A big house just makes us louder

We spent the weekend at my parents’ place in New Jersey where I realized something. A big house does not solve all our problems. In fact, it creates some brand-new ones. For instance, the bigger the house we inhabit, the louder we are.

“MOOOOOOOOOMMMY!!!” comes Sec’s voice from somewhere below.

“WHAAAAT?” I bellow back.

“WIIIIIIIIPE MEEEEEEEEE!”

“WHAAAAAAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

“I SAAAAAID, WIIIIIIIIIPE ME!”

“WIPE YOU? YOU WANT ME TO WIPE YOU?”

“YEEEEEEES!”

All that to discover my daughter took a dump. Good God, it’s exhausting.

It also makes bedtime even worse than usual, because every curtain call requires us ascending and descending the stairs. I don’t enjoy dropping everything to attend to their bedtime needs under the best of circumstances and I like it considerably less when it requires me activating my tired, ineffectual glutes.

“DAAAAAADDY! I’m THIIIIIIIIRSTY!”

David gets up from the couch to fill the water cup. But just as he’s opening the fridge, the call comes again, because Primo doesn’t think anyone’s heard him. Primo is not accustomed to sending soundwaves across distances which exceed ten feet.

“DAAAAADDDDY!!”

“HOLD ON!”

“WHAAAAAAT?

“I SAID, HOOOOOOOLD ONNNN!”

“Stop yelling!” I chastise David.

“He can’t hear me! Nobody can hear each other in this house!”

By the time he fills up the cup and gets up the stairs Primo has panicked and is screaming his head off -- emergency screams now rather than run-of-the-mill screams.

“DADDY! MOMMY! DADDY! WHERE ARE YOU? CAN ANYONE HEAR ME”

It’s like a three-ring circus. But I have to say, it does make me appreciate our tiny apartment where you never have to walk the floors in search of a family member, because they are always within your field of vision.

You know what they said? Mo’ rooms, mo’ problems.

Ja! Iceland!

Who, you ask, are those happy, carefree, outdoorsy people having the time of their life? What can I say? Iceland works wonders for the beleaguered soul.



Yes, that is me, readying to ascend the harrowing heights so I can climb INTO the cravass. You could call it a crack in the mountain, but I prefer cravass, or crevice, if you're slightly less fancy.



Not only do I enjoy the natural beauty and splendor of the smooth-faced black pebble beach, I also enjoy the fact that the pebbles make free souvenirs.



David and I were so impressed by this tiny little church in a little fishing village called Olafsvick. Typically, I go for classic and grandiose when I'm church-hopping, but I loved this church's sleek modern design.


Oh, did I hit the button on the camera while holding hands in romantic reverie with my husband? I didn't notice. It was purely accidental. Its not like I PLANNED this amazingly heartfelt picture to frame on my wall across from my wedding photo.

This is the helpful sign on the top of the world's highest cliffs, warning visitors not to fall off.



And this is the volcano. No matter where we went on the penisula, the volcano was there, looking effortlessly majestic. Oh, to be as kick-ass as a volcano.

Guess who just went on a weekend trip to ICELAND??

ME, people! Me and my husband. The morale of this story is: never give up on your dreams. Or, alternately: don't let a little emergency appendectomy stop your fun.

We were supposed to go in early June but instead, had a staycation in the hospital. I can now definitively say that I prefer Iceland.

I got the whole Iceland idea in my head a few months ago, when I realized, suddenly, that David and I haven't been on a real, plane-ride-involved, romantic getaway since Seconda was a baby and I pumped my breasts all over Mexico. I realized that since I'm not lactating now, it might be considerably more enjoyable to have an international escapade. Then I realized that my sister is having her third baby in a few months. This gave me the kick in the pants I needed.

"We need to book a vacation immediately, "I told David, "Before my sister has her baby and uses up the family's babysitting reserve. My parents won't be able to watch our kids when they have to help her. This is ON."

Our requirements were:

Overseas.
Cheap airfare.
A place where we'd see something seriously fucking amazing.

All of which added up to Iceland.

The kids were jazzed because I read them bit of our travel book, about how Icelandic people tend to believe in supernatural creatures like trolls, gnomes, fairies, and how they eat puffin and rotten shark meat and horse steak.

"What's a puffin?" Sec asked.

"Like a penguin," I repiled.

"AHHHH! MOMMY"S GOING TO EAT A PENGUIN!" she shrieked. And then: "Bring back one for me to eat, too, OK Mommy?"

Sec was also very taken by the photo of a man and a woman standing in the steaming geothermal spas near Reykjavik called the Blue Lagoon.

"Is that going to be you and Daddy?"

"Yes," I said, "Daddy and I are going to go to the Blue Lagoon and kiss, just like that."

"But aren't you going to be scared to go inside the Black Lagoon?" she asked, "What if there's a crocodile in there?"

"I think we'll skip the Black Lagoon and just go to the Blue one" I said, "I don't think the swamp creature likes that one."

The funniest part about the trip is that my grandmother can't figure out where the hell we went since neither of us knows the Italian word for Iceland.

"Where you going?" she asked, "Irlandia?"

"No, that's Ireland," I said, "We are going to Iceland."

"Island? What kinda island?"

"No, not an island. ICE-land. La terra di ghiaccio."

"Oh my God -- you going to ALASKA?"


So there you have it, folks. We came, we saw, we did not eat rotten shark meat. More details to come when I've recuperated from my terribly thrilling, oh-so-jetsetter-y intercontinental travel.

Mommy Power Trip

If you want to annoy your big brother, nothing does the trick like bossing him around.

From Primo’s perspective, he already has one Mommy, and he doesn’t need another, particularly a four year-old one with no flexibility, patience or impulse control.

“OK, OK, Primo, we’ll find your Lego figure,” she assures him, “Just relax, OK, just take a deeeeeeep breath and reeeelaa-“

“STOP ACTING LIKE A GROWN-UP!” he yells.

“I know its annoying, Prim,” I say, “But the only alternative is her acting like a four year-old which is much worse.”

Sec is fond of using “Mommy” techniques to promote her own agenda. Her favorite is counting to three.

“Gimme a lick of that ice cream! PRIMO! GIMME A LICK OF THAT ICE CREAM! Do you HEAR me? I’m going to count to three and you better give me a lick of that ice cream cone, or you’re going to lose your dessert. One. Two . . . “

Its not how “1.2.3 Magic” suggests implanting the technique but, crazily enough, it works for Sec.

Primo sometimes gets on a Mommy power trip too, though he’s more apt to bargain, to incentivize rather than threaten:

“You want this shoe? OK, I will give you the shoe . . . If you play Harry Potter with me. Is that a deal?”

This, too, is surprisingly effective. In fact, I’ve noticed that the children’s imitations of my parenting techniques are more effective than my own implementation. Is that demoralizing or what?

Yes, I hate picnics in the park. What hot blooded person doesn't?

Maybe I’m a real big ole’ party pooper but I have to confess that I freaking loathe end-of-the-year park picnics. Loathe is a strong word. I don’t object morally or anything. I mean, theoretically, I’m all for it. But in practice, I am no fan. And really, I am wondering if there is anyone out there with young children who actually derives pleasure from these things

The trouble is, there’s just too much goddamned wide open space. I realize this may not be a popular opinion and the free-rangers will gasp in horror and string me up but I try to avoid ay all costs combining young children and wide open space. Ample, but confined spaces, sure, Smallish but open spaces, fine. But ample and open is a disaster, particularly if you have an impulsive speed demon on your hands like I do. In these wide open spaces, your speed demon can go anywhere in the time it takes to dip a baby carrot in ranch sauce.

Primo can be trusted to hang around the general vicinity and I don’t worry too much about him venturing off the grid. But if I turn away from my daughter for two seconds, she will be halfway across the meadow, so far I can hardly make out her tiny little shape, so far she is beyond earshot, so my embarrassing bellows COME BACK RIGHT NOW! are futile, so far that even if I was in shape, which I am most definitely not, and I sprinted, I would never overtake her. Then I worry that she will be lost in the park, like Hansel and Gretel in the forest, at the mercy of wild beasts and child-crunching witches and their urban equivalent. This worry prompts me to run, pointlessly, after her, panting and screaming, threatening her with loss of dessert the whole time. When she sees me running, she runs faster. And it is at that moment that I curse end-of-the-year picnics and the maniacs that decided to create wide open green areas in the middle of a metropolis.

The idea that I could actually carry on a conversation or ingest food or drink at this kind of thing is laughable. And there’s no way my kids eat dinner during them, wither. Sneaking a dozen cookies while I’m busy recovering from a heart attack, now that, there’s plenty of. So, at 7pm, when we finally head home, I’ve got two hungry, sugared-up, cranky kids and a thirty minute walk before I can hose them down and beg them to go to sleep.

Oh, but – you’ll say – they’ll be so tired out from all their running around, they’ll go right to sleep, at least.

Yeah, right. Sure. Of course.

Tell that to the clock which reads 10:30pm while they’re still performing duets from Mulan at top voice.

There is simply no upside to an end-of-the-year picnic. Except that the kids have fun. And really, isn’t that what it’s all about? She says, sarcastically.

I’m not saying I’m going to stop attending these freaking mixers. I’m just saying I’m going to complain about it. And maybe bring a flask next time.

Mother, how I (pretend) love you!

I have realized that the only way to get my four year-old daughter to show me affection is for her to enter the land of make believe. If we pretend that she’s someone else, preferably a princess, and I’m that someone else’s mother, she has no problem lavishing me with hugs and kisses and declarations of love.

“Oh Mother Gothel! Mother dear, how I love you! Mwah mwah mwah mwah!” Big show of kissing my cheeks and throwing her arms around my neck.

“Oh Rapunzel! How I love you, darling child!” Yes, I feel a little cheap, but a mama’s got to do what a mama’s got to do to make it through. Dignity is not a top priority for me anymore.

This wasn’t a problem with Primo. He’d show affection for his dear old Mama without incentives. But Seconda truly detests kisses and hugs, particularly from me. Its not that she doesn’t care for me or that she’s a cold-hearted child – far from it: these things just totally skeeve her. Every time I kiss her, she wipes it off with an irrepressible shudder of disgust, Sometimes, if she wants an ice cream or a treat or something, I can’t help but use her desperation to my advantage and ask her for a kiss or hug first. But then she looks so repulsed, I feel sorry for the girl and tell her it’s OK and give her the ice cream cone, In my desperate need for positive feedback, I don’t want to teach the kid to use kisses to get what she wants. Still and all, I did give birth to her and sometimes I want to cuddle the child. That’s when I pretend to be someone who the person she’s pretending to be loves.

“Mother! My daaaaarling little mother! You’re the best mother is the WHOLE WIDE WOOOORLD!”

I realize that she doesn’t really mean it, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll take it where I can get it: “Thank you! Oh thank you! Let’s never part, darling child!”

“Oh but Mother, I must! I must go! They are AFTER MEEEEEEE!”

And she’s off, fleeing across the playground from invisible pursuers. Still, she doesn’t forget her dear old Mother (the pretend one) and sporadically turns back, blooding frantic, passionate kisses through the air.

Primo watches this whole spectacle.

“You shouldn’t encourage her, Mommy,” he chastises me.

“I know,” I sign, “But I’m only human.”

Happy Fourth: of Revolutionary Wars, and Pink Underwear

In honor of the Fourth of July, I offer you my favorite Revolutionary War book for kids:

John, Paul George and Ben.

You probably know Lane Smith from the mazillion books he's written and illustrated, but this is one of my favorites. In it, you see John Hancock, Pail Revere, George Washington and Ben Franklin (Tom Jefferson, too) as kids, writing their names extra-large on the blackboard, coming up with pithy phrases than annoy people on playdates and, of course, chopping down their Daddy's cherry tree (and then some).

It is freaking hilarious, and while he’s taken plenty of liberties with the information, its the best way I can think of to introduce your kids to American History.

Lane Smith, you rock. Who else would find a way to have Paul Revere shouting: “WE’VE GOT YOUR EXTRA LARGE PINK UNDERWEAR!”