Friday 14 January 2011

ONE OF THOSE DAYS

Do you ever have one of those days that by eleven in the morning you feel like you’ve lived a lifetime? Yesterday was one of those days – actually the last six months have felt a lot like that in fact. The day started at 4am, when the King decided that his teeth were a good cause to give the house a wake up call. Fair dues, the kid is in pain. However, after a week of peaceful sleeps for all, 4 a.m. feels especially cruel. So by 7a.m, I already looked like I had done several rounds in the ring with someone much bigger than I. Oh dark sunglasses, how do I love thee.

As the morning progressed it became clear that this was going to be a day that put the Sisyphus notion of life to the test - up the hill, down the hill, up the hill, down the hill. Or in my case, get dressed, get spit on, change, spit up, change, spit up, change....By ten a.m I had wiped up more projectile secretions from my shoulder and the King’s chin that I was starting to get carpel tunnel. So what does one do? Vainly attempt to shower and change and start the day all over. And don't you know that every time I appeared wearing something different, the King laughed to himself, 'oh mommy, how delusional you are.'

I’m staying with my father at the moment, and he enjoys nothing more entertaining the King with a litany of smiles and exuberant chatter. His favorite game is to take him on his lap and repeat the word Gido (Arabic for grandfather) over and over until the King starts laughing. He then will look at me and tell me that my kid ‘GETS the power of Gido’ and he is positive that the King not only recognizes him, but adores him.

The best course of action with one’s parents is just to nod and agree.

So upon taking the King back into my arms, suddenly the entire left side of my dress goes wet. I of course emit a long suffering groan to which my father looks at my dress and says, ‘what the hell is that?’ I politely explain that his perfect grandson just peed on me. To which my father so thoughtfully says, ‘why?’…After six kids, I’m not sure how my father asks this with a straight face, but anyway. To tired to explain that diapers are not impervious fortresses (even though they should be!!) I go and change yet AGAIN.

The rest of the day was filled with a search of every store in Southern California for a formula that resembles the one we use in England (and just ran out of course) and excessive crying bouts – the King, not me; although it was very very close. This of course prompted my father to appear by our side, having followed the cries, stare at us and exclaim, ‘he’s not happy, something is wrong with him.’ Grandparents are so wise. Yes, Gido it’s called sharp teeth cutting thru a child’s gums. I’m sure it’s about as enjoyable is ramming small sticks under your fingernails.

By the time 6pm rolled around I was passed out on the sofa eating a pillow, and contemplating ways to beat Gwyneth Paltrow with a macrobiotic breadstick. According to her long suffering blog on motherhood yesterday, she says I need to make time for myself to squeeze in some dance aerobics and flaxseed oil. Thanks Gwyn, but being faceplanted in this pillow sucking on M&Ms is much more enjoyable at the moment.

Wednesday 12 January 2011

NOW WHERE IS THAT BREAD BASKET?

The other day I ran into someone I hadn’t seen in years. As I was watching him approach with his two children, I had that moment where time slows down and your brain clicks into deductive mode on how to handle the situation. Or shall I say, how I wanted to handle the situation. I always find the event of seeing people you haven’t seen in dog’s years an interesting one, or in some circumstances an incredibly painful one. For me, there are several ways one can deal with the long lost acquaintance.

The first one I call, “it’s been too long, so forget it option.” In short, you barely remember their name, and recalling this would take too much brainpower, so you dive under the table you're sitting at and put the breadbasket on your head. Then you pray they don’t spot you, especially with a basket over your head. It can turn out to be embarrassing if they do, but the no fail, 'oh god, I lost my contact lens' should get you out of this mess.

The second one I call the ‘leave it up to the cosmos' option; you see them, you wait till they catch your eye, and then you see if they recognize you. If they don’t, you let them walk on by and then of course you check them out from the back to see how much weight they have put on to make yourself feel better about the junk in your own trunk. [I kid I kid].

The third option is to wait until they see you, and then you take initiative and call out their name. This of course is contingent on how you look that day. If I look like utter crap, I’m sticking with option one. The other day when I saw the guy I hadn't seen in years, I was feeling especially social and called to my friend as he approached. He didn’t recognize me, which of course annoyed me, as I could've gone with option two (are you confused yet?); but I decided I had to follow through as he and his two kids were staring at me and the King. I then told him who I was - he remembered thank god - and then he launched into our history for his children. We wrote songs together, nothing too exciting.

Following the introductions, there is always that moment where you exchange what you’ve each been up to for the last ten years (and try to make it sound very interesting); you make a joke about the past, comment on how well you’ve both aged, (this can be tough if they look one hundred years old and have suddenly grown a horn out of the center of their forehead), and then look for the polite segue to wrap this thing up. It sounds terribly mechanical I realize, but there is an art to social interaction - at least as far as I’m concerned.

Of course all of the above fails to mention the individual that is either more than an acquaintance, or an archenemy – I realize I am starting to sound like a Batman comic. These two types you can lump into one category of treatment. In short, you must look HOT, be on your game that day, and make the last ten years seem like a flipping uber successful joy ride pleasure cruise. I think if I ever run into an ex that dumped me I shall let the King do the talking – that face can render anyone into a state of envy.

Of course, if on that day you are sporting a zit on your forehead the size of a boil, I suggest you revisit the breadbasket idea. Courage be damned when pride is on the line.

Tuesday 11 January 2011

TIL DEATH DO US (NOT) PART

It has been reported that John Edwards – husband of the recently departed Elizabeth Edwards (for those of you not in the know, he’s an ex presidential candidate and U.S. Senator) has proposed to his mistress three weeks after his wife’s death. This was a story that immediately set my blood to boil. Whether it’s true or not, the man’s behavior preceding his wife’s death is enough to convict him of being the world’s biggest A hole. Sorry, there is no other polite way to say it. Not only did he cheat on her and father a child with someone else, but he did all this while she was battling cancer - pond scum in my book.

So this got me thinking - but of course – about how long one should wait when their spouse has died to move on with their lives. The obvious answer is of course, there is no amount of time, and damn it you should love me forever and be so wracked with despair that no woman measures up to me. Okay, fine, I know this may be a tad unreasonable. In the John Edwards situation, they were no longer together and she had wisely told him to talk to the hand…and her divorce lawyer. But in the case of let’s say, Paul McCartney, who lost his wife to cancer and then turned around within three months and met some hussy who would turn his life into a total nightmare, I’m thinking that’s just karma telling him that he didn’t wait long enough. One big fat karmic, HA, serves you right!!

So, Lover, if you are reading this, and I get hit by a bus tomorrow - or Wayne Gretzky - here is what I think is fair when it comes to the subject of moving one with your life. The year following my death should be spent in mourning. I think a year is a fair amount to grieve, and show due respect to my awesomeness. In that time, don’t worry, you only have to wear black for the first ten months…oops, I meant weeks. In the first three months you should walk around telling people how great I was; you may do this with visual displays – photos, journal writings, or power point presentations - go on, get creative. Then by month six you may want to transition into self reflective, more silent affirmation of my awesomeness and how much you miss me. By then, other people may be sick of hearing it. But don’t worry, I won’t be – wherever the heck I am.

During this year, you and the King can sit and ruminate about me, and swap stories about how great my cooking was (lie), how flexible and totally rationale I was at all times (ahem), and that no one could simply ever measure up to me. Then, once the year is over, if you must, you can move on - the freshly inked tattoo of my face across your chest is enough to satisfy me. But of course to only be fair, it would be nice if you could find a woman that is less attractive than I am…fatter, and of course shorter. That might be difficult as I’m only 5’3, so I suggest trolling sites for the vertically challenged. Maybe hit the local circus.

Don’t worry, I will of course honor the same terms if the bus takes you out first. And when Johnny Depp (he is shorter, and um…much less attractive than you) and I are eating your favorite pizza in your favorite chair, we will speak of you with utter respect and love. :-)

Monday 10 January 2011

DOWN THE HATCH

The King is eating solid food now. Well, not exactly solid, but he’s progressed from the purely liquid form to something that is a few steps above. It’s scary how fast all this happens and suddenly you find yourself neck deep in purees and mashed mush that resemble things from which one usually wants to run. If the object can be morphed into some soft gloopy mess, the King is not only going to taste it, but as sure as I’m sitting here, he’s going to swat the spoon and send it flying into my face or all over him. It’s amazing what little reaction one has to this after becoming a mother. In fact, I actually go places with food stuck to my arm. I figure it's like a badge or I'm desperate to start some new fashion trend.

"Oh my god, I love your cashmere crusted oatmeal cardigan!" "Thanks, isn't it fabulous?!"

The challenging part of the whole eating process is…well, all of it really. First you have to reach the King's mouth, which is not an easy feat. As I said, at the moment his arms are moving like a malfunctioning windmill. They flap, punch (inadvertently of course), slap, poke, and jut out at an alarming rate. The goal of course is to get through this flapping armed minefield and reach his little gaping mouth, that of course shuts as soon as you get there. He then finds this very funny as you try your best to convince him that mushed yellow gunk is better than sliced bread. He knows already that sliced bread is far more appealing.

Once you actually get the food inside his mouth, there is the challenge of keeping it in there. At first it is a game of Mom putting it in, and King spitting it out. This happens in a variety of delightful ways. There is the blowing bubble spit method – by far my least favorite as it goes everywhere; the projectile method – also not pretty, and the simple 'I’m just not even going to attempt to chew or swallow and this stuff is coming right back out all over the front of me.’

Thankfully in a relatively short amount of time the King has taken to eating like a fish to water. No surprise there really as his father loves food, and the King from a very early age thought that the act of eating looked incredibly intriguing. In fact, now if I’m eating anything he wants it, he wants the spoon, the bowl, the plate; hell, he’ll take the bag it came in if he can lick any food off of it. And while he’s eating he makes these hysterical noises that I can only gather mean, ‘more, please more, and hurry up about it.’

The major downside of all of this is of course what now comes OUT of the King. Yes I'm referring to the back end of him. I won’t go into detail of course to spare you the visual. But in short, if has peas for lunch, well I’m in for one green explosion somewhere down the line.

Ah yes, the joys of motherhood.

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