Trashman Rant, Part II

No!  Noooo!

The trashman is coming literally right as Moo is finally drifting off to sleep.  Away with you, trashman!  Don’t you dare wake up my trashman-crazy daughter!

Oh no…. oh no… I hear talking.

And now…all is quiet again… PLEASE go back to sleep.  Mama desperately needs some downtime.

Damn you, trashman, with your magnificient rumbliness and your awesome robotic arm and your precise dumping of trash.  Why do you never come at the same time of day?!  You usually come down our street around 10:30 but then every so often, usually when I’m counting the milliseconds until Moo’s naptime, you viciously mess with our quiet routine and come at 2:30.  Daaaaaamn you, trashman.  Did you oversleep this morning?  Did somebody’s sticky gooey trash bag get stuck in your robot arm, and you had to spend three hours scraping off eggshells and boogery kleenexes?  If so, I’m sorry.  That sounds unpleasant.  And really, thank you for picking up our trash.  I appreciate the job you do.

Oh God, I think he’s coming back!

NOOOOOO!

May I Take a Message?

I woke up with very good intentions yesterday.  My handy-dandy to-do list was at the ready, filled with phone calls to make during Moo’s afternoon nap.  Only problem?  Moo decided that napping was not on her personal to-do list yesterday.  I sat there on the couch listening to her jabber and sing in her bed, mentally tossing my to-do list in the trash.  Then I finally realized that Moo singing in bed does not mean I can’t make a phone call.

Oh, but I tried very hard to convince myself otherwise! 

I HATE talking on the phone.  Always have.  I was never one of those teenagers lounging on her bed with the phone cord wound three times around her fingers, babbling away happily.  Notes passed between classes – that was my thing.

It’s not as though my parents made the phone some big off-limits taboo, either – from a young age we were allowed to answer the phone, like so:  “Hello, Mama Rose residence, Mama speaking.  Who may I say is calling?”

Or was it “whom?”

And most of the jobs I’ve held in my life have depended on the phone.  In New York, I worked as the switchboard receptionist for Samuel French, the play publisher (yes, Samuel French, I did steal some plays from you – terribly sorry, that was my dark period), which meant I spent eight hours a day talking on the phone, often fielding phone calls like this: 

“Samuel French, how may I direct your call?”

“I’d like to speak to Mr. French, please.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, he doesn’t exist.”

“What?  Mr. French’s office, please.”

“I’m sorry, sir, Mr. French isn’t here anymore.”

“Then I’ll leave a message.”

“You can’t leave a message, sir.  He’s dead.  He’s very, very dead.”

But even with all my years of receptionist and secretarial work, I still hate the phone.  It can take me weeks to call someone, especially if it’s a stranger.  I don’t know what my problem is – just that my fear of an awkward phone exchange at times threatens to prevent me from reaching my goals in life.  On the phone, there’s no body language, no facial expressions – how can I get across my meaning without those?  How can I charm strangers without a wry smile?  I cannot.

“Get over it!” my loved ones say.

“#&@*$%*!” I kindly reply.

I still need to schedule appointments for two auditions this weekend.  Which means I need to call both Theater Works and Desert Foothills Theater.  After listening to Moo sing for a good 30 minutes yesterday, I finally called Desert Foothills – and got their answering machine.  I tried twice more – does that count for anything?

So here I am with the same to-do list today, same phone calls to make.  Let’s hope I’m a little more successful this time.  Even I can see that it would be pretty pathetic to mess up my entire quest just because I’m afraid of punching some numbers into the damn phone.

There’s Hope for Me Yet!

I had an unexpected extra half hour this afternoon before I had to pick up Moo at my mom’s house (apparently they’re having a raucous tea party that cannot be interrupted), and instead of coming home from errands and zonking out on the couch, or plopping in front of the computer and reading celebrity gossip, I emptied the trash and put in  a new bag (that’s always the hard part), put the mail into its proper wall-mounted mail slots, instead of its usual home in a giant pile on the kitchen table, sorted some recycling (well, I put an empty box next to the door – does that count?), rinsed some dishes and started the dishwasher.

It’s like I’m some sort of… what is that word?  some sort of… Mother!

Failure to Communicate

Sometimes I wonder if I’d be a good mom if I didn’t have such a mild-mannered kiddo.

Because during the times when Little Miss Mild-Manners turns into a monster, I’m afraid I become a bit of a monster myself.

Moo woke up from her afternoon nap after 40 minutes, crying.  I straggled in and picked her up as she cried and blubbered something incoherent about her blue sucky (a.k.a. pacifier).  I mumbled back at her, grabbed the blue sucky and a pile of stuffed animals, and lumbered into our bedroom with my load, plopping it, baby and all, on our bed.  She loves hanging out in our bed, making a tent with the quilt, trying out all the different pillows, so I thought she’d be content to play/rest while I tried to come to terms with being robbed of my solo time. 

But Moo was not content.  She sat there, crying and staring at me.  I suggested she try out her sucky, and she tasted it and spit it out like I’d coated it with liverwurst.  I suggested she lay down, and she threw herself on the pillow, screeching.  I tried singing “Baby Mine,” and she tried kicking me in the gut.  I tried holding her, and she tried punching me in the nose.

So I kinda yelled.  I think.

I said, “UGH! MOO! WHAT IS WRONG?!”

And then I dropped her back on the pillow.  Her face promptly turned fuschia and she opened her mouth so wide to scream I was able to finally get a prolonged look at how many teeth have yet to come in – four, if you’re curious.

I just felt so frustrated, knowing that she is able to verbally communicate so well, but here she is refusing to stop crying FOR ONE SECOND so that she could just TELL ME WHAT SHE WANTS.

Finally, she managed to sputter some words.

“I off bed, peeeez, oh oh ohhh,” she sobbed.

I put her on the ground without a word.

She staggered to the door, crying, spotted Boing the Octopus for a moment and said hello, then remembered she was upset and renewed her sobs.  She looked back at me, sitting silent on the bed, and my heart broke.

She doesn’t know what she wants, you idiot.  She’s sick and miserable and exhausted, and it just pisses you off that your Mommy-brand singing and caressing isn’t enough to make her feel better.

I sprang to her side and kissed her head.

“I love you,” I said.

She sniffed at me.

“Moo, do you need Boo-Boo Bunny?”

“BOO-BOO BUNNY!” she shouted, and ran off down the hall, giggling like a maniac.

Great.  A three-inch plastic ice cube with a fabric bunny head attached holds more magical healing powers than I do.

Damn you, Boo-Boo Bunny.  Damn you.

(But thanks for making Moo feel better.)

Parenting Lesson of the Week

So last night we learned what happens when you take your small child on a fantastic pumpkin patch adventure, let her chase after her 8-year-old cousin all day, and choose to let her skip her nap since you really want to meet your Seattle friends for dinner at a cool Mexican restaurant:

Nightmare Baby Meltdown.  In Public. 

Eep!

She fell asleep in the car on the way to the restaurant, and seemed happy enough when we woke her to eat, but when she took her first bite of cheese quesadilla, she suddenly realized it was the most offensive thing EVER to have crossed her lips, and promptly freaked out.  Three “pumpkin walks” around the neighborhood later, we gave up and sped home. I think maybe I ate some delicious enchiladas with pumpkin seed cream sauce, but I can’t be sure.  I spoke about 50 words to Dave and maybe seven to his lovely wife Melanie.  Moo ate goldfish crackers and animal cookies for dinner.

Never, NEVER skip the nap.

Lesson learned.

Weekend Stats

Herbie’s Response to Why He Was Bouncing a Ball Off the Ceiling:  “So I can be amazing!”

Bottles of Wine Purchased at Fresh & Easy:  3 (F&E just opened nearby)

Cost of Three Bottles of Wine at Fresh & Easy:  $12.99

What “Fresh & Easy” Should Really be the Name of (According to Herbie):  Laundry detergent

Total Hours Napped by Moo:  1 hour, 25 minutes (over TWO days – ugh!)

Number of Pumpkins Currently in Residence at our House:  33

Number of “Ghosties:”  3

Songs that Moo Can Sing:  3 (Four if you count the Tuna Song – “Tuna, tuna, I love tuna, tuna, tuna – it sends me to the moon-a!”

Songs Moo Has Made Up:  1 (it goes something like, “Pumpkin, oobadeebadah YAY!  Mommy, oobadeebadah YAY!)

Responses to my Email Asking if I Can be in the Big Dance Number:  Big ol’ zero

Accidental Nap

Is there any worse feeling than taking a small snooze in the evening, then waking up and realizing it’s midnight and you just slept almost four hours?

Well, yes, there are probably worse feelings.

But I’m still feeling miserable, even though Herbie keeps hugging me and reassuring me that it’s just fiiiine that I didn’t do any laundry, work on my blog, sweep the floors, decorate the house for Halloween, or talk to him.

And now it’s 2 a.m., Herbie is trying to stay awake to keep me company, and I am probably going to polish off this pint of Haagen Dazs before 3 a.m. hits.

Sigh.

I hope Herbie doesn’t ask for any of my ice cream.

Ick

I’ve been walking around with a big ball of dread in my tummy all day.  Possible reasons:

1.  Scary economic disaster that I can’t even begin to understand, which is even scarier.

2.  Moo in the next room crying and refusing to nap. (Her latest nap-avoidance technique? Sticking her leg through the bars of her crib so that it gets stuck and I HAVE to come in and rescue her.  Grrr.)

3.  Rehearsal tonight.  I don’t know why I would dread this…except perhaps that I don’t know what to expect tonight, and I always find that frightening.  I should have practiced my music.  I should have at LEAST highlighted my lines.  How is it that we do not own a highlighter?!

4.  Hunger.  I shall eat some pretzel fish… that helps.

5.  The beginning of a week of rehearsals.  The tumult begins again, and I am unprepared.  Our house is a mess, there is a pile of clean laundry twice the size of Moo waiting to be folded, I have absolutely no meals planned and we’ve run out of paper towels.  I cannot survive without paper towels.

Maybe I should just go buy a highlighter and some paper towels.  Hey, Moo’s awake anyway, why not?

…And maybe a Wall Street Journal or something.  Does that paper still exist?

Nana’s Return

My mother has returned to Phoenix!  She emerged from the airport (back from California, where my evil-but-genius sister  stole her away because SUPPOSEDLY my mother has some other grandchildren over there or something) and a chorus of angels burst into hallelujahs!  Oh no, wait, it was just Moo and me. 

I practically knocked my mom over I was so happy she was home.  If the last week has taught me anything, it is that my status as Good Mommy may depend completely on the fact that my mom lives 10 minutes away.

I know I am immensely lucky – Moo goes over to my mom’s house twice a week to play, leaving me free to sleep, clean, write, go shopping, or just sit quietly in a quiet house for a few hours.  Every time my mom goes out of town, I am always a complete basketcase after seven days.  Of course, Moo has chosen Nana’s last two out-of-town trips as the perfect time to come down with a cold, and though it’s very kind of her to spare Nana her germs, that means it’s just Moo and me cooped up in this house all week, circling each other while I poke at her with Kleenexes from time to time.

After Moo and I picked up Nana at the airport, we went back to her house to have lunch.  I managed to shove some pepperoni pizza down my throat before collapsing on my parents’ bed.  And even though my mom had just gotten off a plane from a trip where she no doubt played with her two other grandchildren nonstop and must be exhausted, she played with Moo for an hour and a half while I slept.  From time to time, I’d hear them creep by the room, my mom whispering to Moo, “Shhh, Mommy’s sleeping.”  “Oookay, Nana!”

I woke up a new mommy.  Moo’s sleeping now, and instead of saying quiet prayers for her to sleep another 30 minutes, I’m actually hoping she wakes up soon so we can play Hair Salon with her animals.  I really think Owl could use a makeover.

So God bless Nana.  I feel no shame in admitting my Nana-dependence.  I’m just so relieved she’s back.  And no, you can’t borrow her.

No Naps

Moo hasn’t taken a nap longer than 40 minutes in over a week.  I really think I might lose my mind.  She’s only 18-months-old (almost) and she needs more than 40 minutes of sleep during the day for her sake AND mine.  Because I’m going insane.

At first I thought it was because of her cold, and then she seemed to get into a schedule where she always pooped in the middle of her nap, and now I don’t have any clue.  She just wakes up and cries, and I go in and rock her and sing and put her back in bed, and she screams and then dozes, and screams and then dozes, and finally the screaming wins out and I get her up.

I’m just so angry.  Mommy needs some time to herself to rejuvenate so that I’m ready for two hours of Tea Party when she wakes up.  And here she is toddling around saying, “Mommy, Mommy ‘ook!” at this and that toy, wanting and needing my love and attention, and I am Mean Mommy and cannot, right now, marvel at Farmer Boy and Shirley hopping on the shelf because I’m so annoyed with her for not sleeping.

And then she grins at me and giggles.

And sweetly suggests a tea party.

Damn she’s cute.