Because Sun Tzu is Worthless on the Homefront

Blog redesign in works so this page ain’t so ugly. Kids are now capable of entertaining themselves/not pooping on themselves for over 10 minute spans so I can actually do some writing and posting now.

A long-lost high school friend (whom I haven’t seen in over 15 years) recently made a comment to me on Facebook. I can’t recall his exact words, but it was something awfully close to “Funny, but I remember you as being a lot sweeter back in high school. J/K!!!” Which of course was so freaking hilarious I was LOL’ing about it all night. I do take comfort in the fact that my friend hadn’t had children at the time he wrote his remark. And now, a handful of months later, he is a brand-spanking, newly minted card-carrying member of the Parent Club. Can you see my smirk through the screen? ‘Cause it’s pretty enjoyable from my end. Let’s see how long the serenity and judginess last now, my friend. Those 2am feedings and blowout diapers will suck the sweetness right out of a bitch.

But, my friend’s comment did give me pause to reflect. Certainly, a significant number of my Facebook posts complain about the bad drivers I encounter, castigate celebrities gone wild/gone stupid, and probably go into more detail than most people appreciate regarding my toddlers’ bodily functions. And then there was that post and resulting thread about the showdown between me and the crazy lady who conned me at my own garage sale. I don’t think I actually wrote the words “I am going to get midieval on her ass” but I am sure that it was heavily implied. For the record, no retaliation has occurred (but she is still on the To-Do list).

So, yeah, I guess I come across as a more aggravated person these days. Hell, who isn’t more cranky than they were as a high school student? But do I spend an inordinate amount of time in a state of irritation? I want to say no—that my sense of humor just tends toward the sarcastic side of town, and as most of us (formerly sweet and now crotchety old people) have found out, sarcasm doesn’t always translate well into the written word. But although I do think that element is at play, sadly, I think he was right about me to a degree.

When I was high school, I spent a few hours a day in classes that, shall we say, for the most part required less than my full attention. My family life, while not perfect, was warm and stable. Even on a subconscious level I knew that there was nothing that would not be provided to me if I needed it, and probably not many things denied me if I wanted it badly enough. Simply put, I didn’t exactly have the weight of the world on my shoulders. So at that age, I gossiped with my girlfriends, fretted a little bit about college. I cried inconsolably when my boyfriend dumped me—his explanation: “I love you a lot, but I’m looking for the package deal.” (Feel free to imagine what may constitute a 16-yr old boy’s “package deal.” Ahem.) I had the time to read a lot of great books, and attended as many keg parties at Gasworks Park as I possibly could. I even managed to occasionally skip school on a nice day with my friend Brian so we could handicap horse races for a couple hours before spending the afternoon betting at the track (hi Mom!). I kept my grades up, and somehow managed to stay out of trouble. And at that age, everybody basically just wants to be liked– I pretty much liked everybody, and everybody pretty much liked me. It was so easy to be a sweet girl.

I had no concept of the toll that financial stress takes on a person, on a relationship. I hadn’t yet mourned the loss of a deep friendship, and didn’t have an awareness of my own shortcomings as a friend. I hadn’t yet learned that there are “nice” people who present themselves as pillars of honesty and moral fiber, yet will figuratively cut your throat–and justify it to themselves– the moment they can benefit from it. I had never experienced the disappointment of failure because I hadn’t ever had to take a risk. I hadn’t experienced the death of someone I loved, hadn’t held my husband’s hand as he wept at his mother’s funeral. I didn’t know that life does not blithely follow the script that you write for yourself.

Yet, that sweet girl in high school couldn’t have ignored the vomit all over her clothes as she tightly held her sick child in her arms. She couldn’t have lived in a remote cabin as a newlywed, without heat or air conditioning in the North Carolina weather because the rent was $300 a month and that made the bills work while her husband finished school. That girl couldn’t discern the difference between a genuine person and a person who only gave the appearance of sincerity. That girl didn’t feel like it was okay to say “no” when people tried to take advantage of her time or kind nature.

So my high school friend is right. For better and for worse, I am not that sweet 17-year old girl anymore.

**And what I wouldn’t give to be able to transport my 37-year old self to handle that “package deal” conversation. Retrospect is a killer.

Everyone has their number.

For many, it’s the 50th birthday— although I never have understood the humor in draping someone’s office in black crepe paper and skeletons to gleefully remind them that they are beating on the grim reaper’s door. But I know others who were traumatized by 30, usually beautiful young women who felt like they were being unchivalrously shoved out of their 20’s and for the first time facing the tragic, yet inexorable truth that beauty is a depreciating asset, and that their days of getting carded by flirtatious bouncers were numbered. Yet some folks hit midlife crisis at 40, and some very fortunate people never freak out on a birthday. I like to think that these people either have a diminished mental capacity or more money than God.

My number, however, hit me squarely between the eyes a couple of days ago. Birthdays have never fazed me in the past—my birthdays have been marked by long distance phone calls from old  friends,  sweet vanilla sheet cakes festooned with pink and purple flowers, my dad’s birthday serenade and then celebrations at the Mexican dive complete with a velvet sombrero and shot of tequila. What’s not to like?

But when a couple of days ago, my younger sister had the guile to ask me “Soooo, how does it feel to be 37?” I noticed her tone: she may as well have asked me, “So how does it feel to be a Mongolian goat herder with shingles?” It was as if 37 were this foreign and mysteriously unappealing place that I had moved – and that she surely would never visit herself  (right). I faltered. I almost couldn’t say it out loud. I am thirty-seven years old.   I am closing in on my forties like a train slowly, but steadily, approaching the station. And as we all have learned, the more days we click off, the faster the future rushes towards us.

So on the morning of my 37th birthday, I flirted with a mid-life crisis. I anguished over the list of once-expected  achievements that have not come to pass, places I still haven’t visited, and pondered some life-altering choices that, in hindsight, I had made with a lightness that boggles the mind. And I realized with alarm that 37 is halfway to 74-freaking- years old, then tried to remember what and who I was when I was 18.5 years old and blissfully unaware that I was halfway to 37.  And I still feel much like the same girl.   I got old when I wasn’t looking.

But I got another piece of significant news on my birthday. A series of sad status updates on Facebook indicated that a girl I had known growing up in Roswell, GA had died suddenly and unexpectedly the day prior. Melissa had attended a different elementary school than I had, but we both did gymnastics at the same recreation center. Truthfully, Melissa was a gymnast and I was just another awkward girl inspired by Mary Lou Retton to take up the sport after the 1986 Olympics.

While I was warming up in the gym, struggling to force my inflexible muscles into the splits, I would watch Melissa leap into the splits like a gazelle as she ran across a 4-foot high balance beam.   As I arched into an unstable backbend while  kicking my legs up into the air like an inverted donkey, Melissa would tumble by, feet-over-head-over-feet like a powerful slinky before launching herself into the air, breezily turning a backflip and landing. I would imagine how it must feel to be able to will yourself to fly, what it would look like to watch the world turn upside down as you triumphantly somersaulted over it.   I was awe-struck by her. She had these almond shaped-eyes, and a pretty little face with wispy hair that she would often pull back into two low ponytails… in that gym she was a mighty fairy: strong, healthy and young. The girl could fly.

I finally met Melissa when we attended the same middle school. She was sweet and funny. I certainly never brought up my gym-worship of her, and indeed felt relieved that she never taken notice of my “gymnast daze,” or at least was too kind to admit it. A couple of years later my family moved away, and I attended school in another state. I never saw her again. Over the years, I would remember her when I would see gymnasts on tv, and briefly wonder whatever happened to her.   At some point after the advent of Facebook, I heard that Melissa had four young daughters and still lived in the town in which we grew up.

And then on my birthday, I found out that Melissa had died a just few hours earlier. In the fashion of most mothers out there, my throat tightened and tears rolled down my face when I thought about those four little girls who will have to walk through this wonderful and sometimes treacherous world without their Mommy. I thought about all of the milestones that Melissa will miss—birthdays, Christmas mornings, gymnastic medals, prom, weddings, grandchildren—as well as the loveliness that we stumble upon in the more mundane moments of raising children: their raucous giggles as they splash in the bath tub, wildly cheering from the stands as they make their very first free throw in a basketball game, or smoothing your toddler’s hair across their forehead after they’ve fallen asleep in your lap.

And suddenly, 37 was shockingly, devastatingly young.

*** Haven’t posted anything in quite some time, and am working on getting back to the keyboard. In the meantime, here is a post from another blog I used to write before I had kids. At the time of this post, I was very pregnant with our first baby.
**Also, obviously I am being  lambasted by spam, and am having to turn on some filters to combat it. If you want to leave a comment, it might require you to leave an email address or something to be sure you aren’t trying to peddle Viagra or hot Russian ladies who are waiting for you RIGHT NOW! I am not collecting email addresses or publishing them, just trying to control the spam.

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One thing about pregnancy that has surprised me: people are so much NICER to you. Complete strangers smile knowingly, will go out of their way to hold a door open for you, and insist that you move ahead of them in line at the grocery store. And the COMPLIMENTS, good Lord am I going to miss those. It seems everyone– friends and strangers alike– can’t wait to let you know “you look fantastic!” or “oh my god, you’re positively glowing!”  People generally seem to put their best foot forward when encountering a woman with child.  I would never have guessed.

This leads me to a fun little incident that John and I experienced the other evening.

So we’re making a trip to Target to pick up a maternity t-shirt that I needed. As we pull into the parking lot, John is pleasantly surprised to see a rock-star parking space open up just as we pull into one of the rows. As we approach the parking space, we hear the squeal of tires just before a junky Hyundai veers in front of us from the adjacent row of parking, and abruptly speeds into our intended spot. Yes, that’s right. Some crazy-looking old bee-yotch manhandled us out of a parking space.

Now, John is a pretty even tempered man. In fact, he really is quite a gentleman by nature– but he can be a little unpredictable when pressed to a certain degree. So I watched with interest as he stopped behind the rogue car, window rolled down and waited for the driver to emerge. We could see the driver’s face glaring at us in her side-view mirror: a grizzled, middle-aged woman with a wild mane of hair. She was definitely more Walmart material than Target material (don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about). So the John and the Crazy were locked in a staring match– her, angry and defiant; him, rather flummoxed about how to express his anger at a middle-aged woman.

Until the woman screamed “WHAT!?! WHAT!?!! SAY SOMETHIN’!! GO ON, SAY SOMETHIN’!!!”

At this point, John snapped, and yelled at her reflection in her side-view mirror “What the HELL lady??!” (okay, he may or may not have said something a little stronger— I can neither confirm nor deny).
I was floored. I’ve seen him speak sharply or abruptly on rare occasion to a particularly rude woman, but I’ve never heard him cuss in such a public way, much less to an older woman.

But she upped the ante, screeching an anguished F-CK YOOOOOOOOU!!!!!!!!!” in response.

Wisely, John knew that there was no honor in this battle. He shook his head, and admonished her with a “You’re a class act!” and we drove up the next aisle and snagged a parking space near the back of the row. As we trudged (okay, I waddled) by her car, we saw her peering at us over her steering wheel. Simultaneously, she screamed out a stirring “F-ck you, too!!” to another passerby with whom she was also apparently feuding.

Once inside the store, I asked John to go back and sit in the car. Her steady gaze as we had walked by was a little unnverving. This lady was clearly unbalanced, and I didn’t want to return to a car that had been keyed, dented, or smeared with feces. John begrudingly agreed to guard the car while I did the shopping.

Ten minutes later, as I was rifling through the maternity wear, John wandered up with a smirk on his face.

“What happened??” I asked.

“Well, I was sitting in the car with the window rolled down, listening to music, when that lady is suddenly standing at the window and shoving a piece of paper at me. I told her ‘I don’t want that!’ But she shoved it at me again, saying ‘Here. Just take it. Just take it.’ So I said fine, took the paper and she walked off.  You have to read this.”

I shook my head, trying to imagine what variety of obscenities she had strung together for us.

Dear Sir,
I am sorry you feel I cut you off. I sincerely
apologize. Sometimes people are only thinking of
themselves and in this case I was one of those people.
Good luck on the impending birth of your child. I hope
all goes well. Have a wonderful night.

She had started to sign her name that started with a ‘G’, but had changed her mind and scribbled it out. John said that she had found him in the store and had personally expressed her regret, and he had thanked her for doing so.

Now, G had almost lost me with the first sentence. I spit on apologies that begin with “I am sorry that you feel…”. But further reading revealed what I took to be a sincerely written apology. It just stuns me that a glimpse of a pregnant belly can cause someone to feel ashamed of their actions in an instant.

So I have saved G’s note for the Bear’s baby book, as proof that even the “bad guys” have humanity, but perhaps more importantly, as an example of how to apologize after one has impulsively done something unkind, as well as the grace in accepting an apology that is humbly given.

Getting out from under the yoke of my two bosses (Bear and our daughter “Belle”) is no easy feat, and therefore does not happen often. Our only regular babysitter is heading for the hills (okay, she is moving to Seattle but that counts as “the hills” in my book), and we don’t have a wealth of family resources to draw on for childcare, with the exception of my parents. When we had just one child, we wore them out. But saddling someone with two (extremely charming and beloved) small children is asking a lot, especially when the two children are not in control of their bowels (yeah, I went there again. Sorry, but I changed no less than 6 poopy diapers before lunchtime today, so I am still experiencing post-traumatic stress). Anyways, my mom has recently experienced some  physical limitations, so even though they love and are fantastic with the kids, lately we have been trying to ease up on my parents. Except for two weekends ago, when we had the unexpected opportunity to go scalloping in the Gulf. We snatched up that opportunity faster than The Real Housewives will snatch the fake hair off of a hoochie mama’s head.

I spent the week daydreaming of boating, snorkeling, adult conversation and having zero responsibilities beyond waking up on time, not running afoul of the boat’s captain/brother in law, and showering perhaps once. The only other time I had gone scalloping we had the children in tow, and I spent about 45 minutes total snorkeling, and about 8 hours managing temper tantrums and child safety in a rented condo, sans internet or cell phone connectivity. I would not classify that as a vacation. But I only needed a small taste of the aquatic Easter egg hunt that is scalloping to get hooked, and I was looking forward to the actual scalloping as much (if not more) than 48 hours of freedom. I even enjoy the short road trip from the Atlantic coast to the Gulf coast, passing through bucolic farmland, tiny Southern towns where you can eat at a fried pork chop and country vegetable buffet after you pass the town courthouse which stands staunchly behind a bronze replica of the Ten Commandments nailed to two huge boulders. As you move toward the Gulf,   cute, coastal homes with screened porches and hurricane shutters pop up, and when you smell the unmistakeable salt of the oyster beds and feel the warm, humid breeze, you know you have arrived. Two and half hours from one side of the state to the other.

If you’ve never been scalloping, imagine snorkeling atop shallow Gulf waters, peering down through about 5-8 feet of water to discover individual scallop shells amidst the sea grass and the sand. The sun warms your back and the soft, undulating light filtered through the water is almost hypnotic as you glide along with small schools of fish, waving anemone and little starfish families.  When you do spy Ye Booty, you dive down to swipe it up and stuff it in a little mesh bag you carry along.   The only sound you hear is water lapping as you languidly kick your fins, and the occasional muffled victory cry of a scalloper who has hit the mother lode.  No cell phones, no voices, no requests and no guilt about lack of productivity.

Ye Booty

The bewildering vastness of the ocean has always made me averse to the idea of burial at sea—I know you’re dead already and so house parties and barbeques aren’t exactly on the schedule of events, but the ocean deep has always seemed lonely, even menacing to me. But a shallow watery grave… it is a little more Jimmy Buffett than Davy Jones (not that I’m scouting out locations, mind you). As a child, I used to love exploring the tidal pools at the beach each summer. Scalloping in the bay reminds me of those days; it’s almost like swimming through the quiet beauty of a giant tidal pool. I certainly recommend it.

So it really sucked when I got motion sickness the first morning we went out on the boat. Yep, just about 2 hours of floating atop the light chop of the water did me in. I have always been sensitive to motion sickness, but the Bay is pretty calm in good weather.  However,  I failed to take into account the effect that the scores of other scalloping boats would have on the water. Oh, I could have cried an effing river, I was so depressed. But I had no desire to continually vomit amidst our friends and family, and especially not amidst the shellfish that we would hopefully dine upon that evening.

I was dropped off at our rental house’s dock at about 11am, and spent the remaining hours of the day in silence, reading the first book that I have attempted to read in over a year, and then in the early evening drinking vodka-spiked lemonade as I sat on our Jeep’s tailgate and watched the sun set into the water, and then welcoming home the rest of the crew around 7pm, when they arrived after having caught over 20 lbs of scallops. Of which I had caught about 12… individual scallops.

But to use a phrase that I would like to see stricken from popular vernacular, “at the end of the day,” I had swam in the Bay, read part of a novel, watched the sunset, and eaten some pretty fabulous seafood. And not vomited, cried, or changed one damn poopy diaper.

So I win.

It was bound to happen.  I just never thought that the checkout line at Publix would be the place.

Last Sunday I was finishing up our weekly grocery shopping, and was half-listening to the two young men who were running the register and bagging the groceries.  Flagrantly disregarding Publix policy, they were having a spirited back-and-forth about their weekend conquests, and obviously trying to speak in some kind of code that us oldsters don’t understand.  You know, I think describing a beer party where one hooked up with a recent high school graduate probably sounds about the same as it did in my day, and probably in most languages.  Anyways, I must have snickered because one of the boys abruptly interrupted the Kiss-and-Teller to ask me how my day was going.

I replied pretty good, I’d rather be at the beach, though.

“Yeah, and I’d rather be in bed but I gotta pay for my books this semester.  So what are you gonna do?  At least we’re not digging ditches, right?”

Hmmm.  Is this kid trying to help me readjust my perspective to the bigger picture?  I’m not sure but just to be safe I tell him that children are to be seen and not heard.  Alright, I just thought it but I thought it really hard.

So we’re chatting about our woes, and out of the blue the two young bucks start singing in unison and dance a little jig. “It’s the hard knocks life!”  And involuntarily, I jumped in with the words “for us!”  Because most women my age will always have a little portion of their brain soley dedicated to the songs and lyrics of Annie the Musical , even if they didn’t go so far as to wear out the records on years of Saturday morning performances or insist upon sporting a Little Orphan Annie wig for the talent show year upon year upon year.

Anyways, you should have seen these two kids’ faces register shock.  “YOU know that song???”

And I’m all, “Uh, duh?  Little Orphan Annie freak here, okay?  Saw the show in St. Louis and the ATL, bee-yotches!  I performed that shit LIVE onstage!  Come on.”

They glanced at each other, clearly embarrassed.  One ran a hand through his product-crispy hair and said, “Uh, sorry man…  That’s Jay-Z.”  His cheeks flushed red, he felt badly.   His face brightened and he offered, “You know, you can download  music on the internet now.”

And just like that, I looked around me and realized that I was on the other side of the generation gap.  I am “mom”… and not just to my kids.  To the freakin’ world.

I wanted to protest that I like Eminem!  I can play beer pong!  I can find out who Justin Bieber is!  Dude, you could not hang with my crew because we are *hard core* .    But I know how it would sound… like I was almost twenty years older than them.

So instead I let one of them help me to my car, and wished the other good luck when he ships off to boot camp in a few weeks, and on the way home, tried to remember what 18 felt like, when the world was a mysterious gift I couldn’t tear open fast enough, and time was limitless.

My reference to taco hurling in the previous post has piqued some interest, and since I have nothing else to write about, I shall regale you with the tale.

Picture this. September, 2009. Jacksonville, Florida. I am roughly 8 months pregnant . If you have ever been 8 months pregnant, or have been the party responsible for said situation, you understand that there are some hard and fast rules that must be obeyed in those final weeks for the health and welfare of everyone involved. Such as, but not limited to, “the Giver of Life’s” swollen feet are to be rubbed by the “Responsible Party” upon request with minimal (if any) grumbling; requests for random food items will result in Responsible Party beating a path to the nearest 31 Flavors without complaint; and perhaps most crucial: the evening meal is NEVER to be eaten after 6:30pm, although 7pm will be tolerated under extraordinary circumstances, but only with prior permission. Giver of Life can verbally grant permission, but the Responsible Party must submit all requests in electronic format with at least 24 hours notice. You know, just the regular rules.

So one early fall afternoon, John (aka the Responsible Party) rang me up from work. We exchanged the usual pleasantries:  he inquired as to my well being. I complained a little bit. He pretended to commiserate.  The drill out of the way, we got down to business. With the slightest hint of hesitancy, the Responsible Party indicated that he should like to attend an event with his co-workers that we shall call “Happy Hour” (you will want to note singular nature of the word “hour” for future reference). The Giver of Life sighed, graciously noting that although the request had been submitted verbally, she would still consider it.

Me: Okay, so when is it?
John (apologetic tone creeping into his voice): Errrr… tonight?
Me: Seriously? Okay, no biggie. I can get Bear fed and put to bed on my own. Where are ya’ll going?
John (long pause): La Nopalera.

Now, if you don’t live in Jacksonville, this means nothing to you. If you do live in J-ville, and/or visit with us on occasion, then you know that La Nopalera is more than a Mexican restaurant with average food and killer margaritas—it is an event. No. La Nopalera is a state of mind. It is essentially a large room where a community party rollicks every night of the week. Social status falls away at the door. Construction workers sit elbow-to-elbow with partners in law firms, tattooed, pierced musicians coo and make faces for the baby in the next booth while her WASPY parents crack jokes about birth control. It is loud, perhaps half the staff speaks English but they gladly help you practice your high school Spanish. Everyone is there for the same reason: to forget the woes of the day and enjoy themselves. John and I have been going there since we were dating and now live just two blocks away, so walking there with the family and neighbors is a Thursday night ritual. My picture is even on the restaurant’s “Wall of Heroes” from my birthday party in which I am wearing a sombrero and enjoying the traditional tequila birthday shot (that is also the same evening that resulted in my “Giver of Life” status but that story that shall remain untold). La Nopalera ain’t purdy, the food ain’t winning awards, but by God there is a reason that a place with multiple health code violations keeps packin’ in the same people week after week. It is a place where people go to be happy. And now John will be going without me–whilst I care for his firstborn and simultaneously grow his mini-me.

But I granted permission. Actually, a quiet evening at home didn’t sound so bad. John offered to bring me takeout, and that sealed the deal. Happy Hour was scheduled to start at 5:00. I would be in taco heaven by 6:45 through no efforts of my own, and John could even help me put the kid to bed. Alright by me.

Perhaps describing the following events chronologically will help illustrate what ensued.

5:00 – Playing with the kid. Congratulating myself on showing such generosity and good will for my husband.
6:00 – Feeling some hunger pangs. I hope John remembers to have them hold the salsa. Salsa and third trimester are not a good pairing.
6:15 – Call John to submit my order, but no answer. Slightly annoyed, but I rally and send him a text.
6:45- Sitting at the table with wearing a checkered napkin around my neck and anxiously rubbing a fork and knife together over my plate.
7:00 – Must be a hell of a happy hour, the un-pregnant bastards. Feed Bear and notice that Wheel of Fortune has started.
7:30 – Starting to feel a little queasy from hunger.
7:45- Watching Jeopardy. Love when Alex rips on the cocky contestants to remind them that being the king of geeks still doesn’t make you cool. I have 15 minutes left to eat to ensure a heartburn-free night o f sleep.
8:00 – Send passive aggressive text: “Hope you are having a good time.” I don’t see how that statement even counts as passive aggressive anymore.  Spoken or written in the confines of any long term relationship, it is just aggressive and everyone knows it.
8:03 – Receive reply text from John. “Thanks! “ Ponder which is worse: that the boy missed the sarcasm DRIPPING in my text and was offering me sincere gratitude, or that his text was actually a sarcastic reply. Practice breathing techniques and start outlining my opening statement for our forthcoming dispute.
8:45- John strolls through the door, holding a bag of takeout and a relaxed, two-margaritas-in smile on his face. Then he sees my face.

So you could say we had a “discussion.” The details are not important, and even a little hazy at this point. Heated words were exchanged, such as “inconsiderate,” “I can’t read your mind in a text message,” “it’s not like I stayed out until midnight,” “you are supposed to provide your pregnant wife with sustenance”, etc. And like a prisoner of war who proudly throws his paltry bowl of rice in his captors’ faces, I lifted up my chin and declared that it was now too late for me to eat anything at all. Thanks for being such an awesome Baby Daddy. You can keep your damn food, it’s worthless now.

But I hadn’t eaten since lunchtime, and the smell of the food was working its mojo on me. Within ten minutes, I broke.

“Well,” I sniffed. “I guess if I just ate one taco it might be okay.” It broke my heart to say those words, to so rapidly retreat from my position. But I really was starving and tired and my back hurt, and the aroma was overwhelming. So I humbled myself for a taco.

John smirked and turned to walk out of the kitchen. I opened the takeout box, and grasping the taco I felt it wither, then fall apart, in my hand. The condensation from sitting in the box had ruined it. It was too much to effing bear. I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth and crushing the taco into my fist, hurled it in John’s general direction. But he must have just walked out of the doorway, because I heard the THWACK! of moist food hitting plaster, and when I opened my eyes he was nowhere in sight. He called out from the living room. “What the hell was that?”

I surveyed the scene. It looked like Hurricane Pancho had torn through my kitchen, leaving wreckage of ground beef, wet tortillas shards, and tomatoes in a trail across the floor and in splatters on the wall.

“Nothing.” I was exhausted, and already embarrassed that I had almost assaulted my husband with Mexican food.  I didn’t want him to see this, to see what an ass he had married and with whom he was producing offspring. Sure, he was a couple hours late but I was a lunatic—and punctuality is an acquirable skill.

If the alarming sound of a nearly-missed taco explosion hadn’t brought John back into the room, the weariness in my voice did. He walked in and stared at the aftermath, then looked at me with the uncertainty you might an aggressive dog.  Or a nice one with three legs and one good eye.   “You have lettuce in your hair, Laurie.”

Tears welled up in my eyes. “I’m sorry.” I can’t stand when people try to manipulate a favorable ending to an argument by turning on the waterworks, so I brushed the tears off and started wiping grease and meat from the walls.

John was quiet for a minute. “Stop. I got it. It’s okay. You go sit down and I’ll be right in.” And when he started picking the shredded cheese from my hair I felt a surge of relief, and I started to cry.

And that was the end of it.

So our two-year old son Bear, lovely human being that he is, has been having trouble “managing his emotions.” Yes, we were warned by every parent in the land about the “terrible two’s,” but to be honest, prior to witnessing this affliction myself, I admit that I regarded these so-called Terrible Two’s as just some myth employed by parents who didn’t know what they were doing (I know many of you are deservedly cussing me right now). So I wasn’t really prepared for the onslaught of wrath and destruction that is brought upon my household in hourly intervals, whose triggers are both obvious and at times mysterious.

The cause of yesterday’s doozy could be summed up in one word: Daddy. Bear is a Daddy’s boy through and through. On the one hand, few things are as delightful as witnessing the genuine glee that your child experiences when Daddy comes home for lunch. Seriously, the kid loses his sh*t in happiness when John walks through the door: he joyfully proclaims the arrival with a resounding “Daaaaaadddeeeeee!” and immediately charges/toddles into Daddy’s open arms. For real, these two’s reunions are a sight to see. Not so delightful is the parting of the ways when the lunch hour ends. Which brings me to yesterday.

All good things must come to an end, as did lunchtime. As John approached the front door to exit, Bear sensed what was about to happen. And. He. Lost. It.

Stage 1: whiny disbelief.
Stage 2: realizing this is actually going to happen, he starts protesting with tears of indignation.
Stage 3: The event has transpired. Daddy actually left me with this wretched woman again. Heaving sobs and tortured wails ensue.

Usually, Stage 3 is the endgame; you just don’t know how long it’s going to last (typically until Elmo (who goes by “Belmbo” in these here parts) makes an appearance in some form). But it does end, and then we go on with our day. Until yesterday.

Yesterday, we ventured into unknown territory: Stage 4. Didn’t know there was a Stage 4. Oh, but there is my friends, and here is what it looks like… pure, unadulterated rage. Bear was throwing himself against furniture, frantically searching for objects that he could hurl onto the ground as he howled with a depth of pain and anger I didn’t know he could experience– it was like watching the final act of a Greek tragedy. The only thing left was for him to start foaming at the mouth as his head spun around on his neck. It was awful. And it was all because the Messiah—I mean Daddy—finished his ham and cheese sandwich.

Now, I have been known to have something of a temper. As much as I would love to blame any genetic responsibility for Bear’s tantrums on the other DNA donor, John and I both know the truth. Even when provoked, John is very level headed, and his anger usually presents itself as a measured reasonableness: he fully in control and while sarcasm might get the best of him, he stays pretty even keeled. Me, I am known as the one who hurls tacos at people I perceive to have wronged me (yes, that actually happened last year but I was pregnant and hungry and any fool who messes with that lethal combination brings the consequences upon themselves). So I think that pretty much describes my situation. Anyways, when I see Bear go down the Road of Crazy, part of me feels a teeny bit responsible, and not because I caused the anger by taking away a toy, or enforcing naptime, but because I wonder if it’s just something that he “got” from me. And I really hope not. In the meantime, I am trying hard not to vent my frustration in front of him, in the hopes that he will be more influenced by example than by genetics.

As for yesterday’s tantrum of the ages, it ended almost as quickly as it began. Once he started banging his head on the hardwood floors in frustration, and since I don’t think you can have a toddler Baker Acted, I put him in his crib for his safety and my sanity. Fifteen minutes later, he was sound asleep, and I had to wake him up (sleep schedules are sacred around here). I was SO dreading waking him, but he opened his eyes with the most angelic little smile on his lips, and sighed “Mommmeeee.” I was sure that Bear hadn’t realized that he had awoken from his dreams of trucks, never-ending swings and an omnipresent Daddy, and I would pay dearly when he figured it out. But he stood up, hugged me and planting a sloppy kiss on my cheek, declared “I need more ‘o DIS.”

Me too, kid. Me too.

*I am calling my son “Bear” in case he ever wants to go to college or get a job and not have an online search turn up stories about his emotional upheaval and poopy pants. Because I would like for him to go to college and get a job. Some day.

Ahhh, the sound of silence. John is spending the morning on a sweltering golf course, while our 2-year old son and 9-month old daughter are kicking up their heels at the golf course’s childcare center (or in my son’s case, more likely kicking his heels and screaming after Daddy has the gall to drop him off). But what does it all mean? It means I have a glorious morning all to myself. Imagine, three golden hours devoid of whining, enforcing time outs, Yo Gabba Gabba, and perhaps best of all, free of managing the bodily functions of two small human beings. Gross, I know. You’d think I’d be a hardened warrior of poopy diapers by now, but I think I am shell shocked by the sheer number of them. It must be an ancient warfare tactic: if one cannot physically overpower one’s opponent in a battle, over time, a constant barrage of small attacks will physically and mentally wear down the opponent until victory is achieved. Actually, that sounds like the basic premise of terrorism (as applied to diaper duty). My little terrorists–uh, babies– have won the war. But for now, they have begrudgingly left me to my own devices.

So the house is quiet, and along with the sounds of mayhem also missing is the slaps and pats of a baby crawling down the hallway, or my son’s Mad Hatter laughter while he wrestles Daddy on the living room floor. Instead, the steady drone of Saturday morning lawn mowers fills the house, interspersed by clicking and thumping when the dog scratches her ears. I hear none of the agonies nor ecstasies that small children experience from minute to minute; just me, my dog and the ceiling fan, its beaded chain swinging in a constant rhythm, clicking away the seconds like an old fashioned stopwatch. Precious minutes meant for self-indulgence are slipping away while I think about my family. I think that is one of the most profound changes that mommyhood has wrought in me: I can never really feel alone anymore; there is no true freedom, just a furlough here and there to get a pedicure, or run an errand without an entourage. No matter where I go, they are always with me.

My surrender has not been totally complete; sometimes I still struggle for Laurie to emerge where Mommy has necessarily supplanted her in these intense, early days of baby raising. But my surrender is unconditional. I have no demands (I defy you to “demand” anything of a toddler) of them in exchange for my love and nurturing– these spoils of war are theirs to keep in their sweetest as well as their most trying moments. I now “identify with my captors” as the hostage negotiation experts said of Patty Hearst. I am the proverbial captive who is given moments of freedom, yet always returns. Even in these brief moments of quiet respite I am under the spell of my beloved little captors, and I will always return to them.