Turtle Turmoil

We live in a big city, and that means that I could easily spend thousands upon thousands of dollars on my toddler’s education even before the private school tuition bills arrive.  Music, language, arts, sports … you name it, and there’s a provider of the service.  There’s even a new Kidville - a sort-of upscale, one-stop shop for pint-sized enrichment classes - 15 miles away.

I’m not inclined to take part in any of these things, even though we could afford it.  We’ve contented ourselves with our church’s nursery school, and we’ve been satisfied.  But now there’s turmoil in the Turtle Room, and I must admit I’m losing more sleep than is sensible.

 

Going Greener is Getting Harder

In honor of Earth Day, I wrote a post about our efforts to go greener.  While I was pleased at what we’d accomplished in just a year - driving less than 30 miles/week, eating out just about never, recycling diligently, cleaning greener and so on - I was able to pick out more areas for improvement.  Since it’s been three months, I thought I’d report back on how we’re doing.

 

Surrender

My 3.5 y.o. has discovered his Daddy’s Guitar Hero game.  Mostly because his Daddy thought it would be darling to hand our toddler the faux-guitar and let our tot rock out.

Sure.  He hasn’t heard Cheap Trick’s Surrender 600 times in the past month.

But as it turns out, hearing my small son belt out the chorus - Mommy’s all right.  Daddy’s all right.  They just seem a little weird.  Surrender, surrender, but don’t give yourself away! - has been strangely liberating.

 

My Deli Dilemma

There’s much debate about the proper role of a mother.  Stay-at-home, work full-time, somehow find a freelance gig that lets you balance both.  Whatever.  I envy people who make it work, however they find peace.

But here’s what no one talks about with the Stay-at-Home-Mom gig.  And it’s something women ought to know going into the role:  You will automatically come third.  Every. Single. Time.

If you’re lucky.

 

The Sound of One Door Closing

Tomorrow we finally get a peek at baby #2.  That’s right.  I’m 21 weeks, and it’s time for an ultrasound that will almost certainly allow us to see our child’s gender.

And so I sit here, thinking: Boy or Girl?  Because we’ve decided that two is the most children we can handle - and honestly, thoughts of the second fill us with a certain amount of trepidation - whatever the answer, we’ll hear the sound of one door closing tomorrow.

 

31 Flavors

 

I think Baskin Robbins now boasts more than 31 flavors; who cares, all I want is caramel cone.  But that’s not the point of this post.  No, the flavors I’m talking about are the Flavors of SAHM - and 31 might be a low estimate.

 

Staying Together for the Sake of the Children

I’ve tried to write this post before, but it’s one of those elusive thoughts that defies language.

When I was a child, I’d hear the phrase, “Well, they only stay married for the kids.”  It was the 1970s.  Divorce was new, though still a rarity in my world.  I lived in fear that my parents would split up - especially because my parents’ relationship didn’t seem like that of Mike and Carol Brady, or later, Cliff and Clair Huxtable.  When I’d hear about another divorce - my dad’s friend Gene, or his cousin Sharon - I’d breathe deep.  Statistically, perhaps the bad luck would pass us by.

Or at least, I figured, they might stay married for our sakes.  Soldier through; suck it up.  They’d borne us, without our permission.  They owed it to us to keep us happy, or at least to not make us the subject of whispered speculation. 

 

Showdown at the Bouncy House

From time to time, our town forgets that we’re a mere two miles from the city limits of Washington DC and instead masquerades as Mayberry-meets-Pleasantville.  During the summer, such episodes of municipal amnesia take place the first Friday night of every month.  We bust out a bandstand, a local resto sets up a grill and they even pitch a Bouncy House in the middle of 40th Street.

As our 3 y.o. obediently queued for his chance to bounce like mad, another small child rushed the gate and bodily propelled himself halfway through the opening before the attendant hauled him out by his feet.

We all looked about, expected a parent to come flying forward to claim the wayward child.  But no.  Apparently, Solo had toddled - he couldn’t have been much more than two - to the community festival on his own.  In fact, after grinning at the BH attendant, Solo cheerfully danced off onto 40th Street - conveniently blocked for the event.

If we accept that it takes a village to raise a child, how do you react when one of your fellow villagers is clearly falling down on the job?

 

Crushed

I have a dear friend, a woman whose intelligence, humor and raw nerve I admire.  But as it happens, we fell out of touch for a few months.  I’d moved four hours away, and we were both busy, blah blah blah.

But she dropped me a line today, just a quick one, and I responded with a chatty message, including the news of my pregnancy and a frank admission that I’d been struggling with depression since our move.

She wrote back immediately and admitted that she’d been having a tough time of it, too.  After trying to conceive a second child for some time, she’d miscarried a few months earlier.

I did the math quickly.  Our children would’ve been the same age.

 

This is Only a Test

I confessed to my doctor today that I’d been feeling nervous and on edge.  During my first pregnancy, I was the picture of calm.  Or at least, my flailing was more of the “how the hell am I going to manage all of this and a baby” variety.

The maiden voyage to Storkville was all about me.  Trip number two?  I’m obsessed with the Stranger Within.

My doctor gently reminded me that it wasn’t too late for genetic testing - but if I skipped the blood work this time, we’d have missed our window.

I took a deep breath and confirmed that no, we still weren’t interested.