New Address, Same Old Spam

We've moved...and so has this blog.

Baby Spam has been exported to Europe.  Follow our family now on Spain Spam!

(www.SpainSpam.com)

An Admission

Admission: I'm almost as bad a blogger as I am email-returner and voicemail-listener.  The upside is that I can now add that to the list of career options that are definitely off the table: swimsuit model, anything to do with the hard sciences, and professional blogger.

That said, one of my New Year's Resolutions was to write more regularly, mostly so I can have a lasting record of this time in my life.  It's almost March, so yes, I'm technically behind--but I've also been living in the arctic tundra for two months. (Boston is where shoes come to die.) I'll start writing regularly when the T starts running regularly.  

Bah.

So here's my quick "snapshot in time"...

Owen thinks he's a man.  No, correction: he knows he's a man and he hates being called a boy. We left the doctor's office recently and the unsuspecting doc innocently told Owen to "be a good boy." Meltdown. Owen to doctor:  "I am NOT a boy! I am a MAN! I am a big strong MAN!"  Okay, medical records updated accordingly.  

Luckily, he's backing up his outlandish claim with some behaviors to prove it. He woke up from a nap last week and went directly into the kitchen, opened the freezer, got out a frozen waffle, pulled a stool over to the toaster, and cooked himself a snack. When I commented that I was impressed with his self-sufficience, he nonchalantly responded: "That's what mans do for their selves."  So be it.

Eliza is [still] obsessed with clothes.  My last post was about her love of shoes; now it's poured out into all areas of wearables. It's actually nothing short of terrifying. When a 20-month-old refuses 4 pairs of pants, complete with adolescent angst ("Uhh...not pretty!!"), you know that it's going to be a long road from here to 18.

The silver-lining is that describing anything as "pretty" instantly changes her trajectory.  "Eliza, do you want to come put on a new diaper?"  "NO!"  "Eliza, do you want to come put on a new pretty diaper?" "Yes!!!!"  At some point, we'll have to stop encouraging this (hey, she started it), but for now "pretty" is the easiest trick in our box.

Nature or Nurture?

Pre-kids, I totally questioned the gender roles we force kids into.  C'mon, boys can't really love trucks and trains that much, right? And I was mildly offended by the notion that girls are inherently drawn to princesses and accessories and pink glittery nonsense.  

Then we had Owen. His first word was "truck" and his favorite pastime was going on excavator-locating trips around the neighborhood to watch 'struction workers dig dirt.

And then came Eliza. Literally nothing on this earth gives the child more delight than wearing other people's shoes and rummaging through my makeup basket.

So okay, Universe, I stand humbly corrected.

Role Confusion

From time to time, I have an unfortunate tendency to forget that I'm a mom and not a big sister.  In those regrettable moments, I teach my kids things that maybe a mom shouldn't.  Like this one time, not too long ago, when I thought it appropriate to teach Owen a classic childhood rhyme while he ate a bowl of beans...

Fast forward two weeks, sitting in a stuffy cafe among lunching ladies, already embarrassed by the chaos ensuing at our table, and Owen loudly and proudly recalls the punchline for all to hear:

"THE MORE YOU EAT, THE MORE YOU FART!!!!"

Oh dear.

Married with Children

So maybe I'm revealing a little too much about myself here--or maybe I'm just stating the obvious--but early parenthood can really do a number on your marriage.

You spend nine months in this blissful state of pre-parental naiveté, whimsically poring over paint chips in 50 shades of blue and nesting and baby-mooning and co-creating a fanciful vision of what your new family will inevitably be like. You're happy. You're a team. You can't wait to become parents together. And, of course, this all puts you on as high a note as high notes get, maritally speaking. You feel like nothing, no nothing, can break this enchanted streak of wedded glee.

And then the baby arrives. And you become parents. And holy shit you never sleep. And your husband seems maddeningly incapable of wiping the baby's butt exactly as you're sure butts ought to be wiped. And someone (but definitely not you) used the last of the baby formula and now it's nearly midnight and you're stuck in a state of half-dress making an emergency run to Walgreens and vowing that someone (but definitely not you) will pay for this. And you catch yourself wondering if you'll ever find time to shave your legs again but you can't see how that's at all relevant since you're decidedly over trying to impress anyone; you're just trying to survive.

And so it goes, that period of early parenthood. At times you question how couples-with-children ever come out on the other side, and you come to understand the real Christmas miracle behind those holiday cards with cheery, smiling families exuding togetherness, because it seems incomprehensible that The Crazy will ever end. What could ever bridge the vast marital trench dug by early parenthood?

And then you find out the answer: Toddlers.

Not because everything suddenly becomes easier, though of course it does; you get [more] sleep and you've long ago given up caring about butt-wiping techniques. It's because you have a common enemy, a new shared source of ridiculous parental angst that is best experienced together: Irrational Little People. And suddenly get to see what a funny sense of humor Life really has.

For all the early days when babies were a marital wedge, toddlers reunite parents with blessed little moments of forced togetherness--shared eye-rolls that say "omigod-this-tantrum-over-crayon-colors-at-the-restaurant-table-is-really-happening" or mischievous "watch this" looks as we use reverse psychology to manipulate Owen into eating broccoli by offering it to Eliza.  Tricking two little kids into doing what you want ("If you give Eliza that toy back, I'll let you take a bath and go to bed!") isn't any fun without a sympathetic co-conspirator audience to show off for.

Toddlers are an on-going inside joke that only you and your spouse can understand, and that in and of itself creates a bond like no other. Now my favorite marital moments involve high-fives ("Oooh, good one, Daddy!") after a particularly impressive parental feat, as the kids stare at us blankly, wondering what the hell we're celebrating. And one day, I hope, they'll have kids of their own and they'll understand: it's a shared sense of victory, a deep appreciation for how simultaneously ridiculous and wonderful this time in life really is, and the knowledge that there is no togetherness quite like being married with children.

Deep Thoughts by Owen

"Daddy, why do I fart all the time?"

"Mommy, do you have big hair?"

Owen: "Yaya, why does the sun go down?"
Yaya: "Maybe because it's tired."
Owen:  "Or maybe because the earth moves."

Me:  "O, what do you think of these boots?"
Owen:  "Uhh...fabulous."

Owen: "Eliza, you are beautiful. You are a beautiful flower."

On this day, ten years ago...

October 14, 2004: I woke up exhausted and bleary-eyed after sleepless and boozy 21st birthday.

October 14, 2014: I woke up exhausted and bleary-eyed after a sleepless and wheezy 31st birthday.

Cheers to life's little ironies.

#happybirthdaytome

A Tale of Two Trips

September 2014 was bookended by two Barasz family trips. We kicked off the month with a 10-day adventure in Barcelona, dragging two kids and six checked bags 16 hours and 3600 miles across the Atlantic; we ended the month with a quick overnighter up the coast to explore Portland, Maine. Guess which one was a bigger disaster: Spain or Maine?

The hands-down, without-a-shadow-of-a-doubt, no-contest answer...Maine.  

I should've known we were in trouble when we started off on our roadtrip and Aaron casually remarked, "I've been looking forward to this all week."  Oh no he didn't.  We should've turned the car around and headed home right then.  I thought he'd left Them at home, but here They were, the unwanted, hijacking passengers in our car: Great Expectations. He was expecting something good...and that's when you know it's gonna be bad. 

It was a hot Saturday afternoon and--expecting Fall to actually feel like Fall--we were all overdressed and overheated. The hotel room wasn't ready on time. Eliza lost her mind when we dared to put her down for a nap in the hotel crib. Owen refused his nap altogether, and crashed the entirety of Adult Hangout Time. The 10-minute wait for dinner turned into 45-minutes, which felt more like 450-minutes with two grumpy, hungry, and sleep-deprived children. And the kicker: Owen decided he should start his Sunday at 3:55AM, which meant we all got to watch a beautiful sunrise...two and a half hours after waking up. It was not, by any stretch, our best showing.

Now, compare that to our European adventure. 

The kids were shockingly well-behaved on the flight. They stuck to their Eastern Standard Time schedules, allowing us to frolic around the Mediterranean beaches until midnight and sleep in till 10:00. We drank Rioja and read books on a sunny terrace while they slept for 3 hours in the afternoons. We didn't bring toys, so they played together and loved each other and didn't fight over who was holding the truck first. We savored and relaxed and enjoyed every moment of our time together.  We felt victorious.   

But really, even if all the silly and trivial hiccups of Maine had happened in Spain, I don't think we would've even noticed.  Because the big difference was: we had zero negative expectations. We'd already envisioned a case in which both kids went bonkers on the redeye flight, or we all got Norovirus and were quarantined for a week in our rented apartment; we'd accepted the fact that we might end up cursing the very moment we ever thought that trip was a sane idea.  But because that stuff didn't happen--because we far exceeded the completely hellish scenarios we'd braced for--it felt like pure magic. 

So this Tale of Two Trips served as stark reaffirmation of parenthood's Golden Rule: expect nothing.  Never rest on your laurels or stupidly let yourself think, "oh, we've got this."  Because children have a freaking insane ability to remind you that no, you actually don't got this; don't be cocky. The likelihood of parental victory in any given moment is an independent probability--success in one instance most certainly does not predict success in another. But the good news is that the inverse is also true--that utter meltdowns don't necessarily have to be repeated--and I guess that's what keeps this whole thing interesting.  

There's No Comparison

For better or worse (and let's be honest: it's mostly for worse), people seem to blindly feel their way through parenthood by drawing comparisons. How else are you supposed to know what Normal looks like?

Pediatricians compare your kid to The Average on height, weight, head size, number of spoken words, and ability to sleep, sit, stand, play peek-a-boo, roll over, and play fetch. Parents constantly (and obnoxiously) swap stats on the age at which their kid rode his bike without training wheels, or started to read on her own, or learned to wipe his own butt. And when you're being publicly shamed at the park by a flock of birds eating forgotten Cheerios from the crevices of your stroller, it's impossible not to compare yourself to that Other Mom whose stroller is somehow immaculate and whose children are effortlessly managing red popsicles in their white Polo shirts.

Of course, comparisons are not limited to interfamily dynamics; as soon as Number Two comes out, it's impossible not to assess your own kids' similarities and differences.  People always ask how Owen and Eliza compare, what's different this time around.  And I'd be lying if I told you I didn't have a running list in my head about all the ways they're unalike...

...Eliza is (and always has been) much more laidback than Owen; where he came out screaming and flailing, she came out quiet and pensive. Where he excelled at nighttime sleeping and refused daytime naps, she was the exact opposite, much preferring to do her socializing nocturnally and doze in the day. There are only a few foods Owen likes; there are only a few foods Eliza doesn't like. He is smiley but shy; she tried to kiss two strangers at the doctor's office this morning. He loves reading books; she loves eating books. He was a super early walker, but spent 2 months merrily running into walls with a perma-bruise in the center of his forehead; she walked 2 months later, but is painstakingly deliberate in her stride and goes to great lengths not to tumble. The first gesture he learned was shaking his head "no"; Eliza only knows how to nod "yes."

In many ways, I don't think the comparisons can be helped.  When you truly have no idea what's supposed to be happening--when you don't get reviews or grades or really any kind of (positive, constructive) feedback--the only way to gauge your performance is to A) confirm that your kid has a pulse, is reasonably happy, and meets a minimum standard of hygiene, and B) compare yourself to the benchmark, whether it's against The Average, That Other Mom's Kid, or The Sibling.

But the question that has been nagging me lately is: to what end?  Why compare?  What use does it serve?  There have been a million viral blog posts by moms-who-judge-moms, be it about the way they interact with their kids, their choices to work a paid office job or an unpaid home job, or their decisions about nutrition, or discipline, or how exactly one should "attach."  But at its heart, I think all the judging is really just about insecure comparing, and that seems fruitless. ["Hold up. What are you doing that's different than what I'm doing?  Well shit, if you're doing That, should I be doing That, too?  But I don't want to do That; I want to do This.  But the only way I can be confident doing This is if I know that That is not right.  Ergo, That sucks.]

But this is why it's so fascinating to have two children: you realize, without a shadow of a doubt, that there's no comparison.  "The Difference Between Owen and Eliza" is an amusing and easy go-to conversation topic while debriefing over a glass of wine at the end of a long day; it's definitely not an assessment of who's better or what trait you like more or who's going to score higher on their SATs.  It's only entertaining to discuss because it's so crazy that two children with the exact same parents, living the exact same life, could be so different, right from the very start.  And it's humbling (and frankly, a relief) to realize how very little you had to do with any of it -- how well they slept or socialized, what foods they ate or at what pace they developed.  It shouldn't be surprising, but somehow it is: they are their own people.  Just like all of us.  And once you realize that -- our innate and quirky differences, our lack of control in making it any other way-- it makes all comparisons seem a little different.  Less judgy, more thought-provoking.  Because you realize how very many ways there are to get from Point A to Point B, none necessarily better than the next.  And you accept the fact that it's totally cool to be the Dirty Mom Whose Stroller Attracts Wild Animals, because after all, birds gotta eat, too.


Friday, June 20, 2014: And just like that, another year has gone by.  One more turn around the sun, and Eliza Jane somehow turned one.  Our tiny newborn is now a sassy little girl who loves trains and eating sand and carrying around other people's shoes.  We can't imagine this life without her in it.

Eliza at one week

Eliza at one year

I mean, really.

On Flexibility

I'm training to be an acrobat.

I sense your surprise: seems an unlikely hobby for someone who never learned how to do a cartwheel (I can't believe I just admitted that) and feels faint being upside down. But flexibility has become essential.  Agility is the only way to survive. So you heard it here first: I am aspiring emotional contortionist.

Let's discuss.

In any given 24-hour 10-minute span, I'm called on to be:  playful, pragmatic, imaginative, attentive, stern, and silly. One minute I'm Awesome Mommy enabling pre-lunch ice-cream-eating while watching backhoes do roadwork; the next minute I'm Dictator Mother unapologetically sentencing a boundary-testing toddler to a double-header timeout; the minute after that, I'm Sucker Mom melting when her son hugs her from behind, sweetly cooing "I sure do love you."  

Nothing in this crazy life is ever configured in a nice straight line; having kids seems to magnify that on a moment-by-moment basis. As "number of experienced emotional states" goes, Owen and Eliza lap me regularly; I'm still stuck back at Frustration while they've already moved on to Merriment and Delight.  But if you don't move fast, if you don't get unstuck, you'll miss the good parts.  The phrase "get over it" has never rung so true.

Example:  this video was taken tonight at 6:39PM.  For those 54-seconds, my life was pure, unadulterated, maternal bliss.  This is what all of life is about.  This is what I live and breathe for.

By 7:04, about an ounce of that bottle had reappeared in the form of projectile spit-up, Owen had logged two nuclear meltdowns and one timeout, and both kids were being escorted to very early bedtimes by exhausted parents on their way to eating toast for dinner.  This is what life is all about?  This is what I live and breathe for?  But then as I rocked Eliza to sleep, the sweet little wiggle-worm settled into my shoulder and stared up at me, studying my face and looking intently at my eyes, and I knew that this - all the messy parts of it - is what now makes me, me. 

Yes, there are those moments when the stars align, the heavens sing, and everything comes up roses. And these moments are inevitably followed - thirty seconds later - by shit hitting the fan, the bottom dropping out, and everything spiraling hilariously out of control.  But you have to be ready for both.  You get yourself geared up to be both punisher and playmate.  You have to relish -- like really be present for -- those 54-seconds of life's most perfect moments, and then be okay when the whole encounter ends with Owen asserting: "Get off me, Ewiza!! I need space!!"

So that's my quest, my many-times-a-daily visualization that I'm flexing my emotional muscle and learning how to become a professional mental contortionist.  And even if it doesn't work -- even if I don't stick the perfect landing, or can't keep up with my emotionally-nimble children -- well then, I always have the backup plan of running away with the circus.

The Boomerang Effect

"You really have to be careful what you say around toddlers," I just wrote, stating the obvious.  But it's really true.  And really crazy-making.  And now I'm going to vent about it.

Like most new parents, we started phasing out unsavory 4-letter words when Owen closed in on Talking Age.  We also had to reacquaint ourselves with the "Do Not Say" list of our childhoods:  those words that really aren't that bad, but that -- when strung together by a defiant toddler --will get you some truly nasty looks in the supermarket checkout line (e.g., "Crap, that stupid booger head just farted").

But I haven't been too bothered by the no-bad-words filter.  That I anticipated.  What I failed to foresee was how careful I'd have to be about the content of my directions, the unintended consequences of my sentences, the ways in which my own words would be turned against me.

It's the Boomerang Effect:  whatever you say will eventually come right back at you.

It started last summer when we began giving Owen two-minute warnings before an activity change.  We thought it would be a good way to give him a little heads-up that train time was ending and bath time was beginning.  It backfired early on, when -- having been denied the proper warning before dinner -- Owen turned to me, appalled, wagged his index finger and asserted: "I need two minutes!"

<<Boomeranged>>

And that was just the start.  Daddy has been put in timeout for not being a good listener.  Boomeranged.  Eliza routinely gets scolded for not being gentle.  Boomeranged.  Jules (nanny/second-mother extraordinaire) was told she "needa be patient" as she was trying to hurry Owen out the door one day.  Yup, bomeranged.  I was recently instructed that I had "two choices: watch Chuggington or play trains."  Boomeranged.

The obvious frustration is that being bossed around by a 2.5-year-old makes for a special kind of insanity.  But worse than that, you're forced to come face-to-face with your own parental hypocrisy.  And to realize how completely annoying you must sound all. the. time.  Listening to your own words come out of a toddler's mouth is like listening to your voice on a recording:  oh dear lord, is that really what I sound like?  *&$#

But for all of the boomeranging that Owen has done to us, I finally had the chance to boomerang him last week.

Owen:  "Can I throw this paper in the toilet, Mommy?"
Me:  "Hmm, no, let's not. It will get all yucky."
Owen:  "Please, Mommy, pleeeeease can I?"
Me:  "Nope."
Owen:  "Mommy, can you pleeeeease say yes?"

[2 minutes later]

Me:  "Owen, come wash your hands."
Owen:  "Nope."
Me:  "O, can you pleeeeease say yes?"
Owen:  [Big smile]  "Okay, Mommy."

Gotcha.

Lung Appreciation Month

Most days we go through life blissfully unaware of all the invisible, thankless work going on inside our bodies.  We breathe, we eat, we sleep -- no thanks to any of our conscious efforts, of course, but many thanks to the abiding efforts of our accommodating anatomy.  But sometimes our bodies protest.  They want some recognition, a little respect, some awareness that if they decided to go on strike, we'd be screwed.

And so there was February 2014:  the month the Lungs hijacked our household.

Case #1:  To celebrate our 6th anniversary, Owen chokes and aspirates on a piece of carrot.  Yada yada yada, chaos ensues.  Go to hospital and become known around ER as "The Carrot People."  Mentally applaud myself for at least having son choke on vegetable and not Tootsie Roll.  Little guy put under so they can scope his lungs.  I have meltdown in waiting room.  We both spend night in hospital sleeping together in a crib.  

Me:  "Okay, Lungs.  We get it.  You needed some attention.  Thanks for helping us breathe, blah blah blah.  Now can you stop being so needy?"

Lungs:  "Hmph.  You really should work on your sincerity and tone down that sarcasm."

Case #2:  Not three weeks later, Eliza gets viral lung infection.  Wheezing, retractions, labored breathing.  Three trips to pediatrician, then sent to Boston Children's.  Again.  Worried that Child Protective Services will soon be checking in on us.  Spend 7 hours in the ER getting steroids and nebulizer treatment.  Bonus: Eliza projectile vomits in my hair midway through our visit; nurses then keep minimum 4-ft distance between their noses and my head.

Me:  "Oh Lungs, how I love you.  Like seriously, you're awesome and def my favorite of the internal organs.  Let's just take it easy for a while, whaddya say?

Lungs:  "Should've said that in the first place, you ingrate."

Case #3:  Owen gets viral lung infection, obviously.  Spikes 103.5 fever for four days.  At one point, both kids puking and only option was to laugh hysterically.  Like that batty kind of laughter when something is totally not funny and makes people deeply concerned about your mental health.  

Me:  "Okay Lungs, you freaking won.  Fair and square.  I will never again take you for granted and hereby declare every February, from here until eternity, Lung Appreciation Month. xoxo"

Refused to take off his Duke hat.  Respect.

Upside: tiny hospital gowns are fairly adorable.

Classic.

Note:  In a children's ER, you would think they'd make stretchers that children could not fall out of.  But you'd be wrong.  

She lived up to her diagnosis of "Happy Wheezer."
(Post-puke nudity.)

I stole both hospital gowns for posterity.  Because when you pay like $10,000 for something, you deserve a party favor.

Big Boy Stuff

There comes a time in every toddler's life when "being a big boy" becomes the exclusive goal of his entire existence.  Correspondingly, there comes a time in every parent's life when "being a big boy" can be shamelessly used to induce just about any desirable behavior imaginable.

Want to be a big boy?  Better eat all that broccoli.  Want to be a big boy?  Put on your hat and mittens.  Want to be a big boy?  Here, why don't you make Mommy's bed, put away all her laundry, pay the bills, and take out the trash.  Please and thank you.

Never one to miss an opportunity, Owen also uses his new Big Boy status to his own advantage.  After unabashedly stealing and eating all of Eliza's dinner one night, he announced: "I eat Ewiza's food because I'm a big boy and Ewiza is a baby."  When Eliza needed to be put down for a nap, he justified trying to pick her up by saying:  "I will put Ewiza down for sleep because I'm a big boy."

But perhaps the single greatest "big boy" move came a week ago.  Assured that toilets represent the holy grail of Big Boyhood, Owen officially decided to join civilized society and shun his Pampers.  The mythical End of Diapers.  (For at least one butt, anyway.)

We are, of course, so excited and proud of him, but this is an adventure for which I wasn't quite mentally prepared.  Turns out little bladders are very high maintenance.  And pairing public restrooms with little hands that touch indiscriminately makes for a special kind of a nightmare.

So far (knock on wood), Owen's only had one accident.  But it was the kind of accident that reminded me not to get comfortable too fast.  Feeding Eliza before bed, home for the third night in a row by myself, exhausted, I heard Owen yell to me from the bathroom in a most surprised voice:

"Mommy! There's a POOP on the floor!!"

In his efforts to position his little step stool (no pun intended) just so, he told me that the "poopy fell out of my bumbum."  The tired part of me wanted to cry.  But every other part of me couldn't help laughing defeatedly as I scraped poop off the tile floor.

The next morning, Owen wanted to rehash The Incident.  "Mommy, you 'member when I pooped on the floor?  You 'member that?"

Laughing, I said "Yes, baby, I remember that."

Smiling, he replied, "Was that silly?"

Yes, sweet boy.  It was so, so silly.

Dinner and a Show

ACT I:  06:11PM January 13, 2014 - Set in a toy-strewn foyer that smells faintly of burned chicken tenders. If you listen closely, you may hear air raid sirens and bomb explosions coming from another room.  Enter Aaron through front door as Owen is corralled into bathroom by baby-toting mother covered in food.

KATE: (to Aaron) "Back away!!!  Don't let him touch you!  He's covered in honey!"

AARON:  "Where's the honey?"

OWEN:  (Proudly) "All over me."

AARON:  "Why?"

KATE:  "Because the chicken was burned so I gave him honey to dip it in, and he spread it all over his belly."

AARON:  "Why didn't he have a shirt on?"

KATE:  "Because Eliza puked all over him."  

ACT II:  05:45PM January 13, 2014 - Set in kitchen where you cannot see a single inch of unoccupied countertop. Eliza is showing the early signs of discontentment after being stuck in her high chair for too long. Owen is diligently dumping out the contents of every can of PlayDoh on the floor.  Kate is cooking Owen's dinner, cleaning up after Eliza's dinner, packing Owen's lunch for tomorrow, and wondering if someone could please pour her an extra large glass of wine.

OWEN:  "Mommy, I gonna watch Ewiza on my stool."  (Drags a stool over to Eliza's highchair and proceeds to steal every Cheerio off her tray, his sweet revenge after being denied his own bowl of cereal.)

ELIZA:  (Losing her shit)  "WAHHHHHHHHHH."  

(Kate lifts Eliza -- who is covered in pear juice and caked rice cereal, and therefore very justified in her cries of complaint -- and puts her in jumperoo seat while rushing back to the stove to flip the chicken tenders.  Meanwhile, Owen goes over to "help Ewiza bounce," thereby multiplying the force of every jump and essentially making his sister do negative Gs.  Kate turns just in time to see a familiar looking expression on Eliza's face.)

KATE:  (In that deep, slow-motion, Sandlot kind of voice) "Nooooooo!!!! Waaaaaatch outttttttt."  

(At that very moment, Eliza projectile vomits all over Owen's left arm.  Owen looks down, pauses in a moment of utter shock and panic, and then he, too, loses his shit.)

OWEN:  "GET IT OFF, MOMMY!!!!!!"

ACT III:  04:50PM January 13, 2014 - Set in an immaculate home, peaceful and happy.  Two sweet children are playing gently with one another as their loving nanny/second-mother finishes putting away the fifth load of folded laundry she's done today.

KATE:  (Cheerfully ignorant of what the next hour holds) "Hey guys! I'm home!"

Things You're Happy Your Kid Said In Private

• "Champagne is good."
• "Your forehead is big, Mommy."
• "Holy crap! Holy crap! Holy crap!"

Happy Hump Day.

A Traveling Circus

A week before Christmas, I flew by myself with both kiddos from Boston to Virginia.  The lag between ticket purchase and travel date was sufficiently long as to trick me into believing this would be a really swell idea.

(Side note:  future-predicting is one of parenthood's crazy mind games; you have no clue how different your kids -- and therefore your entire life -- will be from Time A to Time B, and it's deceivingly easy to confuse optimism with realism. "Oh, two whole months from now?  Eliza will practically be a toddler by then and Owen could probably help me carry all the bags through security."  Um, or not.)

It was only right before our flight, face-to-face with six rather imposing pieces of luggage, that I began to realize how many things could go terribly, terribly wrong.  (Spoiler alert:  nothing did, but that's not the point.)  Apparently, many people who encountered us in the airport that day had a similar thought.

Like any family with young children, we can be quite a spectacle when we venture out into the world. We're an easy source of entertainment for the bored people-watcher, a satisfying side show for fellow travelers.  Owen sang the ABCs Remix (starting over at QRS) on repeat through the entire security line.  At the gate, Eliza did tummy time on a blanket I'd spread on the floor and shared her glowing sweet-potato-orange spit-up for all to see.  Owen stood up in front of the otherwise silent boarding area crowd and announced that he wanted to take his pants off.  Then he began to sing at full volume:  "Dissssssneyyyyyy Juniorrrrrrrrr...On Demand!"  (I swear he watches less than 30 minutes of TV a day.)

Away from the safety of our natural habitat of toys and books and easy time-out corners, we draw unwanted attention.  Some people smile or coo, but many people glare.  Who knows what they're thinking -- probably some version of "please don't be seated in the row behind me" -- but I try to avoid eye contact at all cost.  I already feel awkward enough; please let me live in my world of denial ("if I don't see you, you don't see me") and don't think I'm rude if I fail to look up.

If there's one thing I've learned about parenthood, it's that where the world sees uncontrolled chaos, an accident waiting to happen, I see meticulous mental planning:  a sloppy-looking mother wearing spandex pants and a baggy sweatshirt because it maximizes her toddler-chasing agility; a dad who is fully aware of the spit-up on his shirt but carefully choosing his battles; a traveling mama who hasn't had a sip to drink since yesterday for fear of needing to pee with two kids in tow.  Sure, there's chaos.  But there's almost always a corresponding contingency plan.

A kind woman next to me on the plane remarked that I was surprisingly calm for taking a flight alone with two little ones.  Of course, she didn't know about the Emergency Oreos I had in my pocket, the episode of Curious George I had queued up on the iPad, and the glass of wine that would be waiting for me at my parents' house.

Owen + Eliza: A Love Story

When you have Baby #1, everyone's inevitable first question is "How's the baby sleeping?" -- doubtless because sleep is assumed to be the main obstacle standing between you and the eventual regaining of your sanity.  But when Number Two comes along, the threat of sleeplessness is overshadowed by an even more sinister family hazard: sibling dynamics.  The delicate household balance you spent 21 months carefully cultivating can be immediately annihilated by a jealous toddler trying to find ways to get Number Two back to the hospital.  And so naturally the question now is, "How does Owen like Eliza?"

The answer, we are so grateful to say, is that he absolutely, positively adores her.

Since the moment Owen met Eliza in the hospital when she was just three hours old, it's been a love story.  While he hasn't always known exactly how to treat an infant (e.g., he frustratedly tried to force a pacifier into her nose upon first meeting), he has always adored her and doted on her completely.  He often adopts a high cooing voice and tells her that she's his "Appletizer" (no clue) and that's she's "so cute and getting so big."  He snapped at us singing too loudly one night ("Daddy! Don't wake up Ewiza!") and calls our attention to her needs when she's fussing ("Mommy! Ewiza needa bottle!").  Lately, he's started asking us to put Eliza in his crib in the morning, and a few days ago this request was accompanied by very explicit instructions: "Mommy, put Ewiza right there.  I stay with Ewiza.  You go play trains."

(Timeout: that's what you think I do for fun while you're not around?)

For her part, Eliza is just an unbelievably good sport.  From the moment she arrived, she has been a curious but exceptionally easygoing girl, a disposition that has been thoroughly tested by her very hands-on older brother.  He loves to lie on top of her and give her a huge hug (and a mouthful of his unruly curls), hold her cheeks and squeeze her hands, and position her legs in the yoga poses ("Happy Baby Toes!") he learns at school.  All the while, she looks at him with wide eyes and a big gummy smile and has eyes for no one and nothing else.  Aaron and I do all sorts of ridiculous stunts to get her to smile, but Owen only has to look in her direction to provoke a full belly laugh.

In the nearly six months Eliza has been with us, I have taken approximately 39,385 of the same photo -- some variation of Owen holding Eliza (and often, Eliza looking at me with disapproving skepticism). Since this blog is called Baby Spam and you're my captive audience, here are an unsolicited few of those many, many sibling pics.

Learning to hold "Baby Wiza in his wap"

A common theme: Owen looking lovingly at Eliza, Eliza giving me a what-the-hell-is-going-on look

The first of many times Owen will be told not to drive trucks on his sister. 

After positioning the chairs like this, Owen spent 15 minutes playing footsie with Eliza.

Putting the skills he learned with his doll to work

"Seriously, Mom?" Part I

"Seriously, Mom?" Part II

"Seriously, Mom?" Part III

Spontaneous hand-holding to settle Eliza down in the car