Men In Tights

Over the weekend, my kids got their first taste of He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. They were absolutely awe-stricken. The villains were larger than life and over the top. The good guys won in the end, and the flashing swords practically had my son panting for more.

My Facebook page exploded in discussion of how the cartoon is just so gay. Besides taking issue with the use of that term, my husband and I had a talk about the impact of cartoons on our children.

In all honesty, if cartoons determined sexual orientation, not one of our husbands would be straight. Spiderman? Awesome unitard. Superman? Dude wears a cape and a pair of Speedos. The villains are right up there with their do-gooder counterparts. Most of their outfits put even male figure skaters to shame. In this house, in light of the hostile takeover by the Disney Princesses, He-Man looks positively macho. My son suddenly has a renewed interest in the lighted sword he received for Christmas. He never even noticed He-Man's bulging quads or the use of words like battle ram.

My husband and I, on the other hand, were in near tears on the sofa.

In no way am I worried about the cartoon "affecting" my son. He wants to wear nail polish? He gets to. He wants to read a princess book? Let's do it. He wants to wear a sword on his back and shout I have the power! until he is hoarse? Hell yes. He is three. I am going to blink and he will be thirteen, and I will look back and wonder what the fuss was all about. He loves cars. He loves dinosaurs. Yes, he happens to look better in pink than his sister does, but I know I am raising a confident son who doesn't have to worry that he is displeasing his father by playing with the "wrong" toys. I mean how can you say no to this:

Parental Fork In the Road

We had an unexpected visitor last night at 11.15pm. We'd just come home from a Superbowl party and put the kids to bed. A coworker of my husband's showed up with food and beer, and so we stayed up until 2am shooting the shit.

Our friend was too drunk to drive, so we told him to stay on our couch. He didn't argue, and we were glad. However, it led us to make our first decision in regard to overnight guests.

See, I have had very in-depth discussions with a friend over where to draw the line with it comes to appropriate behaviour and protecting our little girls. We probably come across as more paranoid than most, but bad shit happens to good people. I will do everything in my power to protect my kids when it is in my power to do so.

With our friend asleep on the sofa, Hubbie and I were in the bathroom getting ready, and I had to lay it out for him. I told him I knew it sounded over the top and overprotective, but we do not know this person all that well. I did not want there to be even the slightest possibility that he could walk into one of our children's room. Son included.

My husband agreed. He was one hundred percent on board and had no problem with bringing our kids into our room for the night.

Were were paranoid? Probably. But there is no way in hell that I am going to take a chance with my kids. Every situation is different, and there are levels of comfort when people stay in your home. We have had other people spend the night, but this is the first time we had to have this talk. I am relieved that we were both on the same page. I respect my husband all the more for it.

Mice On Ice

My husband earned another Pater Ex Animo stripe today. Through his work, he was able to secure tickets to Disney on Ice.

At any other time in my life I would have scoffed at the idea of sitting in a stadium watching over-sized and slightly freakish mascot-versions of our favorite childhood characters wobble and teeter on a makeshift ice arena. Instead I held back on the cynicism, reserving judgment because I knew my kids would probably enjoy it.

Let me say that I stand corrected. The show kicked ass. My kids sat wide-eyed and slack-jawed for nearly the entire performance. While I thought my daughter would be excited to see the princesses, I was in no way prepared for the sheer enthusiasm of my son. He practically shrieked Look! It's Aladdin! And Jasmin! And PINOCCHIO! AND IT'S MULAN!!!!

I must also sheepishly admit that their delight brought tears to my eyes. It took a good five minutes or so to get my shit together. For every shout of joy, for every point and jab of their chubby little fingers, a tear fell.

It has been four and a half years since my daughter was born, five if you count my pregnancy. Those five years have somehow not entirely erased those three years of limbo when I did not know whether or not I could have children. I used to get like this at birthday parties and playdates. Not enough so as to draw attention to myself, but a burning behind the eyes and a lump in my throat as I sat in. the. moment. As I took in my surroundings and watched my children and realized how god-damned lucky and fucking privileged I was to be there. To bask in the light my children shine on the world around them.

One would think I would have outgrown those moments. Somehow, I still seem to get blindsided. Now don't get me wrong. The show, while awesome, was not weep-worthy. It just felt so amazing, so huge to be a part of something so momentous to my children. Yes, it seemed like it was just a mouse on ice. But it was so much more than that.

Playground GPS

I observed my children playing on the school playground the other day. It was their first day of school, and the first time that my son was part of the big kid crowd. My eyes scanned the the seemingly vast expanse of this preschool microcosm. If I could spot them, somehow I would feel grounded knowing that they were existing apart from me. That they were functioning, tiny little representations of adults cutting their own path with self-reliance. It took some time, but I finally spotted both my son and daughter. They had found each other. Somehow, within the seething mass of children, siblings laid eyes on each other and shouted cheerful greetings.

All might have been well, save for the fact that my son spotted me as well. I was keeping a low profile while cooping in another part of the school yard, yet that same internal GPS that helped him locate his sister brought him to me.

He tried to climb the fence, and when he realized I was not there to spend time with him sad, fat tears rolled down his ruddy cheeks. I held his hand and walked him back to his teacher, explaining that I was helping the tiny ones. He said he understood, but the tears continued to stream down his face. He didn't scream. He didn't make any noise. He just nodded his agreement, a saline river betraying his acquiescence.

By the time I made it back to my station, his teacher had him turned facing the other direction. In that critical moment, his sister found him. Somehow, her playground activities had brought her full circle to where he was standing. She stopped in front of him. Touched his face. Hugged him. Kissed his cheek.

Backdrops change as we get older. Playgrounds become hallways. Cocktail parties. Cubicles. We wrap ourselves up in our work and our errands. We forget that we are part of something greater than our own personal space. Sometimes it feels a miracle for anyone to seek us out, homing in on our location. To check on us. To pat our cheek and let us know that we are seen. That things really are going to be okay.

I Turned My Head, I Blinked My Eye

Today is another day of parental gratitude. Of thanking lucky stars, guardian angels, whomever might be listening. Whatever is responsible for the tap on the shoulder. The turn of my head.

We have been giving LittleBird swimming lessons in our neighbor's pool. She does a great job with the water wings, but in the shallow end we take them off and let her practice swimming without them. She can easily stand, and I am always right there. Always.

Today, I had one additional child to watch for just a brief period. There was an argument over whose turn it was to hold onto the water noodle. As I delegated toys and time, I kept my eye on LittleBird. I answered a question. One insignificant question. I looked up, and LittleBird had lifted the rope and was headed to the ladder. Precisely where the pool begins to deepen. She slipped under the water. Tried to get herself up. And failed.

I was there in the time it took to blink. I snatched her up from those cloudy depths. Her eyes were huge. She looked at me and didn't know whether or not she was afraid. She had not swallowed any water. She was not panicked or out of breath. But she understood.

The look in her eye changed to mirror my face. She understood.

I asked if she was okay, and she told me yes. I explained to her as calmly as I could about staying in the shallow end. The awful part? She explained right back at me that she had to go to the bathroom, and she had gone to the ladder to get out of the pool to towel off to go into the house to use the toilet. Just like we had taught her.

She has been afraid in retrospect, and this is a good thing. She needs that healthy respect of the water.

I have been afraid in retrospect, as well. I constantly doubt my ability to parent. Am I going to fuck them up? Am I teaching them what they need to know? Am I going to miss that key moment and lose my child?

I used to have terrible nightmares about the water when we lived in Tahoe. I think I just earned myself Round Two.

This Means War

Things have been on the skids a bit here in the NATUI-household. Intermittent internet over the past few days has left me incommunicado with half the world. Hubbie left this morning for a week of "training". Training my ass. Five days with no kids or marital responsibility is called a vacation.

The past two weeks have also been fiction-turned-to-life hell. The sun goes down and our children turn into some kind of monster mutations of their daytime selves.

In the past, I have referred to them as boomerang children. You throw them in bed, they come right back out at you. Because of this, the baby gates have made a reappearance. Here are some of the scenarios that have occurred over the past two weeks:

• both kids, gated in room
• both kids, gated--LittleBird throws all her "things" over the gate, including her pillow and twin-sized duvet, climbs the gate and gets herself "set-up" to "relax" on our bed
• LittleMan double-gated because he climbed over the gate to get out of his room
  
• LittleBird is discovered pushing toys and books through the slit between the two gates to "help" her little brother. It's not like all he's got is a tin cup, for crying out loud.
  

It is maddening. Hubbie and I have not had a moment to ourselves in ages. Now he's on vacation, ahem, training, and so my father generously came into town to help out with the kids. Here is a photo as to what I found when I checked on them. LittleBird? Carried her duvet and pillow and book into my room. LittleMan? Climbed the gate, found a nasty pair of my dirty socks and snuggled in for his sister to read him a story. Why do they have to be so god-damned cute?




So please accept my sincerest apologies for being behind in blog reading and posting. After dealing with my two escape artists until 11.30 every night, I am exhausted. We are waging a war in this household. Something's gotta give, and it ain't gonna be me.

Otherwise Known As

This past Sunday we attended a birthday party for a little girl in my son's preschool class. The parents hired a band to come and play. It isn't the sort of thing I would ever have considered doing, but this family has the means and the motivation so more power to them.

This particular group of musicians is a popular local band that cater to the preschool crowd. We have seen them around town and have enjoyed them. My children were too shy last year to handle the crowds in the coffee shop, so this this party was kind of the like the first time all over again. My daughter? When ballistic. She danced. She hopped around. She spun in circles until she was sweaty and exhausted, the lone participant in her own private mosh pit. As the guys finished and packed up their instruments, LittleBird told them she wanted them to come to her party and play. The guys were very diplomatic and very sweet in the face of her enthusiasm. She chattered on, making arrangements as only a four and a half year old can. My mom will call you! she said, She's the one with the blue toes.

All heads turned to look at me.

And I grinned, sheepish in my flip-flop crocs with my metallic blue toe nail polish glinting in the evening light. I'll have my people call your people, I laughed. They nodded, grinned and waved at me as they left.

I am sure my kids will refer to me in many different way in the years to come. For now, I am downright pleased to be known as The Mom With the Blue Toes.

The Healing Properties of a Tea Party

The NATUI household has been struck by the dreaded summer cold this week. The kids had it for a day each. Me? Three full days. I have been curled up in the fetal position on my couch or my bed with an aching head and stuffy nose. I am usually the unaffected one in the household. Apparently, my immune system was too cocky for its own good.

Yesterday afternoon, my daughter wanted me to have a tea party and could not wrap her head around the concept that I needed to be prone. Laid out. Head and feet at the same elevation. From the couch I told her she could set her tea set on the coffee table so that I could watch her from my nest of blankets and wadded up tissues. She grumped around for a while, until she decided she would make me a bed. On the floor. Why that was somehow better than the couch I will never understand, but her eyes lit up as she dragged pillows and duvets out of the bedrooms and created a giant queen-sized pallet in the middle of our living room. She tucked me into it with toys and teddy bears, patted my head so I would feel better and then served tea.

It was totally awesome.

I have been having little niggling doubts lately if being home with my kids has been a good thing. It has been an exhausting summer with very few breaks. Hubbie's job is keeping me in nearly single parent status, and I've not had any personal outlets to recharge my energy. My tea party yesterday went a long way in making me feel better. Emotionally and physically. My daughter and I were able to to find a solution to a mismatch of expectations, and it turned out brilliantly.

Now, she's setting up another tea party and has been patiently waiting for me to finish this post. I wonder what she is serving?

We're Gonna Need A Bigger Boat

There are quite a few classics I have not seen, and so our neighbors kindly loaned us their copy of Jaws. That's right. I had not seen this movie. I was dubbed too young by my parents and the opportunity to see it never came about. Until tonight.

We've had the dvd sitting next to our player for over a week now. Our kids, unfortunately, have given us not one shred of alone time in the evenings. LittleMan has been falling asleep somewhere around the midnight hour every night, with lots of pre-sleep drama. It has left us exhausted, irritable, and without a movie night.

Tonight, we thought we had remedied the situation. Because of a swim birthday party and skipping naptime, the boy was passed out within ten minutes of story and prayers. Our daughter was safely tucked in her bed. With red wine poured and a yummy Greek dinner in front of us, we started the movie.

Total disaster.

Normally, we are very cognizant of our surroundings. Between the cats and the kids, we pick up on movement. Our daughter, however, has apparently gotten stealthier in her sneak-out-of-bed routine. We discovered her standing behind the couch. Was it one of the argument scenes with the sheriff? Of course not. Was it a harmless underwater shot of the shark? Hell no. It was the scene where the kid gets chomped by the shark. The only fucking child fatality or danger moment in the whole fucking film, and my four year old watched it.

As you can imagine, the next few hours has involved questions such as Why do sharks hate people? and Why did the shark snap up the child? or Mommy? Did the shark snap up the child? Well, what did you see on the TV? The shark snapped up the boy.

Somebody just kick me in the head right now.

It's Just Like Riding A Bike

We attempted to teach our children to ride their bicycles today. We've got a long road ahead of us, my friends. LittleBird actually did fairly well, but I was damned glad to be behind the camera. Hubbie nearly broke his back bending over and running back and forth along the sidewalk next to the children. He was hot, sweaty and exhausted. The kids were ebullient. I? Sat on the grass snapping photographs in the cool comfort of our neighbors oak tree.

I suppose once they get it down, this will probably be a skill they never forget. However, just because you don't forget the skill does not mean you are good at it any longer. I know that when I ride my bike, it sure as shit is not as easy as when I was a child. It's hard work. And I know I do not have that sparkly grin on my face. More like a grimace. My hair does not flow in the breeze but is plastered to my forehead and neck as rivulets of sweat pour down my back. When the looks you see out of passing cars do not read Ah...look at that family riding their bikes, but instead Dear God! Is that woman about to have a stroke? make a day out on the bikes no place for hubris.

Luckily, today was merely bicycle boot camp for the kids. As I never have the opportunity to be in any of the photos, I made Hubbie snap a few at the end. Don't I look well-rested? Sitting in the shade definitely suits me.

A Lack of Faith

Last night was my father's last night on the job. He is now officially retired. He is glad to be done as working graveyard for 30+ years has taken its toll. He is ready to garden, travel...do whatever the fuck he wants to do in his own sweet time. Ideally, that would involve spending more time with the grandchildren. Except for this little nugget.

This morning, after admonishing the children to keep it down because Grampa was sleeping, I was in the kitchen gulping my last few sips of caffeinated bliss before heading upstairs for storytime. My blood turned to ice when I heard LittleMan start screaming his head off. Not the usual my-sister-kicked-me-in-the-knee yelling but screaming and crying in fear and pain.

I threw my mug down and ran to the staircase. There was my son, face-down. He was about halfway down the stairs, and it is a total miracle he did not tumble head first down to the bottom. LittleBird was at the top of the stairs, looking down in fear. I saw her look over her left shoulder into the doorway, my parents' bedroom. The door? Shut in her face. My dad had woken up from all the crying, gotten up and shut the door in my daughter's face. Without asking her what was the matter. Without looking into the hallway to see why my son was screaming bloody murder. I dashed up the stairs, lifted my son up from his awkward upside-down position and felt his tears rolling down the length of my arm.

How in the hell am I to trust my father to watch my children when this kind of thing happens? His hearing has never been the greatest, and his total lack of cause and effect when it comes to the children has me worried. Kids cry for a reason. Especially that kind of crying. Shutting the door and pretending you don't hear the ruckus is not an acceptable solution. It is hard to acknowledge that one lacks faith in even the most beloved of family members to take proper care of your children. I suppose it is another phase of life, when children surpass their parents' ability and willingness to take care of themselves and those around them.

Sometimes, it sucks to be a grown-up.

I'm Your Man

We were watching the last crucial moments of the American Idol finale tonight, and LittleMan kept popping up out of bed. I picked him up to keep him quiet so we could hear the announcement. While I rocked him, I could hear him humming and singing. I had Hubbie mute the TV because I wanted to hear what he was singing to himself. Thank God we keep the camera in the bookshelf.

For your viewing pleasure, we had him repeat it.



Oh. My. Fucking. God. I love my son.

Ditch the Diapers, NATUI-style

How to potty train your son, NATUI-style.

Step One: Yell at your kids and tell them to sit on their beds and read a book.

Step Two: Sit in on the sofa drinking newly imported Hawai'ian coffee and eating a Ghiradelli brownie while listening to your kids laughing and yucking it up in the back of the house.

Step Three: Chat with your husband and feel content that at least they are occupied and happy in the back.

Step Four: Your two-and-a-half-year-old son comes running pants-less into the living room shouting I pooped! I pooped!

Step Five: Exchange wide-eyed, incredulous looks with your significant other.

Step Six: Rush into the bathroom to stare in awe, wonder and amazement at the first tiny turd your son ever dumped in the toilet. Completely uninfluenced and on his own.

Why didn't anyone tell me it was this easy? Now? All of you know.

Inauguration Party: Preschool Style

Attempting to mentally prepare my daughter for tomorrow, I explained we had a new president. She wanted to know his name. I told her.

I told her that tomorrow was an important day, and that we were going to a party to celebrate. That the parents were going to watch everything on TV while the kids got to play.

LittleBird pondered the information I had given her. I should have known from the thoughtful silence that we were about to invoke a reincarnation of the saddest Christmas party ever.

She asked: Is there going to be a piñata?

I opened my mouth to answer and nearly choked with laughter. Going to an inauguration party with a piñata of the President-Elect?

I asked her if she thought there ought to be a piñata of the president at the party.

Oh yes!

I told her we'd ask.

Bedtime Shenanigans

LittleMan has lost his shit when it comes to bed time. Please feel free to use this video for birth control. The camera didn't catch the hysterical weeping before he opened the door, but this is what we have been dealing with the past couple of days.

The Place Where Fairytales Go To Die

About a month ago, LittleBird decided that she no longer wanted a pirate party for her birthday. She could have a pirate party when she was five. This time, she wanted a princess party.

Fuck.

Now I have no problem with the princess aspect of it. It is the commercial princess aspect of it that pisses me off. Trying to find party supplies without characters has been challenging. I am a stubborn fuck about it, though. I will not cave.

Yesterday, LittleBird turned four. She knew that her party was going to be on a different day.

She also knew that despite the lack of a party, this was her day.

After breakfast, LittleBird announced she needed a cake. A princess cake. For her princess birthday. She didn't quite say Get your bitch ass in the kitchen and bake me a cake! but it was close enough.

Thank god I have a princess cake pan I picked up at a thrift shop stashed in the cabinet.

So I did. We sat on the floor. She helped me pour the mix. We added the ingredients. We put it in the oven. We watched it rise.

In my stupidity and rushing around, I attempted to skip a few steps.

I flipped the cake out of the princess pan.

And it broke.

Like the Evil Queen zapped the Little Princess with her wand.

Fuck.

I called LittleBird to the kitchen to tell her the bad news. Her face clouded over, and heavy rain was on the horizon. Her princess cake was ruined, and she valiantly struggled to bend her four-year old psyche around that fact.

Then she took a breath, and asked if she could eat a piece of it.

Of course she could.

Fairytales are what you make of them. Some may suffer a sad and painful death in our household, but in their place we create our own. And that makes all the difference.

Boys Are Beautiful

Everyone needs a little beauty cream, don't they?

LittleMan came into the living room this evening asking for help with my beauty cream. Um, it doesn't really look like he needed help.

I think I may start calling him Nivea.

Baby Jesus Drives A Firetruck

LittleBird has an unnatural obsession with the baby Jesus that lives in our Advent calendar.

It started last year. She carried him around, reading to him. Feeding him. It was sweet, if a bit disconcerting.

This year she has started the trend again. For the past few days she has begged me to let her take him out of his pocket. This afternoon, I relented.

Baby Jesus played on the princess castle. He peed and pooped in the potty. He even slide by himself down the slide. Twice.

Apparently, he is a damn fine driver.

How can something so wrong be so damned funny?

That Heartbeat

For many reasons too complicated and menial to discuss, I picked up the kids from school today in the rain. In the stroller, in the rain.

Because of that rain, I left the stroller under the awning and not in its usual place next to the door. I left the kids at the top of the stairs in front of the school to get their gear into the double jog stroller before getting them strapped in.

I turned around because in the instant it occurred to me that LittleMan might not wait for me, he started down the steps. The concrete steps.

I took a step matching the one he took. Except his foot never solidly hit the next stair.

He tripped. Head first, he started that slow tumble forward.

In the heartbeat between what could have been and what happened, I reached him. I cupped the side of his head with my right hand.

My hand hit the concrete. His face did not.

I aged twenty years in that heartbeat. That heartbeat between trauma and miracle.

I don't know how I made it to him in time. I have theories, but that is a discussion for a more personal space.

Tonight, I am weary. I kiss my son's soft cheek and inhale the smell of him. Somewhere mixed in the tangy scent that is boy and baby, I close my eyes and am grateful.

The Saddest Party Ever

We went to a Christmas party last night. There were several blog-worthy incidents, but first mention goes to the drama that awaited us once we arrived home.

LittleBird was not happy with us. Many tears were shed over the fact that we did not take her with us. When I asked her to tell me specifically what was making her feel sad, she told me that she wanted go to the party because she wanted to see what was everyone was doing.

I wiped her tears, snuggled up next to her in my bed, and told her:

There wasn't even any cake.

Her jaw dropped.

And there wasn't even any ice cream.

And no balloons, either.

She went from incredulous to serious and wanted to take turns.

There weren't any Cheddar Bunnies?

Isn't that terrible? I replied.

There weren't any candles?

I answered, Yes, there were candles in the house. But there weren't any candles on a cake to blow out.

There weren't any goodie bags?

I shook my head sadly.

Her verdict? That I had gone to the saddest party she had ever heard of.

Isn't perspective a beautiful thing?