Mama Nuggle

Remember a few days ago I said that I was never this popular before having kids? Well, on Saturday, my in-laws came to see us and the rest of the family. Though we always see them during their summer vacations, this visit had a special purpose: to see the grandkids, new baby included. There are a few things we normally do when we are together: we indulge in good food, we sneak a peek at astronomically priced real estate and tour model homes for decorating ideas, and pay homage to the great American past time… no, not baseball. Shopping.

Yesterday, seven of us piled into an SUV to make an excursion “across the [Potomac] river” into that shopping mecca AKA Northern Virginia. You’ve never thought of NoVa as being a shopper’s paradise? Well, I am about to enlighten you.

Although this particular trip did not include a stop there, McLean, Virginia is home to Tysons Corner Center and Tysons Galleria. Our forefathers - smart men that they were - were prescient enough to build not one but two malls, across the street from one another. I use the word “street” loosely, because to get there you must navigate a 9 lane cluster****ed intersection known as Chain Bridge Road and International Drive. Combined, these two malls house 426 stores and restaurants, and form one of the largest malls on the east coast. Kind of like a Rapper’s Delight for shopaholics. At Christmas time, you need to allow an hour just to get out of the parking lots. I am not kidding.

Anyhoo, with seven passengers in one SUV - three of which are minors - we wisely decided to avoid the hallowed shopping grounds in McLean in favor of the only type of shopping Mr. Discovering Dad actually seems to somewhat enjoy…. OUTLET SHOPPING! I am not sure why men seem more willing to shop at outlets. But IMHO, I have noticed that men in general more willingly shop if it includes a hunt for bargains and the ability to get a tan while doing so. Voila! The perfect compromise!

So, we headed to Leesburg Outlets. They are quite possibly my favorite outlets, perhaps because they are also the closest to our house? Or maybe it’s because as a retail District Manager, I have previously supervised several stores in this center, so I am intimately familiar with it? Luckily for everyone involved, this particular destination permitted us to kill several birds with one stone, as the outlets are nestled right smack dab in the midst of some of the priciest real estate in the US. Think I am kidding? Since 2006, the highest average median home selling price by month in that zip code topped out at a whopping $727,000!!!

As the countryside rolled past, we oooohed and aaaahed over the McMansions nestled amidst a series of massive equestrian estates (you know, glorified farms. In all their sprawling splendor.) The sun was shining. It wasn’t too hot or humid. Toy Story 2 was blaring from the speakers as Ty watched, enthralled, like it wasn’t the seven billionth time he had seen it. The baby was sleeping soundly, happily munching on her pacy. We arrived and found a parking spot right up front, near the food court. Ty climbed into his stroller with little whining, and I tucked Caitlin into her snuggly Baby Bjorn carrier. Starbucks was our first destination, and *gasp* it did not have a line! Feeling the good karma, amazed at how smoothly everything was going, we began our bargain hunt in earnest.

Next stop: we cruised by one of my former stores, where the staff squealed at the sight of Princess Caitlin. They flirted with Ty, and commented on how grown up Chani is now, and how much the kids look like their very handsome daddy. (I am chopped liver, just so you know.) The “girls” proclaimed loudly that they missed me as their boss, and commiserated that they no longer work for me. They told me I looked skinny (woo hoo!) It was probably all lies, but it made me feel good anyway!

The day continued smashingly well, with Ty being oh-so-good. The hours flew by. We stuck pretty close together, only separating to duck into different stores before meeting back up. We found some good deals. I however, did not buy a single item for myself!

Chani was very patient, so her daddy took her to Aeropostale with Ty while I ducked into Gymboree to check out their big summer sale for deals. I mean, I know Caitlin doesn’t need a darn thing, but I was looking for stuff for next year, at rock bottom prices. Caitlin was having a refreshing drink of formula as I carried her in the Baby Bjorn.

I had quietly gathered a small pile of adorable mermaid and seahorse-themed clothes and had turned my attention to a crab print tank top for Ty when IT happened. The “other shoe” finally dropped. I felt this enormous gush of liquid that soaked my top, my WHITE shorts and the baby carrier as it ran down my leg, over my WHITE FABRIC wedges, and began pooling in a large puddle on the floor. In Gymboree, which was packed with other shoppers.

“What the hell!?!?!?” I thought. “It’s not like my water broke - I AM NO LONGER PREGNANT! What just happened!?!??!” And then it dawned on me:

In all my self-congratulating moments of what a perfect day it was turning out to be, I had neglected to remember just how UNabsorbent newborn diapers can be. Especially when they hadn’t been changed for oh, say, three hours?

Yes, that’s right folks, in my post-pregnancy, self-congratulating, senility-induced stupor, I had neglected to change Princess Caitlin’s panties since we arrived at the outlets, about 40 stores ago.

I haven’t decided whether this is the good or bad part yet, but the rest of the family had moved on to other stores. Thus, there were only total strangers around to witness my demise. Even worse was the realization that I had brought this on myself. I mean, what kind of an idiot besides me would forget to change a new baby’s diaper?!?!?  And yet, as uncomfortable as I now was, Princess Caitlin slept right through the floodgate of pee which had engulfed her mama.

You know when you feel like you are moving in slow motion? Yep, that was me. Each step felt like an eternity as I hurled myself towards the cash wrap, sneaking not-so-covert glances around at my fellow bargain shoppers to see if they noticed the spectacle that had just ensued. You see, along with the ginormous puddle of pee on the floor, the diaper continued to drip like a leaky faucet with each squishy step I took. My white shorts were now lightly tinged with a spreading yellow stain. With my face flaming red, I thrust a pile of clothes at the clerk and yelled that I’d be back later to buy them, while pee ran in streaming rivulets down my leg.

Can someone just please kill me now?

Outside, I couldn’t think where to go or what to do first. Suddenly, I spied it. My oasis. My salvation. A public restroom. YESSS!!!!!

I sprinted down the long corridor, sleeping baby in tow. “I made it! Woo Hoo! I can now start to peel this pee-soaked carrier off my body! I can free the baby from a watery prison! I can clean us both up!!!”

Or not.

You see, Jeremy had the diaper bag.

With the diapers.

And the wipes.

And Caitlin’s fresh change of clothes.

And he was currently stuck in the fitting rooms of Aeropostale - at the complete other end of the outlet center - with a 14 year old girl trying on masses of clothes just a few steps away. Oh, and did I mention Ty was with him, too?

To tell you the truth, he could have been hosting a dinner party with ten heads of state and the queen herself and I still would have interrupted him with the conversation that went something like this,

“I need you. Now. I can’t begin to tell you what just happened, but suffice it to say that I am standing outside the public restrooms covered in pee. I need Caitlin’s diaper bag. Right now. Meet me. Now. Please! Please hurry!”

He must have felt like a 911 dispatcher because he hauled ASS to get to me, his legs pumping furiously, the stroller zooming over the concrete at NASCAR-worthy speeds. Near tears, I quickly explained what happened as I thrust a soaked Caitlin onto the nearest bench to change her. As if I had not made a big enough spectacle of myself, Ty chose that precise moment to start wailing like a banshee about wanting to get out of the stroller. I sent a silent Thank You to God that we were a two parent team, as we made quick work of getting the kids all settled. Jeremy graciously volunteered to run into Old Navy and buy me a new outfit to change out of.

So here’s the scary part, the part that tells you I have lost my mind after having kids - I declined his offer.

Yep, that’s right.

In lieu of fresh clean clothes, I opted to use the high-powered hand dryers in the restroom I had just left to simply desiccate the pee from my outfit. I mean, what’s the point of having clean clothes if you cover them with a previously pee-soaked Baby Bjorn?

So I sucked it up. With a smile on my face. And wore the offending clothes for the rest of the night.

No really. Ask Jeremy. I did!

AND, I proceeded to hold my head up high as I returned to the scene of the crime a few minutes later to purchase my Gymboree selections. I continued shopping for the rest of the afternoon, like nothing had happened. I wore the clothes to dinner. I wore them for the rest of the evening. Through a movie too.

Have I lost my mind? Perhaps. I’d like to think I was just taking one for the team.

Part of the reason why I started blogging was because of the sense of community (camraderie, if you will) between people far-flung across the globe. People whose real life connection began with a keyboard and a few clicks and a sense of “Finally, I-am-not-alone-in-my-experiences!”

My husband began blogging as a hobby. It was really just a way of detailing his adventures as a SAHD. However, it has developed into a much deeper addiction, and has given him a real sense of purpose, and has broken up the monotony of being a SAHD. Jeremy has created genuine friendships and established a huge network of friends and fans. That being said, he probably talks to everyone in the blogosphere more than he talks to me. (I really can’t blame him. Quite frankly, with a two year old and a seven week old baby, I am not really much of a conversationalist at 3 AM. But you, however, are! )

One of the the things I have found out from blogging is that most couples don’t agree on everything when it comes to deciding HOW TO BEST RAISE THEIR KIDS. As parents, one of the things that Jeremy and I differ on is our ability to create and stick to a schedule.

At work, I am regimented yet flexible (talk about an oxymoron!). You see, I work retail. As a district manager, I supervise fourteen stores across four states. And the one thing everyone in retail learns quickly (if you want to excel) is that you have to be good at multitasking and rolling with the punches.

There is no such thing as a typical day. At any moment, I am poised to receive information that tells me of an impeding explosion that will annihilate months or even years of work. (I know you’re thinking “It’s retail, how freaking hard can it be? What is she talking about - losing years of work? It’s not like the hard drive crashed and that major PowerPoint presentation cannot be retrieved! What does she know?”)

In essence, my day job is supposed to be solely about fostering the development of others. (Come to think of it, that’s my nighttime job too.) In reality, my true role is that of a salaried firefighter. I am like 911 for my stores. I can hear the rising panic in my manager’s voices when they have to call me with bad news or to report the latest crisis. I can read their thoughts. I know they’re thinking, “Oh, shit. I hope she answers. Is she going to answer? Am I going to get voice mail? Will she just pick up the phone already? I just want to get this conversation over with! I just want her to fix this freaking mess for me so I can get on with my day!”

Basically, I am used to spending every day dealing with things I cannot control. I can sense many of you right now shaking your heads in agreement, quietly muttering “Amen, sista!”

At work, I can’t control how many customers come through our doors. I can’t control whether my star manager quits because she was lured away with the prospect of shorter hours and more money with better benefits. (Which we all know is total crap, but they sometimes leave me anyway. Go figure.) I can’t control whether the AC breaks in three stores during a 100 degree heat wave. (Hey, I am not a repairman. I can only expedite getting it fixed.) It’s like being a one woman help desk. A help desk doesn’t stop your computer from breaking, they just wait til it does and then try to fix it. Usually while implying that whatever went wrong is your fault. Truth be told, my job is the professional equivalent of praying for no rain on your wedding day. I can’t prevent shit from happening (I am not God. I know, shocking, right?) My job is to influence, not do. I am there to troubleshoot and make the best of a less than ideal situation.

It’s just like being a parent. Only they pay me.

When you have kids, you can delude yourself into thinking you are in charge. Except, someone forgot to send your kids that memo.

Jeremy refuses to accept defeat. He clings to the notion that he is in charge. And that the kids should cooperate accordingly. Only again, someone forgot to tell the kids that.

As an ex-Coastie, Jeremy is passionate about having a routine and sticking to it. The Academy reinforced his notions of discipline and precision. (Fifteen years later, Jeremy still rolls his wifebeaters and socks before placing them in his drawer. And is meticulous in his obsession with cleanliness. But I digress…)

Jeremy claims that the structure is good for Ty. I agree with him. Sort of.  I just can’t be as disciplined in enforcing it as he can. He believes that Ty should go down for a nap at the same time every day.  However, Ty doesn’t always get UP at the same time. Some days it is 5 AM, some days 8 AM. Which means he doesn’t always WANT a nap at the same time every day. But, he is gonna get one, if the clock says it’s time. Or, more likely, if Jeremy decides it’s time for Ty to go nappy-nap so daddy can get some work done.

Don’t get me wrong, Jeremy is a rock star daddy. He does more in terms of being in charge of raising the kids than any other father I know.

It’s just, well, I am a little more flexible in letting the kids tell me what they want, and when they want it (rather than dictating what I want them to do. And when I want them to do it.) I am used to fighting losing battles. And quite honestly, when I get home, I just don’t have the desire or energy to fight the uphill battle of implying that I am always in charge. When clearly the kids know I am not. I have come to accept my role as an influencer (call me an enabler if you want. I don’t mind. Really.)  Just don’t call me a salmon. At work, I may be forced to swim upstream. At home, I am more content with thinking my role is to float along on a lazy river, just enjoying the ride. It’s quite tiring to always fight the current (don’t you agree?)

Take bathtime, for instance. My kids are diabolical opposites in that regard. Princess Caitlin treats the bath like her own personal spa. And we are here just to render professional services.

On the other hand, Ty sometimes loves getting in the bath, but then refuses to get out. Some days he screams bloody murder just trying to get him undressed. (Hello, child services? Yes, I’d like to report someone being killed at Mr. Discovering Dad and Mrs. Mama Nuggle’s house. … Um, well, no, I did not really SEE anyone being hurt. Ah… no… No, I did not see anyone brandishing a weapon. No… no… all I heard was a series of terrible screams. What? Oh, um, the time? It’s 9 PM… Oh, I see. That’s bathtime there? Um, well, ok. Thanks. *Click.*) Knowing this, we have resorted to bringing Ty into the shower with one of us. Even then it doesn’t always go as planned. On some days he RUNS like an Olympic sprinter trying to break a world record. And yes I mean a Carl Lewis vs. Ben Johnson style race to escape the bathroom, usually in various states of undress. And trust me, cathing a glimpse of myself in the mirror while running naked after a two year old (just 6 weeks after giving birth to Caitlin) is NOT A PRETTY SIGHT. It has gotten so bad that some days I just *gasp* don’t even bathe him. Even worse, some days I forget to brush Ty’s teeth. Shhh…. don’t tell Jeremy I am screwing up the routine. Just report me already.

Yesterday, I introduced myself to you by way of a manic, frenetic post about the financial costs associated with having children. You learned I am an OCD mom with an unhealthy Wal-Mart obsession. My hyper ramblings place me squarely between Type-A and ADD. My apologies, but I fear my future posts will not be any more coherent. That’s just who I am. Still with me? OK, good. So here I go…

I am not a woman who feels my sole purpose in life is to reproduce and have children. (I can feel the hate mail being generated already.) I am sure my kids will be loving, well-rounded geniuses nonetheless, but let’s just say it took me a while to warm up to actually having them.

Growing up in Pennsylvania, I was raised in the biggest small town you can imagine. We lived in a sleepy bedroom community, in a small ranch house that my parents built almost 40 years ago. There were very few kids in my neighborhood. I am the youngest, so I was not raised with babies in the house. I didn’t like to babysit. (Why torture myself with screaming kids when I could make more money as a waitress? I was damn good, and it taught invaluable patience that I draw on repeatedly as a mom.)

My hometown is a juxtaposition of geographic features: a mixture of aging boroughs, suburban sprawl, and urban ghetto. Yet, it is surrounded by thousands of acres of rural farmland. (I kid you not - my first “real” boyfriend lived on Fish & Game Road and hunted deer in his backyard. I can still to this day help repair an electric fence and know that trout prefer Velveeta as bait. Thanks, Brian.) As kids, we played in the cornfields and were forever bringing stray animals home. I read books by the dozens. Lazy summer days were spent at day camp at the elementary school down the street or frolicking at the local swimming pool.

My parents were teachers. My father taught art classes in grades K-6, and I - of course - was his star pupil. Together, they have never lived outside this particular city. Consequently, my parents know or have heard of practically everyone in town. Going to the county fair was (and still is) a nightmare, with excited choruses of “Mr. S, Mrs. S!” being chanted by past students down every midway. Even fifteen years later, when we go out to dinner as a family, my parents will know at least one person in the restaurant. Guaranteed.

As a teen, I couldn’t screw up without my parents knowing it almost immediately. My friends’ parents would turn on police scanners and listen while kids got busted for underage drinking / DUI. Gossip spread like wildfire. I was smart enough (read: lucky) that I rarely ever got in trouble (read: I didn’t get caught.) That being said, my sister and I were the apples of our parents’ eyes. (Shout out to my dad - if you’re reading this, I know I’m your favorite. Sorry Lisa!) Their world revolved around ours. We ate dinner as a family every single night in the week.  My parents took us to and from school every day until we graduated. They never missed a sporting event, and we participated in every extra-curricular activity under the sun. My two obsessions were boys and getting kick-ass grades so that I could earn a college scholarship. (A perfectionist and overachiever from the start, I was a straight-A student who graduated valedictorian and breezed through college in 3 ½ years. I was stupidly anxious to get on with the rest of my life.)

Why am I telling you all this? Well, so you have an idea of what my childhood was like, and how it shaped my decision to become a mom. To sum it up, my parents lived and breathed for us. A pretty tough act to follow.

Fast forward a few years: I met Jeremy (at work.) An older, married colleague begrudgingly hired Jeremy into our company. I say “begrudgingly” because A) Jeremy was overqualified, and B) that colleague was afraid Jeremy and I would meet, fall in love, get married, and quit our jobs. Which is precisely what happened. Well, maybe not in that order.

After Jeremy and I got married, I got some great practice as a “pinch hitter” (read: step-mom) to Chani. Despite living several hours away, we have never, in almost ten years, missed a planned monthly visit or failed to spend a major holiday with Chani. We were kind of like the US Postal Service ….”Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds” when it came to spending much needed time with Chani.

In our early stages as a couple, Jeremy and I chose to have fun, travel, and focus on our careers. That, combined with my fervent belief that babies should be born in the summer, meant waiting a few years before having kids together. (I mean, who the hell wants maternity leave during a brutally cold Mid-Atlantic winter? ) Each year, the “window of opportunity” to have a summer baby would open. We’d negotiate. And renegotiate. Then we’d agree to keep the status quo. Perhaps next year would be the year to literally “pull the trigger”? The years rolled by… one year turned into seven. I finally realized the clock was ticking. Not necessarily a biological one, but more of a mental one. We would have always found some reason why “now is not the right time.” So we threw caution to the wind, and decided to “Git ‘er done.”

Turns out, our timing was perfect.  In May 2006 we welcomed our amazing son Ty. Right from the start, this tiny little boy gripped my heart in ways I never thought possible. I have his smell indelibly stamped into my memory. I can hear his cry in a crowded place, and know instantly that he needs me. His smile melts my heart. I live for (s)nuggling with Ty before bedtime. As my maternity leave drew to a close, I dreaded the thought of leaving the house. I adamantly refused to let anyone outside the family watch him (I still do.) I bawled uncontrollably my first day back to work.  I can remember vividly the first time I thought, “This is the absolute best thing I have ever done with my life (right after snagging Ty’s daddy!) Why the heck did we wait so long to do this in the first place?”

Looking back now, the only answer I can come up is this:

I realize our decision to postpone having children was because deep down, we knew that being a parent means sacrifice and selflessness. At that time in our lives,  I don’t think we were fully committed to doing either. I almost hesitate to use the word sacrifice, because that essentially implies giving something up. Let me be perfectly clear here - being a mom fills my “emotional bucket” in ways nothing else can. Here’s a breakthrough confession for you: as a perfectionist,  I worried that I would fail at trying to “do it all.” I agonized about failing as a wife, as a mom, and as a professional, and that I would screw up the best things that ever happened to me. Finally, I was scared shitless that I wouldn’t measure up to the idyllic standards that my own parents set. To be quite honest with you, I still am (scared shitless, that is.)

At some point, I realized that I think we are never truly prepared for the challenges and rewards that being a parent brings. Although Jeremy had been a dad for many years before we welcomed Ty and now Caitlin, I think we would both agree that being a non-custodial parent is nothing like being the one in charge day in and day out. Though the emotional love is the same, the grueling exhaustion and daily rewards of being a full-time parent is totally different than being a “pinch hitter”.

The role of mom seems to come before every other title that I have, namely because I am now responsible for someone else that either NEEDS or WANTS me virtually every minute of every day. Of course, some day they won’t, and I will lament that time too. Sadly, I seem to forget that Jeremy (being a self-sufficient adult who can verbally communicate his wants) needs me too.  I need to do a better job of prioritizing my “wife” role. Nevertheless, I do my best to give everyone my all every day. I know that some days I hit it right out of the park, and other days I don’t even get off the bench. The only thing I know for sure is that I wouldn’t trade being a wife or parent for anything in the world. I hope and pray that someday, in the very far off future, my kids will feel the same.