Cooking With Junior (FREE RECIPES!!!)

I have a picky eater.

He wasn't always this way.  When he was little, he would eat almost anything that I put in front of him.  Cantaloupe?  Thanks, Mom!  Diced up raw bell peppers?  Super.  Tomatoes fresh from Papa's garden?  He'd eat them like an apple.  "Oh, a dinner invitation?  Great.  Oh, no, don't worry about making something separate for the baby - he eats what we eat!"

How proud.  How smug.  How short-lived.

His palate started shrinking around 17 months, and at first, I had no concerns.  Oh, baby doesn't want fresh avocado?  No worries.  You don't want that organic plum that costs twice as much as a normal one?  Okay, here's some banana.  And before I even fully grasped what was happening, he was down to about 15 or 20 foods that he would eat.  Now I only wish there were 15 or 20 foods he would eat.

And it's not just traditionally "yucky" things like vegetables.  My kid won't eat pancakes.  Or chocolate cake, for that matter.  He eschews more traditional kid-fare, the old stand-bys.  Hot dogs?  "Bisgusting."  Mac and cheese?  Nope.  Chicken nuggets...sometimes.  And only from McDonald's.  Yes, I have kept the box and tried to put different nuggets in there.  No, it did not work.  Speaking of McDonald's -  french fries?  That's a big no, too.  Who doesn't like McDonald's french fries?

My kid.  That's who.

Sometimes he will try new foods.  In stages.  First, he smells it.  That's a big step.  Then he licks it. That's huge.  Taking a bite is obviously the third step.  Sometimes we don't get there.  But sometimes we do.  And when we do, he usually gags.  He'll lick a peeled plum or apple slices all damn day, but actually chewing it?  No, Mom.  That's bisgusting.  Are you nuts?

(Nuts are also bisgusting, by the way.  Even to include peanut butter.  Flipping peanut butter.)

We have gone old-school - you eat what's offered, or you go hungry.  He goes hungry.  I have tried giving him control - allowed him to pick out new things at the grocery store himself. No. Bisgusting.  I have had him help me prepare his food.  No.  Bisgusting.  Fun, but still bisgusting. I have tried "hiding" new food into acceptable food...only to have Junior recognize the difference, begin to gag, and then refuse to eat the previously-acceptable food for months.  I have made food into shapes, into boats, into faces, increasingly difficult and elaborate presentations.  I serve food in muffin tins, each item chosen for looks as much as taste.  

So, for your pleasure, I have collected a few of Junior's favorite recipes in order to share with you.  

SCRAMBLED EGG  (Difficulty: Intermediate)
1 egg
2 tbsp. milk
1/2 slice American cheese 
Help Mom crack the egg.  Help Mom stir in the milk.  Beat egg and milk thoroughly.  Make a mess as you do so.  Tear the cheese into strips and add.  Help Mom spray a pan with cooking spray.  Dance with happy anticipation as Mom cooks it.  Allow to cool on plate. Scream bloody murder when it becomes apparent that you are expected to eat it.  Demand frosted shredded mini-wheat, name-brand only, milk separate.  Enjoy!

FRUIT SALAD (Difficulty: Beginner)
Fruit
Go to the store with Mom.  Gasp in apparent delight when told you can pick out whatever fruits you want.  Find something with a slick skin - apples are fine, but think plums and grapes, as well.  In fact, insist on grapes.  Grapes are great.  Tell Mom you love grapes.  Help Mom wash them off.  Put them in your favorite bowl.  Eye them with growing mistrust and distaste, slowly curling your lip.  Compromise - convince Mom you will eat them if she peels them, but ask in the cutest way possible - consider something like "Make them nakey, Mom, and then I will eat them really, really good."  Applaud her efforts as she carefully peels each one.  Encourage her to stick toothpicks in all of them.  But only blue toothpicks.  Allow Mom to encourage, beg, bargain, plead. After 30 minutes, lick one.  Ask for noodles.

WHOLE WHEAT TOAST w/ NUTELLA (Difficulty: Beginner)
One slice whole wheat bread
Nutella
Sprinkles
Preparation is done in secret, but results in a piece of whole wheat bread that has been toasted, cut into a circle, with a hole punched out of the middle, spread with something that Mom says is chocolate, but isn't.  It is not a doughnut, either.  You will not be fooled.  Remind Mom that you hate bread.  And that the only acceptable chocolate is Hershey's.  But...ask for sprinkles - you might eat it if it has sprinkles.  Just kidding.  You won't.  It's still bread.  And you hate bread. Demand white crackers (Saltines).  Enjoy!

PIZZA (Difficulty: Intermediate)
English Muffin
Pizza Sauce
Shredded cheese
Various toppings
Carefully spread pizza sauce over English muffin.  Enthuse about the "Bubby-sized" pizza. Sprinkle shredded cheese over top.  Reject all other toppings firmly.  Dance around the kitchen, laughing and clapping while your Bubby-sized pizza cooks.  Allow to cool on plate.  Once Mom indicates that you are to eat it, begin to cry.  Demand a slice of American cheese.  Reject the first one on grounds that she unwrapped it.  Accept second slice, wrapped.

TACOS  (Difficulty: Intermediate)
Ground beef or turkey
Taco shells - yellow ones only
Shredded cheese
Various toppings
Help Mom assemble a taco, just for you.  Follow her lead, be enthusiastic.  YOU LOVE TACOS!  Allow taco to remain untouched throughout dinner.  Ask for a new taco.  Fill only with one slice of American cheese.  Bon appeitit!

VEGETABLE SURPRISE (Difficulty: Beginner)
Surprise!  I won't eat them.  Any of them.  Ever.  Lol.

Moving Mountains

Four years ago, I gave birth to a red, wrinkly, slightly cone-headed baby boy, who was covered in baby acne and whose skin was peeling because he had cooked an extra week.  Even after months of reading baby books, I was unprepared.  Overwhelmed.  Lost.  Terrified.

We brought Junior home on Christmas eve.  I still had 30+ staples in my stomach, but I didn't want to stay in the hospital another night.  I wanted to have our first Christmas at home, and the nurse I had kept telling me I was fat.  Seriously.  I mean, I was fat before I got pregnant, and pregnancy certainly wasn't a slimming process for me, and I had just given birth.  I didn't need to hear it.  I was living it.  Fuck that nurse.  I went home.

My boobs hurt.  My incision was a fiery brand between my pelvis and my now-soft, empty stomach.  I felt worse not-pregnant than I had ever felt pregnant.  My son wasn't sleeping.  He was sleeping too much.  My husband had to help me pull my pants up because bending over was agony.  I took a pain pill my first evening home, fell asleep holding the baby, and woke up just as he tumbled off my lap, rolled down my legs, and landed in a heap of tangled blanket at my feet.  I had dropped my fucking baby.  My milk didn't come in for 5 days.  I couldn't do this.  Why did I do this?

We had visitors.  My husband took a picture of me with a digital camera and showed me.  I went to the bedroom and leaned against the wall and cried until the visitors left, awkward and silent.  

I cried a lot, as a matter of fact.  I was tired, I didn't feel good, I had given birth but nursing my newborn was far more taxing than pregnancy those first few weeks.  And I was ashamed.  I loved my son, sure - but I had yet to feel a connection to him.  I tried to will it to come.  I would nurse him, concentrate on him, the heft of him in my arms, the sweet curve of his body, the smell of his head.  But it was all so abstract.  I cried more.  I would have never done anything to hurt my baby, but if someone had offered me a couple of thousand bucks for him, I would have had to sit down and seriously consider their offer.

I became an avid sleeping baby watcher.  Not because I was enamored of him, but because I became convinced that God knew I didn't love my baby enough, and that He would take him from me.

Honestly, I should have asked for help.  Much of it was hormonal, and beyond my control, and even though I had skimmed the sections in books on postpartum, it still never occurred to me that I was suffering from it.  Because I did only skim them - when I was pregnant, I couldn't imagine not having an immediate, soul-deep connection to the miracle I was growing inside me.  I already loved him, you know?  I was already in love with him.  I had no idea that the reality of him would be so different, and so much harder, than the concept of him.

But I got better.

Because all though I was all full of doubt about me as a mother (and still am, all the time), my son was not.  He had confidence in me.  Six weeks into motherhood, when I got up at 3 a.m. for yet another marathon nursing method, I finally felt it.  I settled down on the couch with him, got him latched on, and watched him nurse.  I sang to him, because singing was what moms were supposed to do, and you see, I did all the things that moms were supposed to do, even when I didn't feel like doing them, and he pulled back from my breast and gave me a gummy, unformed smile before stuffing my boob back in his mouth.  But even as he was nursing, he struggled to keep eye contact with me.  I smiled, and he would smile, and smiling made him lose his latch, and I would laugh.  

And I realized that, finally, I finally felt it.  He went from being a burden to a gift, and we never looked back.

I bathed him not because the baby books suggested it, but because I loved washing each tiny toe and finger, loved wrapping him up in a fluffy towel fresh from the drier and inhaling his scent as he nursed.  I sang to him not because I felt I was supposed to, but because he loved it, and I loved that he loved it.  And as he grew, each age was the best age, and four years later, that still holds true.  Age one was perfection, two was amazing, three was even better, but so is four - four will be the best age, too.

I love my son.  I realize that makes me exactly the same as almost every other mother in the world, but still, our love is always special, isn't it?  Even that most universal of loves - the love we have for our children.  And we don't even think about it that much, because concentrating on it, examining it, makes us realize anew just exactly how amazing and powerful that love is, and seriously - who has time for that shit?  But we should take some time, every once in awhile, to reflect on it.  It's a love that makes us incredibly vulnerable, weak at the knees and humbled before it.  But it's also a love that makes us strong, too - it is the love that will literally move mountains, if that mountain stands between us and something we want for our children.  

I see all of you moving mountains.  The mom who takes her daughter to dance, even though she is sick and she is tired.  The mom who, with a stab of fear in her heart, watches her son run out on the football field the first time and covers her fear with a smile.  The mom who stays up all night to hold her sleeping child's hand because she is sick, and even though holding her hand won't reduce her fever, it makes you both feel better.  The mom who takes her child to take his driver's test, her daughter to buy her first formal, who puts her five-year old on the bus for the first time and watches him go out into the world and manages to wave happily until he is out of sight before bawling.  The mom who stays up until 1 a.m. making 28 cupcakes for her child's school party. The mom who stays home to be with her babies, the mom who goes out to work to take care of her babies...  

The moms who make mistakes, and lay awake at night worrying.  The moms who second guess everything they're doing, because they want to do it right, the moms who, in a moment of stress and temper, lose their shit and have to lock themselves in the bathroom to cry.  The moms who do the things that we're supposed to do, when they are the last things in the world we feel like doing, when even the act of doing them makes you feel lost, overwhelmed, terrified...

Mountain movers, all of you.

So although I have many regrets for those first 6 weeks of my son's life - mostly over missed opportunities, my inability to enjoy my newborn, my firstborn - I now have the perspective to understand that even when I was filled much more with fear and resentment than anything else, I was doing my best to not show it, to act in love, even if it felt false and stilted and scripted at first, even though it exhausted me and frightened me, and that, in itself, was love.  I can't change it, but I know in my heart that I would if I could, and that today, the one thing I never doubt - even when I am doubting everything else - is that I love my son, with the whole entirety of my heart.

And frankly, I also regret not punching the nurse that called me fat 18 hours after giving birth.        

How One Night My Husband Was Horrible

We go to bed early in my house.

Wait.  Clarification.  The Justins go to bed early in my house.  My husband gets up for work around 1:30 a.m., and so he is often in bed by 6:30.  Junior, who selflessly gave up his nap at age 2, usually goes to bed at 7:30.  (Unless he doesn't.  But that's a different blog.)  I usually stay up late to get stuff done.  I would say I am a night-owl, but then that would indicate that I sleep in.  But I don't.  I am also an early riser.  Being an early-rising night owl sucks.

Last night, all the stars aligned and it looked as though I was going to get to go to bed at a decent time. Junior laid down with little complaint at 7:15, and I was able to snake-slither my way off of his bed without waking him. (And before anyone says anything about how bad it is to lay down with my son - duly noted. But he does go to bed around 7:30.  I win.) Furthermore, there was nothing left to be done for the day.  No dishes to load, no laundry to fold.  I could do this.  I could totally just...go to bed.

So, I went to our bedroom and, doing the same snake-slithering move in reverse, got into bed - but it didn't work.  Or maybe Justin was already awake.  I don't know, and I don't care.  Actually, I hope I did wake him up, because he behaved horribly.  Not at first, though.  At first, we held hands for a bit, whispered nice, married-people whispers, I closed my eyes...

And opened them to something like this:

Wife, would you still love me if I looked like this?

Okay.  That was sort of funny.  Ha, ha, Justin.  I closed my eyes.  But I could feel him looking at me.  I opened them.  To this:

What about this, wife? Would you still love me?

Less funny.  More scary. "Stop it," I said.  And I closed my eyes.  And still, I could feel him.  I could feel him  being awful and silent, and the more I ignored it, the more silent and awful it became.  I squeezed my eyes shut even tighter.  It didn't help.  I looked.  I saw this:

WHAT ABOUT NOW, WIFE? WOULD YOU STILL LOVE ME?

"Damn it!" I said.  "Stop it!  You know I hate it when you make faces!  Stop it, stop it, stop it!"

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," he said, but the bed was shaking from his laughter, so he wasn't too sorry.  The other reason I know he wasn't sorry is because the next time I opened my eyes, it was to this:

Love me, wife.  Please...

All contorted, his hands pulled into claws, his muscles strained so hard the cords in his neck were popped out.  I pinched him.  Hard.  Poked him in the throat for good measure, too.  And then I turned over.  He said he was sorry.  I wouldn't face him.  If I don't face him, it's harder to hear him making awful, silent faces.  He said he was done.

I closed my eyes.  I pulled the sheets up higher - they were nice and cool.  I snuggled further under the down comforter.  My pillow was just right.  It was barely 8 o'clock - I was going to sleep gloriously.  For like eleven hours.  ELEVEN HOURS.

I heard him rustling around.  The rustling was worse than the silence.  I squeezed my eyes shut even tighter.  I will not look.

"Wife."

I said nothing.

"Wife.  Look."

"I don't want to look."

"Wife."

I looked.  I saw this:

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh! Fuck! The back bend!

Seriously.

My husband knows that, as much as I love horror movies, I am easily spooked.  I cannot tell you how many times he has vowed "THIS IS THE LAST TIME YOU EVER SEE A SCARY MOVIE EVER!" in his biggest, baddest husband voice.  And he says that because, once we go to bed after seeing one, he doesn't sleep well.  And the reason he doesn't sleep well is because I don't sleep well.  Because I hear things.

And he also knows that one of the creepiest things in horror movies is the possessed back bend.  It's horrible.  You know that it is.  When some pasty, scrawny little girl in a tattered white nightgown shows up, you know at some point her muscles will lock up and jerk her into a horrible back bend, and you will want to scream and scream, because it's that bad.  Every time I see that girl in a movie, I half-hide my face and start saying, "She's going to do it.  She's going to do that horrible back bend thing, you know she is."

And here was Justin, back arched off the mattress, neck cocked at an awful angle, eyes popped out, jaw frozen open in a silent scream, being the worst husband ever in the whole world.

Finally, he dropped back to the mattress, because acting possessed and being a dick to your wife is exhausting.  He swore he was done.  He said, "No, really, wife, I promise this time," and although he was laughing still, I believed him.  I snuggled down again, made him spoon me. His silence wasn't creepy, it was normal.  I couldn't hear him making the awful faces, and really, anything else would have been pretty anti-climatic after the back bend.

The down comforter, the cool sheet, the perfect pillow placement...sleep came.  And then I opened up my eyes to this:

I may look cute, but I am about to whisper some creepy shit, okay?

He was right in  my face, eyes peering intently into mine.  Honestly, not that scary, but you always kind of wonder just how long they've been staring at you, you know?

But then he whispered, in this creepy, somehow final whisper:

"Mommy," he whispered.  "You are done sleeping in this bed. You. Are. Done."

And he was right.  At least for the night.  Jesus.

Honesty...for Junior, it's pretty much the ONLY policy.

My son is, at times, disarmingly honest, which makes him like almost every other kid his age.  (Except better.  Because he is mine.)  And so when he tells me I look beautiful, I thank him, because I know he really, truly means it.  He thinks his mom is beautiful - and who am I to try and correct that?

That honesty also makes for some stunning critiques.  I would call them harsh, if he were an adult, but he's not, so they usually just make me laugh.  Every once in awhile, he comes out with a real jewel, and I collect them - one, because they are funny, and two, because when he is grown I plan on using them as a central part of keeping him close by.  (Oh, you want to go away to college?  It's because of my morning breath, isn't it?  Oh God, it is!  IT IS!!!)

Here are some of my favorite criticisms and compliments.  You're welcome.

JUNIOR'S OBSERVATIONS ON MY FACE AND HAIR

"I like your face better when you put your make-ups on."

"What are those called?"
"Laugh lines."
"QUIT LAUGHING."

"Mommy.  Open your eyes.  Wider.  WIDER."  (Shaking head, disappointed.)  "Never mind."

"Does your hair hurt?"
"No."
"Is it sick?"
"No."
"Oh."

"Mommy, you are beautiful."  (That one never gets old.)  

JUNIOR'S OBSERVATION ON MY HOUSEKEEPING / COOKING / PARENTING

"Mommy, you are an awesome steam mopper. It's why I love you."

"Son, please eat."
"I think no."
"Eat your dinner."
"Cook better.  Maybe -uuuuuhhhhhh - some noodles or something."

"YOU LOVE TO VACUUM AND THE VACUUM LOVES YOU!"

"Daddy's job is to work.  My job is to play.  Your job is to say 'good job!'"

"You're doing it wrong.  DO IT LIKE THIS."

JUNIOR'S OBSERVATIONS ON MY HYGIENE

"Oh, Mommy, did you shower?  Yay!  Yay for Mommy!"  (For the record, I shower every day.  Almost.)

"I like your legs.  They are furry."  (Strokes them gently.)  "Say 'meow,' Mommy.  Mommy.  Mommy.  Say 'meow.'  MOMMY.  SAY 'MEOW,' MOMMY!"
"Meow."
"Thank you."

Upon waking me up: "Good morn - oh, Mom.  Your breath is not fresh."
"Well, son -"
"Stop.  Don't breathe."

People tell me my son is funny.  I agree.  I think, though, for the most part, most kids his age are naturally funny.  They are funny without meaning to be, which makes it even funnier.  It makes it hard to correct, though - but lately, we've had to have some talks about when it's okay to be so honest; or, as we call it, full-on Junior.  (As in, "Dad, we need to have another talk because someone went full-on Junior at some lady at Big V CountryMart" or "That lady is lucky I didn't go full-on Junior on her ass.")  We tell him that not everyone appreciates it, that sometimes it's better to say things in our head, and tell Mommy about it later.  It's a new lesson, and a hard one.  For all of us.  He has no filter, and it's a big task, helping him develop one.  Honesty is praised...but then, there really does seem to be the idea that you can be too honest.

"Don't breathe."  I laughed so hard over that one.  With my hand over my mouth.  On the way to the bathroom.  To brush my teeth.

The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Moms

Today was supposed to be a good day.

I was going to get up at 5:30.  I was going to have the time to drink my coffee, peruse Facebook and the news, check my email, do some work.  When Junior got up, we were going to get dressed.  And by "dressed," I mean more than clean yoga pants for me, more than clean underwear for him.  I mean pants and shirts - you know, fancy.  We were going to eat breakfast at the table.  Fruit would be encouraged, pretzels would have no part of the conversation, and we would discuss plans.  I was going to surprise him with making sock puppets.  We were going to make the best sock puppets ever.  We were going to craft.  Teeth would be brushed and hair would be combed and we would work a few pages from one of the many pre-school workbooks that are collecting dust on top of my microwave and we would sing.  When Dad came home from his early morning shift at 12:30, he would find us eating a healthy lunch, our morning's work proudly displayed.  His heart would swell with pride at my effort and our son's obvious superiority.  We would go for a walk, as a family.  We would discuss nature.  Our son would not poop his pants.

But if my phone alarm went off, it was muffled under my mound of pillows.  Because what wakes me up at 8:45 is my son manually opening my eyelid and saying, "Something is wrong with my butt, Mom."

Nothing is technically wrong with his butt - it is just that his pants are filled with poop.  "Don't let me gag, Mom.  Just don't," he begs.  "I will look this way, and so I won't gag."  And then it becomes a game to him - no, I will look this way, and now I will look that way - and you know, normally I love a good game, but not when I have only been awake for 32 seconds and the person who wants to play the game has pooped their pants and I have to clean it up.  I snap at him.    

I need coffee.  Real clothes could wait a minute - clothes will be a battle and I am not ready.  He could have that healthy breakfast while I had coffee.  I could still do fruit.

Coffee started.  I go to gather laundry.  Beginning, naturally, with the living room - because both Justins in this house eschew such confinements like laundry baskets.  They are, by God, free spirits.  And I see, then, that Junior has been up awhile and gotten himself breakfast.  Saltines - or, as he calls them, white crackers.  As in, "MOM!  THIS STORE HAS SO MANY WHITE CRACKERS!" at the top of his lungs when we are in the cracker and bread aisle at the store.

"We need to vacuum," my son says, but I can't.  Not right then.  I snap at him again - he knows better than to get in the cabinets.  Yes, he agrees, he does.  He is sorry.  He tells me to be happy.

"Let's get real breakfast," I say, and he says no.  He says he ate all the white crackers.  He says he "ate the whole sleeve of them.  Really, I just need milk."  I give him milk.  I give myself coffee.  And against my best intentions, I turn on the TV for him so I can check my email.  I hammer back replies to my current client.  I send off samples to another.  In between, I  manage to get a shower in, my teeth brushed, my son's teeth brushed.  Sort of.  We vacuum up the cracker mess, we start laundry, we unload the dishwasher.  He is being needy this morning- whining when I sit back down to write.  I tell him Mommy is trying to work.  He cries and threatens to burn my work down.  I wonder if he's showing early signs of violent behavior, and refrain from googling terms like "youngest arsonist ever" and "10 signs your toddler is a budding psychopath."  It is hard to concentrate - hell, it is hard to type - with a 3 year old literally trying to swing from my arm.  I snap at him.  Again. 

It's 10:45 now.  Morning almost gone, and I haven't even opened up the blinds.  That's part of our morning ritual - to open up the house and say "Good morning, world!"  I say it wrong this morning.  I know this because I'm good at detecting the subtle changes in my son's mood, and also because he throws himself down on the floor and sobs that I have said it all wrong.  He hates the blinds.  He hates the windows.  He hates the world.  He's all temper and fury and three-year-old injustice.  I snap.  His howls come to a startled finish - and then he begins to cry.  "Monster voice," he sobs.  "I don't like the monster voice."

I don't either.  I decide to try again, to start over.   Today was supposed to be a good day.  I can still salvage it.  But all I manage to do is kick it hard enough to get it limping along; it doesn't skip.  There's no singing, and the workbooks collect more dust.  I keep thinking about how, if I don't get some time to write, I will be up until 2 a.m.  Again.  It stresses me out, and even though I am with my son, I am not really with him.  This isn't the day I wanted.  

Justin comes home, and we are not at the table eating lunch.  We're on the couch, still not dressed, eating fruit snacks instead of fruit, watching Mickey Mouse, because today has been hard.  And it's raining.  I hate today.

But we do make it.  We always do.  Dad helps him make a fort.  I furnish it for them, bring them snacks, feel guilty about sneaking away to finish my writing, but I don't feel like working until the wee hours of the morning.  My husband makes dinner and bathes our son - I feel guilty about that, as well.  He's been up since 1:30 this morning - we passed each other with a kiss in the hallway as I went off to bed and he was getting up.  I know he is tired.  He must be.  I am exhausted.  I send him to bed, promising I won't stay up too late again.  It's 6:30.  An hour until Junior's bedtime.  I say something horrible, like "An hour before bedtime," and a monstrous tantrum ensues.  I manage not to snap.  I leave him to it, go to the kitchen and load the dishwasher.  I feel his little hand slide up the back of my shirt and he asks if I will lay down with him.  He says please.  

Pajamas off, potty, pull-ups, pajamas back on, teeth brushed...I carry him to his bed even though he is getting big.  He hooks his arm around my shoulder and leans into me, and I rock him for a minute before laying him down.  "Please, right here," he says, patting his bed, and I lay down next to him, and he sighs a deep, watery sigh that upsets me far more than any of his tantrums or whining did.

"I love you," I say, and he meows.  I meow back.  We meow for awhile, but his eyelids are drooping.  He asks me to do the tummy-thing, and so I rub his tummy in circles until his eyes finally close.  I carefully slide off his bed. 

I go back to the living room and sit on the couch.  I think about all the ways I failed today.  All the ways I could have handled things better.  And I know people would say "Don't beat yourself up about it."  I would say it, too.  And I'm not - not really.  But mistakes should be examined, I think. And that's what I do.  I examine mine.  I poke at them, get to learn their shapes, their causes, recognize the repeat offenders and the quick triggers.  I think about how to avoid them.  I worry if avoiding them is robbing my son of opportunities to learn how to deal with frustrations.  I worry he has enough frustrations to deal with already.  I worry.  

I know, too, that any day that ends with my son, safely asleep in bed, breathing deeply and with a full stomach, is a technical win.  And I know that some days, a technical win is about the best any of us can do.  But it's not what I hope for.  It's not what I am okay with.  I want a day that is a victory.  A triumph.  I want a day that I can be proud of.  This is my job.  I didn't give up my job and 50% of our income to be okay with a string of days that are passable.  That's admitting defeat before the day even begins.

I know bad days will happen.  That days where getting dressed, with make-up, simply won't happen, that keeping tears and tantrums at bay is the best I can do, days when he refuses to even lick a piece of fruit and when he goes to bed I realize he has eaten nothing but 3 pretzels and a great quantity of milk.  Days that were full of too much Netflix and not enough creative, active play.  Days that I spent too much time on social media networks instead of using that screen time to work.  Laundry will get left to wrinkle in the dryer, and dinner will be PB & J. Days where I don't even pretend to offer him something new and nutritious to eat but am simply grateful that he will at least eat what he does.  

But I don't want to be okay with those days.  I don't want to beat myself up, but I don't want to dismiss them, excuse them, expect them.  I will accept them, but I don't want to be made cynical by them, to adopt this attitude that bad days, or mediocre days, are good enough for us.  They aren't.  When my son was born, I didn't think, "I hope I'm okay at this."  With that being said, I'm not unrealistic; I don't look at Pinterest and castigate myself for lack of effort and unoriginality and inability to provide organic snacks that my son will eat.  I measure our success by things like "Did we play in the sunshine?   Did we laugh a lot?  Did we do something?  Did we interact?  Did he get good and dirty doing something fun?  Were there stories told and discussions held?  Did I correct him when necessary, and did I provide positive feedback when deserved?  Did we learn something?"  They aren't unrealistic standards.  

But tonight, after I examine it all, I do let it go.  Because it isn't a pattern.  It isn't a trend.  And as long as I continue to give my failures - and there are many - an honest look, I feel I am doing the best job that I can.  I don't want to stop worrying.  I don't want a string of technical wins.  I want good days, fun days, triumphant days...days that end with me thinking about what I did right instead of what I did wrong.  Days where I don't wonder if I should go back to work full-time because I am certain that staying at home is the right choice.  

And I will set two alarms tonight.  Because tomorrow will be better.  The best laid plans may often go awry, but it won't stop me from planning.   

Junior's Diary - Entry 1

Disclaimer: My kid can't read or write.  Well, he can read a little, if you count words like Samsung, Dirt Devil, Jeep, Verizon and Target.  Which I do.  Because he's a genius.  But he can't write.  Not even a little.  Like, if we sit down and try to write the letter A, we both end up in tears, with him declaring repeatedly "I just hate the letter A!" and me, chiming in, "I hate it, too!"  So, this really wasn't written by him.  But it could have been.  If he could write.  Because all of this has happened.  Most of it more than once.

Dear Diary,

Hello.  How are you?  (My kid really does have good manners, so this seems like a natural beginning for him.)  

I had a frustrating day today.  Once again, my mother told me that penis talk is private.  We obviously have vastly different views on what constitutes "private," which is where a great deal of my frustration stems from.  To me, private means that I should be allowed to openly discuss penises within the comfort of my own home, no matter who may be present, until the subject is absolutely exhausted or she distracts me with Oreos.  I find either option to be fulfilling.

To my mom, private means pretty much the same as "don't."  She's also started suggesting that I talk to Daddy about it.  And I do sometimes.  But then, when he's not at home, and I really need to talk about my penis, she refuses to let me call him, or else she hands me a fake cell phone and tells me to go to my room and pretend to call Daddy.  Uh - hello.  I'm not 2 anymore.  

Penis.  

Lately, I've been really interested in why.  I'm actually pretty deep and philosophical.  Mom is pretty good at answering a lot of my why questions, as long as I don't start asking "Why is this penis here?  Why do I have a penis?  Why don't you have a penis?"  This evening, when we sat down to eat dinner, I asked "Why is it always time for dinner?  Why do you try to make me eat chicken?  Why not noodles?"  My deep, philosophical, inquisitive nature must be rubbing off on her, because she turned to Daddy and asked, "Why do I even try?"  And then Dad made me some noodles, even though I screamed the entire time: "JUST LET MOMMY DO IT!  I NEED MOMMY TO MAKE MY NOODLES!  SHE LIKES MAKING THEM!"  She does like making them.  That's her job, I think.  Also, she just makes them better.  It's something in the way she boils the water or something.  I don't know.  Dad's noodles are just sub-par.  But they are better than chicken, so I did eat them.  

Do chickens have penises, I wonder?  I'll have to remember to ask.

We did make a brief foray out to the Dollar General today.  I like the yellow carts.  They have some silver metal ones, but I like the yellow ones.  I like them a lot.  No, I do not care if there are three metal ones Mom has to pull out in order to get a yellow one.  It's worth her extra effort. Yellow is great.  Yellow is awesome.  It's no red, to be sure, but on the spectrum of colors, yellow outshines rusted metal, every time.

Sometimes I like to help Mom push.  I wedge myself between her and the cart and walk very, very, very, very slowly, so she can keep up. Sometimes I like to sit in the front of the cart.  Lately Mom has been saying I'm getting too big for that, in which case I grab my lower back, bend over, and say, loudly, "Oh, my back is hurting!  Oh, it hurts so bad!" and hobble around until she puts me in there.  Sometimes, though, I like to sit in the back - it depends on what's in there.  Toilet paper?  Yes, please.  I like to rip the plastic off. Bread?  Absolutely.  I like to sit on it.  Any other food item?  No.  Absolutely not.  I am not going to eat that shit, I don't even want to be near it. Don't even think about putting it in there. Just no.
  
Today was a back-of-the-yellow-cart sort of day.  There was a Glade scented candle in there that was pretty neat.  I kept sniffing it and being cute.  I overdid it like always, though - sometimes I forget the strength of my own cuteness.  What I did was, I called my mom "sweethearts."  That's what she calls me, and when I say it, she does that thing where her eyes get all dewy with love, and then my eyes get all dewy with love, and we agree that we are, indeed, sweethearts.  But sometimes, when I am being super-cute like that, other people butt in.  Usually old ladies.  Like today.  This snowbird goes, "Oh, how precious!" which is fine, I don't mind commentary, but then she goes, "How old are you?"

Oh. My. God.  If I had a nickle for every time that question was asked, I'd probably have enough money to buy my mom a penis to replace the one she lost.

"Don't talk to me," I said, and hid my face.  

"Justin Ryan!" my mom said, in this voice she uses that I think is supposed to convey shock, so that people think I've never talked back in my life...lol.  "You be polite."

"Don't talk to me, please.  Just please don't talk," was my politest response - naturally.  But it must have been the wrong one, because Mom apologized and walked away.  Listen, don't spend months telling me stuff like "Don't interrupt others" and expect me to be okay with others interrupting me.  And this whole "Don't talk to strangers" concept is a pretty tough one for me to grasp if you are constantly expecting me to talk to strangers.  

Anyhow, it's bedtime now.  I know this because Mom has been saying it for thirty minutes.  She likes to warn me.  She knows I hate being startled by rushing me into the things we do at the exact same time, every night.  It's jarring to my system.  And to my penis.  

Sincerely,
Justin, Jr.

Welcome!

So, I did it.  I started a blog.  I had a blog before, but I also had a toddler, and I lost it.  The password - not the toddler.  I tried to log-in like a thousand times, but the problem is, I change email addresses like some people change underwear - if I log in to my email and it shows that I have >1k unread messages, I start to hyperventilate and then I start a new email account, and I promise myself that I will only use that email account for important correspondence, and then I fail.  And open up a new one.  It's a viscous cycle.

So, anyhow...I read a lot of mom blogs.  And they are awesome.  Like, these moms live in New York.  Their kids know what a subway and a rooftop garden are, and they give away stuff like ironic baby onesies that cost half my grocery budget.  Or else these moms live on a farm.  They feed their kids a diet of milk and honey and they craft.  They craft the shit out of stuff.  They make me feel like I could craft!  And then I craft.  And I remember why I don't normally craft. They make me use "craft" as a verb, too.  I hate them for that.

And then there are the funny blogs.  There are the blogs we all share because they speak to this universal truth about motherhood, in a way that makes us laugh and say "OMG, yes!  That.  That exact thing."  They write so well, and with such humor that I get jealous.  I think, "Why didn't I think of that?"  And they are so good that it actually makes me nervous to blog.  Like, oh my God, am I trying to hard?  If I try, will everyone think I think I'm as good as that one blogger?  And then I drink, and I'm like "That one blogger could only wish to be as good as me!  Where's my craft room?  Fuck. I forgot to 'designate a space.' Who keeps a hot glue gun in the same house as a toddler, anyhow.  That's dumb.  Where's my wine?"

I don't live in New York.  I live in Missouri.  I feed my kid a diet of whatever he will eat without gagging - mainly noodles and dairy-related products.  I don't craft.  I wish I did.  But I prefer to read about crafts, really.  I do like to cook - maybe I'll write some about that.  Then again, maybe I won't.  I don't know if I like cooking well enough to write about it.  But I do like to write.  So I have that going for me.

I'll give you my cast of characters.  Hi, I'm Sam.  I'm a wife and a mom.  I do some freelance writing, and I like it.  I do a lot of butt-wiping, as well.  I like that less, and I also don't get paid for it.  I have a husband.  His name is Justin.  I have a son, and to keep things easy, I named him Justin, as well, although he does get called Junior a lot.  I also have a brother named Justin- I don't know that he'll figure much into this blog, but I just think it's funny.  Like it shows I actually have a stunning lack of originality.  "Eh, just call this one Justin, too."  I'd like to have another baby.  I keep threatening to name it Sam, no matter what the gender.  I'm just really, really lazy that way.

Also, while I'm confessing stuff - I don't work out.  I really should, but I don't.  Maybe I'll start. After the holidays.  Or when Junior goes to college.  If he goes to college.  His childhood diet of noodles and American cheese singles, paired with his mother's inability to do crafts with him, may be too much of an obstacle for him to overcome.  

So, welcome to my blog.  I hope it doesn't suck.  And I hope if it does suck, you're nice enough not to mention it in the comments.  (Of course, now that I have said that, if you do say it in the comments, I have the ability to go "Ha ha!  That's so funny!  They're only saying it sucks because I said not to!  Lol, Internet!" It's like I shut you down without even trying.  Boom.  I win.) The next few days it might look like I wrote a lot of stuff, but really, it's because I do write stuff down even when not posting it to a public forum, but by all means, please assume that I'm incredibly productive.  Because I am.  Sometimes.