Rachel is the coolest mom I know (Jennifer, don’t worry you’re the second coolest mom I know) (everyone else: Jennifer is so not the second coolest mom I know, but she did make my blog her home page, so I feel obligated to throw her a bone here). And yet, Rachel went and done it. She bought a minivan just last week. And she lives in San Francisco where I thought it was pretty much illegal to own a vehicle with more than two wheels.
Which meant it was time for me to make the plunge. Time for me to turn in my pretty dashboard and to gracefully accept the title “Soccer Mom.” Time to buy the minivan.
And so we did. I opted for no DVD player (I refuse to have hear on every trip to the grocery store, “Dora! I want to watch Dora now!”) but I did opt for the ipod integration, which again, makes the statement, “Yes, I am a soccer mom, but one who is still cool enough to listen to the Killers even if I didn’t know who Fergie was just a couple of weeks ago!”
Buying the van was absolutely painful. Service was sloooow and because we’d already test driven, we brought the kids with us to make the final purchase. I think my favorite part was sitting in the finance office with Sweetie (while Adam tried to wrangle Doodles) and the totally cliche Boston car salesman is trying to sell me every single add-on known to man. “Uh huh. Uh huh,” I reply bored. “I get the point. I don’t want any of it.” He gives me a look and Sweetie starts to fuss. “Mind if I feed her?” I ask just to be polite, because I have every intention of feeding her no matter what he says. “Oh sure, go ahead,” he says. But somehow from the shocked look on his face, I don’t think he was expecting me to whip out what I did whip out. I’m guessing in his day, feedings came from a bottle. The good thing, though, is he focused on the task at hand with a renewed vigor.
Anyway, Rachel owns a minivan and now I do, too. Which leads me to one of two conclusions: 1) Maybe Rachel’s not as cool as I thought she was or 2) (my preferred conclusion) Minivans are now cool!! Yes, that’s the story I’m telling myself and I’m sticking to it. It’s the only happy way to explain the Ocean Mist atrocity sitting in my driveway.
Words you really don’t want to hear from your underwear-wearing son who is playing in his playroom: “I made a puddle! I made a puddle!”
The plan: Adam’s in London for a couple of nights for business. As bedtime can be tricky, my in-laws came to help out for the first night (to basically hold Sweetie Pie, since Doodles’s bath time is her fussy hour). The bath is pretty firmly ingrained in Doodles’s routine and getting him to skip it can be a challenge. The second night I decide to resort some basic bribery to get him to do so. I’ll tell him that if he goes straight to pajamas and doesn’t take a bath, he can watch an extra show before bed. A simple plan.
The actuality:
5:25 p.m. We’ve been playing at N.’s house with J. and Grape for about an hour and a half. Give Doodles a five-minute warning that its time to leave N.’s house, as J. and Grape’s mom are doing to their kids.
5:29 p.m. Give Doodles a one-minute warning and ask if he wants to go home and watch his TV shows. He says no. I say if we don’t leave right then, there will be no time for TV shows.
5:30 p.m. Get Sweetie into her fleece one-piece and put her in the car seat. Tell Doodles it’s time to go.
5:31 p.m. “I don’t want to go home. I want to stay here.” Repeat 12 times. Add screaming, tears, throwing body upon floor, kicking, more tears, and yet more screams. Add some hyperbreathing in there for added effect.
5:33 p.m. Sweetie decides to join in on the crying.
5:34 p.m. “Doodles, if we don’t leave right now there will be no time for TV before dinner tonight.”
5:35 p.m. “Doodles, I’m not kidding. No TV when we get home unless we’re out the door right now.”
5:37 p.m. “Okay, Doodles, no TV!” [Oh shit! What am I going to do with no TV for Doodles?]
5:42 p.m. Look at N.’s mom with utter helplessness as I try for the umpteenth time to shoe and jacket my temper-tantruming child. N.’s mother shrugs and says, “Just let him scream.” N.’s mom tries, with no success, to soothe Sweetie.
5:47 p.m. Carry Doodles with no jacket or shoes on–in 19 degree weather–to the car.
5:48 p.m. Bring Sweetie, still screaming, to car.
5:49 p.m. Sweetie Pie falls asleep in car.
5:50 p.m. Doodles asks nicely, “Mommy? Where are my shoes? Mommy? Where is my jacket?”
5:53 p.m. Arrive home. Doodles demands, “TV!”
5:54 to 6:11 p.m. Back and forth, “No, Doodles, no TV. I told you at N.’s house that unless we left right away, there would be no time for TV. Do you want to pick out your dinner or should Mommy pick out your dinner?” Whining, “I want Dora! I want Dora! I want to watch TV! TV, please! TeeeeeeeeeeeVeeeeeeeeeee!” “Doodles, who is picking your dinner? Mommy or you?” “Doooooooooooooooooora!”
6:12 p.m. Now what do I do? TV was my ace in the hole to get out of bathtime. Do I go back on this? Do I suffer through bathtime? I rationalize by telling myself that I had said, “There would be no time for TV before dinner.”
6:14 p.m. “Doodles, if you sit down and eat right this second, and you get into your pajamas right after dinner, you can watch a television show instead of taking a bath.”
6:15 p.m. Whining immediately ceases. Doodles runs to sit down for dinner.
6:30 p.m. Pajamas on, Doodles watches on episode of Dora.
7:03 p.m. I take Doodles upstairs to put to bed, which involves three books, two songs, his good-night prayer, and lots of smooches.
7:04 p.m. Sweetie Pie wakes up with a vengeance.
7:06 p.m. Try to read stories to Doodles while a squirming, wriggling, bucking-bronco Sweetie goes crazy one leg and snuggle-in-closer Doodles just wants to cuddle on the other. Sweetie screams; I try to just read louder.
7:35 p.m. to 8:20 p.m. Bring Sweetie to my bed. Coo and giggle with her.
8:25 p.m. Nurse Sweetie to sleep
11:03 p.m. Nurse Sweetie back to sleep
12:46 a.m. Nurse Sweetie sleep again
2:21 a.m. Nurse Sweetie again, just for the hell of it.
4 a.m. Doodles wakes up, sits up in bed, and calls out, “Where’s my mommy?” I enter the room. “Doodles, honey, it’s too early for you to be awake.” Doodles just sits there staring at me. “Okay, Doodles, you can lie in bed with us, but you need to go back to sleep because it’s too early to be awake.” I take Doodles into bed and lie inbetween him and Sweetie.
4 to 4:28 a.m. For about one blissful half hour, my two children are sandwiched around me and I actually doze off.
4:29 a.m. Sweetie wakes up crying. Nurse her back to sleep. Whooops, that’s it! Doodles is fully awake. I pretend to be asleep. Sweetie is asleep. But only as long as my br*east is in her mouth. Doodles lies nicely next to me, stroking me.
4:49 a.m. Doodles: “I want my special treat milk.” Me: “It’s still too early Doodles.”
4:52 a.m. Doodles: “I want my special treat milk.” Me: “Too early!”
5:00 a.m. I flip Sweetie to the other side of me to nurse her on the other breast. Doodles immediately curls up with her for a cuddle. Sweetie Pie, as six month olds are wont to do, grabs at him. Doodles: “Sweetie Pie, I don’t like that! I don’t like that, Sweetie Pie!”
5:02 a.m. I’m trying to ignore both of them and will myself back to sleep. I notice, though, that Doodles is holding Sweetie’s hand, and I’m worried he might be too rough with it, so I try to hold on too to see what he’s up to. Doodles: “Mommy, I’m using that!” I let go of her hand.
5:04 a.m. Doodles is awake. Sweetie Pie is awake. It’s time for me throw in the towel and try to force myself awake. “Mommy? Milk!” I peek an eye at him. “Pleeeease!”
5:10 a.m. Doodles: “I want to pick my special treat milk.” I hand him the box. He looks in and throws a hissy fit. “Strawberry special treat milk! Strawberry!” Only we’re out of strawberry. You can guess how well he took that news.
5:25 a.m. Doodles: “Waaah!” Sweetie Pie: “Waaah!” Me: “Waaah!”
And all I can think is, “Fourteen more hours till I can pawn them off on Adam. Just have to get through fourteen more hours…”
