Bubble, Bubble, Toil and Trouble

I have a confession.  I hate attending my husband’s company events.  I don’t care how fancy and FREE it might be.  I just don’t enjoy it.  Don’t get me wrong… I love to party.  But my very smart, yet slightly “scientific” husband built his career in the Bio Technology industry, which means most of his co-workers are also very smart, and even more “scientific” (a.k.a – nerdy).  Just not my crowd.  I am way too cool and hip and definitely an outsider to the “scientific” community.  You also have to be somewhat cautious because you don’t want to be your hubby’s career limiting wife and become the talk of water coolers.

However, it’s only been two weeks since landing in San Diego and our family wknd calendar is somewhat bare so I welcomed the invitation to join my husband’s annual company picnic at the local beach.   We packed the car, packed the kids, and headed off to the party.  Anywhere is better than spending another day in corporate housing. 

My kids were thrilled to find that the party included a huge indoor pool with the biggest bouncy house I’ve seen in my mommyhood career.  We each took a child, changed them, and swim diapered the baby and went into the pool.   After about 5 mins, my ADHD baby wanted to get out of the pool, and go in to the bouncy house.   We only brought a small hand towel for the entire family so I decided to save the towel and just bring my baby to the bouncy house wet.  

“Please dry off before entering” said the sign on the entrance of the bouncy house.  I conveniently ignored the sign, and just slipped my baby in the bouncy house.  There were two other much older kids jumping and having a ball.  I should note here that this was my child’s first bouncy house experience.  She knew she wanted to go in, but once she was placed in the bouncy house, my baby realized she didn’t know how to actually jump or bounce.  She was locked in a crawling position, completely bewildered.   “Bounce baby, bounce.  Bounce like a bunny!”  I tried coaching her from the outside.  Nothing.  She didn’t move a muscle.  I cheered even louder for her to bounce.

That’s when I realized that she was indeed moving a muscle.  She was actually peeing!  Not a big deal, I thought no one would notice since she was dripping wet from the pool water anyway.  But much to my dismay, she kept on peeing and peeing for what felt like an eternity.  I didn’t know that toddlers can pee THAT much.  She simply wouldn’t stop.  What da heck?  Why did I pay a fortune for that swim diaper that doesn’t even work??  I stopped cheering and tried to pretend that I didn’t notice that she was actually peeing.  

“Oh my god- that baby is peeing!”  One of the parents of the other kids scremed.  Now, EVERYONE was looking, and the kids who were bouncing went nuts!  They started screaming, and tried to get out of the bouncy house but couldn’t because my baby wouldn’t move an inch, sitting right by the door.  To make the matters worse, when the kids tried to get out of the bouncy house, my baby’s pee would simply spill over to the next groove, then to the next groove.  Not only did it overflow, it actually started to bubble up, and there were bubbles getting bigger and bigger from my daughter’s pee!!  I didn't know pee can bubble up like that.  Bubbles were EVERYWHERE!  

I stood there totally flabbergasted.  I went right back to that place when my first child over-flooded the toilet at his friend’s birthday party.  How do I wipe down the bouncy house?  How do I try to wipe down my baby?  Should I pretend that she is actually NOT related to me?   Frozen by shock and dread, I was totally helpless.

Now I have a brand new perspective on company picnics.  Apparently I am NOT too cool and NOT too hip for the “scientific” community .  .  .  I now have to make sure my kids also don’t become the topic of the water cooler talks.  It’s a whole different level of stress.  Sighh…

 

 

 

 

Traveling Ramblings: Jersey Shore

Today, we packed the car, the kids, and grandparents and drove down to the Jersey Shore.

When we arrived, we soon realized the beach was also packed. We found a spot between a group of teenage boys playing volleyball, and some long legged girls tanning in their bikinis. Looking around, I suddenly felt too old to be there in my miracle-shape bathing suit.

Much to my amazement, there were a ton of dark, I mean really leathery sun bathers at the beach. There were people of all shapes and sizes, scorching under the July sun. We were huddled under two SPF 100 umbrellas, and I dressed the kids in long sleeve sun guards, and covered their face thick with sun block lotion. I felt old and out of place.

I decided to take the kids to the playground at the beach. At the playground I saw a group of boys laughing and playing near the swing set. I thought how nice it would be for my son to be able to hang out with his friends like that when he gets older. I walked to the swings to put my daughter in the baby bucket seat. Then much to my surprise, one of the “boys” took out an actual cigarette, and lit it.

I was stunned. I looked at the boy, and he looked no more than 9 or 10 years old. He had perfectly groomed eye brows, and a diamond stud earring. His friend climbed to the top of the swing set, and started making indecent gestures at the girls across the playground. How old were these “miniature” people anyway? Were they just really young, but “urbanized” or were they actually much older, just developmentally pre-mature? I couldn’t tell. I thought smoking was something we dealt with in the 80’s. I didn’t realize that now 10 year olds are smoking. I dragged my two toddlers kicking and screaming out of that play ground, just in time so they don’t pick up on all the “f” words, and get lung cancer from second hand smoking.

Being back in New Jersey brings back certain memories of childhood. I was no angel, and I’ve done my share of sneaking out beyond my curfew and crashing my parent’s car. But somehow, motherhood had a way of fast forwarding life that I’ve now become one of those adults who frowns upon smokers, sun-tanners, and kids growing up too fast.

“Being a cool mom doesn't mean to set your kids free without boundaries, but it is important to give your kids room to move and learn things for themselves. This will help you to enjoy parenting and help your children to enjoy being raised. It's a win-win situation.” -- WikiHow

I’m sure some 14 year old wrote that parenting advice on WikiHow because the thought of letting my son grow up and letting him hang out with those boys at the playground gives me a panic attack.

I am most definitely NOT a cool mom.

Traveling Ramblings: New Jersey

How do I describe New Jersey? Being a true Jersey girl, I’ve always been very defensive about Jersey. I didn’t realize it was the butt of every joke until I went to college where I first heard it being described as the “armpit”. To me, Jersey was always an extension of New York- just a little bit less crowded, nicer, greener, and much cheaper shopping.

Here are some interesting facts:

- This week, Gas is only $2.35/gallon. That includes the full service. They actually get offended if you come out of the car and start pumping the gas yourself.

- There’s no sales tax on anything you wear- that means no sales tax on clothes, shoes, etc,. Heaven!

- Others might call Jersey the “armpit” but the Jersey people call it “the Garden State”

- There are no “freeways” – every highway has tolls. To cross the bridge from New Jersey to New York, you would have to pay stinkin’ eight dollars!

- Jersey people really do have an accent. I’ve been denying it my whole life, but there’s no hiding it. Thanks Tony Soprano for letting the whole world know how we talk.

In Jersey, I intend to get spoiled and pampered by my parents. I plan to catch up with old friends, go shopping and get lots of R & R.

Home sweet home...

Traveling Rambling: San Jose Airport

“What? Are you insane?” a friend asked me. Call it ignorance, a pure fantasy, a delusion for being landlocked for what felt like an eternity with young kids, but I really thought it was a good idea to travel for a month with my two under-aged travelers- without my husband. Since our family is in the process of moving to San Diego anyway (hubby got a job there, and has been working there since May), why not use the opportunity to go and pay over-due visits to friends and family across the country?

So I began my cross country trip. I love to travel. I love just showing up at friend’s houses and surprising them. I love to go to places with nothing planned, and just “figure things out” when I get there. Unannounced, unexpected, and unpredicted was my style.

Now that I have two toddlers, and most of my friends have toddlers, anything “unexpected” is usually NOT a good thing. Knowing this, I arrived at San Jose Airport 2.5 hours prior to my departure time. Knowing that the evil airlines would charge me a fee for checking curbside, I got a luggage cart, and began loading 2 large suitcases, 2 car seats, my jewelry case, oversized diaper bag and a stroller. With my one year daughter in a baby carrier, and holding my 3 year old son’s hand, I began to walk towards the check-in line. Wednesday afternoon with the economy the way it is, I expected the airport to be empty. To my dismay, the check in line was packed, there were only 2 agents working at the counter and the airport was anything but empty.

“57 lbs. That will be $50” said the ticket agent. WHAT? I packed and weighted the suitcase myself just yesterday. “53 lbs, that will be another $50, total of $100. Would you like to pay it by cash or credit?” CRAZY!! I just waited 45 mins in the line so I can avoid paying the curbside fee. I was NOT about to pay $100 after waiting in line for that long. “I’ll rearrange my luggage” I said adamantly. The ticket agent rolled her eyes, and let out a loud sigh that screamed “I’m too busy to cater to you.”

I opened my over-sized and over-weight suitcases, and began to rearrange the load frantically. I can feel the eyes of disgruntled travelers behind me. How can my bags be off by 10+ lbs? Was my scale off? Have I’ve been weighing myself on the broken scale all this time? DOES THIS MEAN I AM ALSO 10+ POUNDS HEAVIER? There I was, in front of the ticket counter, with packages of Pampers, Ziploc full of wooden trains, clothes, and toiletries scattered everywhere- all eyes were on my 10+ lbs over-weight bags, and on my 10+ lbs over-weight self.

After several unsuccessful attempts at trying to magically get rid of the overweight lbs, I finally ended up with the unanticipated penalty of $50, a 67 lb suitcase, and a very visible fluorescent “heavy” tag hung like a scarlet letter on my suitcase.

The two hour flight to Denver was anything but easy. But the worst part of my trip was definitely the unanticipated $50 plus the unexpected weight gain. Sigh…

So began my month of travel. Next stop – Denver. Stand by for more unexpected, and unexpected happenings.

The Percentile Please!

Managing two kids means twice as many doctors appointments to remember. With my first child, I was anal about everything- making sure to book the appts so I don’t disturb my baby’s feed/nap/poop schedule, dressing the baby appropriately so he wouldn’t freeze on the examining table, etc,. I even took time to review and research before the appointments so I can maximize my 5 mins with the physician and ask the right questions.

That woman is now only a distant memory. Now I skid in to the garage, park completely crooked, and run madly with my kids flying behind. 4 months after my son turned three, I finally managed to book my son’s 3 year check up. No time to research my discussion topics. I only had ONE burning question in my mind.

I have to pause, and describe my son’s doctor. When I first met him, I was shocked at how young he looked. He couldn’t have been more than late 20’s, early 30’s at best. He looked too young, too hip, and too friendly to be a respectable doctor. (To all my doctor friends, apologies ;-) But the minute I saw him interact with my son, my skepticism dwindled. And the minute he turned to me and said “…and how are YOU doing…?” I knew I liked him.

With my ONE question, I waited patiently in his 10 x 10 examining room. My young, hip, Banana Republic wearin’ doctor finally walked in, and we chit chatted a little bit, then he began examining my son. Weight- 95 %, Height- 97%. Eating well, playing well, sleeping well, potty trained, etc,.etc,.

“Do you have any questions?” my pediatrician asked.

“Yes, I do have a question” I blurted out before I changed my mind about my question. The young doctor looked concerned and put down my son’s chart.

“ I’ve been working on teaching my son to pee standing up and noticed that he is not peeing straight. I’m wondering if his circumcision was done correctly. ” The thought of having to re-circumcise my son made me feel faint. But I had to ask and consider the unthinkable- just in case.

The doctor examined my son. “Everything looks normal with his circumcision. Circumcision is difficult sometimes because baby’s the baby’s penis is so small.”

My heart sank. Now, I had a much bigger problem.

I asked hesitantly. “Did you say my baby’s penis is small? Did you mean relative to other babies or did you mean all babies have small penis because they are babies?“ Would my child be made fun of at school? Would he be shy in locker rooms? Would he have a poor self-image?

The young doctor paused. Then he panicked. He looked away, searching for an appropriate response. “Your son’s penis is just fine. Normal in every way. I simply meant all babies have small penis and circumcisions are sometimes difficult” He added, “I wouldn’t worry”

This still didn’t comfort me. Now I was REALLY worried. What does "normal" really mean? Did he mean normal big or normal small?

“Can you show me the percentile chart?” My child has always been a very big, off the chart child. He must certainly be proportionally-correct, right?

Needless to say, my doctor went on to explain patiently how such a comparison chart does not exist, and he emphasized again how my son does not need to be re- circumcised.

I still remain somewhat skeptical. I will never know how my son compares to the rest of the 3 yr old boys. In the mean time, I’ve got to figure out how to deal with keeping the toilet clean. Why do I have so many toilet related issues?

Sighhhh…

Women needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle

“A woman needs a man, like a fish needs a bicycle” said Gloria Steinem (she was quoting Irina Dunn).  For the majority of my singlehood, this was my mantra, my declaration of independence, and my anthem of empowerment as a woman.  It is in this confidence and delusional state of mind, I encouraged my husband to go to Tahoe with some friends while I stayed behind with our two kids for the weekend. 

Everything went smoothly on the first day.  I took the kids to the farmer’s market, we played at a local park, went to the library to get some more books and Thomas DVDs.  I fed them, changed them, cleaned them, and entertained them.  First night after the kids were deep in sleep, I sank into my futon, enjoying a glass of wine.  Silence.  I loved it.

The second day also sailed smoothly.  I began to think “single parenting is not that bad.”  One of the things that really irk me is on seldom occasions when I leave the kids with my husband, I came back to a house where dirty dishes, messy rooms, and scattered laundry is “justified” because “I was too busy watching the kids”.  At times, I even dreaded going out because I knew I would come back to more work, staying up even later to clean up, and be more tired afterwards.  This weekend, I wanted to set an example.  I wanted to show him how to solo-parent while managing the house as well.  I needed to raise the bar.

After the kids went to bed, I began to chop, steam, sauté what felt like a month’s worth of food.  I started the laundry, started the dish washer.  Feeling really proud of myself, I began to clean the counter top, and even started mopping the floor.  All was going well.  It was past midnight and after I was done with cooking, cleaning, folding the laundry and showering, I was spent.   I loved going to sleep knowing that my house, specifically my kitchen, was sparkling.  I crawled under my fluffy comforter and closed my eyes.

But, something was not right.  I went around and made sure all the doors and windows were locked.  I came back to the kitchen to see if the dishwasher was done.  That’s when I saw my kitchen sink, completely clogged, and the yucky water kept on rising slowly. 

They say traumatic memories are remembered by not only your brain, but by all of your senses.  Some of you might remember my incidence with a clogged toilet.  Plumbing has never been my forte.  I froze.  I was alone in the house, and it was past midnight.  My husband wasn't scheduled to come home for at least another 16 hours.  I turned on the garbage disposal- no luck.  I tried to clear out all the vegetable peels and scraps of meat in the sink.  Still no luck.  I tried to think clearly.  Unfortunately, thinking clearly at 12:30 AM is like asking a sleep walking man to fill out his taxes.  I began to search the house frantically for a plunger.  No time to read the kitchen sink instruction.  No time to google.  I had to do something and do it fast.

I grabbed the plunger from the master bathroom, and ran back to the kitchen.  The thought of putting in a plunger which I assume was used for toilets previously, into my kitchen sink worried me.  But I didn’t have the time to sanitize my plunger.  Brushing off all other hesitations, I began to “plunge” my clogged sink.  At first, I was very careful.  But soon I realized I was not solving the problem.  I began to push up and down the plunger, like a mad person.  That's when I encountered "it".  

"It" totally, completely caught me by surprise and "it" shot up to my ceiling and landed on my hair.   "It" shot up, from the tiny silver knob next to my kitchen faucet, which I've never noticed before this moment.  "It" was my private Old Faithful, my geyser of filthy, muggy kitchen sink water, filled with old carrot peels, meat scraps and other questionable things.   My exhausted brain barely figured out that there was a cause and effect.  Harder I plunged, higher my geyser. My geyser shot up once, twice, then again and again every time I pushed down the plunger. I was in my own nightmare.

I wish I didn't have to end this story with me staying up for another 2 hours of cleaning, sanitizing, and showering...again.  I wish I didn't have to go to sleep at 3 am, only to get up at 5 am to nurse my baby.  But let me tell you, by the time my husband came back on Sunday afternoon, I nearly leapt into his arms, and felt so thankful that I don't have to hold the plunger again. 

A woman needs a man, like a fish needs a bicycle?  Obviously, Gloria Steinem was perfectly ok with taking care of her own plumbing issues or she knew a female professional plumber somewhere.  But today, I find it completely liberating to say - I AM MOST DEFINITELY PLUMBING CHALLENGED AND I OUTSOURCE ALL THINGS PLUMBING TO MY HUSBAND.

 

100% My Baby!

Message of warning- the content of this writing may be offensive and may even sound morbid. Reader discretion is highly advised.

I am not one to be on top of the celebrity gossip. Matter of fact, I get annoyed with how much air time celebrities get with their mundane life’s details. But, I recently saw a photo of Gisele holding Tom brady's son in People Magazine. It absolutely rubbed me the wrong way so here I am, needing to vent.

Recently, Gisele got a lot of grief over her comment “I understand that he has a mom, and I respect that, but to me it’s not like because somebody else delivered him, that’s not my child. I feel it is, 100 percent... I want him to have a great relationship with his mom, because that’s important, but I love him the same way as if he were mine. I already feel like he’s my son, from the first day.”

Well good for you Gisele. Yet somehow my postpartum hormones are screaming “you never had a baby of your own. You rarely spent any time with this baby. How would you know what it feels like to have your own son?”

Don’t get me wrong… I’m a firm believer of adoption and maternal instinct all of us have to a degree. Also, I would be much more respectful of her comment if Gisele actually did raise Tom Brady’s baby- staying up for days when he is sick, cleaning up all of his yucky diapers while offering her hand to wipe his nose when there’s no tissue in sight. I also believe that taking care of a baby is much more difficult and sacrificial than actually being pregnant and giving birth to a baby.

However, what entitles her to feel like this baby, who actually has another mother, is 100% hers?

Today, I asked my husband the question I ask every year or so. “Would you remarry if I die?” My husband rolled his eyes, and blurted out “I don’t think about remarrying EVER!” I began to think about my kids being photographed with another “mother” who is not me. It made me feel like crying, puking and fainting at the same time.

Before I was married, I didn’t particularly have a desire to live long. I wanted to live life fully while being young, and getting old didn’t really appeal to me. After I got married, I became more worried about my husband’s mortality than mine. I worried that my husband might just die on me one day, leaving me as a widow. However, now that I’m a mother, I feel differently and seeing this photo of Gisele makes me want to be around for a long long time. If fate demands for one of our lives to be taken away, I would definitely have to offer up my husband’s life, rather than mine (sorry honey!). The thought of my kids growing up without my husband is tragic, but the thought of my kids growing up without me … well, that’s just unbearable!!

Of course, God get the last laugh. After the kids were finally down, dishes put away, and tomorrow’s meal finished, I began doing my homework for the women’s bible study. The question I had to answer tonight was “if you were told that you had only one week to live, what would you pray for and what would you do?” What??!!

Dang it. My kids growing up without me would be bad. But my kids growing up without any mother at all would really, really bad. I shook my husband who was about to doze off.

“If I die, promise me you’ll marry again to someone who’ll love our kids as her own.”

I just hope my husband doesn't marry a size 2 Victoria Secret model.