Quite the date Sarah and I had tonight--dinner from the hot counter at Whole Foods, followed by a trip to the labor and delivery unit of our local hospital to begin the act of inducing labor. I'm thinking of trademarking this experience as a "birthing date." More on that later.
Of more relevance at this moment is, of course, the pending birth of my next (and last) son, William Oliver. It's been quite the waiting game this week. Sarah had suffered so much through the final weeks of this pregnancy--and really, through ALL the weeks of this pregnancy--that she was already resigned to the idea of inducing at first opportunity rather than endure the hell of waiting nearly two weeks beyond her due date, as she had with Max. In particular, nerve pain (peripheral neuropathy) and back pain had taken their toll, often driving Sarah to tears.
Then, she actually started showing signs of labor this week…on Tuesday, her cervix had dilated to 1 cm (yawn!), and then the contractions started Thursday, spurring us to head on a fun-filled run to the hospital, excited that maybe this baby would come of his own volition…but soon after being admitted into L&D triage, and despite the fact that contractions were coming consistently four minutes apart, we were told that things weren't all that active, and that we were looking at an early labor. They had me walk Sarah around the hospital for an hour (and what a thrill THAT walk was!), after which they monitored her again for another hour before confirming that things were still quiet on the Western front and sending us home.
Much disappointment ensued. Sarah felt let down and impatient. Her mother, in town to stay with us and help with Max, could barely stand to watch her daughter's suffering. And I had to accept that I wasn't done sleeping in the basement. Then the waiting began in earnest. We hoped her labor would kick in the next day, and when it didn't, Sarah called to find out about getting in Friday night to begin an induction. Alas, the unit was too busy to take us, so they told Sarah to call first thing the following day, Saturday. She called at 5:30, was told to call back at 9, and then again at 5, and then was told that several emergent labors had come in, and she was out of luck. They put her on the list for Sunday evening, and lo and behold, nothing prevented that plan from playing out, and so here we sit at 11:20 on Sunday night, Cervidil inserted and morphine injected (the latter so she can sleep pain-free), and now we wait for her cervix to cooperate.
The modern birth room, for those who haven't experienced it, is a long way from the no-frills delivery rooms of bygone eras. It's bigger than many hotel rooms, has a huge bathroom with a jacuzzi tub (mom is VERY stoked about this--there were no rooms with tubs available for her previous delivery), a utilitarian couch for dad, a flat-screen TV, and an assortment of instrumentation that looks like it could perform a vehicle smog check. In short, it's a peachy setting to have a baby, regardless of what the anti-hospital-birth sect might lead you to believe.
Which brings me back to that idea of the "birthing date." Based on the experiences I've had with Sarah, I see no reason that larger numbers of women--especially those having difficult, trying pregnancies--shouldn't embrace the idea of the planned, scheduled birth. Being able to calmly stop for dinner with your wife, and then head to the hospital for your induction appointment almost transforms the act of childbirth into a night on the town--with a huge payoff at the end.
No, guys, it's not quite the same as getting that first kiss, or being invited in for a nightcap, but when it comes to excitement and joy, it's sure to deliver an even bigger bang for the buck.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
The Love That Almost Withered Away
WRITER'S NOTE: Last night, I tried to compose a post capturing the wide swath of parenting experiences I've been having as we bear down on the due date for our impending arrival, but my brain just wasn't cooperating. The post meandered through a bunch of entertaining details, but didn't tie them together well. It was frustrating given how long it's been since my last post, but I resolved to get the post right before publishing it.
Then, today I came across this journal-style essay I wrote nearly four years ago, at a moment of uncertainty in my relationship with Sarah. Today was the first time I'd read this since, and I was powerfully transported to a moment that I remember as being quite scary. But as I read, I was also reminded of the amazing woman I have often taken for granted as we've barreled head-long into the wild parenting journey together.
I thought you'd all find it pretty riveting stuff--no one more so than Sarah. It's for you, Baby, that I post this now. I know this pregnancy has been tough on you, and that these last weeks in particular are turning out to be pure torture. I know there are days when you're not sure how much longer you can make it. But remember that no matter how grim things seem, no matter how scared you might get, there's a light at the end of the tunnel, and you've got a hopelessly devoted man who's there to help you every step of the way. Read on...
Then, today I came across this journal-style essay I wrote nearly four years ago, at a moment of uncertainty in my relationship with Sarah. Today was the first time I'd read this since, and I was powerfully transported to a moment that I remember as being quite scary. But as I read, I was also reminded of the amazing woman I have often taken for granted as we've barreled head-long into the wild parenting journey together.
I thought you'd all find it pretty riveting stuff--no one more so than Sarah. It's for you, Baby, that I post this now. I know this pregnancy has been tough on you, and that these last weeks in particular are turning out to be pure torture. I know there are days when you're not sure how much longer you can make it. But remember that no matter how grim things seem, no matter how scared you might get, there's a light at the end of the tunnel, and you've got a hopelessly devoted man who's there to help you every step of the way. Read on...
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Ah, Sarah…just thinking about her brings a peace over me…yet
I write this as she sleeps in my bed blissfully, having just given me the
latest of life's shots to my solar plexus…
The fact that I haven't pointedly written about her, other
than in emails (to her and others), speaks more to my laser-like focus on her
over the past 8 months than it does to any possible lack of
inspiration—conversely, she inspires me far more than any other woman I've been with. And oddly enough, what has inspired me to write now, at 5 am on a
Sunday morning, is the nightmarish conversation that broke out as we were in
bed, getting ready for what I sincerely thought was going to be our first lovemaking in nearly a week.
Instead, my reward for my patience was a sudden declaration
that she was feeling unsexual and was having some second thoughts about
whether our relationship is right for her. And by "our", she meant
not just her and me, but also Jackson. Apparently, a string of interactions
between Jackson and me that fueled a restaurant scene at dinner tonight has her
considering whether she's biting off more than she can chew.
Of course, this is something I can understand with profound
intensity. I faced this same quandary at the far more naïve age of 28, when,
after a one-year break-up, I foolishly returned to Rox, who would become my first wife, believing that she was
the one for me. What resulted was 11 more years of mostly frustration,
resentment and loneliness that culminated with our split and, not long after that, her suicide. I remember often
feeling that I wasn't sure my life with Rox was right for me, but I didn't want
to let anyone down—not Rox, not Alex or Owen
(my stepchildren), and down the road, not our little baby Jackson.
In the meantime, I let myself down by doing what I'd always
sworn I wouldn't do—namely, marching unconsciously into a life I didn't really
want. Don't get me wrong, I loved bringing Jackson into the world, and he's really the only
reason any of it makes sense today. But if I had it to do all over again, I'd
never allow myself to commit to the life I did. I'd have the ability to see
how wrong Rox—and her situation—was for me.
I don't want Sarah to feel like she'd be making that same mistake. I know the love I
share with Sarah runs very deep. I've never felt about anyone the way I do
about her, and she says she feels the same. She's just
seeing a future—or at least a near-ish future—filled with conflict and stress
and public scenes as Jackson
heads full-bore into puberty. And quite honestly, if I was in her shoes, I very
well might make a beeline for the hills.
Then again, there's that love thing, and it's intense. What
we have isn't something you walk away from before it runs its course. What we
have isn't something you cut off before you've seen what it can grow into. What
we have is strong enough to buoy us, lifting us over any challenge in our way.
What we have is special, very special.
The last thing Sarah said to me before we started to doze
off was not to get carried away and think she's breaking up with me. It may
just be one of the occasional freakouts she was prone to in the first months of
our relationship, she said. It may be the current onset of PMS talking, she
said. But I know better. I know a person in serious doubt when I hear one. I
hope I’m wrong, and that her concerns at the moment represent a temporary set
of feelings. And yet, something tells me this is the beginning of the end.
To know how this would devastate me, one would have to
understand the amazing connection we've discovered in each other. One would
have to have watched the seamless way we feed off each other, communicate with
each other, and make love to each other. This is not your garden-variety
romance. This is the kind of romance books are borne from. It's the kind of
romance that all future romances are compared against. It's a stroke of luck
the likes of which doesn't come around very often in a lifetime.
Which is to say, I don't want to lose her. I mean, I really,
really don't want to lose her. And yet I feel helpless to do anything to stop
her growing away from me. I'm starting to see her fickle nature, and am
increasingly worried that the mask that love has placed over her eyes is
starting to come loose, and that she's seeing the situation with clearer vision
now. And I can't help but think this isn't a good thing.
Maybe it's inevitable that I lose her. Maybe it's been
foolish of me to think that a woman possessing the combination of sexiness,
peace with herself, and ease of personality that Sarah brings to a relationship
can possibly stay satisfied with a frenzied, widowed single dad who has an
emotionally charged 11-year-old boy hanging off of him. Maybe it's too much to ask to keep it alive.
But I'm not about to let a little reality cloud my love for
Sarah. I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with her. Whether
that means marriage or a child isn't important. What matters is that I get to
be with her. And yes, Jackson
is a bit of an obstruction, as any child would be. But this is a relationship,
and a future, worth fighting for. That said, I'm not sure there's anything for me to fight—the ball's really in her court, and my sense is that with
Sarah, my best strategy is to leave her to her thoughts and let her figure it
out without my interference. Easier said than done.
What I really want to do is go slide into bed, arouse her,
and make passionate love to her. That won't leave any doubts in her head. But
now I find myself, for the first time in months, wondering if I've made love to
her for the last time.
If that's the case, I know I'll take away a number of things from our time together. For instance, I'll understand better than ever the danger of taking such
wonderful connections for granted.
Sarah, if you're listening from your blissful slumber, don't
let this die. Don't walk away from what we have. Give this a chance to blossom
into the depths of love that both of us had grown to think was impossible to
find. We found it—that's half the struggle. Making it work, that's the hard
part. Here's hoping we get the chance.
WRITER'S EPILOGUE: Baby, thanks for giving us the chance--we certainly haven't wasted any time making the most of it. Now it's all about holding it together!
Monday, June 11, 2012
Even Parents Need to Get Their Freak On
So when last we met, I promised to post about the "goth moms" I met at a nearby park. Of course, that was over a month ago, and the memories have faded--my latest lesson about the importance of striking when the iron's hot, which is something that's been missing from my blogging efforts in general.
In any case, a promise is a promise, and I do remember what struck me about the goth moms that day. I was monitoring Max at the time as he worked in rapid fire fashion through the various elements of the playground--climbing, digging, running, yelling...the usual. At some point, my ears started picking up some of the goth mom conversation, and I was enlightened by the utterances of one mom in particular, who had clearly been putting plenty of thought into how a goth mom comes off to other non-goth moms.
In particular, this mom was talking about her concerted efforts to tone down her gothness in and around schools. I'm not sure if this was a current issue for her, or if she was planning for one day down the line. But as she articulated her realization that her appearance could be off-putting to other moms, I couldn't help but appreciate her self-awareness. And that appreciation quickly morphed into my own increased awareness of the kinds of issues alternative moms (and dads!) must contend with, especially the societal judgments that come in the form of disapproving looks, unwelcome comments, and a widespread assumption that parents are supposed to trade in their youthful philosophies and become--gasp!--adults once they have children.
Let's face it--goth types face much of this stuff even without kids, much the way hippies, punks, glam-rockers and hip-hopsters did in their heydays. But when one adds parenting to their list of duties, they find themselves forced into intimate settings with people they'd otherwise stay far away from--whether that's interacting with other parents during drop-off and pick-up from school, participating in early childhood classes, organizing play dates...you name it. Even someone like me, who's a pretty "normal" guy, often finds himself sitting beside, talking to, or even exchanging phone numbers with people I couldn't stomach in another setting, all because I happen to have sired offspring. And you know what? My life is much richer for having not only welcomed and embraced those interactions, but even formed some highly unexpected friendships.
Something tells me the goth moms that day will one day feel the same--if they don't already, and clearly the mom I overheard is well on her way. Hopefully, she and her friends will continue to remain true to who they are, raise their children in an alternative way, and proudly fly their freak flags for all to see. But the truth is, it's hard to maintain one's "freak" status for long after having children. And it's not just that the world around you wants you to conform--it's that there's no time. Raising children is such a round-the-clock proposition that once you factor it in along with running a household and making a living, it's nearly impossible to remain the person you've always been. Instead, you evolve into the parenting version of you--you know, the one that looks and sounds a lot more like your own parents than you'd have ever imagined possible.
Who's got time to spend hours in a salon getting that latest tat when there are diapers to be changed and laundry to be washed? How does one get their multi-colored mohawk just right when there are parks to visit and dinner to get on the table? And once the kids are in bed, all those dreams of leaving them with a sitter while you go out and relive your youthful nights at the clubs quickly dissolve amid the fog of exhaustion. Just ask me about my 50-dollars-a-night jazz career, which I really had little choice but to tank once I became a dad.
This is what's so awesome about my neighborhood, which is filled with parents who are partiers at their core. Our solution? Bring the party to us, with an almost endless stream of fire pits and similar get-togethers that allow us all to fly our admittedly mellowed freak flags in small doses, all without venturing more than a few feet from our homes. Sometimes, these events are kid-friendly, sometimes not.
It's not exactly what Barry Commoner had in mind during his futile 1984 presidential bid, but it's certainly similar in spirit. If that goth mom happens to read this, she's welcome to bring her bad ol' goth self to any of our gatherings. And she won't have to tone down her look one bit.
By the way, if you're interested in getting to know this goth mom better, head over to the blog she writes for, Offbeat Mama. Her handle is Hunny Du. (And the blog in general is fabulous anyway.)
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Please Let It Be a Girl, Please Let It Be a Girl, Please...Oh, Damn, There's a Penis!
With apologies to my small, devoted readership for being absent so long, the past two days have brought me irresistible material. I'll start today with the more personal story: Sarah and I found out that the child we're expecting in September will be, gulp, a boy.
This, of course, brings all sorts of items to the table for discussion, such as how a guy with a blog entitled "A Dad Again" could delay this long in writing about being A Dad Again...Again. Or what sins I must have committed during my previous lives to deserve this special form of punishment. Or what the point was of spending nearly $50 on a home gender test from Wallgreens if all we were gonna do was pretend it never happened and hope against hope for a girl anyway.
Then there's the little matter of my projected age of 65 when this unborn child graduates high school. It's pretty sobering. I'll be 52 when we walk this kid to his first day of kindergarten. I'll be nearly 70 when/if he graduates college. And it's definitely uncertain whether I'll live long enough to meet any grandchildren that result. Which, of course, could be a seriously lucky break for those potential future Kontzers.
On a more serious note, there's the impact this is having--and will have--on Sarah. She was in tears upon finding out the news today, her visions of dressing up a little girl in cute summer dresses, of taking her shopping for school clothes, of counseling her through her first boyfriend, of picking out a wedding gown together, of having a new best girl friend, all dashed. Once the emotions have settled, she can begin looking forward to a testosterone-filled life filled with sports, B.O., meat products and lots of broken stuff. Followed by a life of constant frustration over how infrequently her boys call her.
But enough about mom--this blog isn't about her. Besides, trying to get to the bottom of what a woman is feeling about the child she's carrying is a task I--or any man, for that matter--am just not up to. What I am up to is offering up a simple, straightforward list of the good and bad I expect from having yet another son. Let's start with the bad:
-My car insurance rates just went up 600 percent in reaction to the news.
-I'm a big brother. I know what big brothers do to little brothers. I also know what Max is capable of. Yikes.
-Q, our family dog, who's been constantly poked and prodded by Max and hated every minute of it (another post that has gone unwritten!), is going to have an absolute nervous breakdown.
-All those hours spent debating girl's names? Total waste!
-Worse, we have to spend those hours once again, this time debating boys' names.
-I'm going to be stepping on a lot more small, plastic, painful toys soon.
-I'm also going to be breaking up a lot of fights over those small, plastic, painful toys.
-Getting out the door with a toddler and in infant while Sarah's at work? Sounds like fun! (This admittedly has nothing to do with the pending arrival being a boy--so what, I make the rules around here.)
-Oh, goodie, we get to be urinated on during diaper changes again!
Now, on to the good:
-Throwing Max and the new arrival in the same bedroom just got a LOT less complicated.
-Barring unforeseen circumstances, I should never have to pay for any weddings.
-Our future budget for toys just got a lot smaller.
-There'll be another face besides mine for Max to claw and grab. Oh, wait, maybe that shouldn't be on the "good" list.
-I never have to worry about being ganged up on by the women in my house.
-The Kontzer Men's Club membership will reach 6, triggering our "free bowl of matzo ball soup" promotion.
-Once Sarah hits menopause (and sorry, Babe, but the clock's tickin'), the menstrual cycle will be a thing of the past! -I won't ever be accused of ogling my daughter's hot teenage friends.
-I won't ever be accused of beating my daughter's teenage boyfriends.
With that, I'll return you to your regularly scheduled programming. Stay tuned for my next post, which will center on a group of "goth" moms I overheard, and then met, at a nearby park yesterday. Have to say, I never thought of putting "goth" and "moms" in the same thought before.
This, of course, brings all sorts of items to the table for discussion, such as how a guy with a blog entitled "A Dad Again" could delay this long in writing about being A Dad Again...Again. Or what sins I must have committed during my previous lives to deserve this special form of punishment. Or what the point was of spending nearly $50 on a home gender test from Wallgreens if all we were gonna do was pretend it never happened and hope against hope for a girl anyway.
Then there's the little matter of my projected age of 65 when this unborn child graduates high school. It's pretty sobering. I'll be 52 when we walk this kid to his first day of kindergarten. I'll be nearly 70 when/if he graduates college. And it's definitely uncertain whether I'll live long enough to meet any grandchildren that result. Which, of course, could be a seriously lucky break for those potential future Kontzers.
On a more serious note, there's the impact this is having--and will have--on Sarah. She was in tears upon finding out the news today, her visions of dressing up a little girl in cute summer dresses, of taking her shopping for school clothes, of counseling her through her first boyfriend, of picking out a wedding gown together, of having a new best girl friend, all dashed. Once the emotions have settled, she can begin looking forward to a testosterone-filled life filled with sports, B.O., meat products and lots of broken stuff. Followed by a life of constant frustration over how infrequently her boys call her.
But enough about mom--this blog isn't about her. Besides, trying to get to the bottom of what a woman is feeling about the child she's carrying is a task I--or any man, for that matter--am just not up to. What I am up to is offering up a simple, straightforward list of the good and bad I expect from having yet another son. Let's start with the bad:
-My car insurance rates just went up 600 percent in reaction to the news.
-I'm a big brother. I know what big brothers do to little brothers. I also know what Max is capable of. Yikes.
-Q, our family dog, who's been constantly poked and prodded by Max and hated every minute of it (another post that has gone unwritten!), is going to have an absolute nervous breakdown.
-All those hours spent debating girl's names? Total waste!
-Worse, we have to spend those hours once again, this time debating boys' names.
-I'm going to be stepping on a lot more small, plastic, painful toys soon.
-I'm also going to be breaking up a lot of fights over those small, plastic, painful toys.
-Getting out the door with a toddler and in infant while Sarah's at work? Sounds like fun! (This admittedly has nothing to do with the pending arrival being a boy--so what, I make the rules around here.)
-Oh, goodie, we get to be urinated on during diaper changes again!
Now, on to the good:
-Throwing Max and the new arrival in the same bedroom just got a LOT less complicated.
-Barring unforeseen circumstances, I should never have to pay for any weddings.
-Our future budget for toys just got a lot smaller.
-There'll be another face besides mine for Max to claw and grab. Oh, wait, maybe that shouldn't be on the "good" list.
-I never have to worry about being ganged up on by the women in my house.
-The Kontzer Men's Club membership will reach 6, triggering our "free bowl of matzo ball soup" promotion.
-Once Sarah hits menopause (and sorry, Babe, but the clock's tickin'), the menstrual cycle will be a thing of the past! -I won't ever be accused of ogling my daughter's hot teenage friends.
-I won't ever be accused of beating my daughter's teenage boyfriends.
With that, I'll return you to your regularly scheduled programming. Stay tuned for my next post, which will center on a group of "goth" moms I overheard, and then met, at a nearby park yesterday. Have to say, I never thought of putting "goth" and "moms" in the same thought before.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
When Moms Attack III: Make Her Go Away!
Typically, when one is producing a second sequel to a horror story, the introduction of a new menace is in order. But this is no ordinary sequel. In this third installment of When Moms Attack, our antagonist once again is the infamous "Dickhead" mom from the previous post. Only this time, she's moved on to another totally inappropriate action.
Mind you, this is not so much an attack on my person, or my personal space, or my potty training failures. Rather, this is an attack on my sensibilities. Of which, as many of you know, I have little, so causing them to bristle requires a pretty serious act.
Then again, the woman in question, having caused me to reconsider every warm and fuzzy thought I've ever had about modern day moms during our last interaction, has placed me firmly in a constant state of bristle whenever she's near. Sadly, this extends to her toddler son, whom I can no longer see as anything other than an appendage to the person I so despise. Each time he approaches me, I treat him like a babbling, diaper-clad virus to be avoided at all costs. But as usual, I digress.
So, a couple of weeks ago, I walked into the kinder gym session, and there was Dickhead Mom, her presence immediately putting me on edge. (Thanks to her earlier castigation of my play style, kinder gym now feels like that meeting of the Empire's brass in the first Star Wars movie--you know, when Darth Vader chokes that dude with his thoughts? Guess which role she's playing.) Making a special effort to steer clear of her part of the room (victory, Dickhead Mom!), I managed to avoid any potential incidents.
That's when she plopped herself down, right in the middle of the play area, where everyone's moving around and all the action's happening, unclasped the left side of her nursing bra, and popped her 9-month-old onto her breast--no cover, no discretion, no seeming thought given to how this would affect everyone around her, from the young children terrorizing the room to the less-endowed moms straining to avert their glances. Granted, this had absolutely nothing to do with me, per se, but it struck me: Wasn't this the same woman who had questioned my behavior in playing too roughly with a couple of the boys? What, the comfy pad in the corner isn't good enough for her? She had to turn her nursing session into performance art?
That proved to be just the preface, though, because when I returned last Thursday, there she was again. And once more, I steered clear, this time braced for some public nursing. I was not disappointed. This time, at least, she stayed at the edge of the room--albeit still uncovered--and chatting with a dad holding a newborn. It speaks to my distaste for this woman that I could glare at her out of the corner of my eye and wish unspeakably terrible things upon her even as she breast-feeds her baby.
Then, IT happened. She pulled the baby off of her breast, and sat there, continuing to converse with this new dad for at least 5 seconds--it seemed like 10 minutes--before covering up her totally exposed breast. Okay, I admit it, I looked. But whereas I may have looked with great admiration at her buxom-ness had she not declared herself my mortal enemy, I instead saw her uncovered knocker as a great, nippled monster invading my toddler sanctuary.
Let me make it clear that I do not normally have any problem with public breast feeding. I'm not sure I even have any problem with public breast feeding that ends with an inordinate amount of breast exposure--I am a guy at heart, after all. But this was no simple breast exposure incident. This was no Janet Jackson-style wardrobe malfunction. And it certainly wasn't some kind of free-wheeling public nursing statement a la the bra-less Maggie Gyllenhaal, above. This was an affront to any dad who's ever played a little too rough. This was an attack on what little is left of my self-respect.
Naturally, I didn't do anything. I didn't want to be perceived as some petty amateur who whines at the first sight of his tormentor's tits. I hoped that one of the other parents--moms, where are you!?--would appeal to her sense of decorum and ask that she check her exhibitionism at the kinder gym door. No such luck. I'm not even sure anyone else in the room noticed, which is hard to fathom.
Now, I find myself in the odd position of having nightmarish visions of this demonic boob taunting me from the distance. I may never look upon breasts the same way. Okay, so that's stretching it, but I think you get my point.
Mind you, this is not so much an attack on my person, or my personal space, or my potty training failures. Rather, this is an attack on my sensibilities. Of which, as many of you know, I have little, so causing them to bristle requires a pretty serious act.
Then again, the woman in question, having caused me to reconsider every warm and fuzzy thought I've ever had about modern day moms during our last interaction, has placed me firmly in a constant state of bristle whenever she's near. Sadly, this extends to her toddler son, whom I can no longer see as anything other than an appendage to the person I so despise. Each time he approaches me, I treat him like a babbling, diaper-clad virus to be avoided at all costs. But as usual, I digress.
So, a couple of weeks ago, I walked into the kinder gym session, and there was Dickhead Mom, her presence immediately putting me on edge. (Thanks to her earlier castigation of my play style, kinder gym now feels like that meeting of the Empire's brass in the first Star Wars movie--you know, when Darth Vader chokes that dude with his thoughts? Guess which role she's playing.) Making a special effort to steer clear of her part of the room (victory, Dickhead Mom!), I managed to avoid any potential incidents.
That's when she plopped herself down, right in the middle of the play area, where everyone's moving around and all the action's happening, unclasped the left side of her nursing bra, and popped her 9-month-old onto her breast--no cover, no discretion, no seeming thought given to how this would affect everyone around her, from the young children terrorizing the room to the less-endowed moms straining to avert their glances. Granted, this had absolutely nothing to do with me, per se, but it struck me: Wasn't this the same woman who had questioned my behavior in playing too roughly with a couple of the boys? What, the comfy pad in the corner isn't good enough for her? She had to turn her nursing session into performance art?
That proved to be just the preface, though, because when I returned last Thursday, there she was again. And once more, I steered clear, this time braced for some public nursing. I was not disappointed. This time, at least, she stayed at the edge of the room--albeit still uncovered--and chatting with a dad holding a newborn. It speaks to my distaste for this woman that I could glare at her out of the corner of my eye and wish unspeakably terrible things upon her even as she breast-feeds her baby.
Then, IT happened. She pulled the baby off of her breast, and sat there, continuing to converse with this new dad for at least 5 seconds--it seemed like 10 minutes--before covering up her totally exposed breast. Okay, I admit it, I looked. But whereas I may have looked with great admiration at her buxom-ness had she not declared herself my mortal enemy, I instead saw her uncovered knocker as a great, nippled monster invading my toddler sanctuary.
Let me make it clear that I do not normally have any problem with public breast feeding. I'm not sure I even have any problem with public breast feeding that ends with an inordinate amount of breast exposure--I am a guy at heart, after all. But this was no simple breast exposure incident. This was no Janet Jackson-style wardrobe malfunction. And it certainly wasn't some kind of free-wheeling public nursing statement a la the bra-less Maggie Gyllenhaal, above. This was an affront to any dad who's ever played a little too rough. This was an attack on what little is left of my self-respect.Naturally, I didn't do anything. I didn't want to be perceived as some petty amateur who whines at the first sight of his tormentor's tits. I hoped that one of the other parents--moms, where are you!?--would appeal to her sense of decorum and ask that she check her exhibitionism at the kinder gym door. No such luck. I'm not even sure anyone else in the room noticed, which is hard to fathom.
Now, I find myself in the odd position of having nightmarish visions of this demonic boob taunting me from the distance. I may never look upon breasts the same way. Okay, so that's stretching it, but I think you get my point.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
When Moms Attack II: The Horror Continues
When last we convened, I shared my thoughts about a couple of moms who I felt had stepped over lines of decorum during recent interactions with me. Since that time, I've been especially worried that the first of those moms, whose gaffe of asking for a play date prematurely was much more understandable and innocent than the Germanic mom's ulcer-inducing suggestions on the potty training front, would stumble upon my post, put two and two together, and decide she had no choice but to pick up and move to Fresno. I guess I left the post as it was in the hope that if she did happen to see it, she'd be able to have a sense of humor about herself. Besides, I figured I'd go on to new topics, and mom craziness would recede into the archives of this blog.
Alas, little did I know I'd have an exchange that would take the whole "When Moms Attack" thing to a new level, especially given that the first two moms didn't exactly attack as much as say the wrong things. This latest mom? Well, she really did attack.
Let me take you to the scene last Thursday morning at the kinder gym again (what is it about that place!?), where I was being my typically spastic, out-of-control self. I should make it clear that when it comes to playing, I'm most definitely not a mom, and I have the penis to prove it. So when I go to the kinder gym (this session is NOT called "baby gym" for a reason, as it's supposed to be for 2- to 4-year-olds), I go to play. Not watch the kids play, but actually play. This has resulted in my forming pretty close (and sometimes physical) relationships with several of the regulars. And when I say regulars, I'm talking about the kids, not the moms. (Ba dum, bum.)
The way this behavior manifests itself is as follows: Two kids in particular, both at the older end of the 2-to-4 spectrum, like to assume superhero personas. One actually shows up in a Batman shirt and cape, while the second simply has the woman who staffs the session write "Spiderman" on his name tag. Naturally, this role-playing has resulted in my referring to them, unexpected as it may seem, as Batman and Spiderman. Naturally, I feel obligated to assume the role of the Joker or Green Goblin or whatever fictional villain I want to be, and I chase the boys around, gently tackling them, softly throwing large, padded nylon blocks at them, and generally causing chaos. (Max typically hangs at the periphery of the insanity, avoiding the real rough housing and instead diving in when things are a bit more mellow. He clearly gets a bit jealous of Daddy playing with other kids--it's kind of adorable.)
Sarah witnessed this scene a couple of months ago, and has since warned me that she thought I'd end up making some of the moms uneasy. No one who knows me well will be surprised that this input only emboldened me, as I think the one thing some moms need more than anything is to be made uneasy. So I'm an instigator--sue me.
Back to last Thursday. It was a particularly energetic day because my recent visits have been hampered by a series of ailments--gout (don't ask), strep throat, and a bout of the flu--that rendered me too listless to exert myself. (Mind you, before someone points it out, I didn't actually go to the kinder gym while contagious with strep or actually suffering the flu--I was there during the recovery periods.) In other words, the fact I was healthy and energetic was a cause for serious celebration (and extra exuberant play) among the boys. We were running all over the room, and all the kids who weren't playing with us were taking great interest. Some of them probably even tried their luck at throwing those cushiony blocks.
This is when the mom in question walks up to me and, gesturing me to the side of the room, says, "Can we talk for a minute?"
Uh-oh.
A bit of background about this woman might help: she is apparently a long time sporadic attendee of these sessions, but I had seen her for the first time just a month or two earlier. I remember it because this mom, who is youngish, and reasonably attractive (but presents herself as a very uptight, librarianesque figure) showed up that day in a sun dress that brought a lot of attention to her admittedly spectacular breasts. And those breasts were a constant that day, not just because I'm a man and thus biologically predisposed to gawking at spectacular breasts, but because her cleavage was so apparent and pronounced that a few of the other moms rolled their eyes with what can only be described as a combination of disgust and envy.
This mom was also memorable because she brought both of her kids--one who's nearly 4, and a second that's about 9 months--to the kinder gym. Totally understandable, but also an action that should be accompanied by a certain awareness that you're plopping your 9-month-old down in a room filled with crazed toddlers, introducing all sorts of potential risk.
So when this mom pulled me aside, I was braced for a scolding, but I expected it to be civil, along the lines of "I know you're a dad and so you like to play a little rough, and I think that's great, and it's obvious the kids love it, but I'd sure appreciate it if you could pull back just a bit because I'm concerned your exuberance might lead to someone's child getting hurt." And that would have been a completely reasonable request.
Instead, however, this is what she said: "Y'know, we're trying to raise our sons more like daughters now and teaching them to be more sensitive and respectful, and when you teach them to throw and hit, they're just gonna grow up to be dickheads. So do you think you could dial it down a bit?"
Being the people pleaser I am, I responded with a humble "Okay, I understand," and that was that. Except that I felt parentally castrated. It was as if I'd been given a timeout for excessive playing, and I spent the rest of the session sitting on my hands and telling all the kids--who came up constantly asking me to play--that I had to take a break because one of the mommies felt I was playing too rough.
I did have one key (albeit silent) supporter, though: Batman's mom. She always sits on the side, laughing heartily at my "abuse" of her kid and always putting me at ease when I think I may be going overboard. You gotta respect a mom who embraces rough male play. She thought the other mom was out line, and said she's always been kind of uptight about things that make her uncomfortable at the kinder gym.
What I wish I'd said to the big-breasted mom when she confronted me was this: "So if I understand correctly, you're concerned that by pretending to be the villain to their superheros and running around playing with little boys exactly as they love to be played with, and admittedly risking collisions with other little ones who no doubt would recover as all toddlers do, I'm somehow increasing the likelihood that these kids will end up beating their wives and kids? Because if that's what you're suggesting, I gotta say you're fucking nuts."
By the way, not only does this woman need to think twice about bringing her 9-month-old to a toddler play session if she's all worried about incidents, but she also needs to acknowledge that her older kid--who has repeatedly (and innocently) thrown hard objects at me when all the other kids seem to understand that they need to limit their throwing to those soft cushiony blocks--already has a throwing problem and is thus well on his way to becoming a dickhead with or without my influence.
I guess the moral of the story is this: If you want someone to train your son to be a dickhead, I'm your man.
Or maybe it's this: Moms with spectacular cleavage who bring their babies to toddler play sessions and have toddlers who throw to injure should probably look inward before holding innocent dads responsible for the worst instincts in men. On second thought, that's kinda wordy. Lets stick with the first moral.
Alas, little did I know I'd have an exchange that would take the whole "When Moms Attack" thing to a new level, especially given that the first two moms didn't exactly attack as much as say the wrong things. This latest mom? Well, she really did attack.
Let me take you to the scene last Thursday morning at the kinder gym again (what is it about that place!?), where I was being my typically spastic, out-of-control self. I should make it clear that when it comes to playing, I'm most definitely not a mom, and I have the penis to prove it. So when I go to the kinder gym (this session is NOT called "baby gym" for a reason, as it's supposed to be for 2- to 4-year-olds), I go to play. Not watch the kids play, but actually play. This has resulted in my forming pretty close (and sometimes physical) relationships with several of the regulars. And when I say regulars, I'm talking about the kids, not the moms. (Ba dum, bum.)
The way this behavior manifests itself is as follows: Two kids in particular, both at the older end of the 2-to-4 spectrum, like to assume superhero personas. One actually shows up in a Batman shirt and cape, while the second simply has the woman who staffs the session write "Spiderman" on his name tag. Naturally, this role-playing has resulted in my referring to them, unexpected as it may seem, as Batman and Spiderman. Naturally, I feel obligated to assume the role of the Joker or Green Goblin or whatever fictional villain I want to be, and I chase the boys around, gently tackling them, softly throwing large, padded nylon blocks at them, and generally causing chaos. (Max typically hangs at the periphery of the insanity, avoiding the real rough housing and instead diving in when things are a bit more mellow. He clearly gets a bit jealous of Daddy playing with other kids--it's kind of adorable.)
Sarah witnessed this scene a couple of months ago, and has since warned me that she thought I'd end up making some of the moms uneasy. No one who knows me well will be surprised that this input only emboldened me, as I think the one thing some moms need more than anything is to be made uneasy. So I'm an instigator--sue me.
Back to last Thursday. It was a particularly energetic day because my recent visits have been hampered by a series of ailments--gout (don't ask), strep throat, and a bout of the flu--that rendered me too listless to exert myself. (Mind you, before someone points it out, I didn't actually go to the kinder gym while contagious with strep or actually suffering the flu--I was there during the recovery periods.) In other words, the fact I was healthy and energetic was a cause for serious celebration (and extra exuberant play) among the boys. We were running all over the room, and all the kids who weren't playing with us were taking great interest. Some of them probably even tried their luck at throwing those cushiony blocks.
This is when the mom in question walks up to me and, gesturing me to the side of the room, says, "Can we talk for a minute?"
Uh-oh.
A bit of background about this woman might help: she is apparently a long time sporadic attendee of these sessions, but I had seen her for the first time just a month or two earlier. I remember it because this mom, who is youngish, and reasonably attractive (but presents herself as a very uptight, librarianesque figure) showed up that day in a sun dress that brought a lot of attention to her admittedly spectacular breasts. And those breasts were a constant that day, not just because I'm a man and thus biologically predisposed to gawking at spectacular breasts, but because her cleavage was so apparent and pronounced that a few of the other moms rolled their eyes with what can only be described as a combination of disgust and envy.
This mom was also memorable because she brought both of her kids--one who's nearly 4, and a second that's about 9 months--to the kinder gym. Totally understandable, but also an action that should be accompanied by a certain awareness that you're plopping your 9-month-old down in a room filled with crazed toddlers, introducing all sorts of potential risk.
So when this mom pulled me aside, I was braced for a scolding, but I expected it to be civil, along the lines of "I know you're a dad and so you like to play a little rough, and I think that's great, and it's obvious the kids love it, but I'd sure appreciate it if you could pull back just a bit because I'm concerned your exuberance might lead to someone's child getting hurt." And that would have been a completely reasonable request.
Instead, however, this is what she said: "Y'know, we're trying to raise our sons more like daughters now and teaching them to be more sensitive and respectful, and when you teach them to throw and hit, they're just gonna grow up to be dickheads. So do you think you could dial it down a bit?"
Being the people pleaser I am, I responded with a humble "Okay, I understand," and that was that. Except that I felt parentally castrated. It was as if I'd been given a timeout for excessive playing, and I spent the rest of the session sitting on my hands and telling all the kids--who came up constantly asking me to play--that I had to take a break because one of the mommies felt I was playing too rough.
I did have one key (albeit silent) supporter, though: Batman's mom. She always sits on the side, laughing heartily at my "abuse" of her kid and always putting me at ease when I think I may be going overboard. You gotta respect a mom who embraces rough male play. She thought the other mom was out line, and said she's always been kind of uptight about things that make her uncomfortable at the kinder gym.
What I wish I'd said to the big-breasted mom when she confronted me was this: "So if I understand correctly, you're concerned that by pretending to be the villain to their superheros and running around playing with little boys exactly as they love to be played with, and admittedly risking collisions with other little ones who no doubt would recover as all toddlers do, I'm somehow increasing the likelihood that these kids will end up beating their wives and kids? Because if that's what you're suggesting, I gotta say you're fucking nuts."
By the way, not only does this woman need to think twice about bringing her 9-month-old to a toddler play session if she's all worried about incidents, but she also needs to acknowledge that her older kid--who has repeatedly (and innocently) thrown hard objects at me when all the other kids seem to understand that they need to limit their throwing to those soft cushiony blocks--already has a throwing problem and is thus well on his way to becoming a dickhead with or without my influence.
I guess the moral of the story is this: If you want someone to train your son to be a dickhead, I'm your man.
Or maybe it's this: Moms with spectacular cleavage who bring their babies to toddler play sessions and have toddlers who throw to injure should probably look inward before holding innocent dads responsible for the worst instincts in men. On second thought, that's kinda wordy. Lets stick with the first moral.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
When Moms Attack
I've had a couple of Max-related interactions in the past week that have left me contemplating what constitutes stepping over a line when talking with the parent of a little one. Mind you, for a change, I wasn't the one stepping over the line. Rather it was two moms who flummoxed me with their comments. (Moms? Comments that flummox? Nooo!)
The first of these interactions may sound harmless enough. I was at the neighborhood playground, enjoying the last minutes of light while Max pushed trucks around in the sand, when a mom who's new to the neighborhood arrived with her four-year-old son. This was my second time bumping in to her, the first having also been at dusk at the same playground. She seemed, in both conversations, to be a nice, reasonable mom I'd be happy to get to know.
That was when the "P" word was uttered--as in "playdate"--and everything changed. Because while playdate may seem like an innocent, and maybe even cloyingly annoying--modern parenting term--it is accompanied by all sorts of rules of engagement. And this woman was trampling all over those.
Let's start with the fact that we had met spontaneously twice, for a few minutes each time, at a neutral location, in dim lighting. For those inexperienced in the ways of edgy parenting, asking for a playdate at this stage is like going to a bar, spotting a woman you've seen there once before, and casually asking her if she'd like to come by one afternoon for some nookie.
I'm sure there are others out there who will disagree with my assessment, but I was bristled by what I felt was a presumptive request at this stage in our "relationship." And it further annoyed me that because she'd invited us to a birthday party the previous week for her son, and because Sarah had RSVP'd via email (we couldn't make it), she had Sarah's email address, which she made clear she'd use to start discussing a date and time. I couldn't help but think of how Jerry Seinfeld (the TV character version) got himself in hot water by calling a woman whose number he got off an AIDS walkathon list. Let's be clear: we weren't RSVP'ing so they could immediately plug us into their "database of future playdate suckers."
Of course, this could all come down to us having different definitions of the word "playdate." In my mind, a "playdate" is when one parent/child visits the home of the other parent/child. In other words, it implies being isolated with the other parent, and committing your child to an unknown period of time in the presence of another child with whom he may or may not want to play. The other mom, however, may have had different expectations of a "first playdate," which in her eyes might only entail a harmless rendez-vous at a public (i.e. easy to escape) location. But if her definition differs that much from society's at large, then she should have made that clear, n'est-ce pas?
When I got home and told Sarah about this perceived breach in parenting decorum, she seemed to think it was no big deal. Undeterred by her complacence, I made it clear to Sarah that if she got an email about this, I was strongly urging her to suggest a time to meet at the playground. I pleaded with her not to invite the woman over to our house. Not only did I not want to find myself having to be the host should Sarah get called away, I simply was not ready to give this person access to our inner sanctum.
But there was another element of confusion surrounding the situation, that being the age difference between the boys. I mean, who the hell suggests a playdate for her 4-year-old son with a 2-year-old! Duh, isn't that age inappropriate? And who wants to subject their 2-year-old to a 4-year-old he barely knows? It's preposterous!
The second interaction, which occurred the following morning, was even more disturbing. It occurred at the local YMCA, where we take Max once or twice a week to enjoy the so-called "Kindergym," which is exactly what it sounds like--a small gym filled with a bunch of plastic toys and padded shapes and mats in which toddlers can safely run around for a bit, hopefully without seriously injuring themselves or anyone else. So there I am, minding my own business as I follow Max around the room, when I think I get a whiff of something, so I pick up Max and sniff his diaper quickly. (Thankfully, no need for the HAZMAT team). A woman I've never seen before--a tall, big-boned, Germanic looking woman--sees me and asks if I'm working on potty training.
Now here's where I need to inject some advice. First, to anyone who might find themselves in my position: If someone asks you anything about the topic of potty training, do anything you can to avoid or otherwise get out of the conversation that would follow. Act like your phone is vibrating and you need to take this call. Pretend you hear your mom calling you. Scream "fire!" Anything. Because nothing good can come of discussing potty training with anyone other than your co-parent. There are few things in life of which I'm more certain.
Now, to those who think they might, in some fit of insanity, make a similar inquiry: There are very few questions you can pose that will generate a more instantaneous sense of disgust of, or a stronger instinct to flee from, you. Let's make this very clear: Potty training is a--how shall I put this?--less-than-appetizing topic best limited to the confines of your own home because, when you get right down to it, it's none of anyone's damned business.
That said, the wave of irritation, panic and desperation that certainly was evident on my face was clearly not enough to stop this woman, who apparently was dead set on making sure I'd never invite her to one of our legendary Fall Fiestas. Or even something mind-numbing like a Bar Mitzvah, although I've been to Bar Mitzvahs that would have been a perfect punishment for the crime. But I digress.
This woman proceeds to ask me how old Max is.
"Almost two," I answer.
"Oh, no, I mean exactly. In months," she says. My concern for where this exchange is headed deepens.
"23 months," I answer meekly. The woman gasps.
"You're past the window," she says in a tone that suggests I've failed my child on some deep, inexcusable level. "They're at the easiest to work with between 19 and 22 months. But I can teach you a sure fire way to potty train him in 3 days."
What I want to say at this point is, "Shut the hell up before I punch you in the mouth, bitch!" But what comes out is, "really?" Uh-oh.
She proceeds to tell me all about how if you put your life aside for 3 days and take off your child's diaper, and (this is important!) don't put it back on, by day 3, the child will be using the potty flawlessly. My creative version of her description of events:
Day 1: Child poops and pees all over himself and your house. Some items are salvageable, and vegetation should be able to grow again in 75 years. Psychotherapy during the evening suggested.
Day 2: Child starts to get annoyed with the constant presence of pee and poop on his butt, legs, feet, toys, and anything else unfortunate enough to exist within a 3-foot radius of his privates. Amid the resulting fits of frustration, toys are thrown, food is flung, and most breakable kitchen items meet their demise. First voluntary flirtations with the potty provide glimpses of hope. Presence of an anger management counselor strongly recommended, as is consumption of at least one strong alcoholic beverage once child is in bed.
Day 3: Tired of living in a constant flow of his own waste, the child makes regular runs to the potty, where he steadily adjusts to a new paradigm. Sure, lots of pee and poop misses the target during the trial-and-error portion of the proceedings, but hey, at least you're not changing diapers! By the end of the day, the child not only has mastered the potty, he's also cleaning his own room, washing and folding his own laundry, and even volunteering for some light vacuuming duty. The son shines through the roof, creating an other-worldly glow throughout the house, mom dances around the living room in a free-flowing nightgown, showering the room with handfuls of flower petals, and a leprechaun arrives with a pot of gold.
Of course, at this point in the "conversation," I'm no longer registering anything the woman is describing, mostly because what little piece of me isn't trying to gracefully monitor Max while at least looking like I'm vaguely interested is busy visualizing shooting her with an elephant dart.
I guess the moral of the story is, have a child at your own risk, because there's a whole world of parents out there who will be drawn to you like moths to a flame, but sadly, unlike the flame, you can't cause them to spontaneously burn alive.
Thankfully, I returned home, happily changed Max's diaper, and promised myself that he will never, ever play with another child in our home because that would mean I have to interact with a mom, and clearly I can't have any of that.
The first of these interactions may sound harmless enough. I was at the neighborhood playground, enjoying the last minutes of light while Max pushed trucks around in the sand, when a mom who's new to the neighborhood arrived with her four-year-old son. This was my second time bumping in to her, the first having also been at dusk at the same playground. She seemed, in both conversations, to be a nice, reasonable mom I'd be happy to get to know.
That was when the "P" word was uttered--as in "playdate"--and everything changed. Because while playdate may seem like an innocent, and maybe even cloyingly annoying--modern parenting term--it is accompanied by all sorts of rules of engagement. And this woman was trampling all over those.
Let's start with the fact that we had met spontaneously twice, for a few minutes each time, at a neutral location, in dim lighting. For those inexperienced in the ways of edgy parenting, asking for a playdate at this stage is like going to a bar, spotting a woman you've seen there once before, and casually asking her if she'd like to come by one afternoon for some nookie.
I'm sure there are others out there who will disagree with my assessment, but I was bristled by what I felt was a presumptive request at this stage in our "relationship." And it further annoyed me that because she'd invited us to a birthday party the previous week for her son, and because Sarah had RSVP'd via email (we couldn't make it), she had Sarah's email address, which she made clear she'd use to start discussing a date and time. I couldn't help but think of how Jerry Seinfeld (the TV character version) got himself in hot water by calling a woman whose number he got off an AIDS walkathon list. Let's be clear: we weren't RSVP'ing so they could immediately plug us into their "database of future playdate suckers."
Of course, this could all come down to us having different definitions of the word "playdate." In my mind, a "playdate" is when one parent/child visits the home of the other parent/child. In other words, it implies being isolated with the other parent, and committing your child to an unknown period of time in the presence of another child with whom he may or may not want to play. The other mom, however, may have had different expectations of a "first playdate," which in her eyes might only entail a harmless rendez-vous at a public (i.e. easy to escape) location. But if her definition differs that much from society's at large, then she should have made that clear, n'est-ce pas?
When I got home and told Sarah about this perceived breach in parenting decorum, she seemed to think it was no big deal. Undeterred by her complacence, I made it clear to Sarah that if she got an email about this, I was strongly urging her to suggest a time to meet at the playground. I pleaded with her not to invite the woman over to our house. Not only did I not want to find myself having to be the host should Sarah get called away, I simply was not ready to give this person access to our inner sanctum.
But there was another element of confusion surrounding the situation, that being the age difference between the boys. I mean, who the hell suggests a playdate for her 4-year-old son with a 2-year-old! Duh, isn't that age inappropriate? And who wants to subject their 2-year-old to a 4-year-old he barely knows? It's preposterous!
The second interaction, which occurred the following morning, was even more disturbing. It occurred at the local YMCA, where we take Max once or twice a week to enjoy the so-called "Kindergym," which is exactly what it sounds like--a small gym filled with a bunch of plastic toys and padded shapes and mats in which toddlers can safely run around for a bit, hopefully without seriously injuring themselves or anyone else. So there I am, minding my own business as I follow Max around the room, when I think I get a whiff of something, so I pick up Max and sniff his diaper quickly. (Thankfully, no need for the HAZMAT team). A woman I've never seen before--a tall, big-boned, Germanic looking woman--sees me and asks if I'm working on potty training.
Now here's where I need to inject some advice. First, to anyone who might find themselves in my position: If someone asks you anything about the topic of potty training, do anything you can to avoid or otherwise get out of the conversation that would follow. Act like your phone is vibrating and you need to take this call. Pretend you hear your mom calling you. Scream "fire!" Anything. Because nothing good can come of discussing potty training with anyone other than your co-parent. There are few things in life of which I'm more certain.
Now, to those who think they might, in some fit of insanity, make a similar inquiry: There are very few questions you can pose that will generate a more instantaneous sense of disgust of, or a stronger instinct to flee from, you. Let's make this very clear: Potty training is a--how shall I put this?--less-than-appetizing topic best limited to the confines of your own home because, when you get right down to it, it's none of anyone's damned business.
That said, the wave of irritation, panic and desperation that certainly was evident on my face was clearly not enough to stop this woman, who apparently was dead set on making sure I'd never invite her to one of our legendary Fall Fiestas. Or even something mind-numbing like a Bar Mitzvah, although I've been to Bar Mitzvahs that would have been a perfect punishment for the crime. But I digress.
This woman proceeds to ask me how old Max is.
"Almost two," I answer.
"Oh, no, I mean exactly. In months," she says. My concern for where this exchange is headed deepens.
"23 months," I answer meekly. The woman gasps.
"You're past the window," she says in a tone that suggests I've failed my child on some deep, inexcusable level. "They're at the easiest to work with between 19 and 22 months. But I can teach you a sure fire way to potty train him in 3 days."
What I want to say at this point is, "Shut the hell up before I punch you in the mouth, bitch!" But what comes out is, "really?" Uh-oh.
She proceeds to tell me all about how if you put your life aside for 3 days and take off your child's diaper, and (this is important!) don't put it back on, by day 3, the child will be using the potty flawlessly. My creative version of her description of events:
Day 1: Child poops and pees all over himself and your house. Some items are salvageable, and vegetation should be able to grow again in 75 years. Psychotherapy during the evening suggested.
Day 2: Child starts to get annoyed with the constant presence of pee and poop on his butt, legs, feet, toys, and anything else unfortunate enough to exist within a 3-foot radius of his privates. Amid the resulting fits of frustration, toys are thrown, food is flung, and most breakable kitchen items meet their demise. First voluntary flirtations with the potty provide glimpses of hope. Presence of an anger management counselor strongly recommended, as is consumption of at least one strong alcoholic beverage once child is in bed.
Day 3: Tired of living in a constant flow of his own waste, the child makes regular runs to the potty, where he steadily adjusts to a new paradigm. Sure, lots of pee and poop misses the target during the trial-and-error portion of the proceedings, but hey, at least you're not changing diapers! By the end of the day, the child not only has mastered the potty, he's also cleaning his own room, washing and folding his own laundry, and even volunteering for some light vacuuming duty. The son shines through the roof, creating an other-worldly glow throughout the house, mom dances around the living room in a free-flowing nightgown, showering the room with handfuls of flower petals, and a leprechaun arrives with a pot of gold.
Of course, at this point in the "conversation," I'm no longer registering anything the woman is describing, mostly because what little piece of me isn't trying to gracefully monitor Max while at least looking like I'm vaguely interested is busy visualizing shooting her with an elephant dart.
I guess the moral of the story is, have a child at your own risk, because there's a whole world of parents out there who will be drawn to you like moths to a flame, but sadly, unlike the flame, you can't cause them to spontaneously burn alive.
Thankfully, I returned home, happily changed Max's diaper, and promised myself that he will never, ever play with another child in our home because that would mean I have to interact with a mom, and clearly I can't have any of that.
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