Back in the saddle

Okay, so it's been three years. Forgive me. I promise to fill in the blanks in future posts. In the meantime, I've been cultivating a relationship with the next generation. It's been a worthwhile endeavor, since, as we discovered a year ago—at three and a half—the kid could read. Yes, I'm happy. As a former adult literacy tutor, I prefer this precociousness to the alternative. And yet...

Date night

Cinderella got her man with the help of a fairy godmother. I could use one of those. The simple act of going out with my husband requires just about as much preparation as gearing up for the ball.

First, the household prep. We don't entertain too often, so when we do, the house gets a big polishing. Likewise, when the babysitter is on the way, I revisit nooks and crannies untouched since the last time we cleaned, eradicating dust, fur and things that go crunch under foot. I scrub the bathroom, including the tub. I scrub the floors. I stow away all signs of life with a toddler. Except for toys.

Not a big fan of stuff, we try to limit the kid's playthings to a manageable number and rotate them in and out of the toy box. So why do I chuck just about everything he's ever owned into the living room on date night? To make sure our chaos looks enough like other families' chaos that we won't be drummed out of the neighborhood for preferring adult tidiness to toddler pandemonium? To prove I'm not a bad mommy who deprives her kid? To prevent boredom? Who knows. I just know that I do it.

Next, the food. I buy babysitter-friendly snacks that still conform to my standards in case we're stuck eating the leftovers. So Diet Coke is out. I like to provide a balance of sugary treats and savory chasers. This requires at least one agonizing hour in the snack aisle, looking for something with universal appeal that still says something about who we are and what we care about. Salty snacks have to be organic, and chocolate must be fair trade. Sounds ridiculous, I know. Just buy what's on sale and be done with it! Better yet, leave money for a pizza. Everyone likes pizza. But what if she had dinner already? Or what if she doesn't like pizza? Then she'll have to scavenge in the fridge (the one thing I didn't bother to clean) and come up empty. Unless she likes dried cranberries. Or hot sauce. I couldn't live with the guilt.

Between dusting, vacuuming, and taking a shower, I complete my housekeeping regimen by firing up the oven and baking some cookies. This has nothing to do with my inner Betty Crocker; it's purely purposeful. With a few pets in the house, my paranoia re: animal odors is palpable. Nothing makes a house smell homier (and less gamey) than baked goods. Tollhouse cookie dough does the trick.

Where is the kid during this frenzy? Let's just say thank you to the creators of Baby Einstein.

At last, time to get ready. Only five minutes left for personal grooming. I shoo the cats off the clothes I laid out on the bed during the cleaning frenzy, then curse them when I can't find the lint brush. Not too adept at cosmetics, I ruin my mascara with a sneeze. Oh well, at least I'm dressed. Now if only I could find my keys.

But wait, here comes the kid, up the stairs, carrying his favorite book. "Mommy loves you, buddy. She's just in a hurry. We'll read later," I offer as explanation for my frustrated-key-hunt scowl. He persists, shoving the book against my leg. Naturally I relent. As we finish reading, the doorbell rings, and his mellow little face turns to panic. Oh no. He's going to have a meltdown. In comes the beloved sitter. What's this? My little guy drifts into her arms and off to the land of "Mommy who?" My heart breaks. I barely warrant a good-bye kiss, but the little hug he gives grudgingly isn't without its rewards...or residual apple sauce.

Finding my keys, I'm out the door at last. I hit the ATM and withdraw the equivalent of a third mortgage to cover the evening's expenses. Next I head to my man's workplace to pick him up. Thank God for rush-hour traffic. Sitting still for the first time all day, I put on my lipstick and recover from potential deodorant breakdown. Taking the most direct route requires NASCAR driving, Ricky Bobby style. The parked cars on the right, turn lanes on the left, and barrage of bozos in between make the ride more like the running of the bulls in Pamplona, but I'm still on an adrenaline high from rushing around. Before long, though, the twenty or thirty red lights between our place and his office kill my buzz. By the time I reach my spouse, I'm ready for a nap. From the looks of him, so is he.

Time, money and effort being what they are, maybe our next date night will be a quiet evening at home, downloading LOST and eating take-out. Sure, the house is dirty and the surroundings are dull, but at least we won't go broke or crazy, and we might even stay awake.

And while we're at it...

Why not offer frazzled parents a place to hold and comfort their babies? Like a chair in every restroom. I'm talking about for the sake of sanity. Many times, just leaving a noisy space was enough to calm my son during a crying jag. I'd take him to the restroom, and the relative quiet had a silencing effect on him. If he needed to nurse, he had a much easier time when the room was hushed. My dear husband could've used a quiet place to sit during the times he was on comfort-the-crying-kid duty, too.

Disclaimer: No, I'm not suggesting that breastfeeding, or feeding of any kind, be relegated to the toilet zone. I'm just saying that a break from the noise worked for us.

If I ruled the world

In the early days of new parenthood, things like leaking breast milk, diapers that quit, and a chronic state of sleep-deprived dishevelment are good for building humility. Once leaving the house is an appealing option, you don't have to go very far or look too hard for opportunities to exclaim, "There's no dignity in motherhood!"

Take, for instance, the need to change your precious child's diaper. In many cases, public restrooms provide a diaper deck for this purpose, and although it's often situated awkwardly in the way of swinging doors or hand dryers, the thing is a godsend when you consider the alternative: the floor.

For almost two years, I have been disappointed repeatedly by business establishments, and by this I mean restaurants most specifically, who do not provide even counter space, much less a full-fledged diaper changing station, in their restrooms. And let me specify further: I am not talking about upscale places where a child's presence would be an oddity. I am talking about restaurants with family-friendly appeal, like a buffet, affordable prices, and a children's menu. Or, how about the restroom in the community center where we ate buckwheat pancakes last weekend (and where a daycare—full of children, I'm guessing—resides during the week)?

So, on the one day I didn't have my trusty, portable changing pad with me, and forced to choose between the way-too-disgusting floor or the out-of-order radiator, I chose the latter, apologized profusely to my son, and gave thanks that his security blanket was available as a makeshift pillow. That was the last straw.

I went home, visited the website of my favorite presidential candidate, and raised my voice for parents and children everywhere who are forced into the dignity-free zone of the ill-equipped public restroom.

Now I'm on a campaign of my own, to address this issue whenever I face it.

Restaurant owners: If you know enough to offer my child a high chair or a booster seat so that he might eat your food in comfort, can you be forward-thinking enough to accommodate the eventual aftermath?

Presidential candidates: Want my vote next November? Mandate diaper decks.

Unhooked

Between pregnancy and my son's long-term commitment to breastfeeding, "the girls" had done hard time, serving a 28-month sentence, through thrush, mastitis and the indignities of flap-fronted nursing bras, with no time off for good behavior. Around August, at long last, freedom! To celebrate, last month we went on a new-bra shopping spree.

Nothing could have prepared me for the odyssey. Several hours into it, after I'd tried on every size combination in the first four letters of the alphabet, even the Wonder Bra wasn't so wonderful. Just as I was about to leave, saggy and empty-handed, a helpful sales associate took over. Within minutes, we found the perfect fit. HOORAY! The motherhood-ravaged remains of my former chest were hoisted high and I felt three inches taller. Talk about a mood elevator!

So now I'm left with a question: What to do with the nursing bras? Sure, I'm sick of the sight of them and no longer need their help. They're a little too used for the consignment store, but they still have some play in them. Do I throw them in with the rest of the maternity clothes waiting to recirculate, should my sisters or I go for "one more?" Yes, their "ick factor" is high, as I acknowledged in our pregnancy blog. But an emotional bond has formed.

I can't just throw them away.

Spilled milk

I love Whole Foods . Once a month, the kiddo and I head to that side of town and shop with gusto. Usually, it's a pleasant experience and we have fun together. Yesterday, not so much.

Arriving after our big breakfast, I thought, was a stroke of maternal genius. Shopping on a full stomach would make our job easier, right? Fewer impulse purchases, and virtually no begging from my companion. We made it past the banana display with only a quick glance. Whew! By the time I hustled past the olive oil, my little monkey-boy had forgotten all about his favorite fruit. No threat of temptation for us!

Right.

At the dairy case, my child dislodged his beloved binky and smacked his lips. I put a carton of organic milk in the basket and on we rolled. Sure, it was on my list, but I think he thought he was in charge. "Tee! Tee!" came next as we skated past the cheese without stopping. When we passed the crackers, "Ca! Ca!" became his cry. And I do mean cry. I grabbed (and opened) a box and unleashed a monster. At first, I muffled his ample whines with grain. But not for long. As I did my best to fill our cart quickly, he nearly broke his back trying to grab his favorite items piling up behind him. His frustration grew frantic.

Somewhere in the cereal aisle, he lost his mind. I think the Cheerios put him over the edge. No one within 50 yards of us could miss his plaintive bleats of "O! O!" The waving arms? Also hard to miss. I threw a box in the cart and kept moving. The rest was a blur.

At the check-out counter, the cashier-in-training helped the shopper in front of me while my kid moved into meltdown formation. Suddenly, crackers, binky, even Angel Bear, offered no end to the wailing, but they made great projectiles. Arms outstretched, he gestured toward what I thought was the cooler of water. I grabbed a bottle, offered it up, and for a moment, the storm calmed. Then he choked on a big gulp, and the howling began.

At last, our turn to ring up. I had to quit the losing guessing game of "What would make my son happy?" to put my haphazard collection of food on the conveyor belt. Wait, what's this? Milk. Leaking from the carton. All over my groceries and the bags I'd brought with me.

There's a calm that supposedly overtakes drowning victims once they give up fighting for life. The same phenomenon washes over parents, I'm certain, at moments like this. The waves took me down. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I didn't threaten, although I cajoled, but only twice. Oblivious to everything but the sound of my little he-banshee, I mopped up the milk, relinquished one of the sodden bags, and humbly accepted the cashier's kindness (and free replacement bag). Later I sent email to Whole Foods, acknowledging his help.

Not sure of how the other shoppers reacted to the memorable scene, but I'm guessing birth control sales climbed yesterday. And that cashier-in-training? He was probably promoted. Or maybe he quit.

Is it hot in here?

Lately that flush-all-over feeling has come more often than I care to admit. It usually shows up with soul-rumbling anxiety and crotchety feelings of doom. At first I thought it was post-nursing-era hormones. Then one day, someone said it, and I knew it had to be true: perimenopause.

Already? I feel as though I've only started to blossom in the motherhood role, so how can I be simultaneously wilting on the vine as a viable breeder?

Please understand. Aside from justifiable "chips and chocolate" binges, I harbor no fondness for menstrual madness. Saying goodbye to cramps and tampons will be fabulous. But knowing my reproductive viability is on death row kind of breaks my heart. I mean, life with a child has finally stabilized. Fleeting thoughts of more children have only just started. Too late, I guess, since my birthing days are numbered.

Yes, I started this parenting thing later than most. Yes, menopause is inevitable. But already? I still don't even know what I want to be when I grow up!