big hit at my bachelorette party, where I was forced to model it. I still remember my sister shaking her head, saying “If a friend made me wear that dress, we would not be friends anymore.” Well I’m bigger than that. I chose to wear it and then talk smack anonymously about it on the internet. I am nothing if not gracious and mature In fact, I went out of my way to go to that wedding, even knowing what I would have to wear for an entire day and evening. The wedding was in England, and only 2 and a half weeks after my wedding, so we swung by the UK on the way home from our honeymoon in Tuscany. I remember wearing the dress in the British hotel, looking in the mirror and thinking- DANG, the honeymoon is SO over.

So has anyone else been tortured in a similar fashion, or am I the only one?