Blood, sweat, gears, and tears

You know those ideas that start out sounding like good ideas? Ones like, I think I'll take the kids on a little bike ride? I'm thinking that instead of going to the gym, I'll pack my four year old and my nearly one year old into the trailer and just take a nice flat ride around the Toro Park neighborhood not far from my parents' house.

It has been a while since I rode around Toro Park. I know I used to do it when I lived here, and was about 23, and childless. My memory clearly does not serve, because I think I can just bike on a relatively flat trail straight around the smallish suburb, which sounds just about right with a 40-pounder and a 20-pounder in the trailer.

Things start off well; I bike away from the road and my parked car, heading down a dirt path next to nice golden hills and the occasional oak tree. Okay, so it is really windy. And the kids are really heavy.

Right about the time I think the trail is going to head back toward the front of the neighborhood, it suddenly veers the other way, heading straight up a very steep, gravelly hill. I bike my darnedest until I realize that no matter how low the gear, I am not going to be able to get up the hill. I'll just walk.

About 1/3 of the way up the hill, the bike starts frantically trying to bike itself out of my hands and backward down the hill, and I realize I probably only outweigh the bike, trailer, and kids by about 15 pounds. I leap my bare legs out of the way of its threatening chain, still maintaining my grip so as to avoid letting my children plummet to the bottom of the hill without me.

I finally make it to the top. Whew! At least the ride back down will be fun. Glad we're almost there! Except we aren't. Before my heart has recovered from the first climb, I'm upon another. And another. Selah keeps asking me nearly inaudible questions, and Asher occasionally cries. I try to ignore them all so the din doesn't drive me to commit suicide.

When I finally get to coast downhill a little, the bike gives a sudden lurch, which I don't really understand, but I keep going. To the next hill. Boy, I can't believe how much farther this has gone than I thought! Can't wait 'til we finally go downhill again! Which we don't, not for a while. I look back down the hill at the neighborhood, wondering if there's another way out, one other than turning back and having to go back uphill again, other than continuing on for who knows how long. The neighborhood presents a wall of houses, presenting their own solid backyard wall. I have to keep going. I fight the wind, try to use my abs, try to just get to the top of this friggin' hill. Asher is crying in earnest at this point; his tiny bike helmet is smushed down over his tiny face, covering his eyes. I look back, but feel helpless to do anything about it.

I finally reach a curve. My exhausted eyes are greeted with a familiar sight. They have seen this sight before when I saw that movie, Alive, about the soccer team that crashes in the Andes. They reach the top of their mountain, and just see more mountains, and more mountains. The path curves on ahead. I consider calling my dad, asking how far the trail goes. I realize it doesn't matter, because I have to keep going.

Finally, downhill! I have a few scares in sand-puddles, when my bike careens from side to side, but I don't want to lose any of my precious, precious momentum. I nearly shoot past what I have been looking for all this time--a tiny path leading back into the neighborhood! I turn around and walk my bike down it. At this point, I realize I have pulled my groin. I hear Selah trying to pacify Asher and fix his helmet, and I mentally bless her little heart. I do so again when I'm trying to squeeze the bike and the trailer uphill between a fence and a bush, and she says, "I'm making it easier now, Mommy!" while leaning forward. I hardly hear her over my grunts; I am trying to force the bike trailer around a corner on this path that is maybe 10 inches wide.

I finally see road ahead of me. Blocked by a wooden fence with a bike-sized--not trailer-sized--hole in it. I look around wildly, but no helicopters are looming yet. I kneel down, wincing from pain, and try to take the trailer off of my bike. I can't; the lurch I felt earlier was the trailer's safety belt unhooking itself and winding inextricably around the axle. I yank, twist, and turn until I unhook it, and ten minutes later I succeed in unraveling the deteriorating belt. Asher sits quietly, still mostly covered by his helmet, and I wonder if he's sleeping, injured, or just frightened by his half-dead, crazed mother. Selah looks interested and hopeful.

Spotting some passers-by, I frantically wave and gasp, "Will you help me?" They lift my trailer over the wall and look like they want to get the hell away from me when I exhaustedly mutter something about being tired, going too far. I hook the stinking heavy thing back onto my bike--would it be wrong to just leave them here--and start pedaling slowly back toward the car, still through the wind. Why is this still uphill? I wonder.

I make it back to the car, at long last. Selah says, "Whew! I am TIRED!" I don't know whether to laugh or cry. But I made it! Now I just need to get the bike and trailer and children back into the car. It sounds impossible. I manage. I drive home, blurry-eyed and wondering what's for dinner.

Nanny 911

Picture the scene: two parents, a mother sitting in the dining room at the table, a father in the kitchen. Dinnertime is about to start. The mother is attempting to nurse a baby.

Mother: [over baby's head] Selah? Have you finished picking up the toys?

A cat speeds down the hallway, followed by a seemingly sweet four-year-old girl, who is wearing a shirt and a pair of underwear around her knees. The child waddles, as the panties are restricting her movements. She throws a pair of shorts at the cat, as hard as she can. Panicked, the animal [which has already been deemed off-limits for the day] runs. The child waddles away, back down the hallway.

Mother: HEY! Get back here!

The smiling child returns, but when it is clear that Mother has discipline on her mind, appears wary.

Mother: Give me your hand. I am going to swat it because you hurt Mr. Darcy.

Child: NO! NO! [She makes to run off, knowing Mother is trapped with the baby.]

Mother: Honey, would you do it? I can't reach her.

Father: I don't want to do this, but you can't hurt the cat. [reaches over and swats child's hand]

Child: EARGH! [She charges at Father, clearly going to attack him. She kicks her toe on a toy schoolhouse, which, surprisingly, lies on the kitchen floor.] AAAAAAA! MY TOE! MY TOE!

The baby, finished with its meal, looks surprised, then smiles and wiggles.

Father: [Struggling to contain emotions: amusement? horror? It is difficult to tell] Selah, are you going to need to go to your room?

Child, still weeping from traumatic toe injury, hobbles quickly away, perhaps to her bedroom. Father and Mother look at each other.

Mother: That was like something out of the Jerry Springer Show!

Father: Or more like that nanny one.

April Showers Bring May Flowers

I don't know where that is really true, but it certainly hasn't been true anywhere I've lived. Growing up near Monterey, California, I was often perplexed by seasons in children's books. We got no snow, if March came in like a lion, it was a tame, fuzzy lion, and February showers tended to bring late February flowers. Then, in Portland, I finally learned about colder winters, mostly that I wouldn't want to live anywhere truly snowy (I am far too thin-blooded), and still, February showers tended to bring March flowers--which were smitten with a frost immediately afterward, and died. So I don't know where all those descriptions came from.

I miss Portland a lot--partly the people, partly the culture, and partly just the city itself. Days like today, though, I remember why it was that I physically had to leave. I just hate the rain. It's not the rain itself, it's the gloom. I kind of like the rain, in that I like taking rain walks and such, but when the house is dark or when I'm driving on cloudy days, I just feel so tired and miserable. I think, "Did I feel this way all the time when I lived there?" It's hard, though, because I really don't love Sacramento. I do love where I grew up, my parents' house in Corral de Tierra, but that's not really a possible place for us to live right now. So here I am, in just-a-place California, but at least it hardly ever does this. And it has been so amazing getting to live right next to my nephews and niece, getting to go to their birthday parties and give them hugs more than once a year.

I guess what it comes down to is just figuring out where you have the best shot at being happy and healthy, and maybe it just won't be in a city with a pretty skyline and great concerts (that I never went to anyway, as a mom). But I do miss Portland.

Bunny Brawl

Jeremy's mom gave the kids each an Easter bunny; Selah's talks about Easter when you press a button.

I witnessed Selah playing with the two bunnies just now. I imagine normal children playing nice Easter games with such stuffed toys, hiding eggs or something. Instead:

Smaller talking bunny tells its story in an electronic voice, closing with "Happy Easter!"
Larger bunny: [Selah affects deep voice] It's not Easter! It's Christmas!
Smaller bunny: It's not!
Larger bunny shoves smaller bunny, who falls over.
Smaller bunny: I died!
He sits back up. Larger bunny hits him with a toy hammer.
Smaller bunny: Aaaaa!
Larger bunny: You have a time-out!
He picks up smaller bunny, who cries out.
Smaller bunny: Nooo!

I try to tell myself that I have a deeply imaginative child, instead of a severely disturbed one. I also try not to worry about the fact that after Larger bunny has hit Smaller bunny with a hammer, he gives him a time-out. What exactly is Selah's perception of us as parents?

Okay, I have to go feed dinner to a bunch of people who are going to hate it now. But if anyone doesn't eat, I will hit him or her with a hammer before handing out a time-out.

Further adventures in motherhood

I am aware that most of my posts have to do with showers. Perhaps this is because showering is one of those beautiful remnants of the past, back when I had "me" time, and nobody bothered me, and how they tend to play out now in comparison to those days is traumatic at best.

As I near the end of my pregnancy (less than two months left!), I increasingly need and crave relaxation, but where would one find such things? I was taking a shower, hurrying as usual, and right as I had a head full of shampoo, Selah jerked the door open, and shouted, "I need you to wipe my bottom!" Closing my eyes, I decided I could hope that all had gone well on the potty (just outside) for the moment, at least while I was taking a shower, and just clean up if need be later. Shampoo dripping into my eyes, throwing water all over the bathroom, I performed the requested/demanded duty, and then leaned back in to rinse.

I didn't realize that Selah left the door open when she left--until the smoke detector right outside the bathroom went off, as it always does when steam leaves the bathroom. I squeezed my eyes shut again, trying to ignore its shrill shrieks, as I was unable to reach the door knob to shut the door. Of course Selah was frightened by the noise, too, so started running around the house screaming, "Aaaa! Aaaaa!" The volume of her screams competed with that of the smoke detector's, and I finally gave up my quest for a complete, full bathing experience and got out to make everyone shut up.

I wasn't even mad; all you can do is laugh.

We're selling our adorable home!

I am writing to enlist your help. We are planning to sell our lovely little house, and we are blessed enough to be working with a broker who wants to help us. If we find someone to sell it to ourselves, it would save us a lot of money, and if our buyer wants to work with our same broker or just deal with us, we would be able to pass some of the savings on to them as well. Not to mention I am very attached to our house, and I'd love to send it off into good hands! We will be putting it on the market for 322,000, but we could share the savings if we end up selling it ourselves, so that would go down a bit.

So here are some specs: It's a single story, but the basement is fully finished, giving it a third bedroom, a second bathroom, and another living room/den. The special thing about the house is it would serve someone well who wanted three bedrooms/two baths, but it also can be used the way we have been using it for the past three plus years--you can rent out the basement as a separate apartment, with its own laundry room, kitchen, and entrance. It also could be helpful for someone who wants a relative or someone to live with them, but have relative independence. Most appliances can be included.

The (newly painted) house is located in an amazing neighborhood, at 48th and Fremont, right off the Beaumont Village business district. You can walk to groceries, restaurants, coffee shops, pubs, and cute little shops; a bus to downtown stops right at our corner, two houses down, and we are up the hill from the MAX in the Hollywood District. The Hollywood Library, the post office, a couple of banks, a pharmacy, and some medical offices are also within walking distance, down the hill, and they are opening a Whole Foods there as well. I often walk to Safeway or Trader Joe's for a little bit further of a walk.

It's also in a great school district: Alameda Elementary, Beaumont Middle, and Grant High schools. We love our neighbors, who are a mixture of young families, older folks, and a random assortment of others, all of whom have been very friendly and supportive. The neighborhood is very safe, and there are people out taking walks at all hours, alone, with their families or dogs, etc. The main living space has nice hardwood floors, and there is a fireplace in the living room. Its social/living spaces are large enough that we were able to host a home group in it for several years with no problem. There is a dining room, living room, kitchen, two bedrooms, a bathroom and a mudroom on the ground floor, and the basement has the aforementioned rooms. The house is a total of about 1500 square feet.

Anyway, we'd be thrilled if you yourselves were interested, or if you passed on this information to someone else who might be!

Best,
Laura, Jeremy, and Selah

Bad Parenting Moments Come Back to Haunt

I am having a hard time not taking out my pregnancy fatigue on Selah, who of course would not understand. Yesterday was a horrendously long day, with Jeremy gone before Selah woke up at 7, and not returning until after she had gone to bed, and our 13.5 hour day in the interim included the gym, the DMV, meeting friends at a restaurant...in short, it was tiring!

I was getting out of the shower toward the end of this day, hurrying to get ready to go back out for the restaurant, and Selah ran into the kitchen, waving a pair of small, sharp, orange-handled scissors. (She owns a pair of small, blunt, orange-handled scissors). Horrified, I snapped, "Hey! Those aren't yours! Those are sharp!" yada yada.

Disappointed, as she clearly thought they were her scissors, Selah argued, and threw a fit when I put them back (I was still not wearing any clothes, and cold and mad). Letting the moment get the better of me, I pulled out her scissors, and said, "Look! These are yours! They are not sharp." I hucked them onto the floor and...they broke.

Understandably, Selah really melted down then, since she had wanted to play with her (cherished) scissors, and then I broke them. I stormed back to the bathroom to dress and dry my hair, and when she came in, I apologized for breaking the scissors, and said I shoudn't have thrown them. She forgave me.

However, when I came back into the living room, there she was, reenacting the whole sordid scene with her toys. One, the oppressed toy, was crying out in grief, "Those were brand new! And you broke them!"

I should probably start saving up for a therapist now. But meanwhile, I might need one, since pretty much my every fault or error is remembered and imitated for my enjoyment. Sigh.