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.
Saturday, November 15, 2014
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 4, 2014
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 28, 2014
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."
"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."
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
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.
October 14, 2014: I woke up exhausted and bleary-eyed after a sleepless and wheezy 31st birthday.
Cheers to life's little ironies.
 |
| #happybirthdaytome |
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
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.
Monday, June 23, 2014
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.
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. |
Monday, May 19, 2014
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.
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