Blast from the Past

In the process of packing I unearthed some pretty cool shit. And topping the list is my childhood collection of (drumroll, please) . . .

Garbage Pail Kids!!!!!

Just let the sweet memory of those words flood over you. This post is better than the original “I love the 80’s” isn’t it?

I have at least 5 dozen of these vintage cards, all impeccably preserved. On the top of the pile we spotted one that we knew would set Primo’s vampire-loving heart a pitter-patter.

Haunted Hollis

So, as rewards for good behavior, I have been doling out a Garbage Pail Kid now and then to the boy, and so far he’s received:

Haggy Maggie

And Alice Island.

Its not any easy job, though, to find cards that are appropriate for an anxiety-prone yet spook-loving four year-old. I was forced to rule out the following cards, for instance:

I hate to admit it because I know I sound a million years old, but I kind of don't see the appeal of these anymore. Why did I love these cards so much? Why did you? Enlighten me please. It is purely scatalogical? Working out some latent aggressions?

The Losing of the Nap

First off, let me be clear that this is not a picture of my child sleeping. If you knew me at all, you'd have guessed that for two reasons.

A. When my child does nap, I do not sneak in to snap photos of her sleeping. I do not crack the door for any reason whatsoever. I leave the child alone and I try to breathe as quietly as possible in the adjoining room.

B. My kid doesn't nap anymore.

Yes, readers, I am in the tumultuous terrain of the terrible twos, known far and wide (in my apartment) as The Losing of the Nap.

Before you stop me and say, “Whoa now, my kid didn’t drop her nap ‘til she was 4 or 5,” or better yet, “We’re European and my kid is 12 and still naps!” let me rush to qualify that I understand not all children lose the nap as part of the terrible twos. It’s just the particularly ornery ones that do, the ones that you need to sleep more than anything in the world, because it is those two hours of peace that allow you to grab onto the frazzled end of your sanity and make it through the rest of the day. These ornery, defiant, devil-may-care children are precisely the ones that have the nerve to drop their nap well before they no longer need the sleep, creating a total friggin’ mess in the process.

It goes like this:

Between 50-75% of the time, Seconda does not nap, even when I put her to sleep at the appointed time in the appointed place. She just stands in her crib tent, which is zipped tight, and yells or throws things or cries or sings loudly for an hour or two. I get no rest during that time since I am too busy sustaining a coronary. Then I finally let her out of imprisonment, for which she is very grateful and sweet, for exactly 20 seconds,

The moment her feet hit the floor, and freedom is assured, she begins to act like a total, unmitigated little shithead. This may sound mean. In fact, strike that. It does sound mean. It sounds terrible. But what you should take into account is that I am actually being generous because saying she’s a shithead is a tremendous understatement.

My mommy friend, Grace, who has two kids just the same age and Primo and Seconda came over for a playdate yesterday. Sec had opted out of the nap and when Grace and the kids arrived at 4pm, she was not just a hot mess but an atomic mess. While the other children played, she spent about an hour screaming, for a reason no one could understand.

Grace looked pained. She looked CONCERNED. While I ignored my own child’s screaming, she tried to fix whatever was wrong.

“Do you want some water?” Grace asked Seconda.

Screaming.

“Do you want a snack?"

Screaming.

“Do you want to play with the pirate hat?”

Screaming.

My well-intentioned friend, of course, got nowhere/ She could not fix what was wrong because what was wrong was that my daughter didn’t get the rest she needs to maintain her mental health. Her exhaustion makes her a crazy person. And not just her, either.

It’s like my toddler has colic. Can you begin to understand the implications of that? A baby who has colic can, ultimately, be put down for a few minutes and left to cry so that you can take a swig of whisky or whatever you need to do to get back on board. A toddler just follows you around screaming. Toddlers weigh a lot more than newborns and carrying them everywhere will give you a hernia. Toddlers, unlike newborns, will purposefully hit you in the eye and bite you on your arm. Toddlers should never get colic. But mine has it.

Now, between 25-50% of the time (and that’s a precise figure I calculated) Seconda DOES take a nap. What bliss! What rapture! I work, furiously, while Primo watches Noggin. In two hours, she wakes and I am restored, just like Lazarus. It is amazing. And she is in a good mood too, doesn’t have the colic, and we are best friends and snuggle together and I am happy.

Then bedtime approaches. David and I understand that since she’s napped, she probably won’t be quite as tired at 7:30, so bedtime creeps closer to 8:30. At 11pm she is still awake, jumping in her crib and yelling “PRIMO WAKE UP! PRIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMOOOOO!”

David and I have no evening whatsoever. I pass out in my bed, listening to her yell.

But that is not all, folks, That is not even the worst part.

The next morning, she wakes at 5am. Five o’clock in the miserable morning. And if I thought she had colic from missing her nap, she has a raging case of it when she sleeps for only 6 hours.

So. Scylla and Charybdis. Damned in I do and damned if I don’t.

This isn’t exactly what you imagine when you decide to go off your birth control.

I'm crushing on Adam Rex

As you may recall, my son is obsessed with spooks, specifically Dracula and Frankenstein. So we’re always on the lookout for literature which addresses this subject, but in a light-hearted and non-terrifying way, since, after all, my boy is literally scared of his own shadow most days.

The answer to our prayers is Adam Rex.

If your kid is over the age of 4 or 5 and you want to read a picture book that you will enjoy as much, if not more, than they will, you must run, don’t walk, to your local bookstore and get Frankenstein Takes the Cake. Or hell, go on Amazon, and see if they give you one of those “Buy this title with this other title and save!” and then grab Frankenstein Makes a Sandwich, too -- Rex’s first Frank book.

The premise is simple – Rex just plops these spooks down in modern day society and lets the madness unfold. Like, for instance, what problems might face the caterer who works the Frankenstein/ Bride of Frankenstein wedding, or what issues might pop up if Medusa were to go to Kindergarten.

Rex had me from the inside flap where his author photo shows a hulky Franken-guy with hipster glasses, underneath which is printed "A haiku about Adam Rex":

“He knows Frankenstein’s
the doctor, not the monster.
Enough already.”

But when I really started to swoon is when we got to the modern-day story of the Headless Horseman, told through his blog which is titled: “Off the Top of My Head,” We follow the Horseman through his trials and tribulations, as chefs making pumpkin bisque ogle his head and crows go all Hitchcock to peck out the seeds from his eyes. But the best part is when the inevitable happens and the Horseman is forced to go shopping for a new head-fruit to replace the current one that has decayed: “I just can’t hide the funk in/ side this sad and sunken/ pumpkin.”

“He’s like Eminem!” I shouted to David.

“Why don’t you marry him already!” was his reply.

“Is he single?”

I’ll tell you this much. Primo would go nuts to have Adam Rex as a step-dad. He is totally, one hundred percent infatuated with the books, harboring particular affection for a story entitled “Count Dracula doesn't know he's been walking around all night with spinach in his teeth.” He also loved that the Headless Horseman’s blogroll featured the site: “I Vant to Suck Your Blog.”

“That’s funny because it’s like instead of blood he wants to suck up somebody’s computer!!!!!” shrieked Primo.

Up- fricking-roarious. And you haven’t even gotten to “The Invisible Man Gets a Haircut” yet. What can I say? Me and the boy have found a new level of kid lit nirvana.

Older than my years, it appears

We were on line at Bed, Bath and Beyond, returning some household items that didn’t fit our household, and to divert himself, Primo was showing his remarkable strength by lifting things– the pole used to cordon off the line, boxes housing George Foreman grills.

“Holy moly,” I said, “You are so strong! And you’re so young.”

“No,” he replied, “You are just old. You’re elderly.”

He’s not wrong either. I am only 32 and should be in the prime of my youth, but alas I am decrepit in spirit. Nothing that sleeping for two days straight couldn’t fix, though. Yes, 48 hours on uninterrupted sleep would probably even restore my abdomen to its pre-baby-number-2 flatness. After 48 hours of uninterrupted sleep, I would likely remember when to use an apostrophe in “its” and I might even be able to solve the health care crisis. But I guess I’ll never know , , , ,

Williamsburg, the Literati and Me

David and I don’t get out very much. I know this because on the rare occasion when we do, people make a big, embarrassing fuss over it.

Last night, we not only got, out but made it all the way to Williamsburg. I never feel quite right in Williamsburg. I feel too old, and not hip enough. I am -- perhaps unfairly -- annoyed by how satisfied the residents of Williamsburg are with themselves for living there. I used to know this great guy, born and raised in Williamsburg, a ballet dancer who was debatably the biggest hetero horn-dog in history, with a Brooklyn accent so thick it made you feel like you were in Saturday Night Fever when you talked to him. You don’t find that kind of guy in Williamsburg anymore, though.

What you do find, and what lured me out there last night, are book parties for hot, on-the-rise, about to break out like a teenager who hasn’t been using his Clearasil, authors, like my friend Victor LaValle.

I have the good fortune of knowing Victor through my best friend from college, who's a big-time novelist and member of the Literati herself. What can I say? I may not be changing the face of literature, but I know the people that are. Victor's new book, Big Machine, is coming out on August 11th and if you consider yourself a reader with any amount of taste, you’re going to want to read it. You don’t have to believe me, just listen to what the Wall Street Journal has to say.

Victor LaValle's Big Machine Draws Comparisons to Thomas Pynchon

It was a big enough occasion that David and I got a babysitter (ie: my cousin) and hit the BQE. That’s when we realized we don’t get out enough because at least four people exclaimed, “You made it!” upon seeing us, like we had to sneak out of Sing Sing or something. But a great time was had by all and the booze and empanadas made me think that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t too old and out-of-the-loop for Williamsburg. So, Grand Avenue, watch out. You may be seeing more of me and my kids, dressed in their most irreverent and ironic T-shirts.

Something is living under my son’s bed and you’ll never guess what

“There is a vegetarian bud-lah living under my bed,” says Primo in the car, on our way home from chowing down pierogies at Veselka.

“A what?” I reply.

“A vegetarian budlah living under my bed,” he repeats.

“A vegetarian what?”

“Buuuuuud-lah”

“A bird lore?”

“BUDLAH!”

“Butt lure?”

“Budlah budlah, Mommy, a vegetarian budlah.”

“Is this a real word or one you made up?”

“It’s a real word! The person who brings you things!”

And then I realize what he’s been saying this whole time, pretty clearly, is “butler.”

“There is a vegetarian butler living under your bed?”

“Yes!” he says, relieved.

Then David and I laughed so hard it hurt. And Primo laughed too.

“That sounds FANTASTIC!” I said, “I’d love to have a vegetarian butler living under my bed.”

“You would?”

“Absolutely. Its just the thing we need in our new place.”

I'm not joking, either. So if you know a good non-meat-eating butler who works for free , , ,

Just another day in paradise

I battled a mortal enemy all day yesterday and that enemy was my son. He woke up and, for no apparent reason, suddenly despised me. I understand that this is something which happens during the teen years but he is only 4 1/2, for the love of God.

He continued to despise me until bedtime, when he had a spasm of contrition which set him straight. I, of course, accepted his unspoken apology, and told him I will always forgive him no matter what he does, for as long as I am alive, and beyond, because he is my boy and I love him unconditionally. That said, had there been a pack of gypsies passing through Park Slope yesterday, I probably would have sold him off. Because yesterday Primo was a primo jerko.

“I HATE YOU MOMMY!” is how it began in the morning. That was because after his sister drew on the brand-new, impeccably white solid wood door which belongs to the home I know own, in ballpoint pen, I put her in a Time-Out. A useless, ineffective, what’s-the-point-but-what-else-are-you-gonna-do? Time-Out. And although 90% of his waking hours are spent complaining about Seconda, in this one moment, he decided he was her fiercest ally and was resolute about doing her time with her.

“You can’t be in there when she’s doing Time-Out. It defeats the purpose!”

“I don’t care what you say. She’s my sister and I’m not leaving!”

I told him I applauded his loyalty, nay, more than applauded, I gave it a standing ovation – it thrilled me and made me proud.

“But you have to do what I say and get out of the room. Now.”

No way, Jose, nothi8ng doing. The worst part is, while he’s being openly defiant like this, he laughs his head off, like my discipline is all a big, hilarious joke. Really knows how to drive me crazy, that one. So after asking and demanding that he listen to my instructions a few more times, I pulled him out of the room kicking and screaming so his sister could have a Time-Out which was so undeterring that five minutes later she drew on the new coffee table in crayon.

After that Primo was just stuck on the “Hate Mommy” dial, and everything was my fault. His Lego creation of the Sphinx in front of the pyramids broke and it was my fault. He didn’t want chicken soup for lunch despite telling me that he did, and that was my fault. We made homemade ice cream with a brand-new electric homemade ice cream and it was my fault because the ice cream took too long to freeze.

The worst part is, when one of the kids is having a naughty day (and I am being euphemistic here because what I really mean is a day when they are mean as a f#$king sewer rat), the other one is even naughtier. It is sympathetic unhappiness. When Seconda is unhappy, she whines and cries. Loudly and incessantly. So all I heard yesterday was this wall of crying punctuated by Primo’s verbal abuse.

“I HATE YOU MOMMY!”
“I WISH I DIDN’T HAVE A MOMMY”
“I WISH YOU WOULD GO AWAY!”
“I’M GOING TO CUT YOU!”
“I FEEL LIKE NO ONE LOVES ME!”
“YOU ARE A BAD MOMMY!”
“I HOPE YOUR NOSE GETS STUCK IN AN ELEVATOR!”

“If my nose gets stuck in the elevator.” I replied, “I will have to go to the hospital and stay there in intensive care for many days and you will have to stay with NANA AND BABBO!!!!!!!!!!”

That shut him up for a brief spell.

In the midst of this maelstrom of hate, I had to bring the kids down to the lobby to return the luggage cart we’d been using to haul stuff up to our new place. It was about 4pm and none of us were wearing shoes, Sec wasn’t wearing any pants, and Primo was in his PJs. We looked like a bunch of hobos. We exit the elevator and while I am returning the cart to its place, Sec – a social butterfly, even half-dressed – starts up a conversation with a little girl just her age, waiting quietly in the lobby with her dad and newborn baby sister.

“I’m Seconda and this is my brother Primo and this is our new house. What’s your name girl. Say your name!”

So I walk over to talk to the dad, “How old is she? . . . What floor do you live on? . . . Oh what a cute baby,” etc. and while I am exchanging these pleasantries, my son is standing next to me saying, “I hate you Mommy, I hate you, I feel like no one loves me. I hate you. I want you to go away.”

The dad looked very uncomfortable, and I felt like we were the trailer trash making a scene in the nice establishment. And I wanted to say to him, “Oh sure, everything’s great now, huh? I mean, you just had baby number two and you probably think things are so HARD and you’re so EXHAUSTED but trust me, everything right now is friggin’ great. You don’t know what’s coming, man. You have no idea. You will be us in exactly two years, my friend. Standing here in the lobby with no shoes on and in your PJs in mid-afternoon, trying to make small talk when your oldest tells you he wishes your nose would get caught in an elevator. This is your future. What do you think of that?????”

Of course I just took the kids and went back upstairs so the happy family could have a nice walk in the park while I suffered verbal abuse privately.

At bedtime though, after David read books, I went in to tell Prim his good night story and I’d changed into a pretty skirt and shirt because my BFF was coming to see the new place and we were headed out for a drink. When he saw me Primo gasped, actually gasped and said:

“Oh Mommy! You are so beautiful!”

“Thank you,” I said, hugging him, “Thank you for saying so.”

“Oh Mommy, what a beautiful dress! You are so beautiful! If you wore makeup like this every day you would look like you were in the CIRCUS!”

(This is the highest compliment coming from my son, and not an insult, as it would be ordinarily).

And that’s when I told him that even when we fight and even when I’m mad at him, I love him the whole time.

“You just can’t turn it off,” I said, “My love is like the ocean and the ocean never runs dry.”

Then I went out and had a very large White Russian and told the story to my best friend and felt much better.