Candid Camera

Back in July, my brother bought Lily a digital kids camera for her birthday. She loves taking pictures just like her big brother. Last night I finally got around to browsing through her photos and was surprised to see she had taken over three hundred shots! Even more surprising was that some of the shots, while not great quality, were such interesting perspectives. Except the one she caught of me in my underwear–don’t worry, I’ll spare the world that image. I found it fascinating to see the world through her eyes. She took a lot of those pictures when we weren’t looking, unaware that she was catching us in our underwear, on our computers and iPhones, sleeping in unflattering positions (hello triple chin!). She took a lot of her best friends: Caillou and Rosie, Teddy Bear, Angelina Ballerina. And she took a lot of herself. Somehow she learned to turn the camera around and aim just right to capture an extreme close-up of her face, her eyes, lips, nose.

I wonder what else they see when we’re not looking.

Cray Cray

I’ve been on a Steve Martin kick the past couple of weeks. It started with me borrowing Shop Girl on my Kindle. I wanted to try Amazon Prime’s Lending Library, I liked Shop Girl the movie, so I decided to try the book. LOVED the book. The characters were so interesting and the story was beautifully written. So, I decided to try another of Steve Martin’s books–The Pleasure of My Company. I finished it in two days. The characters and story were equally as captivating as Shop Girl. The protagonist of this book is a little cray cray, and it made me think of my own OCD tendencies. There is a part in the book where the dude has to keep rechecking his alarm clock and it was like reading a page out of my own diary. I remember one of the first times Steve slept over when we were dating (Steve, my husband, that is–not Martin) . I went to go set the alarm. This can take a full 3-4 minutes. First I have to make sure the time is set for AM and not PM. The button click click clicks as I check AM, PM, AM, PM, AM, PM, AM. It’s on AM, right?? Next I have to make sure the volume is high enough. This requires me to turn the knob all the way to full blast, until I hear the tick that the knob doesn’t turn any higher, then 1/3 of a turn down to the perfect volume. But I don’t trust that I did it right the first time. Or the second. Or the third. Suffice it to say, there are a lot of ticks. Click, click, click, click. Tick, tick, tick, tick. By the time I rolled over to go to sleep, Steve was looking at me like, “You’re gonna stab me in my sleep, aren’t you?”

Somehow this OCD has passed and I no longer have to spend five minutes setting my alarm clock each night. Which is a good thing, except now I am late to work every morning. Though that habit has died, other neuroses remain. Small ones, like if someone moves the stapler on my desk. All the while they’re talking to me, I’m counting the seconds until they leave so I can move it back. Then there are bigger ones, like the time I almost lost it on a plane because everyone was sucking up all the air! But for the most part, I think I can pass as normal.

About this time last year, though, I really did go a little crazy. Or, at least I thought I was. Life was getting a little overwhelming, and the way I handle stress is to internalize it, avoid it and push myself harder to get past it. Not the best laid plan, I realized as my internal stress materialized into external panic attacks. Did you know that panic attacks have a way of making you feel like you’re about to die or go crazy? For real. Your heart pumps so hard and so fast that you think you’re having a heart attack. Then the doctor tells you that your heart is perfectly fine, that you’re just suffering from panic attacks and anxiety disorder. You only half believe him, so now you’re walking around, paranoid about your heart exploding, and feeling crazy because you’ve been told you have a “disorder.” The good news is that over the past year I didn’t die or go crazy. Not any more crazy than I already am, anyway. I’ve worked hard at removing unnecessary stress from my life and trying to maintain a healthy work/play balance. Still, every now and then I feel the crazy starting to bubble beneath the surface–on a particularly hard day when work is annoying and the toddler is clingy and the husband expects me to cook or take a shower or some other nonsense. But I’ve gotten pretty good at taking a time out as soon as I feel that anxiety creeping up, and so far I’ve kept the panic attacks at bay. But should one appear, I’m more prepared to face it.

My doctor told me to try and remember that panic attacks last about 10-15 minutes tops, and that I just need to ride ‘em out. He said that panic attacks are basically a fight or flight adrenaline rush, and that the body’s adrenaline naturally starts to burn out after 10 or 15 minutes. But that’s for a healthy, fit person. Apparently adrenaline burns out quicker the less fit you are. My panic attacks last  approximately 3.1 seconds, give or take a tenth of second. I’m not exaggerating. So basically that means I’m exceedingly out of shape.

Never before have I been so grateful for my fat ass.

Look Who’s Talkin’ Now

The other day, on our way to the park, Lily starts running down a hill and exclaims ”Weeeeeeee! A ground slide!” Haha! One of my favorite parts of parenthood is trippin’ off all the crazy things that come out of my toddler’s mouth. Who is this little girl?? One day I’m teaching her how to say “milk” and “please”, then next thing I know she’s calling out, “Peace out, much love in the ‘hood!” when I leave for work. Here are a few doozies from the past week.

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I guess this is what I get for not breast-feeding long enough. Instead of Lily seeing my chest as a natural part of the body that provides nourishment and extra cushioning for cuddles, she’s just always trying to see them, period. She’s constantly trying to bust down the door when I’m changing in the room. And the more I try to hide, the more she wants to see. I’m starting to feel a bit violated! Yesterday, as I was changing, she burst in unexpectedly.

Me: Lily! Get out! Mommy’s changing!

Lily: But I want to see!

Me: No! Get out!

Lily: Mommy, just trust me. Trust me to see your boobies.

Me: What the?? Where did you learn that from?

Lily: From Tangled.

Huh? I’m pretty sure Eugene didn’t try to coerce Rapunzel to flash him. Turns out, there IS a part in the movie when he tells Rapunzel to trust him. But it’s my perverted daughter who added the “boobies” part.

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Whenever I get a knife out while cooking, or scissors out for arts & crafts, Lily gasps, puts her hands to her mouth, and exclaims, “Mommy, don’t cut me again!”

Again? Again?? I never, ever even came close to cutting her, I swear. But she says this every single time. I’m just waiting for the day she says this in the wrong place at the wrong time and someone calls CPS on my ass.

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I mentioned before that Lily insists on being called Princess, all day, every day. I’m called Prince, and no amount of reasoning or pleading has deterred her from referring to me as such. My brother has tried convincing her that I should be called Queen, but she wasn’t having it. Then today, I finally figured out why.

Lily: Mommy?

Me: Yes, honey?

Lily: Are you the Queen?

Me: Yes, baby! I’m the Queen!

Lily: But you’re not a mean Queen, right?

All this time she didn’t want to call me Queen because in Disney movies the Queen is usually evil or a witch. No wonder! It was all so clear now! And even though she has somehow started figuring out that a Queen isn’t always a bad guy, I think there is still some confusion. Because a few minutes later when she called out to me?

Lily: Hey, Witch!

Huh. I think I prefer “Prince”.

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The other night, Steve and I got into a huge fight. I ended up in my room, sitting on the floor, leaning my head on the bed, crying. Lily walked in and sat next to me. She started crying too.

Lily: What’s wrong, Mommy?

Me: Nothing, sweetie.

Lily: But, why are you crying, Mommy?

Me: Mommy’s just a little sad.

Lily: Is it because you can’t go poopie?

Poor baby has constipation issues. When she can’t go poo, she leans on the bed and cries. So, seeing me in that position must mean, in her mind, that I was crying because I couldn’t go poopie. Even in the middle of crying, I couldn’t help but laugh.

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Started with a story about boobs, ended with poop. My work here is done.

Weekly Wrap Up

1. Lily has taken to bringing along imaginary Disney Princesses whenever we go. I don’t even know they’re along for the ride until I lift Lily off of the carousel and she’s all, “Wait! Wait! I need to get my friends.” Then she goes to each and every horse, grabbing hands, talking about, “C’mon, Jasmine. C’mon, Sleeping Beauty.” But no princess can come close to her BFF, Teddy Bear.  I love watching how she is with him, always kissing his nose and showing him her new toys.

2. For some reason, this picture scares me a little. Like a sign of high maintenance teenage girl drama to come…

3. Three guesses who hung these ornaments.

4. Target ran out of the cheapie cotton ball tree skirts. So, it was either this or the $30 ones. Steve thinks it looks ghetto. I think it’s fashion forward–a mini skirt! For a tree!

5. When we were decorating, Lily kept calling the stockings “socks”. Then proceeded to put them on her feet.

6. Three guesses who got a little extra fiber with their cupcake.

7. Steve wrapped my scarf around her head to be silly, but it actually looked super cute. I’m about to sport this look.

8. My grandma came into town this weekend. This right here is four generations of crazy.

Uncultured Swine

Up until about six years ago, I had never seen The Nutcracker. I didn’t even know much about it other than it was a popular Christmas-time ballet. Then Steve’s Goddaughter joined the cast of a show put on by her ballet company, and we were invited. Steve and I are not fans of the ballet, but actually love plays and musicals, so we figured, What’s a little ballet thrown in gonna hurt? A few scenes in, I was confused. Wait. They don’t talk At ALL? Not one word is said throughout the ENTIRE SHOW? And so, except for the parts Steve’s Goddaughter was in, we were bored out of our minds. Like I said, not fans of ballet. Or of shows where no one says a word for two hours straight.

Steve’s Goddaughter has been in the show every year since. We skipped the third year, but was lured back the fourth year because her brother got cast as the Nutcracker. We skipped the fifth year, but was drawn back this year because their younger brother–MY Godson, joined the cast. This family has a fourth child who will probably join the cast in a year or two, and my daughter will likely jump on the bandwagon since she is obsessed with being a ballerina. This Nutcracker thing has become an accidental holiday tradition.

This year I went to the show solo. Steve and X hit their ballet limit and so I took one for the team. Somehow, this year wasn’t too bad for me. Maybe because I appreciate the arts more these days. Or maybe because between the three of them, these kids were in practically every scene. I actually enjoyed most of the show. But whenever it got a little slow for me, my mind wandered aimlessly.

Now, you would think that at thirty-seven I’d be more mature than my seventeen-year-old son who smirks anytime he hears the word “balls.” But I’m not. I just don’t know how those guys stand wearing those tights. They’re basically wearing pantyhose. I wonder if anyone else gets as distracted as I do. I’m not being a pervert, I’m just sayin’, some tan Shakespearean culottes would work just as well. Also? When the ballerinas are lifted up by their armpits, I can’t help but wonder if those guys ever get grossed out. I mean, aren’t the girls’ armpits all sweaty from the dancing? But I do envy those lifts. I wish Steve could just throw me up and carry me on one shoulder like that. I’m about fifty pounds away from that ever happening.

I like to think that I’m cultured and artsy. But I guess there’s a seventeen-year-old boy in all of us.

P.S. Do you know how hard it is to refrain from saying “balls” when you’re living with a toddler??