Straight from the Bottle : growing up

Never Mind (Estate)

GirlsGoneChild — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 18:19:00 GMT

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!) ...

So every night for the last week Hal and I have been on Craigslist scrolling through options, side by side like we did four years ago, when we outgrew our one-bedroom apartment. I've become obsessed with googling rentals and doing neighborhood drive-bys and fantasizing over the kids having THEIR OWN ROOMS so they don't wake one another up all night long.

(I didn't realize how frustrating two kids sharing a room could be. Especially when one is as sleep-challenged as Fable is. If Archer gets up in the middle night to pee, Fable wakes up screaming instantly and then Hal and I wake up and the dogs wake up and we're all up, fumbling and bumping into each other in the darkness of our narrow hallway. Oy.)

I digress. One day I'm certain we'll be able to afford a three-bedroom house in our neighborhood. In the meantime? We'll happily rent. And what a blessing it is that we can afford to do that.

And now I must end this blog post so I can go back to refreshing craigslist like a crazy person.

***

Bad Guys

GirlsGoneChild — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 22:50:00 GMT

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..."

... gave up.

I didn't know what to say. Up until yesterday Archer had never mentioned swords or guns or violence of any kind. I managed to keep superheroes and "bad guys" and weapons and people behaving aggressively toward one another out of Archer's mind and day-to-day experiences. And even though I knew it was only time before this day would come, it still came as a shock to me.

I was unprepared. On one hand I was happy to hear him makebelieving with the other kids at school but at the same time? He was talking about shooting something with a sword. Bad guy or not, it was the last thing I wanted to hear.

"We don't shoot bad guys in our house, okay? Harry apparently has other rules but around here, everyone is a good guy, cool?"

Archer put down his make-believe weapon, shrugged and went to play Legos but I was shaking. Heartbroken. It was like watching my child strip himself of innocence in front of my eyes. I was unprepared. Completely. I've spent the last four years teaching Archer that the single most important thing a person can be is kind. Kind to themselves. Kind to other people and creatures, their planet, surroundings... no matter how awful things and people and the world can seem. No matter how painful a bee sting, you NEVER squash a bee. And now Archer was shooting things? Surely that was the MOST unkind act. And yet... trying to explain the whys and why nots seemed at once more violent than letting Archer go on with his friends and his make believe.

And so, I didn't bring it up again, dealing instead with my own arguing voices and angst.

Why must there be pain and bad guys and violence and darkness and swords that shoot bad guys. Why Why must superheroes fight violence with violence? Why must I be so naive? Why does Harry have to have such a BIG MOUTH?

The truth was, I wanted to strangle Harry. I wanted to strangle Harry's parents. I wanted to strangle the world for being so cruel and unfair and violent and painful.

But being the pacifist that I am, I simply cried.

***

*names have been changed

For Real (Estate)

GirlsGoneChild — Sun, 09 Aug 2009 05:22:00 GMT

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.

WHAT!!??? That's fucking crazy. That's insanity. I don't even believe it. How can this be?

After some preliminary conversations with several real-estate agents, Hal and I made an appointment to meet with our preferred dude tomorrow, to help us put a plan in place and figure out all the logistics of how the hell we can make this happen, without rushing or pushing or overwhelming ourselves. Of course, I'll leave the questions and note-taking and everything else up to Hal because me? I'll likely spend the entire meeting banging my head against the table saying, "Omg. I'm an adult. OMG. I'm an adult" over and over until the meeting ends because for some reason, it took looking into home-buying for me to finally see myself as such.

In the meantime? I'm sitting here in my pajamas banging my head against the couch saying, "OMG, I'm an adult. OMG, I'm an adult. OMG..." Because OMG, I really am an adult.

I'm an adult.

***

A Whole New World

GirlsGoneChild — Thu, 24 Jan 2008 05:57:00 GMT

Pardon the Little Mermaid reference but the life of a preschool parent is going to take some getting used to. Everything is so serious, now. So many new rules. Is it wrong that I just want to sneak out the back door and not buy into any of it?

...Outrunning everyone but his shadow...

Apparently there was some drama at the end of the year when a teacher left Archer's school without notice. Parents were livid and still are it seems, deciding to create a sort of "parent's union" and hosting underground meetings about their children's well being, voicing their concerns, etc. I RSVP'd for the meeting because I didn't know how to say no, and then I felt bad that I even wanted to (say no) because I really should be concerned with my child's well-being, too. And I am, but not in a "parent's conference" kind of way. It gives me a poopy stomach just thinking about it, getting together for lemon squares and chitchat about playground etiquette or whatever. It's times like these when I wonder if I'm even cut out for this parent-stuff. I think I'm a good mom and I love my son more than anything, obviously, but the bureaucracy of parenting is intimidating as hell, not to mention something I'm very uncomfortable with. I want Archer to make friends and learn stuff. I want his preschool experience to be as amazing as it possibly can be... but. Butbutbutbuuuuut... All the drama. Drama! Why!? WHY!?

Which kind of in a way brings me to my next point of weirdness: birthday parties. I almost forgot the whole "when it's your birthday you have to invite the whole class" thing... I hated it when I was a kid because for one, I didn't want everyone at my birthday party and two, I didn't want to be invited to some kid's party if he/she didn't want me there. Of course I understand that this "invite the whole class" thing is standard procedure for parents these days. No one wants to exclude anyone or hurt any child's feelings, which I realize is a kind gesture of loveliness. But it feels so... phony? Then I take a step back and think, "What the hell is wrong with you, Rebecca?" Seriously. What is wrong with me? Why am I so wigged out by this stuff?

Maybe I'm just reeling from the shock of sending Archer to school. Dropping my baby off in tears every morning is no picnic, and although he's wonderfully happy every afternoon when I come to pick him up, I'm starting to think my previous apprehension sending him to preschool early had less to do with whether or not he was ready and more to do with whether or not I was. The truth is... I'm not ready. Everything feels like it's moving way too fast, all of these milestones like butterflies I can't catch and I'm sort of standing here, dumbstruck, watching them flutter away...

...Why do you have to grow up so fast? Huh?...

I'm not ready for secret parent meetings and RSVPing for 4th birthday parties and trying to make small-talk with real adults in their adult houses with three (plus) bedrooms and backyards. I'm intimidated by the Angeleno elite who send their children to Archer's school and their fancy cars-- parents who have the space and monetary means to invite a whole school to their children's parties without flinching.

I feel like a child in her mother's high-heels trying to act way more grown-up than I am. It's one thing parenting a child in a world I'm familiar with. Quite another dropping Archer off in a new place where things just seem so, I dunno, different.

And a little sad, too.

***

Fast Times at Montessori School

GirlsGoneChild — Tue, 08 Jan 2008 07:14:00 GMT

"I'm going to sneak away, now" I whispered to Archer's teacher, just as Archer was making himself comfortable with the other boys and girls at the snack table.

"Sneaking out is a bad idea," she said. "Then he'll think you left him. Tell him goodbye, instead. Tell him that you'll see him in a few hours."

"But he'll cry!"

"Yeah, I know. They always do. But after a while he'll be fine. And pretty soon he won't cry at all. You'll see."

I crouched down next to Archer who was enjoying drinking his water from a Dixie cup.

"Archer? I have to go now but I'll pick you up in a few hours, okay? Have fun at school! Bye-bye!"

"Bye-bye," Archer said, as I scurried away.

Don't look back. Don't look back. Don't look back...

But of course... Because I couldn't help it, I looked back. A frown was forming on his face and I knew any second he would cry. I pushed through the front door just in time to miss hearing his wails.

His preschool was the one and only school we looked at, a little Montessori school up the road. I didn't even know what Montessori meant, to be honest. I still don't really. I just liked the teachers and the children and had a feeling it was a keeper. I liked that the school was painted red and the schoolyard had an area of dirt for the kids to roll around in. I liked that the children were from all backgrounds. I liked that classes didn't believe in parent-carpooling for fieldtrips, instead taking the children to and fro by way of the Metro bus. I liked that there was nothing neurotic or phony about the place. It was laid back. As preschool should be, me thinks.

I never bought into the whole preschool hysteria. Maybe I missed the gene, but I just don't get it at all. Reminds me of waiting in line for an hour outside the "cool club" which is only "cool" because Jared Leto's band played there once or something. In my experience the "coolest" clubs usually suck. But hype is powerful and parents want to do the right thing for their kids at all costs and sometimes that means visualizing the emperor's robes. (I'm not discounting the probability that I too will compliment the emperor on his invisible platinum jock-strap. I've most definitely done it before. )

After leaving Archer, I sat outside the school in my car for several minutes, waiting for the teacher to come get me but she didn't come. So I drove to the gym and worked out. I went home and took a long shower. Wrote some emails. Did some errands. Had a quiet afternoon to myself, checking the clock only sixty-seven (thousand) times. Not bad.

When I went to pick Archer up he didn't see me right away so I stood in the back of the class and watched him. He was eating his lunch quietly, surrounded by the other children. He was smiling and humming and pointing. He was happy as I've ever seen him.

"Archer. You're mommy is here," one of the little girls in Archer's class screamed.

All the children waved. "Hi, Archer's mommy!"

(Last month Archer and I visited the school two days a week to get him acclimated, which was why all the kids knew be my name. And by name I mean "Archer's Mommy")

Archer looked up from his lunch and smiled at me.

"Mommmmmy!!!" he shrieked, running to me. He put his little head on my shoulder and looked up at me again. "Aw, Mommy yuv."

Then he proceeded to drag me around the room, pointing out a puzzle and a peg board and showing me the rug he sat on for storytime, before waving to his teacher and the other children and saying, "bye, bye cuel!"

On the way home I asked him what he thought of preschool and he pointed out the window.

"Cuel! Cuel! Cuel!" he shrieked. "Cuel!"

He was beaming with pride and so was I. We both made it out relatively unscathed. Some tears shed on both sides of the school-door but that was to be expected.

"Gimme five!" I said.

Already one-step-ahead of the game, Archer held out both hands and gave me ten.

that wasn't so bad after all!

***

With the Appearance of Freckles

GirlsGoneChild — Fri, 12 Oct 2007 04:38:00 GMT

Before Archer was born I figured people were born with freckles, or maybe it was something I never thought entirely about. Not until Archer was born pale and unspeckled.

I've always been fond of freckles. I think they're adorable on children and sexy on adults. Growing up I memorized the freckled patters on my arms and legs: the pattern that forms a little dipper on my right arm. I remember, in Kindergarten excitedly finding Cassiopeia on my left shoulder and how I was with the boy I had a crush on as we counted our freckles together under the slide.

I kept my favorite freckles a secret and when I couldn't find constellations on my skin I drew them myself. A giraffe down my stomach. A robot on my calf. Sometimes I would find a new freckle and give it a name. And every year more of them would appear, multiplying under the sun, having freckle babies in the night when my eyes were closed.

I have been waiting rather excitedly to see whether or not Archer would become freckled, covered with constellations, speckled with little moles he might one day call "his favorite". They recently started to appear, the freckles, popping up like little mushrooms, dark scattered specks upon his toes and fingers and scrawny knees.

The first freckle I noticed was on his toe. He was wearing sandals and then POW! It existed. Out of nowhere. Several weeks ago, it happened again, except this time on his face-- two tiny dots appeared:

Skin no longer a pure porcelain. When you're a new parent, every little thing becomes a major milestone, just like every silly scribble-drawing becomes a masterpiece. I am more in love with Archer's quirks-- the things that make him unique. The marks and spots that appear and form, the scars.

Never trust a man who doesn't have a visible scar, I was once told by a very wise man I met on an airplane on my way home from London. I have no recollection of how or why the subject of "scars" or even men came up, but airplanes do funny things to strangers where sage advice is concerned.

The innocence and purity of youth are as ephemeral as the wind. Babies quickly become children who swear and hit and get angry. Who cry and spit and fall in love. Who break hearts and toys and scar and wake up with new freckles, after flailing, sleepless nights.

I know that children grow fast, that every parent mourns the quickness of time, change, and the terrifying things that happen when innocence is replaced by intelligence. Doubt. Cynicism. It can be difficult to watch our babies become little people, every day more ringed like the trunks of trees, marked by life in all it's unpredictability. Little clouds changing so quickly it is almost possible to watch them grow, shift.

The man on the airplane was definitely right. One should never trust a man (or woman) who doesn't have any scars. And life moves fast and change is constant and children grow up, look different, start to recognize themselves in the mirror and in secret choose favorite freckles under the slide.

There is something very exciting about gazing across the vastness of a new and stretching skin, watching as stars appear and constellations form. Overnight. On Archer's face. Between his toes. Across his skin, like canvas.

A little sad, maybe. But mostly exciting.

***

Crying With Scissors

GirlsGoneChild — Tue, 18 Sep 2007 03:52:00 GMT

I have been dragging my feet about the whole hair-cutting thing. Sure, I've trimmed Archer's locks once or twice but I've never sat down to give him a bonafide haircut.

Any new parent knows that a haircut is so much more than just a haircut. It's this weird new world of non-babydom. Where hair grows like a weed and there is nothing you can do to stop it. Even though it seems too soon. Too soon for haircuts and size 9 shoes and 3T clothes. How is he already in a 3T? HOW!?

First or even second or third haircuts are a hard pill to swallow for some parents. Myself included. And I'm pretty sure Kate Hudson knows what I'm talking about.

Today I bit the bullet and decided it was time to cut Archer's hair. Because it seemed like maybe it was bothering him, falling down in his face as I pushed him on the swing. One hand on the chain, the other in his face, pushing his bangs out of his eyes.

Archer in "The Before."

It took about an hour to get it right, carefully snipping little bits at a time as not to stab him with the scissors. Trying to distract him with the television as I scurried around him on my knees.

The whole time I kept shaking my head, muttering to myself like a mad woman.

"This is a horrible idea, Rebecca. Just horrible."

I gathered the hair up in a little pile. I made a little ball out of it, rubbing it in my hands for a moment before realizing how silly I was to feel so attached to a pile of hair. I quickly threw it away.

And then I cried.

Because I know that it won't be long until he needs another haircut. And then another. Because there is nothing I can do to keep his hair from growing. Or him from growing up. And because tonight I looked out across the living room at him dancing back and forth to Yo Gabba Gabba, his hair out of his beautiful eyes, dirt on his shirt, and food all over his chin and there was nothing baby about him. Not even a little bit.

He had suddenly become a little boy.

***

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.

***