A Love Letter to California

Seven years ago I made the trek down the coast from Tacoma, WA to San Francisco to start a new chapter in my life. John was already on a work trip for his new job, so it was just the dog and me, driving through flat farmlands and curving mountain roads, the wind in our hair, our cares far behind us. I was childless, jobless and as carefree as I had felt in a long time, and, thanks to my kids, certainly more than I’d ever be again. It was a new start, and I couldn’t wait to soak up all that Cali had to offer.

Four years before that, it had been a different story. I had left my childhood home in Massachusetts, following my then-fiance-now-husband as he took his first duty station in the Army. Don’t get me wrong. Washington state is gorgeous and rugged and has so much to offer, and Army people are tough and bright and loving, but I wasn’t in the frame of mind to embrace any of it. In fact, I was terrified. I was leaving home for the first time (I had gone to college a distant 30 miles from home), and with it my close-knit family and the friends I had known all my life. At 22, I should have been ready to take the world by storm and embrace this incredible opportunity, but instead I felt scared and lonely. My only consolation was that I was with the man I loved, and in him, at least, I knew I was making the right choice.

It took me a while to find my feet in Washington, and it didn’t really happen until shortly before we left. John completed his commitment to the Army and went on to something new, and that took us to California. By the time I reached the Bay Bridge I felt like a new person, like the past four years had been a tight skin I had finally shed, and that the future would be bright and clear, unknown but promising.

California did not disappoint. Over the past seven years, I have grown to love this place (almost) as much as I love Boston. The weather, the people, the farmer’s markets, everything. (Well, everything except the cost of living. That truly sucks.) I have met some of the most wonderful people, some born and raised here, others transplants like myself. But we all belonged. I never felt like an outsider here, and for a shy introvert like me, that’s saying a lot.

Alas, in two days I’ll be moving on again. This time with two children in tow, John, the dog and I will board a plane for the east coast to make a new home for ourselves. I’ve been doing my best to embrace this new opportunity. After all, for the first time in twelve years, I’ll be within driving distance of my parents and my sister. But over the past week a sort of depression has set in, and it’s affecting me more and more as I realize that these are the last precious moments I’ll have in this place that I love, with people I have come to think of as family.

To help me come to terms with my sadness and help me move on, I’ve decided to make a list of some of the things I’ll miss about California. I’m sure it will be incomplete, and feel free to add things in the comments if you feel that I’ve left something out. Here they are, in no particular order:

1. The weather: Enough said, honestly. When a proud and hardened New Englander like myself can willingly trade a New England fall for a California winter, you know it has to be good.

2. The produce: Can I just tell you how friggin’ awesome it is to have people bring bags upon bags of oranges and lemons to school because they have too much growing in their backyard? I mean, seriously? “Oh yes, I have far too much of this delicious fruit. I must share it with everyone. Please, please take some delicious fruit!” I’m telling you, Californians, that just doesn’t happen elsewhere.

3. My mulberry tree: On a related note to #2, we had this amazing mulberry tree in our backyard. The kids would go outside and pick them right off the tree and eat them. Granted, it made for a pretty messy lawn in May and June, and everyone walked around with purple stained shoes, but I still say it was a fair trade. I had so much I would make jam and give it as Christmas presents. Where the heck am I going to get mulberries now? I didn’t even know what a mulberry looked like until I moved here.

4. Farmer’s markets: weekly, year-round. Again related to #2: fresh local produce all year round! It became so normal to me that I took it for granted. I didn’t go enough while I lived here, and now I’m regretting it.

5. The smell of eucalyptus trees: It’s all over: Berkeley, the Headlands, the side of the road in Palo Alto. Nothing smells fresher and more alive than a eucalyptus tree. And it smells nothing like those clippings you get at the craft store.

6. Palm trees: Sensing a theme here? Apparently I really like trees. But the palm tree might be my favorite. I had a view outside my tiny bathroom window of a palm tree, and no matter what was going on that day, what kind of stress I was feeling, when I walked by and glanced out the window at that tree I would stop and think, “How bad can it be? I’m in California? Life is good.”

7. My children were born here: A lot of important milestones happened here. California is where John and I went from being a couple to being a family.

8. Friends: We have met some of the most amazing, open-hearted, beautiful people since living here, and I am just so thankful to have met them and be able to keep them in my life. I have a familiar ache in my heart at saying goodbye to them, because, just like when I left home all those years ago, I know I am leaving behind a piece of me.

In short, I have had a beautiful experience here. Living here has changed me. It has opened my eyes to new people, new sights, new perspectives. And as I head back to the familiar air of the east coast, I can proudly say that this New England girl is also a California girl.

Thank you, California.

 

Introducing Lulubeans!

Lulu will be 2 months old on Sunday, and I finally have my head out of the clouds and the ground firmly enough beneath me to write a post about her. That is, until my parents leave that same day, at which time I will again feel like the rug has been pulled out from underneath me. But more on that at a later date. Soon I’m sure I will have experienced enough terror and bewilderment to find an amusing anecdote or two to share with you. For now, while I’m feeling sane-ish, I’m going to take this brief moment of clarity to share a couple of positive revelations about being a second-time new mom.

I’m sitting here on the couch next to Lu as we speak, and I’m thinking back to my previous posts re: my fears about loving her as much as Oz. Looking down at her sleeping face, that wonderful baby smell wafting up at me, the oxytocin abundantly present in my brain, I can’t believe I ever had such a silly, silly fear. She is amazing. Before she came along, I wondered how I could ever love anyone as much as I love my little monkey man. The idea was impossible to wrap my head around. Now that I have Lulu, I wonder how I ever wondered.

The other thing I find fascinating is how I spent all of my pregnancy speculating on what she would look and act like. What color would her eyes be? Whose nose would she have? Would she be a redhead like her momma? Would she be a motormouth like her brother? I tried to imagine her little face, but I either came up blank or just pictured Oz with a bow on his head. But my second thought after I saw her for the first time (the first was, “Wow, that’s a lot of hair!”) was, “Well, of course that’s what she looks like. That’s my Lulu.” And suddenly it was as if I had known that face all my life.

Now, her personality is still revealing itself to us, but so far she has tucked herself into our family nicely. I will say that, as much as I love my talkative little boy, I was hoping that maybe this baby would be just the teensiest bit quieter. However, with the amount she babbles and coos, I’m thinking she’ll be a talker too.

In short, the easiest thing about being the mother of two is that there is always enough love to go around. It’s amazing how the heart works. It fills up with love to bursting, and then miraculously makes room for more.

Freudian Slip, New Mom Edition

After her nightly fussy time, Lulu has fallen asleep in my mom’s arms, just before her bath:

Mom (looking down): Uh oh.

Me: That’s okay, I’m gonna dunk her in the fridge soon anyway.

Mom: !!!

Me: TUB! I meant tub! Oh my God. No, I meant tub, not fridge. What the heck?

Mom (to the contentedly unaware Lulu): Don’t worry, Lulu. How about if I take you home with me on Sunday?

New Baby Resolution

I don’t do New Year’s Resolutions. I’ve never understood the reasoning behind choosing the New Year as a place to start improving one’s life. I mean, why wait? It just seems arbitrary to me. Okay, I guess I understand it. It’s a time for reflection and renewal and yadda yadda, and I guess it’s as good a place as any to make a fresh start. I’ve just never really been on board. People seldom ever get a fresh start. Hopefully they make tweaks that help make their lives better in some way, but it’s hardly ever a complete turn-around.

Except that this year is a little different. This year I gave birth to my second child, and my life (quite happily, mind you) has been turned upside-down for the second time in four years. Example: yesterday, the closest I got to putting on socks was taking them out of the drawer and pulling them apart. I came into my room hours later and found them lying on the floor in front of my bureau, where I must have dropped them to attend to some disaster or another. I looked down at my bare feet and realized that this is not the time in my life to strive for perfection. Another example: I have already been interrupted by my offspring no fewer than three times while writing this post. What should have taken 5 minutes to write has taken 30.

My life has changed considerably since my little Lulu was born just two short months ago, and don’t even get me started on how it’s changed since Oz graced our lives with his presence three and a half long years ago. So as far as fresh starts go, this is probably as good a time as any to reevaluate things and make a resolution. And why not add another thing to my ever-growing to-do list, right?

Instead of a New Year’s Resolution, I’m making a New Baby Resolution. And here it is: I resolve to be a little kinder to myself. The word “perfect” will not (often) cross my lips. Perfection is unattainable, and to strive for it in vain will only make me upset and my loved ones insane. (Ooh, that rhymed!) Instead I’m going to try to focus on enjoying my family and doing things that make me feel good, both physically and mentally.

An example of something to strive for: I will not be a size 6 again any time soon, but a walk in the fresh air and time outside with my kids will do my brain, heart and body good. And maybe I could put down the G.D. cookie and pick up a banana, because I always feel better when I eat that way. Or maybe I’ll eat the cookie anyway, because it tastes good, and that won’t be the end of the world.

Another example: no attempting to please everyone all the time. I can just stop right now trying to make everything perfect for everyone else, because that is a losing prospect. I can’t predict what will make people happiest, and trying to do so will give me ulcers. I need to feed and clothe my children and give them lots of love, and other than that I don’t need to do a damn thing for anyone. That’s the truth. Only my children need me. Thank goodness my husband loves me and wants me around, but he’s capable of turning on the stove to make dinner if I haven’t gotten the chance by the time he gets home.*

So what if my house is messy and the fridge is empty? As long as there are no vermin in the house and we have mac ‘n cheese and apples for Oz, everything is fine. So what if I forgot to put on socks or wore my slippers to the grocery store? It’s California. Do we really need socks anyway?

I’m still waiting for my Mom of the Year nomination, but I’m starting to think that maybe that awards banquet doesn’t actually exist. Good thing, because my evening gown is at the cleaners this week. Yes, this year I resolve to be nicer to myself. And if I forget to do that some days, well, what can I say? I’m not perfect.

*Writers note: This is, in no way, meant to imply that my husband doesn’t turn on the stove now. He’s incredibly helpful and is willing to do anything I ask, even before I ask, if he can manage to read my mind. I just have to stop feeling guilty about letting him pitch in after a long day at work.

Introducing Ozbytes

Oz’s little sister, Luci, was born in November. We are all very happy to have folded her into our lives, especially, as it turns out, Oz. Unfortunately, I have very little time or energy to go into it all right now, but I promise to revisit it later. In the meantime, however, Oz continues to come out with some really awesome stuff, and I just have to record it for the future. Therefore, I am introducing Ozbytes – revelations from or tidbits of conversations with Oz that could only come from a preschooler.

The first entry happened tonight during a long, drawn-out dinner a full 20 minutes into which Oz finally tried his noodles:

Oz, with genuine surprise: Oh! I like these noodles!

Me: Good! Me too. And I like you! Are you a noodle.

Oz, hands flying up to the top of his head: No! I’m not a noodle. I don’t have a hole in my head!

Love and Impatience

Let me preface this overdue post by saying I’m disgusted with myself that it has been almost three months since my last update, but I’ve been a little busy. Okay, that’s not really true. I haven’t been that busy. I’ve mostly just been that tired. Trying to rear a 3-year-old while preggo is not so bueno. I’m stating the obvious, I know, and I really thought I knew what I was getting into when I signed up for this, but the truth is you never really know what you’re getting into until you’re there, especially where kids are concerned.

And I have an awesome kid, as I’ve said before. I love his personality, his tenacity, his persistence. He just has so much of all of those things, all of the time. It can really wear a girl down day after day, especially when said girl has pregnancy-related insomnia. Oz knows he doesn’t get away with a thing around me, but he has to try. He just has to. He really has no control over it. And after an entire day of it, I snap. Heck, after half a day of it I snap.

The funny thing about all this, and the thing which I also find endearing and a bit tragic, is that my general grumpy nature of the past 8 months has had zero effect on Oz’s love for me or his desire to have me around all the time. If anyone acted toward me the way I do toward Oz for any length of time, let alone 1/4 of my life so far, I’d spend as little time with them as I possibly could. But he just wants me around all the time. He doesn’t care that I’m terse or impatient or won’t/can’t play a certain game with him given my current physical/mental state. He still wants me around. It’s a very sobering thing to have someone love and depend on you that much. It’s wonderful and unbelievable and daunting and, okay, downright scary, all at the same time.

And in just a few short days or (please, God, no, I can’t take it anymore) weeks, I’ll have two of them. And this one’s a girl. God help me. I have no idea what I’m going to do with a girl. Boys are zany and destructive and sometimes even violent, but they are also forgiving and open. They forget about scuffles 5 minutes after they’ve happened. I don’t know if I’m ready for the sinister underbelly of the world of girls. We hold grudges. For years. I still remember girls in nursery school whom I wrote off after one bad encounter. But I guess I’ll deal with that when it’s time. For now I’ll try to look forward to those first sweet and sleepless months with a newborn, when we’re still discovering her personality, and anything at all is possible.

Just now, after a particularly rough morning, I was putting Oz down for his nap. He had just asked for his fourth hug since I started to try to leave the room, and as I bent down painfully over his bed “for the last time,” he said sweetly into my shoulder, “You got a baby in your tummy?”

“Yup,” I said, curtly.

“Why?”

“Kid, I don’t even know anymore.”

“…”

But the truth is, I do know. Because being a mother is the best thing I’ve ever done in my life. And the hardest, and the most aggravating, and the sweetest. The moments I’ve shared with Oz, both good and bad, have shown me what true, selfless love is all about. And I’m not even talking about my love for him. I’m talking about his for me. It’s humbling, really, to have someone love you that much, even when you’re sure you don’t deserve it.

Criminal Behavior

I did it. I confess. I did a horrible thing today. I made my little boy cry. And I mean real tears. Face scrunching, cheek reddening, big, fat, rolling tears. How did this happen, you ask? Well, by making a very common but very stupid mistake. I made a change to something of his that I didn’t really think was important to him. And then I let him see it at his most emotionally tender time: right after his nap. Allow me to give some back story.

When I was pregnant with Oz, I painted a little wooden stool for him. I spent hours painstakingly striping and dotting it in red, white, blue and black. I even painted his name on it. And while I worked away, I imagined him as a toddler, dragging it around with him everywhere, using it to reach counter tops and wash his hands. I smiled with anticipation as I tried to imagine what he would look like as a toddler.

Well, those years are upon us, and I no longer have to imagine what he’ll look like. He’s cuter than I ever imagined. And sweeter. And more mischievous. Perhaps I should have rethought giving him the ability to reach more things, and therefore get into more trouble. But the stool does come in handy when he needs to wash his hands after using the potty. There’s only one problem with it: if he doesn’t step on the exact center of it, it flips over, and he goes with it. A really cute stool with a poor design. And as if the bloodshed weren’t enough, there’s only one step, so he still can’t reach the faucet to turn the water on and off.

After about the third fall, I decided it was time to look for another stool. I consoled myself about the old stool by telling myself I’d get a new, two-step stool, and put both Oz’s name and the new baby’s (when we eventually decide what that will be), and they can both use it in the years to come.

Now, even unfinished step stools don’t come cheap, and we’re on a budget. So I poked through some discount stores and found one at a really reasonable price. I didn’t care what it looked like, because I intended to paint over it, but the one I found was actually pretty cute, although the colors were wrong. It was pink and green, with owls painted on the top step and the sides. I took it home and put it in the bathroom, wanting Oz to test it out before I decided to keep it and alter it.

Well, he loved it. And he loved the owls. Did he care that it was bright pink and green? Of course not. He’s 3. But I told him that I was going to paint the stool, that the owls would go bye-bye, and I’d put his name and the baby’s name on it, as well as any other picture he wanted: baseball, light saber, Lightning McQueen, Buzz Lightyear, whatever. He either seemed okay with it or didn’t hear what I was saying, the reactions for both of which are identical.

Now, I’ve decided that the baby’s nursery is going to have an owl and bird theme, so I opted to save an owl on one side but paint the rest. And today I finally got to priming the thing. We’ve had the stool a couple of weeks, and although I know Oz loves it, I figured it had more to do with the freedom it represents rather than how it looks. Well, apparently I was wrong. I woke up Oz from his nap this afternoon, and we went into the bathroom for post-nap potty time. He immediately noticed the stool was missing and started to get upset. I quickly ran outside, where I had left it to dry, and brought the stool back inside. One look at the newly white stool brought on hysterics. His little face crumpled up and he started crying inconsolably. He raised his chubby little fist, and his tiny finger pointed accusingly at where the owl on the top step used to be. I felt just awful. I didn’t realize how much he had liked those owls. But it was too late. I had destroyed them, and I couldn’t get them back. I assured him that under the tape there was one owl left, that I hadn’t painted over all of them, and that I would make the stool look even nicer than before. But none of this mattered to Oz. His beloved owls were gone, and his own mother had committed the betrayal.

Of course it’s been a couple of hours, and he seems to have forgotten about it for now. But I’m dreading the next trip to the potty. He’ll see the stool and remember all over again how his mother obliterated his owls. And all because I was thinking about myself. I was so caught up in trying to recreate the first stool and right that wrong, that I didn’t pay attention to his feelings and acknowledge how much he liked it the way it was. I’ll have to file this one under lessons learned. I’m going to need a bigger mental file cabinet.

The Potty Train

**Disclaimer: The following post is from almost exactly one month ago. I started the draft and never got back to publishing it. I wanted to post it though, because it involves one of the biggest milestones/hurdles in a toddler and parent’s lives: potty training. Enjoy…

Oh man, has it been a long summer. “But Meg,” you say, “it’s barely the beginning of July. The summer is less than 3 weeks along. How can it already be a long summer?”

“Well,” I reply, “I have a 3-year-old who’s been out of school since May. And we’ve been potty training. Ponder that, if you will.”

“Oh,” you say. “You win.”

Thank you for that, by the way. I have so few victories as of late, that I appreciate you giving me that one.

Actually, I don’t want to jinx anything, but the potty training has been going surprisingly well. We started in earnest about a week and a half ago, and the first few days were the hardest I’ve spent since the weeks right after Oz was born. This time I was armed with more sleep, but Oz is no longer a newborn, content to be rocked in my arms. He is a wiggly, wily half-toddler/half-preschooler who has all kinds of ideas of his own. Not the least of which was that he did not like this underpants business at all, no matter which of his favorite cartoon characters graced the bum.

But after a week of everyone trying their best (thanks, in part, to my mother-in-law, Susan, whom we are visiting, for not letting any of us slack off, as much as I may have wanted to at times, and also in part to the bribe of gummy candies), Oz went into the bathroom on his own the other day and did his business. He didn’t tell a soul where he was going. We just watched him toddle off, go into the bathroom, come out with his pants down around his ankles, privates free to the air, hold his arms up and grin, “Yeah!” He seems to be quite proud of himself, which is both wonderful for his self esteem and a good sign of things to come. I mean, if he can have his own pride in his accomplishments, it will be a lot easier to convince him that bettering himself will be worthwhile.

**You’ll be happy to know, as am I, that Oz is now a pro at what we call in our house “taking an opportunity.” Because although it didn’t really take all that long for him to get the hang of it, it sure felt like it at the time. My advice to any parents who are going through this (if you really want more advice, that is), is to try not to take it too seriously. I know that sounds like sucky advice, but it’s really important. No normally physically developed 30-year-old adult can’t use the toilet properly. I mean, there were some guys that used the co-ed bathroom on my floor in college who I wasn’t always sure about, but I’m pretty sure that had more to do with alcohol consumption and indifference than a physical impairment. My point is that every kid gets it eventually, when he or she is ready. And not before. The kicker is trying to maintain your patience long enough for it to happen. And learned patience? Well, that takes a lot longer to get the hang of than using the potty. And if you have any advice on that one, I’d be forever grateful.

Ready for Round 2… ???

If you’re one of my few loyal readers, then maybe you’ve noticed that my posts have been few and far between lately. I assure you there’s a very good reason for that, aside from general laziness. My really good reason is that I’m pregnant with baby number 2. This is, of course, an awesome event, and we are all delighted. Well, John and I are delighted. Oz is on board for about as much as he understands, but I don’t think he has any clue about how his life is going to change, poor kiddo.

Even though this is a very happy, and planned, new change, it is a big change. And the pregnancy has left me sick, moody and just plain exhausted. Therefore, I don’t think I’ve been the best mommy to good old Oz as of late. My temper has been shorter than usual, and let’s face it, during this year of “Terrible Twos,” it wasn’t that long to begin with. I just try to keep breathing and remember that he’s not trying to push my buttons. That will come later. For now, as far as Oz is concerned, he’s just having fun.

That’s the amazing thing. To Oz, life is about having fun. Isn’t that awesome? I wish wish wish I felt that way. I honestly don’t remember ever feeling that way. Maybe I did when I was three, but I kind of doubt it. I’ve always been far too timid and fretful for the kind of carefree attitude that Oz has. So I’m torn between my rising blood pressure and the constant throbbing behind my temples, and the sincere desire to keep life fun for my little man. But every day I fear more and more that I’m squelching his zest for life. And that breaks my heart. I think he’s more resilient than I’m giving him credit for, but as a mom, it’s easy to place blame and responsibility solely on my own shoulders. That’s a heavy weight for a lady who’s already having trouble bending over to tie her shoes.

The other confession I have to make is that, although we planned for this baby and were trying for it, and although we’re ecstatic to give Oz a brother or sister, I’m scared to death about having another baby. Each milestone with Oz has come with a mixture of pride, excitement and sadness, but also relief: Phew, he’s sleeping through the night; Phew, he’s eating solid foods; Phew, he’s walking, talking, communicating, etc. Now we have to do that all over again with a brand new little person. And here’s my most horrible mommy confession: I’m afraid that this kid won’t be as wonderful as Oz. God, I hate myself even for writing it. But Oz is just so awesome. Could we possibly be blessed with another, equally awesome but totally different little person? Could we really be that lucky? I hope so, but I just don’t know.

Something my mom said to me today has really stuck with me. She said, “Honey, having kids is a crap shoot. You hope for the best, and you do your best to raise them right, but in the end, you have no idea who you’re going to end up with.” She then assured me that she and Dad lucked out with my sister and me. I’m glad she added that part.

So I guess what I’m saying is that I’m just hoping I can be a good mom to two kids, when sometimes it doesn’t even feel like I’m a good mom to one kid. But Oz is pretty darn great, and I haven’t ruined him yet, so I must be doing things right at least part of the time. All I know is that I love him desperately, more than I’ve ever loved anything in my life. It’s a level of love I couldn’t imagine before I had him, so I’m pretty confident that, even though it also seems unimaginable, I’ll love this baby just as much. More than life itself. And hey, that has to be the most important thing, right?

The Great Bunny Devourer

Yesterday was Easter, and I have to say this was the most fun Easter I can remember in a long, long time. This is because Oz is finally at an age where he can appreciate the more secular traditions and customs. The whole Jesus-died-for-our-sins thing? Not so much. We’re working on that. But the Easter Bunny? Oh, he’s all over that. The egg hunt? A pro. The goodies left on Easter morning? Well, that’s the best part of all.

One of the many things the Easter Bunny left in Oz’s basket was a tiny Palmer’s “Binks” chocolate bunny. I don’t know if you’re familiar with this kind, but it’s the type of bunny my sister and I used to receive in our baskets when we were young. The chocolate is yummy, the bunny is hollow, so there isn’t too much chocolate to handle, and it has these cute little sugar eyes. In fact the only thing wrong with the bunny is that it is really, really cute. I remember feeling pretty darn bad as a kid for eating such a cute little bunny. That didn’t stop me from eating it, of course, but I still felt bad. Below is a picture of the adorable little confections:

Well, I found a really small Binks in my Easter loot search and thought it would be perfect for Oz. It wasn’t as big as a normal one, which would be good for a toddler easily affected by sugar, and it had enough nostalgia attached to it to remind me of my own past relationship with the Easter Bunny. However, in my excitement, I somehow forgot about the cute factor, and how that might affect Oz.

Well, this afternoon Oz was going over his loot again, and he came upon Binks. He brought it to me and asked me to open it. Then he told me to eat an ear. Who am I to deny a child’s innocent request? So I did. Then he told me to eat the other ear. So I did. Then he told me to eat the eye. “Are you sure you want me to eat the eye, Oz? Maybe you want to eat it,” I said.

“You eat it!” Oz said eagerly. So I did. And then it dawned on him. He looked down and the bunny and started to cry. “You put back! You put back!” He exclaimed, his little face crumpling. I felt like a jerk. I had eaten the eye off of Oz’s adorable chocolate bunny, and there was no getting it back. It took a lot of explaining, soothing, and mouth searching for Oz to come to terms with the fact that the eye was really gone. He’s forgotten about it now, having moved on to the other items in his basket. But I still feel like a heel. I mean, what on earth possessed me? Next Year, I’m getting him an ugly bunny.