Here in paradise, parenting can be a real sacrifice.  You want to go to pilates, the littles want to go to the beach.  Ho Hum, what’s a Mum to do?

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Mom Core

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Mom Core?  Molates?  Bring a shovel to the beach and not a little plastic kiddie shovel.  I mean borrow that big heavy shovel that the man digs around with, or used to, and take that steel head down to the sand.  Dig a massive hole close to the water so that it can fill with ocean creating a private lagoon for your littles.

Wait, you want me to shovel sand?

Yes!  Arms, back, quads, core, you got to use them all and practice good ergonomics to protect your lower back.  You’ll be the hit of the beach as kids from every direction will flock to your sink hole.  Once you are tired, sit back and relax, maybe even read.  The hole watches the children for you.  They are so amused with the shallow salty waters that they won’t even run off to chase the seagulls attempting to steal their PB&J.

Life is tough.  Sometimes you just need to be creative.  My northern friends don’t be too jealous.  I mean, ya’ll get snow in the winter.  I’m sure it is the “same” workout.

Hee hee hee.  Cheese puff?

They enter the house.  Cute, cuddly, and clinging to your child’s arm they are initially welcomed only to join the cluster of leftover stuffed friends growing armies of dust mites in the corner.

Time to clean out the junk.  Old jeans, gone.  Torn coloring books, bye-bye.  Your husband’s rotting flip-flops, oh yeah later skater.  You think you are tough on crap.  That’s right, de-junk is one of my many middle names.  Well then, bring it!

In this corner, Mom.

In this corner, Blue Teddy, Bevo, Bok-Bok, Bruce, and Luv.  Ding-ding.

Mom grabs Blue T.  Pause.  “Why are you looking at me like that?”  Teddy pulls the cuddle factor and shines his plastic eyes with all the intensity of a lost puppy.  Teddy wins.  Mom grabs Bevo.  “Oh, you’re so soft.”  Bevo is back in business.  Bok-Bok, “wait Bok-Bok you’re so special.  OK I’ll sew up your slit sides to keep the beans made-in-china in your gut.”  NEXT?!

Finally Mom has got a few friends ready for departure from the property.  She takes them GOODWILL so that some other child may enjoy them.  Surely, surely some kid is just dreaming of a used, defluffed purple rabbit with half an ear.

“Um, Ma’m,” says the GOODWILL-er, “We don’t accept stuffed animals.”  What?  That’s right.  And she will get a “NO” at the salvation army, the YMCA, and her church.

“But,” she asks with a slight whine, “What am I to do with these used toys.”

“Most people throw them away.”

Open jaw.  Pitch panda?  She returns home to stare at the trash cans.  She can’t do it.  Dang it!  She buries the bead eyed bad toys at the bottom of the donation bag.  Jeans, books, and shoes pile on top of them and she returns to GOODWILL.

“Any stuffed animals?”

“No,” she lies through her teeth, “Just some clothes.”  She knows that rabbit will hit the dumpster as soon as he is discovered hiding amongst the Levi’s, but well, it will be on someone elses’ conscience.

“Mommy, what’s this song about?” my son asks while we cruise in the mini.

Lyrics by Pittbull: You know you you wan me.  You know I wancha.  You know you wan me.  You know I wancha.

“Love.”

“Why?”

“Um,” I think about this, “Because she must be a beautiful, warm, caring person and he wants to make her his wife.”

“Is she a mommy?”

“No, but he wants to make her a mommy.”

“Why?”

“Because she has sparkly eyes and she is very sweet.”

You know you wan me.  You know I wancha.  You know you wan me.  You know I wancha.

My son thinks about this, but only for a brief second which is of course is an eternity of deep thought for a toddler.  Finally, he replies, “But can she run really fast?”

“Yes.  Very fast.”

“How fast can she run?”  Ah the important love questions.

“As fast as Mommy.”

“But not Daddy,” he turns toward his sister, “Mommy fast.”

Sniff-sniff.  Oh it melts your soul.

You know you wan me.  You know I wancha.  You know you wan me.  You know I wancha.

Later proud moment is vaporized.

“When boys win races they get trophies!” he declares.

“What do girls win?”

“Girls don’t win races!”

Ahhhhh there are still some holes in my brainwashing program.  Back to the lab Betty, muhahaha!

You know you wan me.  You know I wancha.  You know you wan me.  You know I wancha.

Word on the street about meat is that it is meat.  What?

My three year old picks apart his hamburger and licks the ketchup off the bun.  “Can I have more Ketchup?” 

“No, eat your meat.”

“Where’s meat?” he asks all bewildered.  “This?” he holds up a bun bit.

“THAT is meat.  Eat your hamburger,” I point, “Well actually eat your cow burger, it is from a cow.”

Oops.

“We don’t eat cows!”

“Yes we do.”

“Not farm cows!”

“Yes, we do.”

“Not cows with black and white spots!”

“No, we drink their milk.  Drink your milk.” I put my head in my hands and watch my son contemplate his qued-cow.  “What other animals do we eat?”

“We don’t eat chickens!”

“Yes we do.  Where do you think chicken nuggets come from?”

“Dinosaurs.”

It is much easier to explain being a vegetarian to a child.  Corn?  Corn!  Bring on the corn!  Have another ear!  What?  Corns have ears?  Nahhhhhhhhhh Mom you’re silly!

Whayamean COW?

“Mommy!  Watch this!” my son shouts at me and then blazes across the living room rocketing into the wall.  Crash.  “I am SO fast!”

“Waach mi Mommy,” my daughter smiles at me with sparkling eyes.  Zoom, she loops around a small circle and tumbles into a pillow laying on the carpet.

Disclaimer: I am the Mom; therefore, I think my kids run like hell.  I did not always have “Mom-eyes” and once upon a time the kids that I observed “running” were not my own.  New York City kids, well, it is a strange observation, but I am pretty sure that most of them cannot run….scratch that…run…like runners.

OK, OK, not the two boys visiting from Denmark who smoked my rear in a Central Park race, but the little-little people, the under four crowd.  My husband and I joked about this phenomenon.  Walking through the park pushing our son, we began to observe playground behavior.  Afterall, “that” was coming our way.

We watched kids sit inside rather “cozy” corrals and barely any broke a stride.  When they did, arms flailed, legs turned out or in or just stopped short.  Tumbles, drops, and looks of confusion abound.  “Isn’t that strange?” my husband asked.

Four year old Josh lived downstairs from us.  Neighbors complained that he was “spastic” and a “menace.”  I borrowed Josh’s nanny so that I could return to work and that is how I came to know Josh.  He lived in the living room.  His parents’ one bedroom apartment housed himself, them, and two cats.  Josh was born in NYC and his parents had no intention of leaving.  I went to his home to pick up my son and spot light on the obvious.  A four year old boy living in a shoe box is going to be a spaz.  I would be right there with him, but I was old enough to go for a run.  My walls did not seem as tight.

I took Josh to Central Park one Saturday.  He lived a ten minute walk from the park, but did not know the last time he had been in it.  I threw him a frisbee and watched him run after it.  Glasses sliding down his nose, a drip of snot coming out the end, jacket parachuting behind him, and feet awkardly beating up the grass, he chased it with utter delight. 

I am pretty sure the dog-whisper talks about this exemplary behavior in our four-legged friends.  Kids are clearly not poodles, but hey, everybody needs to run….or dig….or lift….or just smell some fresh air.

I spent the afternoon at Shipwreck park here in Santa Barbara.  No problem with running kids.  They lept all over the place bounding about naturally and full of youthful grace.  Warm sun hit my face and I thought how wonderful it is to be here.

Then my son crapped his pants and a “big-boy” called him “stinky poo-poo-butt.”  Ahhhh, son, the truth is the truth.  Now about that fresh air?

This is written under the influence of a very full bladder.  I have to pee.  For one day, I am blissfully trapped in an office finishing up some work, but I have to pee.  My green water bottle is empty.  My Diet Coke has about an inch of slurp in the bottom.  I know, it is bad for you.  The DC not the pee-pee.  Although, you should not drink either.

Tap, tap, tap goes my feet.  I cannot get up to go because the bathroom door is locked.  Coffee shop.  There is one downstairs.  I can make it.  Sip.  Why am I continuing to drink?  I’ll be back.

Ah relief.

Potty training.  My kids are having none of it and who is to blame them.  Gotta pee?  Go ahead.  Change them later.  It is on their time and they never miss the action.  My first marathon I waited impatiently outside a port-o-pot for five minutes.  I did not know.  I did not know yet what runners really do.

The Circle of Friends 10K in NYC found me lining up behind semi-elite and ultra-elite females.  Got to go?  What is a girl to do?  I was aghast to watch these ladies crouch and piss on the streets of Manhattan.  Wow.  We can do that?  Sure, why not?  Lou Reed would be proud.

When you got to go, you got to go!  But, OK, here is when I drop the OBGYN red flag and men you can continue or not.  I warned you.  What about when you do not have to pee persay, but….but….argh.  The miracle of childbirth is something of a wonder and a bit of a Dependable wrecking ball of joy.  “Do your Keegals.”  It has been almost two years since my last baby.  I think Keegal forgot me.  “Oh, then join the club.”

We sneeze.  Yep.  We laugh. Yep.  Sometimes we, I mean I do not know who, are told funny jokes by store clerks and we must excuse ourselves with a jacket wrapped around the waste.  And so it goes that running is just sometimes…well….how shall I say?  WetN’Wild.

“Isn’t it amazing that WE made them?” he gazes lovingly at our children.  “I mean, there they are growing.  Sometimes I can’t believe it.”

“Um, yep.  Amazing, but I believe it.  Excuse me.”

Earlier this week I took my  children to the zoo.  We said hello to all the animals and finished with the gorillas.  “What does a gorilla say?” I ask.  They thump their bitty chests and grunt “hoo-hoo.”

“Oh look!  The gorrilla is coming this way!” I point as the silverback saunters up the hill.  I have barely ever seen them move.  Usually they lay about looking consumed in boredom.  He is massive.  Slowly he places a right arm and then a left and then a flash!  Suddenly a streak of black comes at the glass with a ”BOOM!”

“Oh shit! I mean shoot, kids…he hit the glass?” I am breathing heavy and laughing nervously.  My daughter grabs my legs and my son takes four large steps back.  The gorilla turns and charges at the glass again.  Leaping through the air he pounds his body into the plexi-division.  He retracts and takes a leak in the grass.  Men.

“He’s going pee-pee!” my son snickers.  The gorilla returns to the glass and places his head against it looking right at us.

“Hey, go stand by the gorilla,” I encourage my son, “Mommy take your picture.”

“No.”

On second thought, I have seen a detoxing patient chunk a chair through the plexi-glass window of a hospital room on the 7th floor.  We all step back.  Apparently this gorilla has been newly introduced to the zoo.  The other gorilla transferred off to San Diego or somewhere and here and now these two males are working things out.  “BOOM” he hits the glass again.

I ask my mother in law, “If you knew you were going to die, who would you rather have do you in, a gorilla or a grizzly bear?”

“A grizzly bear,” she replies, “I’m Canadian.”

I watch this 800 pound beast pace back and forth.  I am impressed at the speed he demonstrated.  My heart patters as I walk up to the glass.  I am going with gorilla, but not today.

“Who wants ice cream?” and the sound of “me!” explodes.

Dear Lance,

I am three.  Today my mom stuck us in the car and promised to drive us to a magic park up over the mountains.  She went on and on about a special treat.  I ate gummie Spiderman snacks so the drive was cool, but then she started to slow way down and kept talking to me about bikes and look at all the bikes.  I saw a few, no big deal.  My sister threw her shoe at me.

Mom drove what she called the time trial course.  She rambled on about how exciting it was and look at the hills.  She drove really slow and somebody honked at her.  They gave her a bird and she got upset.  She said “stupid.”  I am not supposed to say stupid.  I thought she liked birds, maybe it was a hawk.  Anyway there were bikes all over the road.  I asked her if we were on our way to the park.  She said she was trying to find it.  How do you know when someone is lying?

Finally we parked the car and it was not at a park.  A nice lady gave me a picture of you and some yellow chalk.  I was supposed to color on the road, but mom says I cannot play in the road so I colored all over her.  She looked funny.

I liked the police lights.  I clapped for a few of your friends.  I jumped off this rain pipe into this really neat ditch and found a million lady bugs.  My sister petted a dog.  Mom kept cheering and clapping on.  I got tired.  I got bored.  No offense.  She kept saying how amazing this was, but really it just seemed like colorful guys on thin bikes.  I threw a fit, my sister pooped her pants, and we got to leave.  I got a jam sandwich.

Mom says it is OK.  She saw you run the NYC Marathon and said that her friend Kelley beat you.  I hope you did good today.  I will keep your picture.  You should try Spiderman snacks.  By the way, I can touch my tongue to my nose.  Can you do that?

Be good,

L.M.

Patience as thin as a pringle.  Love still deep as the ocean.  Testing-testing-testing, one-two, check-check, one-two, one-two…the littles are at it.

All day.

My threats dissolve into the nothingness of time out.  Time out.  Time in.  Time back out!  Stop fussing, stop smearing, stop spitting, stop hitting, stop smothering her, don’t throw things at him, eat your lunch, eat your snack, GO TO SLEEP! 

Go to the park.  Michelle comes.  Our children play.  It is very cold.  We walk across the street to play ball in the sunshine that is warming up the palm trees.  My son and her daughter run off, slowly, moving away.

“Stop!” We call.  They continue on.  “Stop!”  We call and run.  They quicken their pace.  They are heading for the street.  We both have 20month old girls on our hips and this drastically slows down our efforts.  They leave the grass, they head for the street, or what we think it is.  We cannot see.  This is Cabrillo!  Cars are not going to stop.

Michelle lets out a quivering plea to her daughter to stop.  Her voice is loud and audibly nervous.  She is ahead of me.  What does she see that I do not?  I let my voice out.  I mean, my evil twin sister let’s her voice out.

“STOP RIGHT NOW!  Get back here!  MOVE!”  They returned with tears in their eyes.

“Mommy,” my son cries, “You scared me.”

Muffled-raspy-voice and maybe glowing red eyes, just a flash, “I’m not Mommy.”  And then hugs and cuddles and please do not run away and hold my hand and thank you Mam.

*Attention: the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

A typical Thursday afternoon found Betty coiling up the vacuum and finger

Kugi? Oh fish.

dusting bon-bons while she flips magazines on the couch.  She spies an adorable crocodile skin bolo tie in a sales ad and just as she contemplates purchasing the designer piece for Jed, the laundry buzzer- well, buzzes.  Ho-hum, she shuffles her blue bunny slippers through the kitchen on way to retrieve ocean breeze scented boxer shorts and clean towels.  The phone rings and as she turns to answer it she reads upon the caller ID that it is nothing more than a telemarketer.  Annoyed, she stares at OUT OF AREA 800-548-2385.  Her eyes flick to the fish bowl sitting next to the ringing home invader.  “Mr. Kugi Katz,” she scolds, “you answer it.”  Kugi hovers above rainbow rocks and flits his tail.  Betty observes his graceful movements and frowns at his noticeably dirty water.  She peers into the bowl through a grey film.

“Let’s get you clean, shall we?” She coos at her fish the way grandma saps at her poodle Dixie, which is the exact high pitch she also uses on grandchildren.  Betty scoops Kugi into a glass and proceeds scrubbing his transparent home.  She sings Christinia Aguilera altering the words to incorporate her gilled friend, “What a fish wants, what a fish needs..”  Carefully she drains a bit of the dirty water from the glass that Kugi is lingering in.  Just a bit, a little bit more, and “Oh fish!”  Kugi drops into the sink an inch from the garbage disposal.

Frantically, Betty flicks Kugi back into the empty glass and hurriedly turns on the tap.  Scalding water dumps onto Kugi.  “AH fish!” She screams and turns on the cold.  Kugi swerves, flips, flutters his fins twice and rests on his side.  “Kugi?”  Betty waits five minutes.  Tap-tap.  “Kugi?”

Betty shuffles her blue bunny feet to the bathroom and with tears in her eyes flushes the family pet.  “What will the children think?”  Betty panics. 

At the pet store, she inspects fish after fish looking for a suitable match.  “Well, he was blue.  About this big, ” she squishes her fingers together at the bubble gum smacking sales lady. 

“All we have is what is out on display,” sales girl tells her.  Betty picks a greenish-blue fish and hurries home.  The impostor is dumped into the immaculate bowl.  The children arrive.  Betty bites her lip.  “That’s not Kugi,” her son matter-of-factly states.  “No?” Betty asks in her best surprised-but-not-too-surprised-tone, “Well, who is that?”

“Nee-Nee,” he replies, “Can I have a juice?”  No mention of where Kugi went?  No questioning?  No wondering?  Welcome Nee-Nee!  Betty pours her son a tall glass of apple juice and drains a bottle of Merlot into a different cup for herself.

“Cheers Nee-Nee,” Betty salutes and taps her glass to the tank, “Hope you don’t mind having the Joy Of Cooking book behind ya.” 

New occupant: Nee-Nee! Don't ask, Don't tell.