Family Traditions

Coming from a diverse family, our traditions are a big deal: besides our SciFi Christmas, we all try to participate in Tamale Day. Usually between Thanksgiving and Christmas, we gather at 6:00am at an aunt or cousin's house to go to task and make at least two dozen tamales per family.
In order to do this, every person over the age of ten has a specific job.
The first thing anyone learns to do is how to spread masa evenly over the oja and to do it quickly. Everyone who comes to tamale day must at least learn this task, if not spend the entire time doing this. These are the "spreaders" and it's usually made of children, teens and women.
The men over the age of 16 get the job of preparing the masa by constantly kneading boiled lard into it until a piece floats in a glass of water. Women and children are not "kneaders".
The eldest brother and only sister are in charge of the kitchen. She is the "cook" and is the only one that knows the recipe for the pork and chile spices, handed down by Grandma, and she will hand it down to her eldest daughter. He is the "filler" and has the job of placing the right amount of meat in the ojas before handing them to an optional "olive placement" person (who may just be taking a break from spreading or otherwise can't be trusted to do anything else) and folding then placing them in large pans for cooking under the watchful eye of my aunt.
As of last year, I had been a spreader for 21 years. I am so quick with the ojas: the masa is even, not too thick, not too thin, and I clear out my pile of ojas in quick succession. I have watched my cousin move into the kitchen, my brother become a kneader and last year, in a shock that he bypassed his own son, my dad tapped my husband to be a filler. We all gawped until my dad asked him about photography stuff and we knew then that is the only reason my husband owns Nikons, to be out of spreading and onto filling. I may have been a little jealous. I have steadily complained about spreading for the last, oh, decade.
This year I showed up late because the preschooler had dance class and most of the spreading was done. I was at a loss for what to do. I knew I couldn't help I'm the kitchen and just before I started washing dishes, my uncle asked me if I'd like to be a filler, with olive placement as well.
I jumped at the chance, literally. I squealed and hugged him and jumped up and down and shouted through the whole house, "I'm a filler! A filler! Olives, too! Screw you, spreading!"
I sat at the table, watched my uncle make one, and with some encouragement from my brother's girlfriend, I embarked on my journey of being seen as an adult on Tamale Day. I grabbed an oja and it was lumpy. The masa had stuck to one side and left a section bare, it had a split down the middle, it didn't go up high enough. I had to respread it. I looked through the pile and it was more of the same. Subpar ojas, and I was devastated. I wanted to make tamales but I had to redo so many I worried I would be blamed for the sorry state of the remaining ones yet to be folded. Instead I complained out loud about the crap I had to deal with as a first time filler and I was met with a chorus of well wishes. No one would be upset, I was doing great, blame another uncle- he can't spread for his life.
Then I realized, as I spread and filled and olived and folded, "I'm a spreader. I have to be. I'm damn good at it."
So next year?
I'm Head Spreader.

Cuts and Scrapes

Ask my friends, I'm great in emergencies. I've been to all the CPR and First Aid classes. I have a sense of what needs to be done, and who's going to do it. I am quite, let's say confident, in a not-scary, domineering way. I will spring to action and remember all my training whether you or your child, or even a stranger needs help. I am at the ready, with a first aid kit, and CPR mask in the diaper bag.
I have called 911 so many times, I think the CHP is tired of the sound of my voice.
Until it comes to my daughters. Then I am a squawking, arms flapping, chicken with the head cut off, mess. I screech and panic and freak out and can't make a decision and yell and cry and then hyperventilate.
My only thought at these times?
"I made this, and she's broken and I can't make a new one and I need her fixed and I needsomeonetofixHER! Don't touch her, give her to me, I'll fix this, I can do this, where's my whatchamacallit, the thingy-withthestuff, the thing I NEED, Where Is It?! Is she broken, is she bleeding, what happened? Call a doctor, no let me see it, does she need a doctor, call an ambulance, does she need a- NO! Don't do that! Don't scrub it, don't wipe it, that looks like you're hurting her! I made this, IWILLFIXIT!"

Ahem.

Tonight, such an episode occurred. I remained true-to-form and still feel sick. My husband kept his calm and took care of the baby.

The picture shows how bad it really was.

Math

I like math.
I like plugging numbers into my Google Doc budget planner, and watching it do calculations for me. I like having my calculator at the ready, to double check the figures, and to see if my own brain carried the decimal over correctly. I like sitting at the computer while Frasier plays in the background. I like taking a break to paint my nails. I like folding the laundry, making the beds, running a load of dishes, sweeping the floors, ironing the tablecloth, wiping down plastic toys, cleaning out the refrigerator, calling my grandma in Modesto, dusting the houseplants...oh cripes.
I hate math.
I hate watching the numbers in the withdrawal section add up and get dangerously close to the deposit section. Threatening to topple all, to make my entire spreadsheet turn red. I hate the unexpected expense that throws my budget off and forces an early extraction. I hate the projected end balance when it doesn't make an upwardly mobile jaunt. I hate the smell of this nail polish. I hate this black spot on the wall that even the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser won't scrub off, the sticky spot under the baby's highchair, the layer of cat hair on the rug, the dust on the lamp shades, the squeak of the ironing board, the churning of the washer as it struggles to rinse, oh crap.

If one SAHM with two kids drives 35mph for four miles, while another SAHM who is pregnant with her second drives 65mph for seven miles, what time will they arrive at Target if they both leave right now?

Play Dates

Oftentimes in my busy SAHM life, I forget what it's like to talk to an adult. I find that when I am singing nursery rhymes, I try to amend them so as to utilize my SAT words.
Twinkle, twinkle petite asterisk, I am perplexed by how you exist...
Thankfully, I am not at the mercy of Raffi radio on Pandora everyday. I have other friends that are also SAHM/Ds or have time off during an otherwise normal workweek and we have play dates. I've heard talk of play dates being for the socialization of our children, the betterment of their character, to teach them manners and interaction but I know that is merely a front to get more people to engage in them. Yes, the play date, when done well, is actually all about getting Mommy out of the damn house and away from another chorus of Old MacDonald, and into the arms of another feverish parent whose cup runneth over (with wine, and gawdhelpme, they are willing to share).
How fortuitous, advantageous, beneficial, these play dates have been to me!
To enter someone's abode, sans worries, with only a diaper bag to my name and to be guaranteed conversation, communication, discussion! The only time we are filled with urgency, haste, hustle, is when we are trying to show up on time.
I am indebted to you dear friends, that allow me to bring my progeny to your charming, cozy, safe sanctuary so that I may find some of my own.
And for allowing me four whole minutes in which I can hide in the bathroom and play my turns on Words With Friends with no interruptions.

Promenade

Perhaps you may recall my issue with those parent/baby newsletters that made me feel as if my infant was doomed to a life of mediocrity?
Well, that precocious, amazing, tiny twee baby is now a toddler! Walking is her preferred mode of transport now, and I am beside myself with glee and fear, happiness and trepidation, those bittersweet feelings that pepper every new thing learned and accomplished by my two beautiful daughters.
My two big girls.

Weekend

A miraculous occasion was marked today after we had brought the preschooler home from her dance class. We looked at our calendar and were taken aback by the amount of nothing we had to do. No birthday parties, no games, no social engagements, no bills due, no errands to run, nada. I had to check my text messages, voicemails, email accounts, Facebook, Twitter. I was sure I had missed something, or perhaps my calendar app had crashed again? Surely we couldn't have a Saturday in the middle of November, the start of the holiday season, with no plans that would cause us to rush about, panting to get to the next social gathering, straining to fit all we have to do in one day? But there it was, a day in which we could do as we pleased. Our only goals to eat and nap at the normal time.
I opted to stay home, do the daily chores, eat candy, mess about on the computer, watch Frasier on Netflix, and chill. I relaxed with my daughters, played video games with my husband, played with makeup, and ate dinner. I rested on the couch, lounged on the bed, slumped in the desk chair, hung out at the dining room table.
I did so much relaxing today I worried I wouldn't have any time to do it again anytime soon so I looked at the calendar for the start of next week to prepare myself for the onslaught of the next few months and guess what.
I have nothing planned for tomorrow either.
Happy Birthday to me!

Clap Your Hands!

I have a lot of books, websites, blogs and newsletters that I read so that I may be a very know-it-all, seen-it-all, read-it-all highly-respected but not entirely-annoying parent. My cup runneth over with opinions, advice, suggestions, ideas, lists, and notes. All to make other parent friends feel like they can come to me with any issue and we will figure it out together because if I haven't experienced it, I know someone that has, or I read about it, or I Googled it. The problem with all this information lies in the milestones; at what age should my infant be doing what? I scared myself last week because the baby is not clapping her hands and one of my emails said she should be. So I assessed my almost ten month old that can stand by herself and has almost six teeth and drinks from a straw and realized that she is doomed. How will we ever play Pat-A-Cake (Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man, I roll it and I roll it in a frying pan, and I stick it, and I stick it, and I stick it, and I stick it, and I throw it away!...thanks, bestie L!), how will she applaud impromptu stage shows the preschooler insists on having on the deck, how will she show her appreciation for live theater, music, plays, how will I know she fully supports my opera/karaoke career if she cannot clap her hands in glee?!
Thankfully, I archived that email and went about my normal (pfft) life and almost immediately forgot about that stupid email that said stupid things about stupid milestones that my daughter hadn't yet reached.
Until today.
Sitting in the restaurant high chair (why are these damn things always so sticky and gross, does no one wipe them?), drinking from her straw cup, feeding herself cornbread, bopping her head and swinging her feet to the music, clapping along with us... Wait. She's clapping. She's clapping! She's clapping and that email that I had totally almost completely not quite but sorta forgot about was right! She's so amazing, so smart, so on track and ohmygawd. Did she just take a step?

Daylight Savings

I stayed up to watch my phone tick from 1:59am to 1:00am. I really shouldn't have. Not just because I will be tired but because the baby doesn't know that we should be getting an extra hour of delicious sleep today. It's 4:46am her time and she's been awake for 45 minutes now. She is not the best sleeper and we still struggle with a consistent night of sleep. I say that I'll be happy if she sleeps from nine pm to five am but I lie. I want her to sleep until seven or eight am. I want her to sleep like the books say she is supposed to. I want her to sleep so that we can all sleep. So that I can sleep.
When is it too early to teach the baby how to tell time?

Consumerism

An ode to my biggest guilty pleasure, shopping at Target:

There is a gleam in my eye, a twinkle, a spark. I've run out of something, the cupboard is stark. I could run down the street, to the convenience store. But what's Target? If not convenient, and more? Everyone buckle up, we have to go now! I'm only getting the one thing, this I vow. I don't know what happens, as I'm driving there. But somehow I'll remember another cupboard is bare. Just add the item to my mental list, but you know what happens, you get the gist. I can picture the store, the layout, the aisles. I am already shopping, driving these last two miles. I like to start with accessories, the jewelry, the purses. I can hear my husband, under his breath, he curses. I'm headed to shoes and clothes, an eye peeled for sales. Then I see it, the clearance rack, and my husband visibly pales. I'm running full speed ahead, there are bargains to be found! Hurry up guys, you're losing ground! It's a heady rush, finding an amazing deal. I'm not ashamed to admit to that high-pitched squeal. Finally, I've seen every T-shirt, every blue jean and sweater. Whoa, grab another cart? Yeah, we better. I haven't even checked baby and kids, beauty and hair, toys and organizers, or even housewares...

Preschooler Sez What.

In which I recount an amazing sentence my preschooler has uttered.

Today was a shocking sentence, wrought with drama- I was stricken by the severity of the words.

"I don't want her in my life!"

I made the executive decision, no response would be given, no attention would be paid, and so the afternoon continued on.

I wonder at a few things. 1. Should I have made her apologize to the baby? 2. Does she understand what she said? 3. Is it only an inkling of what's to come in the teen years?

I shudder to think.

While the Baby Cries

I am probably checking statuses and photos on Facebook, or clicking links and retweets on Twitter, while the baby cries.
I am possibly washing day-old dishes, or folding never-ending piles of laundry, while the baby cries.
I am trying to make a healthy lunch, or make a bottle of hard-earned breast milk, while the baby cries.
I am driving in hellish commuter traffic, or have forgotten the diaper bag by the front door, while the baby cries.
I am wrangling the squirming preschooler's hair, telling my husband where he left something, while the baby cries.
I am rushing to finish what I have started, or rushing to start what needs to be done, while the baby cries.
I am bending down to pick her up despite what my physical therapist said, or leaning over her broken drop-side crib despite what my back says, while the baby cries.
I am cuddling, kissing, soothing, singing, whispering...while the to-do list waits.