The Land of the Flakes

It doesn’t really matter if you were healthy, punctual, and dependable before you became a parent because your baby will make you sick, chronically tardy, and the world’s biggest flake. These traits are generally forgiven by other people with children, but completely lost on those who are not yet on the baby bus, and by bus I mean sport utility minivan. The only thing you can 100% count on is that you will eventually send a text message out into the universe that says, “I’m sorry we are not going to make it.”

We were supposed to go to South Lake Tahoe this weekend for my birthday. Due to the "storm" we decided to not risk driving in the snow and canceled our trip on Wednesday. So incredibly, it was not Charlotte causing us to change our plans, but Mother Nature. However, if we weren’t parents, we would probably say to hell with it and go anyway. So I could legitimately direct some blame her way, but that’s a dangerous thread to pull at since I’ve only just forgiven her for contractions. Generally speaking there is always a lesson to be learned in parenting, and as annoying and Dr. Seuss-like as that may sound, it’s true. My new motto has become, “Well, what are you going to do?” Those who are completely rigid and structured as parents probably struggle with that concept, and I'd introduce you to them, but they are undoubtedly too busy editing my blog for typos and checking their baby’s diaper for their 8am poop. I'm pretty sure that irritatingly catchy song from Frozen, "Let it Go" is directed at you guys. Sometimes things don’t work out as expected and we need to make adjustments, as the child needs dictate. The parents I’ve seen having the hardest time are those that expect the baby to be flexible around their lives. The only thing flexible about babies is their soft spot, and just like the bear that sleep deprived moms turn into, don’t poke it.

Who are you calling inflexible? 

Rhymes with 30

My husband and I went to dinner and a movie on my 30th birthday, which is exactly what I wanted. There in the movie theater bathroom was a group of teenagers glistening in awkwardness, engrossed in a Taylor Swift sized problem:

The movie got out earlier than I thought. My dad is not coming to get us until 10.

My mom can totally give you a ride.

I wish we could have a sleepover.

I made eye contact with the tallest girl in the group while I washed my hands and smiled. She has no idea, but I was her a week ago. Or at least it feels that way. I whispered to my husband during the Pitch Perfect 2 trailer when Rebel Wilson winked at a frat boy and hinted that he would get lucky later, Charlotte is never watching movies like that. Possibly for the crude sexual overtones, but mostly because musical comedies are just a gateway to dance comedies and we all know that those lead to hardcore street drugs.

I don’t know how I can be raising a child when I still feel like one. Maybe the only way is to always feel young at heart. I’m comfortable with the type of grown up that I am: I only buy chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and my favorite pair of jeans are jeggings. I tried to find funny ecards about turning 30 but they were all so damn depressing. I’d like to make one that says: Hey, I’m precisely where I want to be at 30, I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable. Perhaps with a passive-aggressive smiley face. I’m not mourning the loss of my 20s and I have absolutely no urge to take up knitting or cut bangs. Charlotte’s squeals of delight are much too loud to hear a biological clock ticking. So forget the “Dirty 30” clichés, pre-midlife crisis, and 30 is the new 20 nonsense; I am going to revel in the fact that I’m old enough now to just be happy.  

If You Build It, She Will Run

Christmas is the most wonderful time of year! Along with the joy and general merriment, it is the time when our children teach us one very important lesson: buy them a toy and they will play with the box. I continue to learn this lesson over and over again in various forms. Charlotte is not old enough to believe in Santa or understand that the holiday season is upon us, but she does light up like a Christmas tree every time I open the door to the bathroom. That’s right, the bathroom, which is attached to the enormous playroom we have created just for her, with enough toys to rival Santa's workshop. Never mind Disneyland folks, we have found Charlotte’s happiest place on Earth.

Many mom friends admitted that it was just easier to forgo putting up a Christmas tree than to watch their toddler attempt to climb it while choking on various reindeer ornaments. This is not a hostage negotiation. I refuse to live in a world which is one hundred percent dictated by a tiny human that cannot yet locate her nose. My husband assured me he could design something to keep Charlotte away from the tree. While he was building a glorious tree guard contraption, I took Charlotte over to the tree. My daughter has never showed fear of any kind. She goes to any person, laughs when our dogs play fight and would body surf down the stairs (if I let her). My husband is an hour and a half into this project and Charlotte reaches out to touch the tree like Sleeping Beauty with the spindle. Immediately she pulls her hand back, cries out, and rushes for my lap to hide her face. By this point my husband is knee deep in wrapping paper and I don’t have the heart to say that the whole project might not be necessary. 

I sit in the once living room/now playroom while Charlotte chews on the child proof latch that she removed in the bathroom. I try and take a picture of Charlotte by the Christmas tree and she reaches 4G while "running" away. We make plans and Baby laughs.