My Brilliant Make-out Artist

I admit, I have done a lot of trash-talkin’ about Phoebe and while I always add my love for her—she is due for a tribute to her uniqueness and wonder.

First of all, what you might not know is that I literally look forward to seeing her in the morning. I still worry about her during the night. I am a light sleeper and when I wake I have to fight the urge to check on her. And by daybreak, I am anxious to see her sunny face and sparkling personality.

She doesn’t ever disappoint with her a.m. hairdo. It is never quite the same and never un-amusing. She always looks like a old lady from the back with a month-old perm, and from the front, she can rock a Mohawk due to her unusual double-swirled cowlicks or a sort of Flock of Seagulls thing, or maybe just a very, queer, comb-over ala Donald Trump.

Aside from her follicle follies, she is always happy and looking anxious to begin what will inevitably be a very interesting day.

Today, she has taken to following me around and insisting on kisses. I am thrilled and bend down for a peck, only to find that when she says “KSSS”, she means; make-out under the bleachers, I hope you have a note from your parent’s; you will be late for seventh period. She is persistent, open-mouthed, very inaccurate, and much too wet. If you can get past the fact she is a toddler, good-looking, and a girl---she is pretty much my high school sweetheart.

Now, seeing as how I love this kid in a way that boggles my own imagination, I want to kiss her. I could even kiss her for hours, it would be swell. But her intentions are borderline illegal, and I can’t believe at the age of 15 months, I am forced to educate her on the laws of our state and country.

Laws be damned, I kiss her a lot today. Tomorrow, she might learn about pinching, and I had better make hay while the sun shines.

If she is anything like me, and I told she might be, then her passion du jour should be encouraged as it may be fleeting or dry up without proper nurturing. And squelching positive pursuits can only lead to negative consequences. Pucker up Mommy!

Beyond her amorous nature, I have been informed she is quite smart by her new preschool teachers.

Now, there are very few children that I have met who couldn’t be classified as “advanced”. I think often times one talent is recognized and another ignored, or just seen as commonplace by the dazed, sleep-deprived, person witnessing daily. Take my friend Julie, she was always telling me that Gabriel was advanced because he strung words together early. But I watched her twin boys scale her mantel and damn-near repel off the thing, while my boy couldn’t handle a Jumpy-Jump, without a spotter and head-gear. Those guys amazed me. And that kind of physical prowess cannot be overshadowed by language. We can all order fries with a burger, but few of us can master a Tomahawk-360-slam-dunk like Jordan? It is different, special, and cool.

So, upon hearing that Phoebe was gifted, I was anxious to know how she expressed her brilliance for the world to see. “That’s great. What did she do?”

Evidently, she pulled apart her peanut-butter sandwich and smashed the legume-smeared bread in her little face. Genius! I mean, clearly.

Seriously, a kid on a low-carb diet warrants a “really bright” label?

I guess I was looking for something a bit more…theory of relativity. But if dietary penchants qualify for IQ then the paste-eaters in my day probably went on to do great things. I am sure we owe the popularity of the iPod to a very special chalk-board licker.

Truth be told, you can’t tell me enough great things about my kids. I am the ultimate audience for their compliments and random observations, good and bad. I am obsessed with those two short people. And for better or worse, I will love them until I can no longer dodge Phoebe’s misguided advances.

They are the peanut-butter holding this wedge of soggy wheat-bread together.

That sweet, sweet smell...

If you ever have the desire to stop time, I have a suggestion. It involves The Four Seasons, a pot of tea, and a sister or a friend—preferably both. You can go, sit, and drink in a drop of civilized recreation. It is a rare and wonderful treat that warrants the extra effort to make it happen.

Note: Taking advice on relaxing, pampering, or just savoring a moment, from me isn’t at all prudent. I feel, I have to be honest---I am way too high-strung and anxious to give you a reliable suggestion in this department. I would liken it to handing a slab of filet mignon to a vegan for grilling. If there is anything left that is semi-edible, you can chalk it up to luck and proof that God is a carnivore. So, call it dumb luck or a loophole in the system, or maybe God is a closet-Darjeeling-freak, but I promise you, that this minor intermission in the comedy of life is worth your while.

As a committed control freak and someone who fully understands that I have little capacity for creative decadence or indulgence---I leave it to the experts. This is where the good people at the Four Seasons come into play, because even at your ugliest---they are true professionals. They will guide you toward your higher diva.

This begins my adventure with Anita.

We decided to go for our annual pot of tea talk at the Four Seasons. One, I knew they had tea---every Wednesday through Sunday until 4pm. Two, even if you miss the scheduled event, they habitually put it in pots. So, when you order tea for two, you experience time travel to a place where gloves and hats were customary and real honey makes everything a little sweeter. This small detail is crucial to a proper tea time and will make or break the ease and flow of the conversation. To the Four Seasons we go.

Anita came to the house, and I put on my over-priced black boots, which have been worn two times and removed within minutes of each showing. But I figured, I just had to drive, walk to the lounge and sit—the boots could come. And it would make me feel like an adult, an adult without children.

As I opened the doors to my stylin’ mini-van, I was accosted by a putrid wave of poopy-diaper-stench, which nearly knocked me and my fancy boots to the ground. Oh No! Oh, yes. I forgot to take Gabriel’s full Pull-Up out of the car on the way back from lunch. Crap! Crap! Literally, crap.

I removed the offensive item, but found that it had already left its calling card. But there was tea to be drank and a world removed from diapers, just moments away. We had to keep moving. I drove with my window down and said a small prayer that we could forgo valet. The poop-mobile was not user-friendly, especially to those in command of all five of their senses.

I drove in my psycho-stabbing heels toward nirvana and trying hard to outrun the fog of preschooler excrement. I am pretty sure we were trailing a smoky green fog from the rear. Anita was co-pilot and quickly learned that I have no idea of my left from my right. And, in the time it takes to conjure one of those clever, helpful tricks—we passed every turn. Thankfully, her quick adaptation to the “My side!” “Your side!” method got us there in no time.

We turned into the impeccably groomed hedges and picture-perfect lawns. As we followed the signs, I was beginning to have a sinking feeling in my stomach. Each sign directed us toward VALET and there were no welcoming little arrows toward general PARKING. I started to panic, as I assessed the poop-mobile. Not only did it reek of unmentionables, it was covered in crumbs, knee deep in sticky old apple juice boxes, rich with half-eaten sunflower seeds and popcorn bags, a veritable gold-mine of recycling with a dozen or so water bottles, and many a clean and dirty sweatshirt, sweater and changing square tucked in every corner.

You have to wonder if the pot might have been projecting their own shortcomings on the kettle, when it bitched the other out for just a few million random plastic bags. I was in no position to judge anyone—this car was a one-mother-train-wreck. No time for regrets, I had a valet to outsmart.

Anita rolled down her window in silent agreement that the poop-mobile was soon to be boarded by an innocent. She slyly gave the van an once-over and with a shrug of the shoulders and a slight smile, released herself from responsibility.

I should have followed her lead; I should have let it go. I should have handed over the keys, and sang “These boots are made for walking” all the way to my Orange-scented herbal-tea-with-honey-happiness, but we all know me better.

The minute the man in the gray suit opened that door, I opened my mouth and I wouldn’t stop until he know every last detail of my son’s potty training and my personal penchant for popcorn since my drug treatment therapy and my inability to vacuum because of the children’s sensitivity to sound and my lack of a portable wet/dry vac. He graciously closed the door in my face and told me to have a good time.

Is there a tip big enough for that verbal diarrhea? I can assure you that my son’s handiwork paled in comparison to his mother’s load.

To his credit, he rolled down the window on the mime-act that is a frantic, embarrassed mother, and sincerely conveyed his understanding. He promised to park the van close by—should I need to make a quick exit and attend to the little ones.

Anita brilliantly scurried into the hotel before we could be readily identified as a pair.

Aside from my entrance, the tea was exceptional. I transcended the poop-mobile and Anita shared some stories from school and her life. And I had a chance to visit with her away from the diapers, the apple juice and the chaos. I listened, and I learned.

As we left, I felt connected and refreshed--and even happy to see my dear, old chariot of stink. I took the keys, and took ownership of it, no excuses. It was mine, complete with every flaw, offensive and otherwise. And as I put my boot to the pedal, I drew a deep breath, and knew that pungent perfume that filled my nostrils was the smell of my personal destiny, and in its own absurd way, my success.

The virtue of patience.

Phoebe has gone mad.

Her habitual placement on the hip of Mommy or Daddy has morphed into an all-out obsession with being carried, and demanding to “Go! Go! Go!” Dave and I have not only turned into walking, talking, motorcades for the wee princess. Apparently, we are also meant to be carnival rides. It is annoying.

Not only is her insistence on a sidecar view of the world exhausting, it is impossible. You simply can’t operate in this world with a 26-pound child hanging off of one side. (Note: a weight that bears little responsibility for its own security and welfare.) This tiny, or not so tiny, remora is starting to wear on my last functioning nerve.

I bear some responsibility for the disaster. She cries—I swoop. My hip is permanently jutted out at an angle that any human below four feet could readily jump onto. I am always at the ready to carry her adorable, ankle-biter-ness.

Yes, I am as available as a toll-taker on a Tuesday morning. She drives by with a whimper and we are up and away! It is wrong and I know that Super Nanny would absolutely slap my face, if she saw this infantile display of weakness.

Beyond the dishes and meals, which are single-handedly tossed together, there are greater costs to our daily dance. My sanity for example, I go to bed each night with high hopes of what I will accomplish the following day. I wake and realize that my wine-fueled dreams will amount to a sliver of my imagined glory. I feel a like a failure with a giant giggling tumor attached.

I don’t lack the motivation or resources. I lack independence, which it seems normal and adult life requires. I cannot even make a phone call without a greedy paw clawing for the receiver. “Hi DADA! Hi DADA”. I cannot sweep without a diapered ass sitting in the middle of the debris asking for a lift. This interference makes mountains of baking a cake or wrapping a gift. I need a pouch like a bloody kangaroo to get anything done around here. Things are bad when you envy Marsupials…Oh, to be a wombat.

I have goals, which won’t be realized until Phoebe is in college, perhaps.

I have tried to exercise extreme patience to make our co-existence a happy one. I have to let go of time-sensitive tasks and tried to embrace only that which can be done late at night or online. Christmas was a real bitch.

If only I could footnote all activities, chores, promises and ideas. “Redeemable in the next millennium.” “Best before the end of existence.” “Expires at the rapture.” I am trying not to get caught up in a Martha-esque world, where things are orderly, timely, well managed and perfect. I need a broader definition of personal success without a timeline for completion.

Ironically, my increasing need for patience seems to be lost on my little progeny. I have read that I should be the role model for a daughter, but I haven’t seen a glimmer of self-control or endurance while waiting for her desires to come to fruition. I haven’t noticed a compassionate pause for her yogurt to be opened while I peel Gabriel’s banana. She is a one-girl tirade of self-satisfaction. She lives in a world with no delay button. We are clearly not reading the same books.

She is my personal toddler-Martha-nista. Nothing is right, until she says it is right.

There is one chance that I could find peace—not in this world, but in Phoebe’s. I could throw myself hip-first into her demands. And perhaps, instead of the eternity-expiration date, on all of my goals, hopes and dreams, I will just attach a “Save the Date” notice. On her eighteenth birthday, I will return. Please be patient.