Author Archives: Amy

After three kids, I’m pretty sure I’ve blocked out the myriad of stupid situations and random disasters that come with raising sons. Because, if I were to have a crystal- clear recollection of it all, I’d be occupying a padded room somewhere. My brain has done me a solid with the repression of those memories. Unfortunately this repression has landed me in uncharted waters and I’ve come to the conclusion that my baby has a death wish — he puts absolutely anything and everything into his mouth.

Now, back to my faded memories of my other children at the same age. I’m sure they must have attempted to eat things that weren’t meant to be eaten, but it was a lot easier to regulate then. I could contain mess because I didn’t have many children. That is the furthest situation from the truth today. There is always a wayward Lego, a small slice of wrapping paper, or a large chunk of plastic wrapper lurking about. And the baby has become an expert at discovering these things and quickly squirreling them into his mouth before I can run my fat-ass over to retrieve it. I once found a foam exclamation point nestled inside his cheek and when I wrestled that shit from his clenched jaw, he was ridiculously angry.

It’s not that he doesn’t have a million-fucking toys that are age appropriate to jam in his mouth. He does! But those things don’t have the appeal, that say, a paper clip does, so now I’m spending all my time either yelling at the older kids to pick up their shit, or souring the floor on my hands and knees for things that could kill my child if he consumes them. Which he will, because plastic is damn delicious.

Jealous?

So there it is. The glamorous life I lead. It would be easier to tango backwards in 6-inch stilettos.

This problem has become more urgent in the last 2 weeks. The kids are on winter break, the baby has finally gotten into a crawling groove and I can’t pick the shit up fast enough that they leave everywhere like exhaust fumes in their wake. The stress and the fear of this kid getting into something he shouldn’t, while I’m dealing with all the other lives in this house, has me at my breaking point. Scratch that, my broken point. I’m a frazzled, frantic, mess. It’s not a good look.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Eating a little Lego never killed anyone.

At least according to Google.

24/7 365.

That’s just about how much time I’ve spent with my kids since each of their births.

All the time… give or take an hour here and there.

So, you’d imagine my surprise when my first-born started making words and the first noise out of his mouth was… yup, you guessed it, “Dada.” Thinking back on it now I wasn’t even surprised. Disappointed? Oh yes. A bit heartbroken? Undeniably. For months, I’d been waiting to hear this baby’s sweet little voice call for me, “Mama…” I could hear it echoing in my head, magical words, as he validated the time I’d spent doting on him with 2 little syllables. But no, Mama was not to be… not for a long while.

I shoved my insult and disappointment aside, “After all, he’s just a baby. He’s not doing this on purpose,” I thought.

Of course, my husband was elated. “That’s right buddy, I’m Dada.” I let him revel in his babble victory. Watching his face beam with pride, knowing that eventually, when the Mama finally came from my infants lips it would be so worth the wait.

As days passed, I started noticing that Dada didn’t mean, “I love you, Daddy.” Quite the opposite, Dada meant everything and anything.

Reasons my baby is yelling Dada:

The bag boy at the supermarket talked to him while bagging our groceries.

The sun hit his eyes in that special way that he could still see.

I gave him mashed banana.

He spotted me, his Mama, after waking up from his nap.

He’s about to get a bottle.

Someone picks him up.

He’s found the tag on a toy.

He’s about to eat dirt, a hairball, or plastic.

So this got me wondering. Which came first the Dada? Or the Dad?

I could just imagine a Neanderthal family: sitting in their cave, the fire toasting some dead animal and their caveman baby opens his mouth to let the first sign of verbal communication fly… “Dada,” he exclaims! And that’s when the patriarch of the family stands over the fire, bangs his fist on his chest and declares, “Me, Dada!”

Sounds about right.

As I had a second child, and then I third, I watched them all babble the same words first… everything started with Dada. My caveman theory left me feeling less empty. That, and the fact that the Dada babble seemed to mean everything and nothing all at the same time. But when each child finally looked at me with their chubby little faces, light dancing in their eyes, an out stretched hand as they shrieked, “Mama!!!” I knew they meant it. I knew they meant me.

Now? I’d currently pay good money to go 20 seconds without hearing someone yell, “Mom, Mom, MOM!”

It happened slow, like that snail crawling from one side of my patio to the edge of my pool. I watched him for a while, not realizing the metaphor that was dragging before my eyes.

When I was a kid the holidays came. We ate turkey or ham (a canned one: especially if we were at my Grandma’s house). We opened gifts and sang Hanukkah songs, or Christmas carols. We watched Frosty the snowman, It’s a Wonderful Life, and White Christmas. The older people drank spiked eggnog and ate rum balls, I may have snuck a couple. It was Hanukkah, it was Christmas, it was New Years Eve. It was over.

Now it starts while they are selling Halloween costumes. There are pre-lit Christmas trees in the store while you kid decides if he’d like to be Pokemon or that 32 bit Minecraft head. We buy pumpkin spice all-the-things all through November and once the turkey has been carved, people leave their dirty Thanksgiving dishes in the sink to shop for the best deals. The morning after black Friday the tree is anointed in all it’s glory, the lights are strung on the house and we are at 1.21 gigawatts of power for the whole month of December.

In comes the Elf on the Shelf, the Advent Calendars, the Mensch on the Bench, and the build up that is the Festival of Lights or the Birth of Christ is now at warp speed. It’s everywhere on social media, “Oh, I forgot to move the elf,” or “Look,did you see what my Mensch did? He’s in the hot tub with Barbie”. We aren’t trying to one-up you, we are trying to one-up ourselves. Bigger is better, even if cleaning up the Elf’s mess takes time away from all the things you like to do. We still do it.  Every time your kids get together they have a holiday party: in school, in religious school, at sports. And parents are baking and frying and having to supply food for these get-together’s for the whole month of December.

We aren’t even keeping up with the Jones’ anymore. Wonder Woman couldn’t keep up with the Jones’. We’ve set the bar higher than it ever needed to be set, higher than anyone asked us to set it. NO ONE ASKED US TO MOVE THE BAR! And for what? The memories, the “OMG, I don’t want to be left out, have my kid feel like he got less, like I am less,” memories.

The problem with the happiest time of the year is that we’ve made it less happy time, dragged out over a longer period of time. Sure, the holidays still fall on the same times of the year, but after doing the Elf, the Mensch ,the advent, the kids forget about the holiday spirit and it’s now about all the things, only the things.

We raised the bar because we remember the holidays were so much fun as kids. My Grandma used to set up her tree on Christmas Eve. Not on December 1st. That adorable tree was put up on December 24th, the night of her marriage anniversary to my Grandfather, and It was the best memories of our lives!!!! Of. Our. Lives. And why? Because it was short and sweet and filled with family and friends. But now we’ve stretched that feeling into months of planning, months of running around like headless chickens, which has only given everyone involved an emptier feeling when it’s happening and a straight up “what now” feeling when it’s over.

Each gift needs to be over the top. What do you get for a 10-year-old who already has a laptop nicer than your own?  Holiday meals must go beyond the amazing meal you had last year. My Grandma’s delicious canned ham has turned into a turducken overnight.

I’d like that ham back please. Grandma always put pineapple rings, cloves, and maraschino cherries on it just for me.

And I never felt empty.

I was always full.