Crybaby Press

Sleeping With an Octopus

My mom was telling me the other day about this Facebook friend she has who is always posting about how tired she is. Every status update is something about needing coffee or not being able to sleep or having a headache. Riveting stuff. But my question to my mom's Facebook friend is DOES SHE KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE TO SLEEP WITH A GIANT OCTOPUS?

I know I posted a few days back about how I hoped my first grader would climb into my bed. And wasn't that so sweet and poignant? Well, she did come back the next night. A few nights later, I tried to snuggle her, pulling her soft little body to me. She opened up those blue little kitten eyes, blinked those beautiful long, dark lashes and screamed, "MOVE!" in a scratchy, deep voice that sounded like a bus driver with road rage.

And she's just my first problem. The other one is afraid of the movie "Orphan" and ends up in my room pretty regularly too. No, I didn't let him see it. What, are you crazy? It was the god damned trailers that aired during "So You Think You Can Dance" in the summer- the ONE freaking television show they watch!

Anyway, after several nights of moving to the foot of my Queen bed and trying to sleep sideways but ending up with little feet in face, I had the brilliant idea that we ALL should lie sideways. That would give everyone more room, right? And I don't really care if my feet hang off the edge, right?

Yeah. More room to tangle their eight skinny, knobby limbs around me and each other. It is, I kid you not, like sleeping with a giant, snuffly, mouth-breathing, sleep-talking, bony octopus. One that tangles up the sheets and the duvet until it feels like a straight jacket or throws it off the bed altogether so we can all shiver under the fan in the air conditioning.  One that gets up for water or to pee or to yell at someone for taking its pillow every hour on the hour.

 I know, I know, I've allowed this to happen. OR, I'll be sad when they are all grown up and no one will snuggle me. OR, I'm going to miss this time soon enough. Yeah. I know. But, dammit, I'm tired. I need to get the octopus OUT of my bed.

September 8th

Something happened on September 8th, 2003. Something so shocking and tragic that it changed everything in my world forever .

On September 8th, 2003, my dad died. He died of a massive heart attack in his home. He was 52.

When I went to his house the day after he died, I saw a check he had written to one of those storage unit places dated September 9, 2003. He must have written it the day he died. I remember being stunned. Not for the obvious reason, not for the fact that he actually wasn't alive on September 9th. What stunned me was that in the very last hours of his life, so unaware of what was about to happen to him, unsuspecting of the fact he was living the very last moments of his life, he thought, "Oh shit. I need to pay for the storage unit. Better write that check now so I don't forget." So mundane.  I was stunned by how death can just nail you. Out of nowhere. Nothing rare or poetic about it. Just- BAM!- massive heart attack. Dead. Over.

This is so hard to write about because it is so complicated. I didn't think it was. At first, I just thought of it like: My dad died. I'm sad. What else is there to say?

But there is more to it than that. Someday, I might be able to sort it out on paper and in my head. Someday. For now, it's September 8th. I will always ache with love on this day for my dad, who I will miss forever.

First

"I'm sleeping in my bed tonight," she announces, "because I'm in first grade, you know. So I'm going to be a big first grader."

And she climbs the ladder of her loft bed, disappearing under a mountain of stuffed animals.

"Where's Baby?

Her Baby is a small stuffed ballerina doll she was given by her grandparents when she was a baby herself. Back then, she would rub Baby's satin skirt and suck on her yellow yarn hair. When it became obvious that this doll was her "love object", as they say, we got three more of them. We learned with her older brother, whose love object was a stuffed white dog that later turned a shade of light gray, that a backup Baby was a good idea. She loved them all equally and used them interchangeably and still does, which I've since read is rare for kids to do. Usually they won't accept replacement love objects, somehow knowing which is the original by small details that we as adults probably don't notice. Now, the three remaining dolls (one was lost along the way, we don't know how or where) are named Baby, Jyleesha and Coyote. She always says, "Her name is Coyote for short." Short for what, she doesn't know.

I find one of the dolls on the floor and toss it up to her. "Which baby is that?" I ask.

She examines it. "This one is Baby. She has the hole in her skirt."

She settles into her bed, but then pops back up and stretches her arms down to me over the railing. "Hug?" she says.

I reach up to hug her and kiss her on her freckly, soft face. She says, "Mom, I'm getting pretty big now, so I have to sleep in here."

"Yup, you sure are." I say "But you know where I'll be if you need me, right?"

"Uh huh." she says.

I turn on her nightlight and her Shrek Party CD and leave her room. I'm thinking- hoping, really- that sometime in the night she'll climb down the ladder of her bed and up into mine. But she doesn't. In the morning, I joke, "Wow, I got the bed all to myself last night. Nobody hogging the squishy pillow or all the covers." She looks up at me with an injured look on her face and I wish I could take back the insensitive thing I've said.

"Well," she says, "I'm a first grader now. I'm getting big." And then she runs off to her room to get dressed in her blue uniform shirt. On the way, she slams her elbow on the edge of counter. She turns and runs back to me to rub it and examine it for her, and I feel like it's my chance to counteract what I said moments before. Like it's one more chance for me to appreciate how little she really still is.

Fourth

"Mom, have you heard a lot of people talking about how one time Mrs. Winter pulled Jesse's hair?"

"I don't spend a lot of time with other fourth graders, but no, I haven't heard that mentioned," I reply.

"Oh. Well I'm glad I don't have her."

I can see him behind me in the mirror while I'm at the bathroom sink. He's sitting on my bed with his school uniform T-shirt on. The PTA mom at the T-shirt booth had suggested we buy the Adult Small, but she was wrong. He's swimming in it, making him look even smaller and more nervous.

When it's time to walk to school, he stops me in kitchen.

"I'm probably just going to hug you now. Is that OK if I don't hug you when we get to school?"

I reach down and hug him tightly, laying my cheek on his hair, which is highlighted with blond streaks from an entire summer spent in the pool at camp. He smells like the baby shampoo I put in his shower because it is gentle on his chlorine-damaged hair.

When we get to school, he forgets for a second that he doesn't want to hug me in public and instinctively moves toward me for a good-bye hug. But then he catches himself and awkwardly sticks out a hand.

"High five?" he says.

"Yup," I say "High five."

I take his sister's hand and we head down the K-3 hallway. I linger in the doorway and watch him walk by himself to the 4-5 hallway until I feel his sister pull me inside.

About Change

I know that people deal with change differently. Some people jump right in. Ask questions later. Head first. That kind of thing. Other people try to block change from breaking down the door, bracing themselves against it. They lock the deadbolt and push the couch in front of the door to try to stop change from getting in.

I've never found out which kind of person I am when it comes to change.

On one hand, I'm all, "What's the worst that can happen?" Screw it. Do it. In those moments, it's 1996 again. I can almost smell my roommates incense burning in our crappy  apartment and feel the coffee and Now N Later buzz I had all through college. It's the fearlessness of that time, really. Something that I don't feel very often now, but every so often, there's a small unpredictable burst of THAT version of me.

The other, more familiar version of me is constantly over-thinking, over-researching, over-worrying about change and what it will mean to me, to the kids, to my family, to the world...At the slightest rock of the boat, I'm off on what I think of as The Anxiety Roller Coaster. It has huge drops and loops and twists, it goes backward and leaves me suspended upside down.

See, the thing is, I used to love roller coasters. I don't anymore. The last time I rode one, I felt like I got the shit kicked out of me. But, maybe I should try it again...

My Brother is 29!

"Never get less than 12 hours sleep. Never play cards with a guy who has the same first name as a city. Never get involved with a woman who has a tattoo of a dagger on her body. You stick with that, and everything else is cream cheese."

That's the birthday advice I wrote in my brother's card. Of course, it's not original. That's something that he (being him), and I (being me), and we (being us) already know. It's Coach Finstock. Teen Wolf. Duh. 

I've said it before and I'll say it again, lucky me that my little baby brother turned out to be someone I would be friends with anyway. For his birthday, we trekked to St. Augustine with our significant others a couple weeks ago to see Hall & Oates live in concert. Funny, funny, funny. They did a double encore (of course) and I'll bet you can guess what they shut it down with. Private Eyes- oh shit! The funniest part was that his T-shirt is from the 2006 tour and mine is from the 2007 tour (I think it was called the "Violin Souls" tour. I'm not even joking.). According to the T-shirt guy, Mr. Hall and Mr. Oates, um, well, they don't want to print new shirts until the back inventory is sold-out...Times are tough, you know. Especially for Hall and Oates.

Happy 29th birthday to my brother and my friend. Somehow, I got extra lucky and I get to be your sister.

With love always, 

Snot

Doll Bellies

Her: I need to make tickets.

Me: For what?

Her: I'm having a movie theater where you can bring pets and I'm making a movie.

Me: What kind of movie?

Her: I have this great idea! It's called "Doll Bellies" and it's all about dolls with big bellies!

Me: Fascinating.

Her: Well?

Me: Well what?

Her: I need to make the tickets!

Right, the tickets. Let me get out my ticket-making supplies. First things first, that's what I always say... "Doll Bellies" coming soon to a theater near you.

Letters to the Easter Bunny

Easter Bunny,

My mom did not scoop the poop so please hide our eggs in the front yard.

The end. Thank you.

Love, Lele

Easter Bunny,

Please hide my eggs HARD.

From,TT Bird

These guys get straight to the point, I tell ya. No messing around. None of that "Hey, Easter Bunny! How have you been? Did you have a good year? How's business?" But despite their curt notices that were more marching orders than pleasantries, the old Easter Bunny showed up with about 50 of the 200 pounds of sugar the average American consumes annually. I had to throw away some Halloween, Christmas and Valentines candy to make room for it. So, uh, be careful eating candy at my house. There's no telling how old it may be.

Hope you had a nice Easter. Or, a nice Sunday, if Easter isn't your thing. If nothing else, I hope you at least had some Peeps.

Your Epidermis is Showing

My kids love to hear about what I was like when I was a kid. They love to hear about how I went to sleep-away camp when I was 10 and how I was once the Tomahawk Princess at a summer recreation program. They want to know how old I was when I first saw Goonies and if I was scared. They crack up when I tell them about booby traps I set for my brother and how I would mix up potions and trick him into drinking them.

I love it that they are interested, because as fun as it is for them to hear it, it's even more fun for me to recall it. Just the other day I taught them the old epidermis joke.

I was unloading the dishwasher, and as Lele was talking to me I interrupted, "Le! Oh no. Lele, your epidermis is showing!" I clasped my hand over my mouth snickered a little. Immediately she looked behind her to see if -I don't know- there was a rip in her drawers or something. 

"Huh?" she said.

"Dude! Your epidermis! Quick, run to the bathroom!" I teased.

"My what? Where?"

That old joke is still funny to this day. When I explained it to her, she tried it on everyone we know. I'm sure her teacher appreciated that. The epidermis joke is right up there with "Look under there! Under where?" They love that one too. 

It's fun to walk around quoting my favorite old movies to each other. Like when Lele gets out of the shower and I say in my best Johnny 5 (from Short Circuit) voice, "OOO, Stephanie! You change colors!" or when all three of us are dancing around singing "No Disassemble, no disassemble for me!" to the tune of "More than a Woman".

That's one of the cool things about being a parent. It's a second go-around at playing with PlayDoh Barbershop, LiteBrite and Mr. Potatohead. Watching Annie, Free to be You and Me and Snoopy, Come Home. Playing freeze tag, kickball and hide and seek. Just tonight as I type this I hear Eat it by Weird Al coming from the other room. 

It's a crap-shoot, though. I tried to get them to watch The Last Unicorn. Negative. The Game of Life? Boring. Strawberry Shortcake? Dumb. I'll tell you what, though, in a few years I'm going to force The Cure and The Smiths on them and they WILL LIKE IT, dammit! For now, I'll settle for playing Operation with Schoolhouse Rock! blaring in the background. Maybe I'll see what they think of The Go-Gos next.

The Evolution of Fighting: 2009

In the car, on the way home from piano lessons.

Him: Lele, you are making me extremely angry. Mom, I am making a very good choice not to hit her right now.

Her: I am feeling very angry too. Mom, I really feel like I want to hit him back.

Me: Everyone is making good choices not to hit right now...

Him: I am overflowing with anger. I feel anger in my whole body.

Her: I would love to take off this seat belt and tackle you right now.

Him: I wish I could punch you but I am making a good choice not to. Mom, I'm making an excellent choice not to punch her.

Her: Please do not talk about punching me. Mom, he's thinking about punching me so now I am thinking about kicking him.

And on and on and on. It's weird, really. I'm glad they've temporarily stopped wailing on each other, but this new kind of fighting is kind of creepy. I'm testing it out myself:

Me: I am making a very good choice not to scream at my computer right now. It is running slowly, but is an inanimate object and therefore my scream will have no effect. I feel as though I would like to aid it in colliding with the wall, however I am controlling my emotions. I am electing not to use high-volume expletives when addressing it it

Yeah, see, it's not working. I should take a lesson from the Stepford children in the back seat.