The Twins!

While driving home from school one afternoon in October of 1988, my mom told my big sister and I that she had a surprise for us when we got home.

“Is it candy?!” My sister inquired excitedly.

I agree that that would have been a most excellent surprise, but her guess proved to be way off the mark: the big news was that my mom was having a baby!

Actually, she was having two babies, but we didn’t know that yet. That news came as another surprise a couple of months later, when my mom came home from the doctor with a funny-looking ultrasound photo and my other big sister asked what the hell was wrong with our baby, since it looked like the poor thing had a giant misshapen head.

Once we all got over the initial shock (my poor mom apparently laughed in the doctor’s face when he told her she was marinating not one but two fetuses), the excitement set in. I was the baby of the family, and I couldn’t believe my luck: not only would I finally get to be a big sister, but I was going to have two little sisters to play with! And even though my mom decided to let their sex be a surprise, I just knew they would be girls. Throughout my mom’s entire pregnancy, I never once envisioned a brother — I guess the fact that the first four of us were girls led me to believe that a brother wasn’t even a possibility.

And I was right! (Sorry, Dad.)

From the day they were born, I’ve been their #1 fan. As a six-year-old, I was just beside myself with amazement at their tiny size, their cute little smiles, and their twinliness (there really is something special about seeing twins together). I’ve shared this before, but it’s worth a repeat appearance today — behold the “thank you” note I made my mom for giving me my wonderful little sisters:

Just look at them — how could I not be enamored? I took my role as big sister very seriously. I was incredibly protective of them, even going so far as to force them to do “kidnapping drills” with me when they were toddlers, wherein I did some tests and timed whether it would be faster for me to pick them both up and run away from the kidnapper or to hold their hands and have them run alongside me — they were so damn cute I was convinced they were prime targets for kidnappers; I also apparently assumed that I would be with them at the time of this hypothetical kidnap attempt and thus available to aid them in their escape.

(If you’re wondering, two-year-olds run pretty slow; I determined that if a kidnapping situation were to arise, I was going to have to pick them up and make a run for it.)

When I had to go along with them to the doctor to get some routine vaccinations, I cried so hard in anticipation of their pain that my mom had to send me out to wait in the hallway. Another time, my mom had to scold them for doing something naughty and toddler-y, and again I sobbed — how dare she cause tears to come out of those adorable little twinny eyes! And when one twin completed her potty training faster than the other and was permitted to wear big-girl panties while the other twin was still in diapers, I had a serious and tear-filled discussion with my long-suffering mother about how the diapered twin was sure to develop self-esteem problems as a result of the inequality.

(Jamie, is it true? Were you permanently scarred by those three days that Hayley got to wear panties and you didn’t??? I knew it, your life totally sucks and it’s all because Mom wouldn’t listen to me about the underwear disparity! I TRIED!!!!)

Today, those cute little babies are 24 years old, and I’m still their #1 fan. They’re smart, funny, successful, unique (yes, even though they’re twins), and, since they look like me, totally gorgeous. From the moment my mom told me I was going to be a big sister, I knew I was in for something special — but I never could have guessed just how much I would love them.

Happy birthday to my favorite twins. Your present is that I won’t make you run kidnapping drills with me next time I see you.

Hell Looks a Lot Like L.A.

Although I grew up in a suburb of Los Angeles, I spent my young adulthood living in San Diego. That’s where I (briefly…sort of) went to college, and TFW and I lived there together for the first five years of our relationship. If you’ve never been to San Diego, it can be summed up in two words: THE BEST. Seriously, nothing can beat it. The weather is phenomenal, the beaches are gorgeous, I swear people are nicer there (probably because they live in the best city ever), and it’s big enough to offer plenty to do but not so big that you feel like you’re drowning in a sea of humans, pollution, and traffic.

Despite San Diego’s obvious superiority, after several years there I began to yearn to return to LA. Not because of LA’s charms (it doesn’t have any), but because my entire family lives here and it was becoming a serious hassle to drive back and forth all the time. Since I have such a big family, TFW and I were making that heinous trek up the 5 freeway at least once a month to attend a birthday party, wedding, or graduation (a journey that could take as little as 2 hours in ideal circumstances — like if we departed at 2am — or as many as 4 if the traffic gods frowned upon us; the latter was sadly far more typical), and we were missing out on all kinds of little things that weren’t worth the drive (spur of the moment family dinners, little league games, American Idol viewing parties…). Plus, I was eager to pop out a kid in the near future, and I wanted my family close by for all that excitement! (Also for babysitting purposes.)

So when TFW got a job offer in LA back in 2010, we jumped at the chance to relocate. We had just two weeks to move, so we spent an afternoon looking at approximately four potential abodes and picked the one that would let us move in the fastest: an apartment near UCLA with a parking spot the size of a shoebox and windows that all faced concrete walls (seriously, all of them). It was also located right in the middle of one of the most congested areas of Los Angeles — day or night, it took an average of 20 minutes to get from our shoebox-sized parking spot to the freeway on-ramp less than two miles away. My parents lived just 25 miles away, but it would still take us 45 minutes to get there on a good day! And the rent was outrageous: $500 more per month than we were paying in San Diego, and our San Diego condo had more space and featured windows that actually allowed you to see things.

We lasted nine months in that apartment and then found the perfect house to rent: twice the size of the apartment, a big yard, 8 miles closer to my parents’ house, and best of all, TFW’s office was less than a mile away! He’d be able to walk or skateboard to work and we’d only need one car! Sure, the rent was even worse than what we were paying for the concrete-surrounded apartment, but them’s the breaks in LA. We moved with high hopes that our new digs would make us love this godforsaken city a bit more.

After living here for a few months, we quickly discovered that while it was a hell of a lot better than the apartment, this house has some serious issues. For one, the neighborhood is a tad…sketchy. The immediate surrounding few blocks are charming and home-y, but I wouldn’t recommend walking more than a half mile in any direction after dark. The traffic is just as bad over here. There’s no parking anywhere, ever (just going to Target is a chore). And the house has the worst insulation I’ve ever experienced: I’ve literally never been hotter in my life than I am inside this house on any given afternoon between June and October. It absorbs the heat and actively spits it back out at you; I’m not even sure how it’s possible, but it is consistently 10-15 degrees hotter inside than out. It’s hot enough inside to make you sick, but the thought of leaving the house and dealing with traffic and parking is enough to bring a person to tears (or is it just me?).

And after just 10 months in this house, TFW got laid off from that lovely one-mile-away job, rendering that benefit moot. His new job is 45 minutes away, meaning we’re living in this hellhole of a house in a random part of town for no reason whatsoever. Every single day, I ask TFW if he’s gotten fired yet so we can look for jobs in San Diego and get the hell outta dodge. Sadly, he’s still gainfully employed, so I’m left to moan about the traffic and the heat while my poor son runs around in nothing but a diaper because it’s literally too hot for clothes:

I kick myself daily for ever thinking I needed to move to LA. I’ll take a monthly four hour drive to visit family over the daily nightmares of LA life any day!

Have I mentioned it’s hotter than hell in here?

I don’t even know how to finish this post. I’m delirious from heat.

Send ice cream.

Rulebreaker

Despite what my tattoos and love of punk rock music might lead you to believe, I am not a rebel. In high school, I never drank or smoked or did anything cool like sneak out to go to a raging party (perhaps because I was never invited to such an event? Eh, minor details). I ditched class from time to time (ok, I ditched class all the time), but that hardly counts as teenaged rebellion since I always told my mom what I was up to. One time in sophomore year I lied to my mom about my plans with a super-hot 17-year-old (I wisely assumed she wasn’t likely to sign off on “we’re gonna drive around and then stop somewhere to make out in his Jeep”), but the deception stressed me out so much I wasn’t able to enjoy myself (the whole night I kept envisioning the two us getting murdered mid-smooch by a lunatic serial killer and my poor parents having to deal with not only a dead daughter, but a dead lying daughter; their angry-slash-heartbroken Dateline interviews would be so humiliating to my pathetic memory) and I stuck to the truth from then on.

(And I’m such a square that making out really was as far as things went in that Jeep. Hmm, I wonder why that budding romance fizzled out shortly thereafter?)

Even as an adult, I remain firmly in the goody-two-shoes camp. The thought of pirating music or software makes me nauseated (I can just picture my arraignment: “Mrs. Wachter, our agents found an illegally-procured Social Distortion album and three episodes of Secret Life of the American Teenager on your computer; what do you have to say for yourself?! Not just about the pirating, but about your decidedly bizarre entertainment choices?”), and you’ll never catch me parking in a loading zone or trying to sneak a 5oz bottle of contact lens solution onto an airplane. Bending the rules or breaking the law just seems so obnoxiously self-centered — who am I to think the speed limit applies to everyone but me?

(Wait a minute, psychological breakthrough pending: perhaps my lifetime of non-rebellion all stems from a fundamental lack of self-confidence! Maybe I just don’t think I’m worthy of breaking the rules! Someone call a therapist and arrange a consultation.)

Knowing this, it should come as no surprise that when I signed my son up for daycare, I read every word of the provider’s 10-page packet of rules and guidelines. I drop him off and pick him up right on time, I never forget to send extra clothes, and since they have a “no trash” lunch policy, I bought several tupperware lunch containers with dividers so I could neatly pack up all the components of his lunch without requiring ziplock baggies or foil. This makes packing lunch a bit of a hassle, since I have to do silly things like unwrap string cheese and peel bananas instead of just tossing the stupid things in the container like a normal human, but I never thought twice about it — rules are rules!

For over four months I packed his lunch this way, until one morning last week when I discovered I was completely out of fruit — not even an emergency can of peaches in the pantry. I wanted to send Bubba to school with more than crackers and a sandwich, so I decided to be rebellious by sending a “veggie pouch” (if you don’t have kids or if you are one of those insane moms who made all your own baby food, I’m referring to those little pouches of pureed fruits and/or veggies that the kid consumes by sucking on a spout-thingy; technically they’re for babies, but Bubba still loves them and it’s the easiest way to get him to eat fruits and veggies!). When TFW left to do the daycare drop-off, I gave him strict instructions to explain about the lack of fruit in the house and to apologize profusely for the pouch.

I spent the rest of the day obsessing over my lack of consideration for this simple rule, certain the daycare owner was going to hate me forever and probably complain about me to all the other moms. I truly felt bad about this, folks! I mean, really: how hard is it to follow the rules laid out by your child’s daycare provider? I thought about calling her to apologize but decided that might be just a tad overboard (plus, then she might hate me for bugging her and for breaking the no-trash rule!).

When I finally went to pick the dear boy up at the end of the day, I was ready to grovel. As the owner handed me Bubba’s things to head home, I apologized again for violating the no-trash rule and assured her I had gone to the store on my lunchbreak to stock up on real fruit for the rest of the week.

And she laughed and laughed.

“I think you’re the only parent that has ever read my rules….no one else follows that rule; don’t worry about it! You can send the pouches anytime, I don’t care.”

So you’re telling me I’ve been knocking myself out every morning for the past four months to make trash-free lunches when I could have just been throwing string cheese and veggie pouches in there and calling it a day?! And wait a minute, why do I feel like the fool for reading and adhering to the rules?

I think I need to listen to a little more early-80s punk rock; the messages clearly haven’t been sinking in for me. ANARCHY!!!

 exhibit A: contraband!

The Nicest Thing My Big Sister Ever Did

I’ve got a gaggle of sisters (3 older than me and the infamous twins, who are about six years my junior), and I could fill an entire blog with laudatory stories about each of their many fine qualities. Don’t worry — I have no intention of boring you all with endless tales about these lovely ladies; I just wanted to publicly state how awesome ALL my sisters are so four of them don’t get jealous right now when they discover that I’ve dedicated today’s post to just one of them.

Shannon is the next sister “up” from me, but we’re five and a half years apart (with the obvious exception of the twins, none of us girls are closer than four years apart; my mom had no interest in dealing with back-to-back babies and planned accordingly). Despite our age difference, we were very close growing up (she is the master Barbie-player); in fact, I believe the age difference allowed us to get along with each other even better than if we had been closer in age — we were always in totally different stages of life and thus really didn’t have anything about which to fight or compete. She was always far nicer to me than any big sister is required to be, even being so generous as to occasionally permit me to hang around when her friends were over (if you don’t have any older siblings yourself, allow me to assure you that this is an honor of the highest order).

Our age difference meant that when I was in 7th grade, Shannon was a senior in high school. This was a big boon to me, since in our town, the junior high and high school are grouped together on one big campus. Having my sister at the same school gave me a little extra confidence — I knew I wasn’t alone in that giant place, and I definitely knew more about the school and the teachers than most other 7th graders! Obviously we didn’t have any classes together, and we ate lunch at different times (not that we would have eaten together even if given the option — I said she was nice, not a weirdo or a saint), but just knowing she was there made the transition a little easier.

(Getting to ride home from school every day in her sweet ’86 VW Cabriolet convertible was pretty rad, too. No waiting for mom in the pick-up line like all the other losers!)

Even with my sister there, moving from the simplicity of elementary school to the complex world of junior high wasn’t easy for me. Navigating the changing social climate was the trickiest aspect. Several elementary schools fed into the junior high, so of course friendships were bound to change with so many new people to interact with. I made a few new friends myself, but I naively assumed that my friends from elementary school, most of whom I had known since kindergarten or even preschool, would continue to be my primary “group.” Unfortunately for me, this assumption proved false, as I quickly realized that I was being left behind while these girls joined forces with a variety of new pals from the other elementary schools to create some sort of obnoxious supergroup of popular people. By the end of the first month of school, I could tell that I was firmly on the periphery of the group. No one was mean or flat-out ignored me, but with every inside joke that went over my head it became more and more clear that I was not really a part of their newly expanded circle.

Still, I counted these girls as friends, and I figured they felt the same about me. The reality of the situation didn’t sink in until one day in October, when we had a half-day of school. I didn’t have any after-school plans and hoped to find someone to hang around with for the afternoon, but I didn’t see any of my friends after class. I gave up and began making my way towards Shannon’s car in the parking lot to head home, and there they were: fifteen girls walking in a pack, clearly heading off somewhere together. I caught up with them and asked the girl I felt closest to what she was up to, and she (nicely; there was no maliciousness involved) informed me that they were all going out to lunch.

It was clear I was not invited. I wasn’t specifically being excluded — it’s not as if they pointed at me and taunted “ha ha, we’re all going somewhere without YOU!” — it was simply that I was not in their group, and thus was not involved in their plans. To be honest, that was almost worse. I couldn’t be mad at them — why would they invite someone with whom they were not close to hang out with them? — but I was humiliated and lonely and deeply ashamed. What was wrong with me that would make them see me as a complete nonentity as opposed to a friend? Had I done something wrong at some point, or was I just so inherently uncool that I never stood a chance?

Shockingly, I didn’t burst into tears (a fact I remain amazed by to this day, considering my proclivity towards over-sensitivity) — I think I was too shocked. I mumbled a goodbye and got in Shannon’s car. I relayed the upsetting turn of events to her, and without skipping a beat, she said “well, why don’t we go out to lunch? Where do you want to go?”

Now, remember that Shannon was a 17-year-old high school senior with a car, a job (and thus money), and plenty of friends; there is no doubt that she could have chosen any number of fun ways to spend her school-free afternoon that did not involve a frizzy-haired little sister. But she chose instead to drive around with me, singing along to Pearl Jam and Stone Temple Pilots and the Pulp Fiction soundtrack and eating Taco Bell. She didn’t make a big deal about what had happened with my friends, nor did she badmouth them in an attempt to make me feel better. She just hung out with me as if there was nothing else she would have rather been doing. As if there was nothing wrong with me at all, and anyone would have fun with me. As if being left out of that group of girls wasn’t cause for concern at all, because everything was fine and normal and it was just anther day and I’d find some other people to hang out with soon enough.

That simple act of sisterly kindness changed my entire junior high life. I got over my disappointment of being left out remarkably quickly, accepting that friendships change and there were plenty of other people to be friends with, perhaps even people with whom I had more in common than simply having attended the same elementary school. I shed not a single tear over the situation! Not one. Beginning the very next day, I made a concerted effort to deepen the new friendships I had started forming with a few girls in my classes, and eventually I had my own new little group of friends. If not for my Taco Bell date with Shannon, I’m certain I would have gone home and sobbed over the humiliation, and I likely would have spent the next month sitting alone at lunch, convinced I was too much of a loser to find any other friends.

Growing up is hard, and I consider myself immensely lucky that I had someone so cool, confident, and capable to look up to. It’s just a shame she never got around to helping me with my hair:

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday: EXCITEMENT!

Bubba is an excitable little fellow. He’s been known to get pumped up about all manner of life’s simple pleasures, including…

Playing in the dirt:

Climbing onto a chair he’s never sat on before:

Looking at photos of dump trucks:

Spotting a helicopter:

Swinging:

Wearing sunglasses indoors:

And taking a doll for a wild ride with his cousin’s toy stroller:

Life is just full of excitement, isn’t it?

Top Ten Tuesday: #1 Dad!

Guys! Guys!

It’s me, Ryan. Or as my mom calls me (for NO good reason, I might add), Bubba.

(I’m not even fat.)

Anyway, last week my mom reminded me that Father’s Day was coming up and strongly hinted that I should write something sweet and sentimental for my dad, like I did last year. Well, I don’t know if you guys are aware, but I am an extremely busy lad. I go to school every day, and when I’m at home, there are toys to be thrown, couches to be climbed on, dogs to try to ride — you get the picture. Free time is scarce! I can’t even think of the last time I was able to rest quietly on Mama’s lap for more than three minutes before I remembered something urgent I had to immediately attend to, like begging for cookies.

My point is, time got away from me. You know how it is. I just wasn’t able to get it together last week to write a tribute to my dad, which is unfortunate because he really does deserve it. He’s pretty much the greatest, and I’m not just saying that because I rely on him to feed me when my mom’s not around — he’s really and truly GREAT! Definitely the best dad I’ve ever had. Wanna know why? OF COURSE YOU DO! Check out my list of the top ten reasons my dad is seriously the best dad EVER:

10) He does fun stuff like throw me in the air, chase me around the house, and carry me around in laundry baskets:

Even when Mom says it looks too dangerous, Dad perseveres! WOOHOO!

9) He walks me to school every morning and never forgets my lunch or the bag with my extra clothes (which I always need because I can’t manage to keep a t-shirt clean for more than about an hour at a time).

8) When I wake up in the middle of the night, he lets Mom bring me into their bed to snuggle! Even though I never go back to sleep and totally think it’s party time as soon as we get in there and I kick him in the back and sing songs and try to climb on him! At 3am!

7) Messiness is NOT a concern for Dad! With Dad, I can get myself and the house as filthy as I want, and it’s AWESOME.

6) He’s very concerned about my stupid allergies. He never forgets to give me my medicine (and even drives Mom crazy by asking her fifty times a night if she gave it to me yet) and he does lots of research on everything I eat to make sure it won’t make me itchy.

That’s me on Dad’s lap on Mother’s Day, when I had some bad reactions going on (see how I’m scratching my neck? Yes, ’twas quite sad). Don’t worry, he took me to the doctor the next morning!

5) He’s always coming up with fun activities to do with me when I get older. Apparently, we’re gonna go to a WWE show when I’m 4! And I’m gonna do jiu jitsu as soon as he can find a place that allows maniac small children to participate!

4) He’s SOOOOOOOO funny! He does crazy voices, makes weird noises, and sings hilarious songs. He makes Mom laugh a lot, too (well, sometimes she rolls her eyes. OK, oftentimes).

3) When Mom is busy running marathons or cleaning the house or whatever boring “mom” stuff she needs to do in peace, Dad takes me to the park — just the two of us!

2) He keeps my mom sane. The importance of this cannot be understated! THANK YOU, DAD!!!!

1) He’s so loving and dedicated. Please excuse the sappiness here, but it must be mentioned. I can really tell how much he loves me and Mama. We’re so lucky!

See? I told you he was the BEST!

How to Start a (Shoddy, Half-Assed) Mommy Blog

I’ve been writing this blog for over a year now, so naturally at this point I consider myself an expert. Not an expert on blogging in general, of course (I’m not that cocky), or even of the “mommy blog” genre, but I think we can all agree that few bloggers are more qualified than I to speak on the subject of Shoddy, Half-Assed Mommy Blogs™. Just look at my credentials: I only manage to post a couple times a week (and I’m prone to regularly phoning it in by making top ten lists or just posting a bunch of poor-quality photos instead of actually writing something of substance), I still have the default WordPress blog theme installed, and after a year of (half-assed) dedication my readership consists of approximately six immediate family members and the occasional fool who mistakenly clicks my link while googling “absentee mother.”

Experts in any field have a civic duty to share their knowledge with the public, so I am here today to offer my guidance to all the amateurs out there who are looking to start their very own Shoddy, Half-Assed Mommy Blog™. With my simple 5-step manual at your side, your new blog will be the #23482340 Google result in no time!

Maureen Wachter’s Patent-Pending Success-Guaranteed Guide To Half-Assed Blogging:

Step 1: Give birth to a really cute kid. This is vital! Having a kid is an obvious prerequisite for any mommy blog, but having a particularly cute kid at your disposal will make your half-assed blogging efforts much easier. Don’t know how to end your blog post? Add a photo of the kid! Can’t think of anything to write about? Share a bunch of photos of the kid! No time (or dedication) to design a nice banner for your blog? Use photos of your kid!

If your child isn’t cute (what a weird thing to think about your own child; what’s wrong with you!?) or just doesn’t photograph well, don’t fret: take photos of him or her wearing funny hats or eating lemons or something and you’re good to go.

Step 2: Spend 10 minutes designing your blog. You can fiddle with the default settings provided to you by WordPress or Blogger a little, but don’t go overboard — what do you think you are, a professional? Take shortcuts like using photos of your adorable baby in lieu of actual graphic design, and don’t worry your pretty little head about fancy plug-ins and add-ons used by better bloggers.

Every few months, briefly entertain the idea of paying someone to re-design your blog. Disabuse yourself of this notion; that’s entirely too much money and effort.

Step 3: Invest the bare minimum effort in “social media.” I acknowledge that we’re living in the Facebook world now, so it’s imperative that you do something social with your blog (remember, you’re half-assing this operation, not totally slacking off; a modicum of effort is permissible). For example, I have a Twitter account, which I update approximately never, and a Facebook page to which I dedicate a smidge more attention. This amazing two-pronged social media strategy yields me dozens of hits per week! DOZENS, PEOPLE!

Step 4: Write some posts! Or not, if you’re not in the mood. Don’t worry about it too much.

Step 5: Keep your sights low. Be realistic: your blog is half-assed. You’re not going to get thousands of visitors per day (or week…or month…), and you’re certainly not going to get any sponsorship offers (don’t quit your day job). Convince yourself that 95 Facebook fans is the ideal number and it would be too much pressure to try to reply to a legion of adoring readers all the time, anyway.

Congratulations! You’re ready to take the web by storm with your half-assed blog. I look forward to not interacting with you on Twitter and occasionally remembering to comment on your posts!

Here’s an irrelevant blurry photo of my dirt-covered spawn. I can include it despite its lack of context because this is a half-assed blog.

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Thanks to Mama Kat‘s writer’s workshop prompt (“Share some of your favorite blogging or vlogging tips”) for the inspiration!

Mind Reader

Most parents wish they had mind-reading powers during the newborn days, when babies are prone to fussing and crying an awful lot. “What do you want?” We plea with our infants. “A new diaper? Baba? Are you too cold? Too hot? Is your tag scratching you? Do you hate me? What is it?!”

Eventually, we figure out what our baby’s various cries and whines mean, and life gets a lot easier. You know which cry is the “hungry” one and which one means “I’m too tired to even fall asleep, please help me!” You start thinking you’ve got this whole “parenting” thing under control. “I am totally the baby-whisperer,” you think smugly to yourself as you confidently whip out a fresh diaper in response to your baby’s classic “I pooped!” cry. “Nothing can trip me up now!”

And then your kid becomes a toddler and you’re back to square one.

Trying to communicate with a toddler is, in my opinion, significantly harder than trying to interpret the cries of a newborn. The problem is twofold: for one, toddlers have so many goddamn opinions and feelings and needs. When a newborn cries, you can be almost certain that you’re dealing with either hunger, diaper trouble, physical discomfort, or sleepiness — that’s really about it. With a toddler, the problem could be that he doesn’t like what’s on TV…or you’re not reading the right book or using the right voices for each of the stupid trucks in said book…or you gave him the wrong sippy cup…or he wanted a different snack…or his tower of blocks fell down before he got to kick it down…or LITERALLY ANYTHING YOU CAN IMAGINE (and then six million more things you never thought to imagine).

This problem is compounded by the fact that toddlers can sort of communicate, and they think that their garbled words and assorted grunts and whines are totally understandable. In reality, of course, saying “noooooo” along with some unintelligible whimpering and gesturing does NOT directly translate to “pardon me, long-suffering Mother, but I would much prefer if you would remove this offensive cheddar cheese from my lunch tray and replace it with some string cheese instead; I do thank you for your cooperation in this urgent matter.” A toddler’s sincere surprise at an adult’s inability to interpret their vague requests and complaints never ceases to amaze me. In their minds, they’re being so very clear — why aren’t we getting it?!

Unfortunately for me, Bubba is very opinionated (and I swear it’s getting worse by the day; I wasn’t kidding about the cheese mishap), and while he does know quite a few words, he doesn’t know nearly enough to really communicate with me. I’m doing my best to be a mind reader, but most of the time I end up just guessing fifty or so different options until I finally hit the jackpot. Case in point, here’s a transcript of our nightly routine, wherein I try to sing to the dear lad and he makes me shuffle through every song in my arsenal until I hit on the one he wants to hear:

Mama: I’ve been working on the railroad, all the —

Bubba: NOOOOOOOOO!

Mama: [sigh] Twinkle, twinkle —

Bubba: [sniff, sniff; nearly a sob]

Mama: Sorry! Row, row, row your —

Bubba: [kicks me in protest]

Mama: [tentatively] Take me out to the ballgame, take me out with the crowd…

Bubba: [contented smile]

JACKPOT!

It’s ridiculous, but I swear, there are few better feelings in the world than finally guessing correctly!

Of course, sometimes it’s easier than others. How many guesses do you think it took me to figure out that all he wanted to do at the park was push his stroller around the equipment?

Send help. And a psychic.

Your Name is Mo?!

My name is Maureen, but growing up, I was primarily known as Mo. My family took to calling me Mo when I was a baby, and it stuck. Even at school and in extracurricular activities like Girl Scouts and softball, I was never Maureen, I was just Mo. I never minded — Mo’s a super cute name, right? — and there was never any confusion surrounding my name; I’m from a small enough town where everyone just sort of knew that my name was Maureen but that they could call me Mo. I liked my real name well enough, but since I didn’t grow up in 1850’s Ireland, it wasn’t exactly the most common name, so Mo was just easier and better-suited to a small child.

In junior high, I discovered that some people apparently aren’t familiar with the fact that Mo is a perfectly legitimate nickname for Maureen (again, maybe because no one under the age of 100 is named Maureen). My best friend introduced me to her grandmother, and it just confused the poor old lady — she looked me up and down and retorted, “your name is Mo?!” (a sneer that retained its power to send my friend and I into hysterical giggles any time either of us repeated it for years after). Another time, I was waiting along with my teammates for our softball coach to tell us which positions we’d be playing for that day’s game, and he pointed at me and ordered, “Maurice! Second base!” He’d never heard anyone call me anything but Mo and made the ridiculous leap of logic to assume that it was a derivative of Maurice as opposed to, say, ANY GIRLS’ NAME IN THE WORLD.

After being scoffed at by an elderly woman and presumed to be a jaunty French lad by my softball coach, my love for my nickname began to wane. I began making sure I introduced myself as Maureen to new acquaintances, and if someone introduced me as Mo I was quick to jump in to clarify that my name was really Maureen and that Mo was just a nickname. I knew there was no stopping my family or friends from calling me Mo and I tried not to mind, but I became increasingly self-conscious about it. Anytime someone called me Mo in public, I felt a pressing need to run around and explain to everyone in the vicinity that I did indeed have a normal name (don’t worry, I didn’t actually do this; instead, I just suffered constant anxiety that everyone was judging me and thinking I was some sort of a weirdo, or, worse yet, that my name was really Maurice).

When I went off to college and later started working, I didn’t have to worry about the issue as much. Everyone was “new” to me, so I was introduced to them all as Maureen. Sometimes someone would hear someone else call me Mo and I’d just explain that it was a family nickname; a few people took a shine to it and started calling me Mo themselves, but for the most part Mo became reserved strictly for family and old friends. It was as if Mo was the childhood me, and Maureen the adult.

And it felt weird.

As much as it embarrassed me as a teenager when someone didn’t “get” my nickname, the reality remained that it was a great nickname! Say it aloud: Mo. It just sounds friendly and fun and uncomplicated and down to earth — all things I’d like to be. Sure, it also sounds like it could possibly be a nickname for Maurice, but oh well. Mo sounds like a person you want to get to know (at least to find out if her name is short for Maurice). I’d want to know someone named Mo.

I’ve made a lot of big life changes in my twenties, and my feelings about the nickname situation was one of them. I decided I no longer cared if a few idiots couldn’t figure out that Mo was a nickname for Maureen. It’s a perfectly fine nickname, and I like it! I still introduce myself as Maureen, because it does sound more professional (and I am such a professional person, obviously), but if someone hears me being referred to as Mo or picks up on it somewhere, I’m really quite happy about it.

Because Mo is the type of person who is friendly to everyone and doesn’t take things too seriously and makes delicious enchiladas, and that’s the person I want to be.

See? Mo made these enchiladas.

Marathon Report: The Good, The Bad, & The Ugly

Alert, alert! Newsflash! Breaking news! Urgent bulletin! I ran that freakin’ marathon yesterday.

Which means you’ll no longer have to hear me talking about it!

Well, after this one final post about it. Aren’t you eager to hear how it all went down!? (No? Too bad; my blog, my rules.)

The good:

• I didn’t die!
• I also didn’t get lost on the way there, trip in a pothole at the starting line, lose my timing chip, forget my headphones, or any of the hundred other stupid hypothetical logistical nightmares I spent the previous week obsessing over.
• I didn’t get injured! I’m terribly sore today, but I didn’t incur any actual injuries like a busted knee or sprained ankle or even a blister!
• The weather was perfect for running — cloudy, so no sunburn issues, but not rainy or windy or humid.
• I kept my pace throughout most of the race…I was on pace for my (very modest) goal time all the way through mile 20, when the course changed — miles 20-23 were virtually all uphill! WHY WOULD THEY PLAN THE COURSE THAT WAY?! It was rough and I probably lost 15 minutes on my pace just from those three miles; I could barely run a quarter mile during that stretch. But I’m still proud of myself for maintaining my pace even that far into the race. To be completely honest, I kind of assumed I’d tucker out a lot earlier and totally blow it!
• Did I mention that I did NOT die?

The bad:

• I had to wake up at 3:20am! I’m not sure where you live, but where I come from, that’s known as “the middle of the goddamn night.”
• I missed my goal time by 18 minutes. This was due to the aforementioned literal uphill battle and also due to a SIX MINUTE porta-potty line at mile 5 that I had no choice but to stand in; I had guzzled so much water before the race that by mile 5 my bladder was on the verge or bursting. I am not hardcore enough to pee my pants for the sake of keeping the pace.
• I am very, very hobbled today. Soreness everywhere.

The ugly:

• I grossly underestimated my fuel needs. I ate breakfast a couple hours beforehand and had 3 Gu packets along the way, but by about mile 18 I was out of Gu and so hungry I would have gladly flashed my boobs at someone in exchange for a tiny crumb of a protein bar. I started playing a game in my head: how much money would I pay for food right now? If you’re curious, I decided $1 sounded reasonable for a single Vons-brand pretzel (even unsalted!), $10 would be a good deal for a Snickers bar, and a bagel with cream cheese would have easily been worth $20.
• It was seriously hard. I can’t say I recommend it. I would say “never again,” but I have to admit that I’m tempted to try again in a few months with more food and a flatter course and see if I could beat my time!

Please note the banana and two mini bagels I grabbed IMMEDIATELY upon crossing the finish line; I was so excited about those that I nearly forgot to get my medal. PRIORITIES.