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.