I composed this letter to my children while I watched them today. It’s a rough draft, something I’ll re-write for years and years, but for now, a little weepy/emotional/slightly irrational and disgusting “Dear God Bring On The Dot Soon” post. (The “dot” brought to you by my good friend Karen who made me nose air when I heard it. Oh, Nose Air? That thing you do when you’re IMing someone and not really laughing but giggle through your nose, affectionately coined by MIchelle and I. Now, where was I?)...
To My Children,
I won’t apologize for talking a little too loudly, for disciplining you a little too often, for making you turn off the TV. I will keep dancing with you in the living room until we’re sweaty and breathing hard. I will continue asking for a snuggle and then asking for another. I will laugh with you in the bath when your hair stands straight up in soap and I will sigh a deep love sigh when I see you sleeping on your dad.
And one day, when time seems to stand still in the long long weeks, days, hours before your first born is here, I hope you remember those things and not the times I lost my shit.
But know it’s ok to lose your shit.
And then remember why you had children in the first place.
And know you are loved by your old crazy mother who could never say it enough but means it more than you know.
I’m really not sure if I should, you know, SAY something here? Or if that’s too tacky? I don’t want to be tooting my own horn but this would be a much improved kind of toot than the norm in my house. And if I don’t say anything at all, is that ungrateful? Because that is, for sure, not the case.
I don’t know if y’all remember in February when Blogher ran the writing contest, “Share your plans for living healthy in 2008 and win a trip to BlogHer 08”. I saw, I entered, and then plum forgot. Because I do that a lot. Forget things, that is. Plus I never win anything but it’s always worth a try, isn’t it?
Except this time was different. Someone picked my post. Some-ONES picked my post, I mean. And to them, I can not exclaim with enough SHIFT 1 SHIFT 1 SHIFT 1’s just how thankful I am. (!!!!!!!!!) So thank you. I am beside myself, both humbled and thrilled and in every way appreciating it. And also dancing in the living room. A lot.
Please go read the contest posts from everyone and get re-inspired to keep your goals this year.
And to those of you going to BlogHer… I will see you there!!
I’ll be joining y’all on planet earth again after this high wears off. Which should be, oh, July 22nd or so.
I was recently asked if having two children was worth it. After all the sleepless nights, the PPD, the jealous older sibling bit.
I finally have a way to express my answer:
I hope your Holiday was wonderful. There are so many stories I have for you and announcements about the New Year. Changes. Plans. News.
But today I’ll just tell you how we brought in 2008: The year destined to be ours.
We’ve planned some wonderful goals for the year, goals that everyone else makes like getting fit and finding ourselves again. But this resolution was made on the eve of 2006, one year ago, when we sat on our couch in our new condo in our new city. We talked, a year ago, about how 2008 would be the first year we won’t be moving, pregnant, having a child, changing jobs, or moving again since our marriage. This year is destined to be ours.
We planned on retiring early, even going so far as turning off the lights and crawling in bed. We talked a bit, read our books and heard the baby at a quarter to the New Year. I took the shift, feeding and snuggling our youngest born until I heard the pop*pop of firecrackers. Mr. Flinger joined me in the upstairs hallway where we could watch the fireworks show from the high school. We stood there, holding our sleeping 7 month old, listening to our three year old breathing soundly in her sleep, holding each other, watching, knowing other people were able to get out and party that night. And we realized it was perfect, our New Year’s, with us at home, the kids safe with us, alone and quiet.
And this is how we welcomed our year. Together.
LB stared preschool today. Since she’s mastered two-year-old speak (read: “NO! MINE! I CAN DO IT MYSELF!”) and knows the alphabet, can recognize her name in print, and counts to twenty, we thought it was time to put her in a program to show off her mad skillz. I mean, preschool is the alpha-mom thing to do, right?
Of course it is. But apparently so is owning a mini-van. Already I’m behind.
After struggling to be on time to an event for the first time in months, we arrived only ten minutes late. Which, really, is very impressive.. to me… that is. I pulled in to her school and was confronted with a sea of mini-vans of people who are able to be on time. The caravan, the toyota, the “not really a van but totally a van” van. My rugged Xterra felt trumped by an extra seat and sto-and-go cargo space. Now we were late and unhip. The day hadn’t even begun.
My outgoing child became clingy and unsure. She withdrew. She glanced around in trepidation. Was Mommy going to leave? Would I be forced to take a nap here? Will there be fish crackers? I could almost see the wheels turning in her mind. She wasn’t letting go of me but she wasn’t crying, either. I take what I can get.
After a ten minute transition period where a dozen other moms eye both of us never saying whether or not they truly approve, LB became comfortable enough to allow me to let go of her hand. She became engrossed enough in circle time that I was able to whisper to her “I’ll be back, sweetie. You stay here.” and slip quietly out the door for an entire thirty minutes of one child bliss.
Next week she will go to school two days for two hours each. She’s excited to be in her “big girl” school. Mr. Flinger is excited to attend her October field trip. We can’t wait to see her in the Christmas pageant. But today, as I packed her bag and watched her walk out the door, I realized we aren’t that far away from being those people: the ones with the kids in school and the sanity we had years before. For now, though, I’m going to enjoy the sleeping 3 month old on my chest and the daughter who ran to me when I picked her up. It won’t always be this way. One day, we might even have a mini-van.
Please sing in your best country-sounding voice. There needs to be twang. Sadly, every time I try to make “twang” in my head it comes out “Bow Chicka Chicka Bow Bow.” So, go for less porn and more TWANG, ok?
Also, I am completely sober. S-O-B-E-R. I’m like a guy on Alcohol, I couldn’t get it going. But once I got sober, the words just started flowing.
:: ahem ::
Oh! Two Buck Chuck I’m in love with you
You’ve got more spunk than a party shoe
You make me dance with grace and rhythm
When I drink you, I’ve got biorythm
You only cost just two ninety-nine
You are the best thing to happen to wine
Your Cab Sav is red and smooth
if I saw you at a party, I’d make a move
Come live with me the rest of my days
Two buck Chuck, on you I can give b-j’s
So the Mister, he loves you, too
Two Buck Chuck, we’re in love with you
Thank you, Thank you.
This song is brought to you by the number two and the letter O (who gives me plenty of time at 1AM to “sit and think about what I’ve done”)
We’ll be here all week, folks.
Synopsis: 24 hours to live it,
4 hours to gather in to a post, approximately 8 minutes to enjoy.
A day in the life of a Flinger: Twenty-Four Hours.
And why I haven’t done your web design yet. Because SOME OTHER PEOPLE made me drink this weekend. And somehow there was photographic evidence. With my camera. (Which explains why there are 192 photos in the set. Drunk photography is almost as fantastic as drunk blogging.) Or, maybe, it’s “192 reasons I start the South Beach Diet Monday.” Because? I didn’t hold the camera the whole time. And I’m in some of them. And, well. Until I look like my icon, I should really cut back on the poke cake.
And now you will insert a big long mushy paragraph about how wonderful it is to move to a new home and find people you can enjoy, your kids can grow up together, and they understand your daily ups and downs and never call CPS when you tell them you’d like to drug your child. In fact, they laugh, which is exactly the proper response and why you love them all the more.
And so many more you may just have a hangover from looking through them all.
A good friend of mine turns thirty this month. Oh, GASP! THIRTY! She sent out an email asking some of us what our favorite parts of being thirty were. It’s a really good question and I finally have the answer.
My libido, it has finally arrived.
There’s this cruel rumor that travels around the High Schools which touts that boys peak sexually at 17, women at 30. At 16 years old, it’s easy to laugh about because HAHA ON YOU! You horny little man! The joke, it is not so funny at thirty. Actually, it’s annoying. Or cruel. Really really cruel.
So I sit around with my girlfriends and we list out our five. “Your five?!” You’re asking. Yes, our FIVE. You know, the five people we find attractive and are giving free ride (er, pun not intended) to “do” by our spouses should we have the chance. I mean, doesn’t everyone sit around discussing their “Five”?
So, in no particular order (except it is in THIS ORDER) here are my five yummies.
Paul Rudd Just. Hot.
John Krasinkski Hello, he’s holding an iPod. I’m a fan. Also, I wish I was Pam.
I would add my son’s pediatrician to the mix but Mr. Flinger said it can’t be someone I know in REAL LIFE. Damn. Instead, I’ll just put on makeup to take him to his well baby check this morning. And that’s not sad. Not at all.
Who are in your five?
Today is the day my C-section was scheduled. I almost made up the birth announcements a month early leaving the weight and length as fill-in-the-blank like a Mad Libs. “Baby O makes his debut in to the world on June 8, 2007. He weighed [number] and was [bigger number] inches. Mommy, Daddy, Baby and LB are doing well.” I’m really glad I didn’t. This is why I don’t do my own illustrations.
I’ve played over the events of May 19th and 20th a million times. I’ve marveled out loud with Mr. Flinger over and over how I’d still be pregnant. “I’d still have three more weeks! Two more days! One more night!” We talk about how strange it was to walk in to the hospital thinking we’d be leaving in three hours and not leave for over three days. The world doesn’t stop when you go in to labor and we left the hospital without our man on a sunny Wednesday evening and waited in line on the freeway ramps behind the commuters going about their daily business.
It was surreal.
We left and I was no longer pregnant. We had a baby who was not in the backseat. We had a daughter I hadn’t seen in days. My world was just as rattled as hers was.
I’m not sure who decided it was time to evict you, Baby O. I’m not sure if it was my body that simply gave out or you deciding it was time to meet us in person. I’m not sure why I went in to labor walking around U-village or how immanent your birth was when I came home and told your dad “my body is finished.” I didn’t know I’d have you 12 hours later.
I’ve finally stopped replaying that weekend and the week of your NICU stay in my head. I’ve stopped obsessing about what went wrong and why you didn’t stay in long enough to finish cooking. I’ve stopped thinking about what I did to make you want to come out. It doesn’t matter now. I’m glad you did. Because we’ve had three more weeks with you than we thought we’d get. We have three more weeks of photos, of knowing your quirks, of learning who you are. We have three more weeks of finding out how amazing you are and how much you belong in this family. Three weeks might be forever to you, Baby O, but to us it’s the best possible forever.
Instead of being born June 8th, you had your own plan. And I’m ok with that. I’m sure this won’t be the last time you carve your own path in the world. I’m certain it won’t be the last pleasant surprise you give us.
Happy Non-Birthday, Baby O.
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