Straight from the Bottle : Nostalgia

Greatest (And Not So Greatest) Hits, 2007

GirlsGoneChild — Sat, 29 Dec 2007 23:25:00 GMT

(Cue ballad-esque music.)

2007 has been a year of highs and lows. Agonies and ecstasies. Moments both predictable and surprising. Good times and bad. Smiles and frowns. Bad days and good nights. Tears of joy and depression. (Insert bad High School graduation speech cliche, here.) So it is with great honor and gratitude that I present you with the top ten high-points of Straight From the Bottle! Followed by this year's "stinky diapers" or low, sad, and/or difficult moments:

Ten Tasty Tushies (Good Times) 2007

1. All Those Wonderful Outings (Even if by the time we got there it was over) Better late than never, as they say. (And high-fives to "they" who "say".)

2. Freedom Isn't Free (It's actually pretty expensive after airfare, hotel, etc, etc.): My first solo-trip away from Archer made me realize the importance of having a life outside the mother hood.

3. I Fall In Love... With a Friend: Who also happens to have a son Archer's age. (And I'm happy to say, we're still going strong, today.)

4. Archer Turns Two, Wins Hearts: Another gushy letter but how can I help it? I mean... Really.

5. Penis Balloons! Ah, Very Festive!: This was one of the highlights of the year fo sho: Archer's 2nd Birthday Party. And this post? Maybe the most I've ever laughed while writing. Gotta love that.

6. Viva Los Camino De Sesame!: Finding out that because of Sesame Street I could sleep in? Praise Jeebs, that was a beautiful, beautiful day.

7. Better Really Late Than Really, Really Late: Archer starts talking. A little bit. Finally. (And never a sweeter sound...)

8. Archer Blows Out the Fire: The most touching moment of the year for sure and a moment I will never forget. Not that I ever doubted Archer's quiet wisdom, but still, I was floored by his eloquence.

9. Halloween and Halloweeve: This is kind of a two-part hit because Halloween deserves two thumbs-ups for sure. We went as the Ernie and Bert family, complete with Rubber Ducky. I looked more like a freaky clown but Archer's cute and Hal's unibrow were so impressive nobody cared about my failed "look". Halloweeve was just a good excuse to be a poet. (And, yes! I know it!)

10. Holiday. Celebrate. (It has been so nice!): Still home for the holidays, here. And it's been great. Even though we're all still sick. Can't nobody hold us down...

Ten Stinky Diapers (Bad-ish Times): 2007

1. Archer Literally Gives me a Piece of Poop: Oh, man. Nothing says parenthood like clutching a piece of poop in the shower. That about sums it up.

2. Judgment Day: After judging parents who use toddler-leashes, I almost become one, myself. Almost.

3. Acquiescing to Archer's "Testing": I've written about this at length on both of my blogs, but the hardest part was having to swallow my pride and "seek help when I felt I should be giving it..."

4. Archer's Nightmares, Same as My Own: I was going through a really rough time when I wrote this. Bad. Bad. Bad. In retrospect I'm pretty sure that's where Archer's nightmares were coming from. I couldn't sleep most nights, haunted by my own demons that no one but I could make go away. And that was rough. Realizing that I was an adult. On my own. In the bed that I had made. Unable to help myself and therefore unable to help Archer.

5. The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Mother: I think it's safe to say we've all been there... in the movie theatre alone. Or the bookstore. Or the party... surrounded by people and yet, lost, out-of-our element: alone. Of course, none of us are alone in our feeling this way. And that's kind of nice to know. Really nice, actually.

6. Terrible Tantrums (He's Two, Folks.): Nothing says toddler like a good old-fashioned tantrum in a public place. Make it a daily occurrence and, well... sarcasm certainly helps.

7. Realizing That I'm Annoying as Shit (And you realizing that you're just as annoying): Hal and I take our first vacation together without Archer which was awesome but what was not so awesome was how much we talked about Archer, like, to strangers. Uh-Noy-Ing x 9891283.

8. Yummy Mummies? What a Crock: I was not stoked after reading the Yummy Mummy essay is Harper's Bazaar and am finding it a lot annoying at the categorization of modern mothers. Are you a hipster parent? A yummy mummy? A SAHM? WHO CARES!? Anyway, I ranted a teensy tinsy bit about it, here.

9. Nicole Richie Steals Archer's Name (in my dream): In a recent dream Nicole Richie named her unborn baby, Archer, which sucked but not as bad as the epiphany I gained from said dream. (Damn subconscious! Ahhhh!)

10. Hellmerican Airlines: High School Musical 2? Archer up all night pressing buttons and driving us all mad on the red-eye from LAX to Fort Lauderdale. SUCK to the Y. Still recovering from that one, actually. Road trips on the other hand, we're damn good at.

***

Now, if I may... a toast. Let us all lift our glasses in celebration! For we have survived 2007 as parents and/or humans. May 2008 be just as survivable! Here's to a future of memories and moments both tasty and stinking of poo! (Because that's what it's all about, people. That's what it's all about.)

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Nightmares on Crib Sheets

GirlsGoneChild — Fri, 10 Aug 2007 07:32:00 GMT

My earliest memories involve nightmares. Waking up screaming and sweating, waiting to be rescued by my mother in her nightgown or my father rubbing his eyes.

Most nights they would take me back to bed with them, or my mother would sing to me or my Dad would scratch my back.

The nightmares persisted, almost every night for five years. Eventually the nightmares became less. I started sleep-walking instead. Once I sleepwalked to the staircase and tumbled all the way down. I woke up bleeding from the head and totally confused. But most of the time I just woke up in the bathroom or on the bedroom floor. There was nothing worse, though, then the nightmares. I had a recurring fear of skinny objects. A phobia. In my dreams toothpicks had legs and they were all marching side by side, thousands of them, kind of like that scene with the broomsticks in Fantasia.

I hadn't thought about my nightmares in forever. Not until Archer started waking up screaming. Standing in his crib, holding open his curtains, staring out the window like he was watching something horrific. Sweating and shaking-- totally inconsolable.

This has been going on, now, for the last few nights and I don't know what to do. I wish I knew what the dreams were about but he cannot tell me. He just screams and shakes and I do what my parents did for me, rub his back, sing to him...

The ants go marching one by one, hoorah.

...Until he falls back asleep, up against me on the couch or in bed.

Like right now. His little head on my lap as I type this from the safety of our couch, where nightmares cannot reach him for whatever reason.

I remember feeling so safe between my parents, like nothing could touch or harm me. Like everything was going to be okay. I knew that Boogie-men couldn't reach me and there was no such thing as monsters under my parent's bed. Not even marching skinny toothpicks could find their way back into my subconscious.

In many ways I still believe that-- that when something scary happens, or upsetting, that I can just run away to my parent's house. That they will take care of me. Protect me from boogie-men or the scary things in life. The complexities. The fears of having so much responsibility, of feeling unprepared for domestic life-- for marriage and motherhood and being an adult. Waking life can be just as scary, just as out-of-control as nightmares. Sometimes even worse. The inner-demons we wrestle with in our waking life cannot be killed with a lullaby or a parent's warm embrace.

I look at Archer, asleep in my lap and I think, "I am his safety. Nightmares do not reach him here." But one day they will. One day he will wake up a man. And his nightmares will all but be forgotten, the tremors of real life taking their place, and he will come to me for safety and suddenly realize that the only person who can protect him from his fears and chase away the boogie-men is himself. That growing up means having to sleep alone sometimes, with bad dreams and the ominous shadows that filter in through open windows.

And he will want so badly to lie beside me, to believe me when I say, "everything is going to be okay" and so will I. Because a parent wants nothing more than for their child to be happy. To sleep soundly. But a parent can only do so much.

No matter how much we want to chase away our children's nightmares, protect them from heartache, from their inner-demons, we are powerless. There will come a point when we cannot bring our babies to bed with us to stop the crying.

It has been difficult for me to come to recognize this about myself-- that knocking on my parent's door in the middle of the night will not make my boogie-men go away. Because I'm not the child anymore. I am the parent. I cannot seek protection, I must protect. I am the safety. I'm the one who opens the door.

I have the answers. Somewhere in here.

***

One Upon a Time... The Beach Was a Place to Relax

GirlsGoneChild — Wed, 27 Jun 2007 03:48:00 GMT

I grew up on the beach, frolicking in the white sands in slow motion, in a tan bathing suit and Jamaican braids. Oh wait. That wasn't me. I was the one in the bikini perpetually up my ass, tripping on dead jellyfish on my way back from the snack bar to my towel, where I would lie for hours empty of thought, concentrated fully on the status of my tan, which for the record was never very impressive.

Ah, yes. In those days I didn't even have to pack a towel. I just stripped down to my bathing suit and sprawled in the sand, face first. The beach was a place to relaaaaax. But only during the off-season. Summer was a different story. As soon as June hit, families would march down the sandbar in hoards, swarming the beach like flies on dried sea-kelp and as the day progressed I would inch myself farther toward the bluffs, where I could have *some* quiet.

Of course one could never fully escape the sand-kicking toddlers.

"Ughrrrrr," I mumbled. "Can't you keep your kids on THAT side of the checkered flag? Please?

Fast forward to.... Today when the beach is once again beneath me, but there is no such thing as "relax."

The beach has become a weekly activity. One, because it's way too hot on the Eastside and although it takes a lot to get me to go west of La Cienega, the promise of wet sand between my toes as opposed to the firey shit we have to endure at our local playground is enough for me to devote entire mornings to packing four HUGE tote-bags of snacks, towels, changes of clothes, diapers, swimmer diapers, swim trunks, graham crackers, cherries (de-pitted), water bottles, empty water bottles for ocean water, extra socks and sweaters (in case it gets cold), mounds of wet-wipes, SPF 1000 Sunscreen for "little faces" and 749 sand shovels. Not to mention the great fun of bracing the 10 Freeway.

But once we're there, it always seems worth it: fresh air, vast horizon, Matthew Mcconaughy doing yoga on the beach.

"Hey dude? Wanna dig a hole?" But this (see below photo) is one of the few moments Archer was at all interested in that idea.

Usually, he's running away from me as fast as his little legs can carry him, kicking sand at ~~all of my yesterdays~~ the sunbathers on a rather ambitious quest to Santa Barbara, only to be snatched up by an exhausted mommy *ahem* and dragged back to our heap of possessions, if and when we ever find them. (It always takes a shocking amount of time, even though we have brought the entire house to the beach with us.)

Two hours of that at the beach or anywhere else isn't very relaxing. Still-- it's beautiful. I've always loved the beach and chasing Archer is not so bad once I get going. It's better than sweating on the treadmill next to the dude whose B.O. smells like Mexican food.

And so what if there's no baby-oil or sun-in (or beer! who else used to put beer in their hair?) in my future? I stopped bleaching my hair years ago and I never could get a tan anyhow.

***

Hit Him and He'll Hit You Back

GirlsGoneChild — Sat, 27 Jan 2007 04:13:00 GMT

I don't condone fighting by any means. I'm into peace and love and vegetarianism. I don't agree with guns. Or the death penalty or spanking. Or even yelling. I'm all for passing the pipe and loving thy brother. I have never been fond of haters. Of any kind. I wish we could all just get along and make out with each other. Or at the very least, play nice.

When I was a little girl I was regularly pushed around. I grew up on a street full of boys who, annoyed with my cooties, threw rocks at my face, bitch-slapped me on the school bus and once gave me a concussion from pushing me off my bike. They called me "Becca woof-woof" when they weren't calling me other names like "Dog" and "Uglystupidface"

I tried to pretend like I didn't notice. I'd get back up, smile and hold back tears until I was alone. Or in the house where I would wail and scream and snort all over my mother's jeans.

I bought my own Vision skateboard and some Jimmy-Z shorts and tried to blend in with them. Maybe if I looked like less of a girl, they would teach me how to ollie off of their plywood ramp.

I had no idea how to stick up for myself. And you couldn't pay me to push someone back. Or talk back. Or anything.

I kind of assumed it was genetic and was afraid that Archer would be like me. Which is why when Archer got smacked in the face by the playground bully the other day, I did the cheerleading spirit-finger thingy when I saw him smack back.

It isn't that I advocate violence. Not at all. I just don't want him to take anyone's shit. Or get pushed off his bike without some kind of defensive strategy. Even if he is wearing a helmet for protection.

It's a crazy world, man. People don't play nice. I wish they did and we could all sit around in the sandbox and sing Koom-bi-ya, but we can't. People are angry. Crazy. Mean. And like to throw rocks in each other's faces.

And although two wrongs don't make a right, neither does one wrong and one weakling. I know because I was the child in the sandbox with sand in her eyes and bruises from the boys in the neighborhood, who sat there like an asshole, crying her eyes out.

And I REAAAAALY don't want that to be Archer. Because it sucked.

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A Heartbreaking Closet of Staggering Teensy-ness

GirlsGoneChild — Thu, 28 Dec 2006 06:11:00 GMT

Confession: I still store half my shit at my parent's house. The garage is overflowing with High School memorabilia, old journals and cardboard boxes full of origami-folded BFF notes that I never got around to tossing. And now, because our house is relatively small and considering how much baby shit a family accumulates/~~doesn't need at all but feels obligated to have because everyone says so~~ needs, it probably doesn't come as a shock when I admit that I store all of the stuff Archer has outgrown at my parent's house. From the bassinette to the Baby Bjorn to the Infant car seat-- it's all here. At my parent's house. In my old bedroom closet. In my brother's old bedroom closet and my sister's old bedroom-closet. (Yes, I have monopolized the entire house with my baggage. I'm rotten.)

Today I surveyed the piles of infant-loot. A friend of mine just had a baby boy so it was time to organize and select hand-me-downs. I went through the boxes and bags of infant gear, teensy-tiny infant sleeping gowns, cute-lil baby jeans, doll-clothes-like onesies and those hand-made booties that once upon a time were so sweet and wonderful but a year later, have now become heart-breaking. I lost it when I opened Archer's "Infant to 6-month" hat bin and sorted through the dozens of pageboy caps and knit hats and beanies Archer grew out of WAAAAY too fast.

Where did it go? Oh GAWD! Where did it goooooooo...?

My brother found me in a heap of baby booties this afternoon, sobbing like an insane person.

"Um... Bec?"

"Just, Go, David. LEAVE ME BE! Just GO!"

So he left, muttering something along the lines of "What the fuck happened to her?"

For the record, I have no idea. My only solace is knowing that one day soon we might get pregnant again and I can recycle these cutie-batooties.

Frankly, I don't know how parents part with their children's clothes. I'll probably end up doing like my Ma-in-Law who kept all of my husband's baby-stuff. Old teddy bears, blankies, etc.

I mean... How many little boys get to rock Daddy's personalized sweaters circa back-in-the-day?

After an hour of caressing every breast-milk stained onesie and sorting through piles of Archer's infancy, I collected a pile of suitable hand-me-downs and dried my weepy eyes.

Then I came downstairs and begged my husband for another baby.

"You're insane."

I blame the teensy-tiny baby clothes and those stupid friggin hats and booties, man.

Like Kryptonite for hormonal, baby-obsessed bitches like me.

***