Straight From the Bottle

 1. “He needs a haircut.”

 

“I know.”

 

“So why don’t you cut his hair?”

 

“Because he doesn’t want a haircut.”

 

“But you’re his parent. You’re supposed to make the rules.”

 

“I do make the rules but he doesn’t want a haircut. What am I going to do, hold him down and cut his hair?”

 

“No. Just tell him he has to have a haircut.”

 

“I tried. But then he told me he wants to grow his hair long and I have to respect that. It is his hair. And it isn’t hurting anyone.”

 

“But he looks sloppy – like someone who needs a haircut.”

 

“Maybe. But who am I to tell him how to look?”

 

“You’re his parent.”

 

 

2. “Archer, you need a haircut.”

 

“No I don’t.”

 

“I can’t see your face.”

 

“I want to grow it long like yours.”

 

“But I can see. See?”

 

“I can see, too. See?”

 

“All your friends at school have haircuts.”

 

“So.”

“We could do something really cool. Something shaggy. A mohawk? A trim? You can pick out a style and we’ll bring it to the barber and he will make you look awesome!”

 

“I don’t want to pick out a style.”

 

“… Not even for a cupcake?"

 

“No, Mommy. I like my hair the way it is.”

 

“Whoa, really? More than an M&M cupcake from Crumbs?”

 

“I LOVE M&M CUPCAKES but no. No haircut I said!"

 

"Fine. Grow it down to your ankles for all I care."

 

"Fine!" ...

 

 

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Everyone I know is pregnant. It's kind of like how three years ago, everyone I know got married. Within a six week window. And it was like "COME ON! I am SO NOT going to wear this brown floor-length satin halter dress again. Or the "Lavender Mid-length." Or the "Salmon Strapless"

 

Ugh! Bridesmaid dresses! Ugh!

 

I digress. Even though I don't want to digress. Because bridesmaid dresses are too easy to write about. And I have a grip of those mofos hanging in my closet becoming more outdated as the days pass and what's a girl to do? Perhaps I should try them all on for James Marsden and then post a montage, here, in place of a blog post?

 

No? Okay then. Moving on.

 

As I was saying, everyone I know is pregnant. Which makes me very overly-attentive and interested in everyone. In a way that is probably annoying. Because I'm stalking every pregnant woman I know with baby names and unsolicited boxes of maternity clothes and "Hey? Were you sleeping? Just... checking in to see if you have morning sickness!"

 

"Actually, Bec? It's 6am. I was sleeping."

 

"But not for looooooooong... When that baby arrives you will be up at all hou...."

 

Click.

 

"... Hello? HELLOOOOOOOOOO?!"

 

Part of it has to do with excitement. I waited a long time and spent a lot of energy trying to brainwash my single friends into joining "the cult of parenthood" and now that everyone's joining I feel like I have to force-feed them kool-aid. 

 

 

But also? (And here's the kicker.) I miss being pregnant...

 

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I've been heavy on the Halloween posts these last few days but I couldn't let Halloween come and go without discussing the dos and don'ts of adult Halloween costumes and what to do when your kids are like, "WTF? Who are you and what have you done with my parents YOU CRAZY CRAZIES AHHH!"

 

Please note that Archer is wearing his pajamas in the above photo. On the weekend he wears pajamas because we don't have to be anywhere in the early mornings and we all hang out in our pajamas and read newspapers and eat bagels and high-five each other until it gets boring and we get dressed and leave the house. The end.

 

Now, mind you, Hal and I were especially scary looking this year. 

 

And although we planned our costumes weeks in advance we kinda sorta forgot to take under consideration the possibility that Archer and Fable might not be as amused as we. It wasn't until I slipped into Hal's clothes and he slipped into mine that we realized "oh, shit. This might actually disturb them."

 

And for a little while it did.

 

Okay so it was longer than a little while.

 

More like an hour. 

 

At first I thought we were going to have to make a costume change. It wasn't so much Fable, who just blinked at me blankly, blinked at Hal blankly and then blinked at us both blankly before crawling as far away from us as she could. Surprisingly it was Archer who threw a fit. He was PISSED. He refused to look at me without peeking at me through his fingers and instead of laughing at Hal as he flipped his wig and talked in my annoying California-y "like totally omigawd you guys" way, he frowned and threw his face into the couch. 

 

"Daddy!  You are NOT my mommy!" ....

 

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Let me start by saying this: Archer has been on time to school four times in the two years he's been attending. Thankfully, Archer's school has a thirty-minute window and also, thankfully, it's preschool so it doesn't *really* matter. But Kindergarten is coming. I am very aware of this because we're in apply-to-charter-and-magnet-school-mode, and being late will not be tolerated come Fall 2010. 

 

I blame myself partially. I'm hopeless in the morning and can never quite time the trip to school, especially as it ranges wildly. (Anywhere from ten minutes to forty-five depending on tree-trimming, road-fixing, show-shooting, and of course, cars-driving.) That being said, until two weeks ago, it wasn't ALL my fault that we were late every day. 

 

Archer happens to suffer from I-hate-to-get-dressed-in-the-morning-syndrome-especially-on-school-days and has for the past several months. 

 

 

In order to try to fix this exasperating situation, we took away his morning privileges. In the past he was able to watch one show (always Little Einsteins, his favorite) before school as Hal and I were getting the day prepared. 

 

"Fine!" I said one morning as Archer kicked and screamed and refused his clothes. "No more Einsteins!"

 

He cried louder. Kicked harder. But that was that. We haven't watched TV in the morning since. 

 

After that, I started a "star chart" so that every morning he got dressed without a fight, he got a star! (Every ten stars = cupcake or ice cream. Every one hundred stars = any toy he wants in our favorite local toy store.) At first the star chart was working brilliantly. Then, for whatever reason, it lost its charm. The tantrums returned with a vengeance. The refusal of getting dressed in the morning. The twenty-minute battle. EVERY. DAY. 

 

It wasn't until I had a panic attack in the middle of his worst tantrum ever that I decided to take serious action...

 

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It all started three hours before the wedding began.  Because that's how long it usually takes to get a family of four dressed, packed and out the door to such a function. For us it does.

 

I dressed myself first which is where the trouble began. 

 

It would seem the $30 vintage dress that I thought was SUCH A BARGAIN when I bought it wasn't so much a bargain at all. At closer inspection, in fact, it was broken, unraveling, completely coming apart. (Note to self: try on specialty-outfits the night before.) And because it takes me hours to so much as sew a button properly, I had to flag down my mother from the other room to sew me into my broken dress, Project Runway style. 

 

After that was done, it was time to get Archer dressed. Except the 5T tuxedo (also purchased second hand. Perhaps the lesson here is "buy new") was actually a 5T jacket and with a 2T vest and pants which.... Buzzkill! Especially after Fable spilled an entire bottle over her fancy wedding dress. And tights. And shoes.

 

"Ah, fuck it. It'll dry."

 

And it did.

 

The Archer suit situation, however, was a tad more panic-inducing. Besides the suit, I had nothing appropriate for him to wear to the wedding so Hal and Archer fled the scene. Their mission? To find suitable black pants. 

 

Moments later, upon their arrival at Target, Archer had a brilliant idea that consisted of him running away from Hal to hide beneath a rack of Finding Nemo pajamas which lead to Hal's desperate wails, poor man. Now he had to find his son AND a pair of black pants for a wedding that had already started? 

 

Brutal. 

Luckily, Hal's running around the store yelling "ARCHER! WHERE DO YOU KEEP YOUR BLACK PANTS!?" lead to the eventual finding of our son AS WELL as a pair of slightly-larger-than-usual-but-sure-what-the-hell-they'll-do pants thanks to a kind sales associate who felt sorry for poor Hal, and twenty minutes later they were back home.

 

Of course by that time Archer was like "NO! I don't want to go to a wedding! NO! I don't want to wear a suit! NO NO NO! AHHHH!"

 

So I made up an elaborate story about the magic powers of suit jackets and shiny shoes. 

 

Which worked. Because I'm a great liar. (That's a lie, actually.)

 

After four separate tantrums and two trips back to the house for bottles, diapers and deodorant (I tend to sweat profusely in large crowds. I get it from my dad.) we hit the road. Three minutes into our drive Archer passed out. Six minutes later, Fable was also asleep which meant that by the time we arrived at the wedding both kids were well into their REM sleep and there was NO WAY we were going to wake them. 

 

So we waited in the car for forty-minutes until they woke. 

 

And by the time we got everyone out of the car, the wedding was long over, but the good thing about weddings? They go on and on and on and on, so being two hours late, we were still plenty early as far as the reception was concerned. 

 

Better late than never, we proceeded, the four of us into the "cocktail party" space, just in time to down a few choice alcoholic beverages. 

 

 

Of course there's nothing for kids to do during cocktail hour besides spill everyones drinks and fish pennies out of the wishing well, so after twenty minutes of, "Sorry about that broken glass. What are you drinking? I'll get you another," Hal volunteered to take Archer on a walk to find a bribe. 

 

Unfortunately, all he could find was a raisin scone...

 

 

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Sunday night I came home to one very sick child. And when I say very sick, I mean, scary sick. A kind of sick I had yet to experience with either of my kids ever. Apparently it started Sunday morning but by Sunday evening, Archer was immobile. Refusing to leave the corner of my parent's couch. His eyes were swollen. He was shivering. 104 fever. Whimpering. 

 

"I think you should stay here," Hal said. "I don't know if traveling back to LA is such a good idea right now."

 

And he was right. So Hal took the train back home and I stayed with the kids at my parent's house.

 

Archer, the picture of health (and angst) before I left for the weekend.

 

"He probably has the Swine Flu," my mom said. 

 

"OH MY GOD! Really? Should we take him to the hospital? AHHHHHH!!!!"

 

"Nah, he'll be fine," she said. 

 

And she was right, of course, but Sunday night was the first time in a long time that I spent the night worrying. In between rounds of "Moon River" and dabbing Archer's face with cold washcloths, I lied awake, listening to my babe's heavy breathing, totally afraid. And I started to think about parents who tend to sick children all the time. About the sick kids I used to work with and how their parents spent YEARS worrying, dabbing, singing, rocking, being afraid...

 

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When Archer was born, I knew he wasn't going to be an only child. I knew this because we didn't want him to be an only child, because if we were going to have one child we were going to have two. That was the rule. Hell! I couldn't even have one dog without feeling like I was depriving him of a playmate. After having my dog, Cooper for four-months, I found him a sibling. And when Archer was 3.5, Fable was born. 

 

 

I always knew I wanted two kids. I never even thought to want more. I figured that regardless of their sex, two would be plenty of children for us. My entire pregnancy with Fable I kept thinking, it would be my last. The last time I'd ever be pregnant. The last time I'd ever give birth. Enjoy these last few months. Savor the suspense, revel in the excitement and the sweetness of newborn toes...

 

 

And that I did. I moped and whined and begged Fable to stay a baby because she was "our last." I recorded my pregnancy with photos and wrote tediously about my experience but then Fable was born and my second thought after: holy fuck, I love this girl more than I ever thought I could ever ...  was: holy fuck, we're not done. We're not all here. The feeling was so overwhelming to me, I almost felt guilty. How could I possibly be thinking of another child right now? There is a newborn baby in my arms and she's mine!

 

But the truth is that I did...

 

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Last month I wrote about our exciting next step as a family: buying a house. My excitement was palpable. I felt like an adult! A real live adult! An American dream-er. So incredibly mature and responsible and omg look at us! We're going to be homeowners!

 

What a difference a month makes.

 

As it turns out the market is not all that great. At all. The 900k two-bedroom up the street is now for sale for 880,000, which, is still quite out of our price-range, not to mention one-bedroom too small. So basically we're like "fuck it, let's just rent something," because, contrary to what people tell me, it isn't throwing money away to rent a house when you don't have $175,000 for a down payment. 

 

Sure, one of these days, we'll puncture the sky with our swords and the clouds will rain Benjamins but in the meantime? We're just a young family with a dream to live somewhere with three-bedrooms, a yard and central air-conditioning (Hello 100+ degree heatwave!) ...

 

 

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 Yesterday Archer came home from school and said a horrifying thing. 

 

Responding to the sound of laughing voices outside he turned to me and said, "don't worry, Mommy, I'm going to shoot the bad guys with my sword!"

 

My jaw dropped. Up until yesterday he had never mentioned "bad guys" nor had an affinity for swords. Or shooting.

 

"Where did you learn about bad guys?"

 

"Harry...*"

 

"And where did you learn about shooting?"

 

"Harry."

 

"What else is Harry teaching you."

 

"Nothing. We were just playing superheroes and superheroes kill the bad guys with shooting them, mommy. It's okay."

 

"Um... actually it's not okay. Shooting bad guys is not okay," I said, before stopping myself. "I mean... unless these bad guys are trying to shoot you, in which chase, uh... I mean... actually. You can't... You're not supposed to... I- I- I- I..."

 

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As you may know, we've been having serious sleep issues with Fable. She slept great on my boob those first nine months while we were co-sleeping, when she waking up five times a night was no big deal. She'd simply find my boob, latch on and pass out without me even knowing, nursing much of the night while we both dreamed sweet dreams .

 

She slept in her stroller for the last two months but would wake every two hours or so ALL NIGHT LONG which was brutal, not to mention the obvious: a stroller is no place for an almost-one-year old to sleep. Soon enough, she'd outgrow the space and what then? 

 

Of course it took until last week for us to finally throw in the towel and get her sleeping in her crib once and for all. We were in San Diego for the week and the whole stroller-to-bed thing was NOT working out. Hal and I stayed up pretty much the entire first and second night, rocking Fable and shushing her,  singing to her and strolling her around my parent's backyard in the wee hours between god-knows-when and fuck-is-that-the-sun?

 

It was then, sometime between 3am and 5 on night three of no sleep, that we admitted to each other and ourselves the awful truth: Fable was winning. She OWNED our asses. She had become our boss, our Ring Master, taking advantage of two lovesick fools easily manipulated by her magical, mystical cute-baby ways. 

 

In other words, the problem wasn't that Fable sucked at sleeping. It was that we sucked at getting her to sleep...

 

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I'm weaning. Still. Which I know I keep saying I will blog about but seriously, eventually I will. There's just a lot going on right now like for example, the insanity that has come with Fable's teeth which are ALL coming in. Right this second. A good thing in the long run but right now it is most definitely not a good thing. In fact, it's a horrible thing.  A terrible, horrible, no-good,very-bad thing. A cause of several all-nighters this week as well as all-around hard times. Parents need sleep, I now know. We say we're good on little sleep but we lie because holy shit, you guys, these last ten days Hal and I have been non-stop fighting. And it isn't his fault or my fault or even Fable's fault, poor lamb. It's those pesky teeth.

 

 

I've been venting non-stop to my fellow parent friends (and on this here blog, I do realize) and the best advice so far I has come from a friend and soon-to-be father of three. David, I'm looking at you, even though you don't read this blog. Hi, I'm still looking. Nice shirt! Thanks for the advice! Hope you're having a lovely Monday!

 

A proud homeopath, he recommended chamomilla and belladonna (not the porn star) to soothe and relieve Fable's teeth and gums. I'm a big believer in homeopathics, especially for babes and this, my friends, is good stuff...

 

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I feel like I'm coming full circle with this post as one of my very first SFTB posts was about childproofing the house for Archer, almost three years ago. The difference being, Archer was nine-months older than Fable at the time.

 

I heard that second children were faster to crawl, walk, talk, do pretty much everything, but I wasn't really prepared for the holy-shit-how-did-fable-crawl-into-the-bathroom-so-fast-to-teethe-on-the-toilet-seat-she-was-playing-at-my-feet-two-seconds-ago this early in her bobblerhood. (ed: bobbler = baby/toddler.) Archer didn't crawl until he was thirteen-months, walk until he was seventeen-months and even then he never got into anything dangerous and/or disgusting.

 

I seriously could have left him home alone for days and he would have likely played quietly by himself with his various baby toys, before putting himself down for three-hour naps and twelve-hour sleeps, never once getting involved with anything dangerous and/or disgusting.

 

Fable on the other hand...

 

 

...doesn't understand the point of toys whatsoever.

 

Teethers? Why put something clean and cute in her mouth when there are dirty shoes to lick the bottoms of?...

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Fable sucks at sleep. She's amazing at everything else but when it comes to sleep? She gets an F-. Maybe even an F--. Which is why it took us so long to finally set up her crib. From day one she refused her bassinet, only napping on my boob or in the Bjorn or BabyHawk and at night? She would happily fall asleep so long as she had my skin somehow, somewhere against hers. 

 

I figured she would grow out of it but 10+ months later, Fable still resists naps and wakes up 4-5 times a night AT LEAST. On average I'd say the girl gets about 9 hours of sleep total a day, which is insane I'm pretty sure. Aren't babies supposed to sleep for 16+? I'm pretty sure Archer slept close to 18 hours his entire first two years. No lie.

 

 

For the last few months, Fable has been napping solely in her stroller. In fact, it's the only way to get her down, which is why I'm five pounds thinner than I was before I got pregnant with her. ALL I DO IS WALK ALL DAY AND NIGHT WALK WALK WALK AHHHHH WALLLLLKKKKING WALK-WALK!

 

At night, we're basically down to two options now that she's not sleeping with us: ...

 

 

 

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Tomorrow afternoon we meet for the first time with our agent. Our real-estate agent which is as unbelievable to write as it is to say it aloud. Real-estate agent. Real Estate. Estate. Realtor. Home. Oh. Ner. Ship. What. The. Effing. Hell.

 

If you would have told me last year, as we scraped together pennies so I could afford to go on a partial book tour, that we would even for two-seconds think about buying a house in 2010, I would have punched you in the face and then kissed you and then punched you in the face again. In fact, until last month the notion of buying a house had never even crossed my mind. It was what adults did. And hello! I'm not an adult, I just play one on my blog(s). 

 

I was never interested in owning a home. I would quickly toss the real-estate section of the newspaper in the recycle bin without a second glance, preferring to scan craigslist for rentals, daydreaming of the $75,000 a month mansion in the hills because for some reason even THAT seemed more attainable than owning a home. Crazy, I know. 

 

It all started last month. Hal and I had been discussing wanting to move in the next year. Into something with central air-conditioning. A three-bedroom rental home with a potential office area out back, a little yard for Archer to play with his Jr. Golf set. We looked into a few rental properties, did a few drive-bys, emailed one another links to houses and even duplexes and came to the conclusion very quickly that to rent a house in our neighborhood  (we don't particularly want to live elsewhere as we have become attached to everything about our location) is to pay the same amount for a mortgage in our neighborhood and with tax-breaks and other such incentives for first-time home-buyers with perfect credit (I guess I am more responsible than I give myself credit for. OH! SNAP!) we're actually kind of qualified and totally eligible-ish to possibly, maybe even in the next year, buy our first home...

 

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About a month ago, I decided it was time to cut the cord. The day Fable turned nine-months old I suddenly felt the need to remove her from my breast, my body, and my bedroom. The feeling was overwhelming, like an instinct. It was time. Starting then I would slowly wean her, no longer put her to sleep in our bed, yes, even walk away from her from time to time, regardless of her screams of mamamamamamama! to pick her up. I was no longer enjoying being an extension of her. I wanted my body back, my space and perhaps more importantly, wanted her to learn how to sleep alone, entertain herself from time to time, and, yes, become more independent. 

 

A far cry from the way I felt months (even weeks!) earlier when I had a hard time leaving the room without her on my hip. When all I wanted to do was be with her. As close to her as possible without swallowing her whole.

 

I figured these last few weeks would be difficult and they have been. Fable refuses her crib with flailing hysterics and although her willpower is impressive, I will NOT let her win and so began hours-long, sometimes even all-night bedtime prep that I am proud to say has never ended with Fable sleeping in our bed but continues to frequently end with Fable sleeping in her stroller after long walks around the living room in circles at 2am, and me scolding myself the entire time for allowing her to sleep in our bed in the first place...

 

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Summer came fashionably late in L.A. this year but when she finally arrived? SHE ARRIVED. Angry, unapologetic and 75% humid. I am one of the nicest people you will ever meet when I'm not sweating balls. I hug strangers, fill empty meters, dance down the streets high-fiving Suits while birds sing songs on my shoulders. But when I'm hot and my thong is stuck to my ass with itchy sweat and my shirt is soaked through and my feet are covered with a film of heat-dust-wetness? I might just punch you in the face for no reason.

 

It's been in the 90's and beyond these last two weeks- some days have reached well into the 100s and contrary to the usual LA heatwave, it's been humid. Humidity is the single reason I could never live on the East coast. I will likely live and die on the West Coast of the US if only because I can't deal with moist summers. Of course, humid or not, I suck at being hot. I'm a sweater. I don't perspire like a lady, I sweat like a man. Like a LARGE, overweight man after a jog. It's too bad, really, especially considering my hairstyle (bangs tend to get a little... piecy in 100 degree weather) but mainly its just wildly uncomfortable. 

 

So all this to bring me to the following unfortunate truth...

 

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I haven't had a period in six-months. I know, I'm breastfeeding so you're probably like, well, duh! But actually? No. I started my period six weeks post-partum because my body is insane and thinks I'm some kind of breeding ground. In the good old days, pre birth control, I would likely have ten kids by the time I was twenty-one. Rough, that would have been but I digress.

 

Rebecca Woolf circa a long time ago, twenty-eight-year-old mother of 18.

 

It isn't a coincidence that IUD is DUI backwards. Driving drunk leads to crashing much like IUDs often do. That is, if you're me. Specifically me last week when I had an emotional breakdown followed by a bout of OMGI'mPregnantitis. I'm usually a pretty balanced girl. I'm not prone to mood swings or PMS. I have my moments of fog but seldom freak out. That was until two weeks ago when I started to feel funny. Hormonal funny. Emotional, on edge and totally beside myself with bouts of random tears, even anger. I felt like I was crashing after a nine-month high and maybe I was. But at the time, all I could think was, "Oh my God, what if I'm pregnant?"

 

I had soon convinced myself that my belly was huge and pregnant looking. I examined my naked body in the bathroom mirror in disbelief. 

 

"I look AT LEAST four-months pregnant, Oh my God."

 

It didn't stop there. My sense of smell was noticeably heightened when I evacuated my kids and dogs from our house because I smelled fire and was convinced it was coming from inside the walls.  We stood outside for ten minutes with Hal on the phone, before I realized that what I was smelling was coming from a down-the-street neighbor's charcoal barbeque...

 

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(continued from Ten Days of Summer Part One and Part Two)

 

Okay so obviously I need a second vacation from my first vacation because a week later, here I am, wrapping up my Ten Days of Summer post(s) and I'm scratching my head trying to remember what we even did. (Lucky for me, there's flickr which I'm religious about updating, to remind me so my brain doesn't have to do as much work.)

 

Before I bust out the rest of my San Diego fun tips, I would like to make clear that the only way to enjoy a vacation is to HAVE a vacation. Planning activities to do every second isn't necessarily the way to go, as evidenced by my panic attack during the second half of last week when I became Queen of the Walking Dead.  Not joking. So just keep that in mind, maybe. Learn from that which has tripped me. Remember to relax. Ahem. 

 

Day Six: Wednesday - The Train

 

Today doesn't count because it was Hal's 35th Birthday so I took the train home to L.A. to surprise him on the set of his show and spend the night with him Sans kids. (Hubba.) So although I did spend the day childless, I do recommend taking day trips with the kiddies via Metrolink or Amtrak Surfliner (Metrolink is 1/3 of the price so you might want to check them first.)

 

passing through San Clemente on the Amtrak Surfrider (missed the Metrolink!) which rides along the coast from San Diego to San Louis Obispo

 

We were planning on taking the train (Metrolink, obvy) from Encinitas to the new Children's Museum downtown on Sunday (which I have heard nothing but amazing things about but have yet to experience firsthand, btw) but never got around to it because of the whole exhaustion-omg-we-need-to-rest-now-methinks situation.

 

I'm a huge proponent of train travel. It's relatively cheap, environmentally friendly and so much fun for both children and adults! Plus, day trips can feel like full-on vacations when you're packing backpacks instead of the family car. 

 

 

Day Seven: Thursday ...

 

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(continued from Ten Days of Summer: Part One)

 

Day Three: Sunday:  Sunset Picnic on Moonlight Beach

 

 

We spent most of the day Sunday splashing around my parent's pool which isn't exactly a public destination (although I do recommend it!) and then later that afternoon picked up some fish/mushroom tacos and headed down to our favorite beach, Moonlight to dine on blankets as the sun set. Tres, tres belle.

 

 

Beaches are their most beautiful at dusk, much like people are. And Moonlight is the perfect beach for a picnic because the parking is plentiful and there are no steps. (There also happens to be a fantastic playground in the sand, just beyond the beach volleyball courts.) Of course, I'm slightly biased as I spent every summer of my youth frolicking along its sands but still. It's an amazing place.

 

 

Day Four: Monday...

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We arrived in San Diego Thursday for our home-away-from-home summer vacation, sadly minus Hal who is still working as I type this on a Saturday night because that's how he rolls and we all cry because we miss him like mad.

 

We traveled south to my parent's house because it's summer and we don't quite have the funds to hop a plane to Hawaii or Amalfi or anywhere that isn't free. Archer has ten days off between the last day of "junior preschool" and the first day of summer school which meant HOW THE HELL AM I GOING TO ENTERTAIN TWO KIDS FOR TEN DAYS ALL BY MYSELF? VACATION TO GOOEY AND PAPA'S HOUSE!  

 

So here we are. And it is lovely. I thought it might be kind of fun to blog our to-do every couple days here on SFTB as kind of an impromptu what-do-do-in-San-Diego list I decided to put together in the last two minutes of writing this sentence. 

 

As you may or may not know, I grew up in north county San Diego and regularly spend time down here with my family and old friends. I've written lists of my favorite things to do in Los Angeles, my home of ten years, but never written a cohesive list or reference guide to my favorite San Diego activities. So here is a calendar of awesome summer to-dos in real time. 

 

Day One: Friday: SeaWorld

 

SeaWorld was kind enough to comp a trip for the kids, my parents and me, and it was awesome. It was also the first time I'd been to SeaWorld since I was fourteen. We went all the time as kids but it was especially fun returning as a parent. And a trip to watch Archer scurry down the rabbit holes of my childhood.

 

Whereas, I always loved Seaworld for its sea creatures (specifically petting sea cucumbers in the tidepools so fun) Archer was more interested in rolling down grassy knolls with my dad:

 

 

 ... Dancing around picnic tables for an hour:

 

 

 ...and of course, riding the "boxes in the sky" over the bay:

 

 

 He also enjoyed dining with shamu...

 

 

...and OF COURSE the kid's play area formerly known as Captain Kid's World:

 

So much fun and yet... the "boxes" were BY FAR the high point of Archer's afternoon:

 

(In fact I'm pretty sure shamu was the only animal Archer cared about and he cared for all of three minutes. Needless to say he's not the animal person his mother is...)

 

All in all, SeaWorld was pretty badass but the crowds were kind of annoying. Also can we please talk about how many bad tattoos exist in theme parks? Seriously, people. The Calvin and Hobbs pissing on a Chevrolet sign on your shoulder? Might want to wear a shirt sleeve on that arm no offense. 

 

 Day Two: Saturday...

 

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"Daddy wants the Phillips-head screwdriver, mommy," Archer said. 

 

I went through the tool cabinet and retrieved what I figured to be a screwdriver and handed it over. 

 

"Here you go," 

 

"Thank you, Mommy."

 

Ten seconds later Archer reemmerged. "This isn't the Phillips-head, Mommy. Daddy needs a different one."

 

"Oh. Okay." I finally found what ended up being the correct screwdriver and went back to tending to Fable, who was in one of her YOU WILL NOT CAN NOT PUT ME DOWN moods, which, fine, at least she's cute. 

 

Five minutes later, I went to check on the boys. Archer had gone in the bedroom to "help Hal" put together his bed and I could just make out their voices, dancing down the hallway and into the living room.

 

I knocked on the door. 

 

"Come in," Archer said. "Daddy and I are making a bed! See?"

 

Archer was clutching an empty plastic bag, arranging a dozen or so little screws for Hal, counting and arranging them neatly in two little piles. And then I thought, holy shit. This is one of those moments Archer is going to totally remember and Hal will never forget- the afternoon they first made something together, built something together and they will both go through their lives better men because they had this day with the one-thousand piece bed-set and all the screws and everything all over the floor and oh so sweet to see them bond holygodican'tevendealit'ssosweetandcute!

 

I got misty. 

 

 

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She started yesterday. 10:00am she arrived as I ran around like mad to neaten and prepare and label everything so that I could leave and not worry. Er... worry less.

 

She came to the door with kindness and we hugged. 

 

I met her through a family at Archer's school. She had nannied for their family for years and was looking for a new family - a few extra hours during the week. The timing was perfect as Hal and I had days earlier discussed that it was time to hire someone for part-time help so I could write for ten hours a week stress-free, pursuing the scripts I started last year and wanted to finish before 2019. With Hal back to work we could finally afford it. A huge relief. 

 

I showed her around the house. Introduced her to the dogs and the space, the stroller and what food Fable preferred. I informed her of Fable's inability to nap longer than twenty-minutes. Her love of which books and toys. Her favorite spoon. 

 

"Fable loves when you sing to her," I said. "It makes her laugh."

 

 

 

She immediately started singing. And Fable loosened in my arms and smiled. Her smiles became giggles and before I knew it, the two of them were laughing together like old friends. 

 

I let go. Handed her over.

 

I wanted to cry. I was so relieved. So happy. So grateful to have found someone so gentle and kind, happy to sing to my baby, someone who could within five minutes of entering our home, make her laugh. 

 

I wrote all day at the coffee shop never once worrying. I didn't even call. And when I came home? Fable was happy, her face flushed and covered with strawberries. 

 

This morning, was a somewhat different story...

 

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The longest I've ever lived in any place (besides my parent's house) used to be one year.

 

I'd sign a year-lease and move out by the first of the thirteenth month or I'd cancel my lease early and have to pay all these penalty fees, including my deposit because of roommate issues (did I ever tell you story about how I went to Europe for a few weeks and came home to find my beloved goldfish floating belly up in a tank of beer? Or how about morning I woke up to a roommate naked on the foot of my bed, next to a neat little puddle of his own vomit? AND A GOOD MORNING TO YOU, SIR!) or neighborhood issues (did I ever tell you the story about the helicopter that landed on my roof c/o your basic garden variety drug bust? Or what about the time the neighborhood kilt-wearing flasher chased me to the front door of my apartment completely naked from the waist down? No?) or just because I found a greater deal on a greater apartment with more bang for the buckage. 

 

That was up until we moved where we are currently living, more than three and a half years ago holy shit that's a long time.

 

One of the major pluses of moving every year is that it is impossible to accumulate stuff - one is basically forced to sort through and discard superfluous goods and items while packing for the move, which I love. And which up until yesterday I haven't had a reason to do. 

 

No we're not moving. But Archer's twin bed did arrive and with it the fire under my ass to go through EEEEEEVVVVVERRRRYTHING to make room for Fable.

 

Since Fable's birth, she's been sleeping on our bed, sharing a dresser with me and a closet with Archer's walls (I've been hanging her dresses on the various hooks and nails around Archer's room because there's no closet in Archer's room.) Basically, Fable has yet to have any space of her own, including a crib. (Her crib is Archer's old crib which has been converted into a toddler bed for some time.) 

 

Yesterday, when the twin mattress arrived to our no-space-place (the storage bed-frame will be here any day oy vey) I figured it was time to dig through dust-bunnies and get rid of everything that wasn't totally beloved. 

 

Two hours later? I had eight trash-bags full of toys, stuffed animals, changing items, blankets and pajamas to donate to local shelter which HOLY SHIT! How in the...?

 

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I just realized I have yet to divulge the information gathered at Fable's "head-check" last week during which she was weighed, measured and re-measured my make sure she didn't need further tests for having an abnormally large head. It turns out that because her length and weight were equally as off the charts as her head size she was well-proportioned and no cause for concern, which "duh" of course she was but it left me wondering what would have happened if it wasn't? Tests? Cat-scans? Helmets? Me being worried for (most likely) no reason?

 

Fable Luella: 8 months and 23 pounds of pure gorgeous perfection.

 

The various charts and graphs and "this is normal" vs. "this is abnormal" make me feel poopy in the tummy. Anxious. Annoyed. Uncomfortable. Worried. Even angry. I realize the importance of taking measurements and weighing our babies but the whole "off the charts," "below average," "you should worry because your child is too small or too big or too this or too that etc" can be enough to give a parent a complex for life. 

 

With Archer it had little to do with physical attributes (he was always tall but never off the charts). He was a late bloomer from the get. Crawling at 13 months and walking at 17 months, which was "slightly worrisome" to the pediatrician. It wasn't until we went in for his two-year-check-up that our doctor handed us red flags and told us to start waving them. He wasn't talking yet. Not even a little bit. He was late. He needed help. It was time to have him tested. So we did. Specialists and therapists and early interventionists OH MY! 

 

Archer was fine, of course. He was just late to talk. Late to walk. Late to everything. He was a late bloomer who blossomed beautifully on his own in due time and yet two of his four years of life were spent under the eyes and ears of doctors and family members who "worried" about him...

 

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 Archer turned four on Saturday and to celebrate we had ourselves a party. 

 

I'm not a party planner by any means. I love going to weddings but you couldn't pay me to have had my own. Getting married in Vegas in jeans was quite positively the only way I would ever get married. And not just because it cost a grand total of $199.99. (I'll totally drink your free booze and get all drunk and stupid at your wedding but there's NO WAY IN HELL my parents are going to pay I'm paying tens of thousand of dollars to get my friends all stupid and drunk at mine, can I get an amen?)

 

I kind of feel the same way about parties. The last birthday party I had was my 21st and I threw up all over myself the entire time so there you go. Hosting parties makes me sick to my estomago. 

 

In all seriousness, though, I'm not a planner. While all the other mothers were planning their kids' 1st, 2nd and 3rd Birthday parties I was hosting casual family gatherings at my parent's house for Archer. Because, frankly, he didn't care where we were, who was there or what was going on, as long as there was cake.

 

Archer's 4th Birthday Cake c/o Naya's Garden

 

This year would be the exception. A fourth birthday seemed especially worthy of a celebration. Not that a third, second and first aren't worthy ... It's just that Archer was finally old enough this year to WANT a birthday party. And I was old enough to realize that I wouldn't necessarily have to do all this crazy planning to give him one. 

 

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