At The Carwash

One of R.J.'s favorite songs is Rose Royce's "Car Wash." Obvious reasons. It's catchy. It involves cars. And it invites hip shaking, finger pointing, foot shuffling fun. And, at this particular car wash "the boss don't mind sometimes if ya act the fool."

We ask R.J. who's the boss frequently--an important reminder for a three-year old.

For months, every morning R.J. washes cars in the sink while the boss (me, of course) gets ready for work.  Trucks, sports cars, and even the occasional plane have been seen getting their bumpers and wheels scrubbed in my sink.

Lately, I've even allowed R.J. to play puddle duck with Cat Duck (a rubber duckie decked out for Halloween as a cat--in a bizarre twist on natural selection).  I should have known.  Last week, he played puddle duck for nearly 20 minutes while I enjoyed  20 minutes to drink a cup a tea at the kitchen table. It was quiet. Quiet is rarely good.

He decided Cat Duck needed a deeper pond. So, he blocked the drain with a hand towel. Then, the flood came, and the pond got too deep. So, he unblocked the drain. He was soaked. The floor was soaked--admittedly, a little warm water can't hurt my bathroom floors (I'm not a mopper, per se). But, they, "what goes around comes around." My time was getting close.

My grandma wasn't a particularly grandmotherly type. She smoked Kents and was an avid fisherwoman--including the cleaning, gutting and cooking part. But, she loved me. I know this because she let me and my cousin  play ooshie-gooshie in her old porcelain sink. "Let" being used in it's loosest sense. Given the opportunity, we would disappear into the bathroom with the sole purpose being to see if and whether we could use the entire bar of soap up before Grandma caught us. We could. And did.

When I was four, we moved into a new house in a new neighborhood.  I had a next door neighbor friend who was four too. One beautiful summer day, we decided to sunbathe--as four year olds would do. (It was 1981, and women were mixing baby oil with iodine to get that natural sunny glow). We took an entire bottle of baby oil and started to work. We coated our feet. And then we skated from one end of the porch to the other. Carefully, so as not to miss any spots, we worked the baby oil into the corners around the porch posts. I hope baby oil has a curative effect; I tell myself it is for this reason that my parents' house still looks so lovely.  It must be the protective coating of baby oil on the front porch.

What goes around comes around. At the car wash, apparently. This Saturday morning, I convinced R.J. to go play with Daddy.  Daddy was sleeping. R.J. wanted to play car wash. No harm. Yet. You'd think the overwhelming scent of "Country Apple" wafting through the house would have roused me. Or Daddy (who was sleeping 10 feet away from the sink). But, we work long hours; I am nine months pregnant. We relish sleeping past 8 on a Saturday.

And so, while the Boss (and Daddy) were happily dozing, R.J. was happily washing a sports car, a cement truck, and his "creepy van." (we should probably learn to be a little more politically correct, but it is a creepy van). He washed them with half a bottle of apple scented lotion. The bathroom smelled lovely, and as I slip-slided across the soaked floor, I had nothing to do but shake my head and smile. Ooshie-gooshie, baby oil-scented memories. I called my mom and laughed. And, I set about figuring how to clear a lotion haze from the windshield of a cement truck.  For one Saturday, the boss at this car wash didn't mind when R.J. acted a fool.

Kitten Posters and Newsprint

I was (am) a loved daughter. When I was in the first grade, I knew I was loved. I had a rainbow striped dress that made me feel especially pretty, and when I accidentally dumped an entire bottle of Elmer's glue in my lap during achievement tests, my dad came and picked me up. Without complaint. And he let me wear my rainbow striped dress back to class. Even though it was totally out of season.

I had new Crayons and an American flag pencil box. My mom read me stories every night (a habit we continued for years--a habit that, honestly, we still continue, reading bits and pieces of interesting articles back and forth across the kitchen table).

But there was nothing quite like book order day to make me feel truly special. Book orders! Those thin, flimsy little fliers filled with fun things: choose your adventure! Sweet Valley High! Kitten posters! Oh, how I loved book order day.

R.J. started school two weeks ago. And, to my childish delight, he brought home a book order! Flimsy. Smells like old newsprint. Order forms no longer required (we order online now). We're starting early--he's only three. But, when book order day comes, he too will know the insurmountable joy of a new story at bedtime. (no kitten posters this time).

And I hope that when the inevitable call comes telling me that the "Big Issue" has indeed occurred*, I will collect him from school, clean him up, and remember to let him wear his favorite Thunder t-shirt back to class. Even if it's snowing and totally out of season.

*the "Big Issue"--having been previously defined as "Mommy, I need to go poop! We gonna have a big issue!"

The Game

I have been cleaning. And scrubbing. And dusting. And busting. Some call it nesting; I call it necessity. I hate cleaning out the kitchen. It's like confession: "Bless me father. I have sinned. It has been 3 years since I last saw the bottom shelf of the pantry. And I have wasted food.  There are stale Cheez-Its behind the instant 'taters, and I meant to cook the StoveTop last Thanksgiving. (or was it Thanksgiving 2009?)."

This time, our freezer hit rock bottom. Rock bottom being a gravely "ger-thunk! grrrriiiiind! ger-thunk!" All of which took place at 10:45 p.m.  We scrambled: "Open the door! Unplug it! Hit it with a hammer!" Anything to make it stop ger-thunking and risk waking up the sleeping toddler.

Turns out the ice maker had a leak that froze on some reactor-piece angering the freezer goblin to the point of slamming a fan blade repeatedly against an ice boulder stuck to the back of the freezer.

But, I'm a glass full kind of gal. So I took the opportunity to clean out the freezer. It's fun if you find the spoonful of sugar and make it a game. My game is this: what's the oldest thing in the kitchen (not counting the Polly Perk)? For years it was a jar of peanuts that I had moved from college to master's degree to job to law school to house. Dated 1998. Winner, winner peanut dinner.

Then my mom had a peanut craving and discovered the jar. Peanut dinner wasn't such a winner.

This time, I confess (Father, I have sinned), I found two perfectly wrapped, carefully preserved chicken breasts. Labeled. Ready to be cooked. "Chicken, November, 2007." 2007! Pre-R.J.

To the curb they go. And I mentally add another $10 to my food bank donation this year--restitution.

Sometimes I wonder just what magnificence will top the peanut dinner and the pre-child chicken. And then, just like magic...

R.J. had a tick. A tiny one. The scary kind. I read how to remove it. The article said to  "place the tick in a plastic bag in the freezer for future reference."  The article didn't say how far in the future.  Now I don't have to question what the next game winner will be: "Tick, September 5, 2011."

That little spoonful of sugar just waiting to make the game more interesting the next time we anger the freezer goblin. The glass is half full, and pending a rogue box of Aunt Jemima's pancake mix in the pantry, I think I'll have a winner.

A few things about the first day of school

• My child is exuberant--to the point of absurdity--when he sees me at the end of a work day. I expected the same joyful shrieks and hugs when he saw me at the end of his school day. My expectations were modified when he saw me, marched in line with his class, and greeted me with, "Hi mom."

• But. When released by his teacher, he walked over, grabbed my hand, kissed it sweetly and said, "I just love you so much." I looked around quickly to see if his teacher had taught all of the little ones to do this. She had not. My sweet boy was the only one. I am proud that he listened to his teacher and sat with his class while he waited on further instruction, but I was relieved to get a more typical R.J. greeting later in the day.

• At lunch, he mimicked my every action...stopping only to rest his head in his hands and to tell me again, "I love you so much." (Secretly I'm just glad he's in my camp again. We've had a rough few weeks of timeouts, backtalk, and general discontent. Apparently school has taught him that his mommy really isn't mean, and he shouldn't try to cancel me or send me to my hotel. I park at a hotel; he believes I work there.)

• R.J. does not like his hair to be styled: "I like it when it looks like a pumpkin. Psssshhhhh!" he tells me, showing me a rounded, puffy bedhead. I like it when it looks like a pumpkin too. I guess we'll keep the toddler shag for a while longer.

• They must have learned about numbers in class, because in the middle of the night, R.J. sat up and shouted, "It's a number!" He then promptly went back to sleep. I did not.

• School, in R.J.'s world, means "circle time, playdough time, color time, and park time."

• After worrying about school, "canceling" school on his calendar (wonder where he gets that?), and planning for school for weeks, school turned out to be okay. R.J. said he'd go back again. But, he did want to read his Llama, Llama school book. Twice. Just to make sure he's not the only one who missed his mama.

First Day Jitters

My stomach is queasy. I don't want to eat my waffles, and I wish we had just 10 more minutes to watch Curious George. But, it's the first day of school. We've prepared. We talked about it. We visited the teacher. We read Llama Llama Misses Mama and learned that little llama can love his mama and school too!

But, I confess, the three-year old is better prepared for this first day than his mommy.  He was ready to learn. He was ready to play. He was not, however, quite ready for the goodbying this morning. R.J. has a particular affection for ladies wearing dresses. So, at open house a few nights ago, he was tickled to see his teacher in a long white skirt: "That my teacher? In the pretty skirt?" He grinned.

Today she was wearing leggings and a zebra print top. A darling outfit. My son may never recover from the shock.

I took the teacher's advice. A quick goodbye: "R.J., you have a good day. Mommy and 'Sisa will be back in just a little while to pick you up." Startled eyes. Tears. "Mommy, don't go! I tired!"

He's not tired. He's worried. I know this because I watched him flick his wrists in the hallway before he bravely marched toward the classroom. I worry too. How can this baby be in school? (In quiet confession I admit--he still poops his pants, proven this morning--but we pretend he's potty trained so that he can go learn some A,B,C's. His teacher may hate me someday. Not today. The  Big Issue has been resolved for today. But someday.).

R.J. is in good hands. He will have a good day. But until 11:30 when he tells me so, I will worry. Because I'm his mommy. And today, mommy can't fix it all for him. Updates to follow, but until then...First Day of School!

How Many Licks to Get to the Center?

There's a little sandwich shop in the basement of my building downtown. It's not fancy, and the food isn't great. But, when I have a craving for PBJ, it works. The lines are long, and the wait gives me way too much time to explore the candy rack conveniently situated smack in the middle of the shop.

About three weeks ago, a Tootsie Pop called my name. Without much thought, I plunked down an extra 25 cents and tossed it in the bottom of my purse (along with 45 binder clips--I have a binder clip problem. I'm working on it.).

This morning, R.J. had a doctor's appointment. I sprung the news on him around 8, giving him only 30 minutes to ponder and obsess, as much as a toddler obsesses--and he obsesses a lot. "The doctor will check your tummy and listen to your heart. She'll weigh you and see how tall you are," I tell him.

He promptly steps on the bathroom scale, "It say 80-11 pounds. There. I weighed. I'm sorry. I cancel the doctor." He's crafty. (I have the same problem with that scale--it currently says I have gained 35 pounds, but I know that can't be right.)

He chatted up the nurse: "This is my blanket. It's a nice blanket. It's soft. It smell good. I sleep with it." He chatted with the doctor: "I don't poop in the potty, but I toot on it." He speaks the truth.

And then. Trauma. Tragedy. Terror. The dreaded immunization. (I always want to call it a vaccination, but that brings memories of my cats having panic attacks in their plastic kennels. I actually don't kennel R.J. Most days.)

Desperately searching for a distraction, I found...a Tootsie Pop! Perfectly red. Perfectly tasty. R.J. wasn't even suspicious, until the nurse came in with a tray holding a "dandaid."

He was brave. He refused the dandaid and only cried for a minute. Rubbing his leg and looking at me with those big, blue, sad, teary, weepy, crying, hurt eyes, he said, "Mommy, it itches. Fix it." So, I did. He'll never know that mommy's magic itch cream is really cuticle gel designed to give mommy beautiful nails. It works better as toddler itch cream anyway.

I shut his hand in the car door in the parking lot. It hurt. Both of us. He told me, "I was just trying to get in the car. That hurt my feelings." At least he's accurate. It hurt his feelings more than it hurt his hand. Mine too. He dropped his Tootsie Pop in the floorboard. I found it. "What you doing?" he asked me. Sigh. "Mommy's licking the lint off your lollipop for you." (because she'd rather do that than see those big, blue, sad, teary, weepy, crying hurt eyes again).

We ate donuts. We discovered that it really is impossible to find the  number of licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop. We survived. And today, I think I'll visit my sandwich shop in the basement and mindlessly plunk down another quarter for another Tootsie Pop.

The Important Question

Before R.J. was born, I was a born career woman. I fully intended to drop a perfectly organized diaper bag off with my perfectly clean child every morning and a perfectly structured daycare.  I wait-listed daycares. I visited with R.J. I put his name on his binkies and his blankies. In ink. We were ready. I was ready. Or, so I thought. He lasted one afternoon at daycare. He melted down. I melted down. I extended my leave. I cried for weeks.

I agonized over hiring a nanny. A stranger taking care of my Baby? Alone in my house? What if she was mean to my Baby? What if she slept all day? Or parked him front of the TV?

And the important question: What if he loved her more than he loved me?

I actually advertised for Mary Poppins (must love children, etc. so forth and so on).

We hired a nanny (actually two). Our first nanny was a delight--young, musically gifted, and full of life. She taught R.J. to love PBS news and how to play a drum. When she moved on to law school to start her own career I cried.

We hired a new nanny. R.J. loves her fiercely.  She is uncommonly sweet in her manner of speech. She is easily the most non-judgmental person I have ever met. She understands the laundry chair. And sticky tile floors. And the mornings when R.J. has wet the bed, the cat has barfed on the rug, and I've overslept. I don't have a sister, but if I did, she is what I would hope for.

She dries R.J.'s tears when he falls down.  He prays before meals, and he's learning his ABC's.  He is a delightful little boy, and I can't take all the credit. I'm happy to share it.

This afternoon I analyzed shareholder agreements and pondered the other important question in my life: where in the world is the signed promissory note?  I heard the ping of my cellphone and found a picture of my Baby cooking in his chef's hat.

So, when my Baby calls me 'Sisa Mama, I smile. I know the answer to the important question: What if he loves his nanny as much as he loves me?

He is loved. And I love that.

(We love you 'Sisa!)