So You Think You Can Tweet

The other day I did something I'd been dreading for a long time.  It was kind of just sitting out there, staring at me.  I'd try to ignore it, I'd try to avoid it, I'd try to pretend it wasn't there.  Because it was just too scary.  Too dramatic.  Too traumatic.

But I couldn't run any longer.  It was going to track me down, snuff me out, bring me to justice.  That's right -- in this metaphorical scenario, the "IT" was George W. Bush and I was Osama bin Laden.  Minus the facial hair.  Oddly enough, I have been into turbans lately, so on that score I was even dressing the part.

Anyway, my time hiding out in a Bora Bora of made-up errands and endless procrastination came to an end.  It was time to rip the Band-Aid off and just do the thing that had been scaring me for weeks.

So I did it.  I helped my mother get an account on Twitter.

My mother is a woman of extremes.  She is extremely happy and optimistic, and extremely opposed to swearing.  What a bitch, right?  She loves everything and hates nothing (EXCEPT maybe Osama bin Laden, but she'd even say he probably just didn't get enough attention as a boy with all those siblings and his father's numerous wives running around.  "That's a crock of shit," I like to tell her.).  She is really good with kids and she is ... well, not really good with technology.

Back when email was all the rage, I was a senior in college.  (That is a horrifying sentence to write.)  I remember when my mother set up an email account from our home computer, and she sent off a little missive to me at school.  As soon as she hit "send," she CALLED ME to see if I had received the email.  Then we had a long conversation about how email is supposed to allow you to communicate information and pretend interaction without actually having to communicate or interact.  Then I called her an "asshole" and hung up.  (If you haven't caught on yet, I like to swear at her just to remind her of all the fun she could be having.)

Over the years, she's accumulated a laptop, a Facebook account, and an iPhone.  Watching her receive and use these things is sometimes cute and fun, like watching a puppy get a fresh tennis ball.  It's all excitement and unbridled enthusiasm.  Less drooling, though.  And no one throws her iPhone at her.  Okay, it's nothing at all like a dog with a tennis ball.  The picture I'm trying to paint here is that my mother gets excited and enthusiastic about what the kids are doing these days ... whenever those days are. 

The problem is, the excitement and the enthusiasm don't usually translate to a full-blown embrace of the power and the responsibility she has at her fingertips.  Her laptop's primary function has been to create and order Chrismas cards.  It's protesting its neglect with a deteriorating connection speed.  A tea kettle works faster than that computer.  She's always amazed when my sisters and I reference a picture, or a status update, or a video of a baby's birth and ensuing 6 months of life, on Facebook.  She gives us this hang-dog look, like we're in cahoots to keep her in the dark on all the details of that girl we kind of knew in 3rd grade because we went roller-skating with her on early release days.  The four of us just look at her and shout "MA!  THE FACEBOOK!"  Because that's code for "you, too, could be enjoying all these nuggets from the ghosts of your/our class pictures past if you just logged in every now and then."  For all we know, the vice president of her elementary school student council has been trying to get in touch with her for years, and mum's just been missing out on reminiscing about the all-vegetable bake sale they did in 1962 to raise money for a litter of neglected kittens. 

I can't even get started on her abject failure to properly respect her iPhone.  If she raised her children the way she is raising her iPhone, I'd be dictating this post (since I'd be illiterate) to my probation officer (since I had to steal a tv to pay for my crystal meth) in Omaha (since they have the worst tv store security).  Let's just leave it at that.

But now she wants in on the random bursts of laugther, the recounting of out-of-left-field facts, the references to SmartyPants267 and GoFishFish.  She wants to speak @ and # and * and RT.  She wants to follow people.  Probably to tell them how wonderful they are.  Again, BITCH, right?

So I hooked my girl up.  And now she asks me shit like, "so, honey, now that I have Twitter, can you teach me how to tweet?"  Or "so, honey, now that I have Twitter, I can just go to w-w-w-dot-twitter-dot-com and see what everyone is saying to me?"  Or, "so, honey, now that I have Twitter, there will be no more starving children in Africa?"  It's like with every question she has to brag about having Twitter now, then boondoggle my brain, and then sneak in a reference to "poor Osama's" birthplace.  It's like she just can't stop thinking about the guy.

Editor's Note: If you read this post and you are associated in any way with a government agency that has ever had the words "counter" or "terrorism" reside on any document on your server, put down your warrant and cut the wire-tap.  The references here to Osama bin Laden are a fancy literary device.  That device is called "satire."  If that word is too big for you, then think of it as "humor."  If that word is too big for you, then think of it as "funny."  If that word is too big for you, then I have no idea how you have a job, much less one for our government.  Also, I hate you.

P.S. Mum still hasn't sent a tweet.

P.P.S.  Mum has 4,326 unread emails in her inbox.

P.P.P.S.  I think I might tell mum there's an Internet law that says you can't tweet, or ask questions about tweeting, until your Inbox is appropriately indexed.  Government counter-terrorism agents aren't the only sneaky ones in these here parts.  And mum is extremely into following the law.

Happy Birth Day

On Friday, a dear friend gave birth to her second child, a son.  Today's post is in their honor.

Ten months.  (Not nine - I don't know how/where/why that myth started, and I don't know how it's hung on for so long without someone blowing the lid off.  Bye bye, lid.  You've been blown.)

Ten months of anticipation.  Of waiting for the arrival of the creature you know will change your world.  The creature who will redivide your timeline into The Before and The After.  The creature who you are giving life to and who will, in turn, define yours.

Ten months to prepare.  To design a nursery and buy the onesies and go to check-ups and grow a belly and learn to waddle and sleep on your side.  Ten months to guess the sex and pick a name and form a birth plan.  Ten months to feel the kicks and see the sonograms and hear the heartbeat.

Ten months to wonder.  What color will his eyes be?  How do I feed him?  When will he sleep?  Am I going to know what to do when he cries?  Have I done everything I need to do?  Am I ready?  What does "ready" mean?  When will he come?  Why am I so nervous?  Or is that excited?  Have I ever felt so nervous and excited at the very same time?

Ten months of keeping a secret.  A secret that the person inside of you is someone you already know.  You know what foods make him kick.  You know what positions make him move.  You know what time of day he is quiet, and what time of night he decides to do somersaults.  You know that you talk to him, out loud and in your head and in your heart.  Conversations some can hear, but most they cannot.  Experiences you never have alone because he is always with you, your comrade and companion and friend.  Your baby.

Then someone decides your ten months are up.

You go to the hospital.  You get the plastic bracelet.  You put on the gown.  You try to walk.  Or bounce.  Or breathe.  You grab the bed rails or the extended hand or the sheets.  You watch the monitors and listen to the beeps.  You chart the progress and wait for the 7-8-9-10 and watch the clock.  He is coming, and you can't wait to meet him.  In person, that is.

And then you push.

There he is.  He is finally on your stomach, in your arms, under your lips.  He is cleaned and weighed and measured.  He is swaddled and capped.  He is back on your stomach and in your arms and under your lips.

You are happy.  Deliriously so.  Whatever pain or fatigue or frustration you had felt just minutes before becomes a distant memory, a story to tell, notes to compare.  Now you are more present in your present than you have ever been.  For the first time, you bear witness to a seismic shift in your life as that shift is taking place.  You don't need perspective or distance.  It is happening now, and you know it.  You feel it.

You get wheeled to your recovery room, and he comes with you.  You get put in a new bed, and he is next to you.  You feed him for the first time.  He lets you eat up his every detail.  You change him for the first time.  He changes you forever.

It's your favorite song being played loudly, your favorite book being read by your favorite actor in your favorite setting, your favorite meal being served inside of your favorite piece of art and eaten with your favorite friends...all at the very same time.  It's goosebumps on your arms and butterflies in your stomach and a fast-beating heart and flushed cheeks...all at the very same time.   It's your once-favorite memory becoming nothing more than a trifling afterthought.

It's the fruit of the decision you made ten months ago, and all the hoping and praying and trying tied up with it.

It's smiling so big and so hard your face might crack, your heart might burst, your eyes might forever be crying.

It's the day your anticipation and preparation and wonder and secrecy become the person you introduce to the world.  You'll share him, but he will always be yours.

I Smell Trouble, Part Dos

This morning my husband left for work really early.  While I was giving my son his wake-up bottle, I reviewed the emails I had received overnight.  I had gotten one from my husband at 6AM that caught my eye. 

Title: "Good news."

Content: "I caught the skunk."

Allow me to explain.

As some of you may remember, our home was recently invaded by a skunk attack.  We lived to tell the story, but it shook us to the core.  I started scanning the local real estate listings, but fortunately I am married to someone smarter and calmer than I.  Never one to back down in the face of adversity, my husband copped some serious Ace Ventura pet detective skills and got to sleuthing in our back-yard.  I would catch him just sitting out there, skunk-whisperer style, waiting for the grass to share the secrets of the lawn with him.  Eventually, it coughed up the following facts:

1.  A skunk is roaming our lawn on a nightly basis, foraging for food.

2.  When that skunk is tired and full, he takes a day-long nap under our shed.  The one connected to our house.  The one we walk by every time we exit and enter our house.

3.  That skunk has access to our shed all because my husband left a tiny gap between the foundation and the lawn that was enough for the little rascal to creep under.

4.  We need to start using fertilizer.

Now I am sorry, but other than a Middle Eastern dictator trying to outrun the Arab Spring, a skunk is among the very last creatures I would like to invite to live under our shed.  I don't know what it is about that place, but apparently it's cozy and there's a No Vacancy sign out front that our forest friends can read, because just last summer we had a woodchuck living under there, which my husband also had to catch.

(As an aside, for those of you reading this who don't live in Maine, I feel really great about all the free advertising I am doing about the joys of living in this state.  See you soon.)

Anywho, once my husband isolated the variables at work, he put his two elbows to the table, propped up his iPad, and got to studying.  If you have any questions about skunks -- their foraging habits, spraying tendencies, options for higher education -- just drop me a line and I will pass them along to him.  After sleepless nights of serious analysis, my better half decided on the solution to our problem:  shoot the skunk.

I think the real reason why this solution thrilled him so was that it meant (a) an excuse to go to Wal-Mart; (b) an excuse to wear a stupid hat (bought at Wal-Mart); (c) an excuse to buy a BB gun; and (d) an excuse to sit up all night patrolling the lawn for signs of life to shoot at.

The only problem is that I hate guns, and I especially hate the thought of a gun in my house.  But my husband convinced me we'd only keep it until we (he) killed the skunk and then he would return it.  Cross his heart and hope the skunk to die.

What happens next was a near-tragedy of epic proportions.  The skunk indeed emerged from his cocoon under our shed, and indeed began foraging for dinner, just two gun lengths from my husband's perch in our half-bathroom.  My husband, heart-racing and palms sweating, knew that this was his moment.  He aimed, shot, and hit that sucker....somewhere.  So he aimed, shot and hit that sucker....somewhere else.  The point is he hit him twice but the area of impact was unclear, and our furry striped friend managed to limp BACK UNDER OUR SHED!!!  To die a slow, smelly death right next to our porch furniture.  Lovely.

Deflated but not defeated, my husband brought out the big guns.  And by big guns I mean not an actual gun at all but the "Have a Heart" trap that had served him so well with the woodchuck.  He laid out a can of tuna -- because skunks are stupid enough to enjoy mercury-laden sea bait, I guess -- and waited.

And last night, Petunia got hungry.

Upon reading the announcement that our uninvited guest had finally been evicted, I was equal parts joyous and horrified.  Okay, mostly horrified.  I called my husband as soon as I finished reading his email.  Here are the funnest parts of our conversation.  I'll leave you to guess who is saying what.

"YOU CAUGHT THE SKUNK AND JUST LEFT THE HOUSE?!?  WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?  I MEAN WHAT DO I DO?   THERE IS A SKUNK IN A TRAP JUST OUTSIDE OUR HOUSE??  I MEAN WHAT DO I DOOOOOOOOOOO???"

"Um, nothing.  I will take it away when I get home from work tonight."

"BUT, BUT, IT'S RIGHT OUTSIDE!!!"

"I know.  In a trap.  It can't do anything to you.

"BUT WHAT IF IT SPRAYS AGAIN?"

"It can't.  It can't lift its tail.  And you don't have to go near it."

"BUT WHERE IS THE TRAP AGAIN???"

"Outside, near the bathroom.  You can go look at it."

"Go look at it???  Are you HIGH?  I DON'T WANT TO SEE IT!!!!"

"Then why did you ask where it is?"



I hate it when it talks to me like that.

Needless to say, I spent the morning hover-crafting around the house, yelling at the children anytime they went to the western wall of our house and commanding that we speak/gurgle in low voices so as not to alert the lurking beast .  I was just waiting for that skunk to knock on the door, accost me for marrying such a wily trapper, and spraying me for all he was worth.  I shuttled my children to the car like we were the von Trapp family fleeing Austria -- moving quietly but humming softly to keep our spirits up in the face of near-death. 

And we aren't going back to that House of Horrors until my husband has taken the skunk to Canada.  I pray to God he does not get sprayed in the process.  I hear divorce is expensive.

To The Core

When I had my son six months ago, I guess I kind of assumed that all the lessons I'd learned from raising my daughter through infancy and toddlerhood would come in semi-handy.  A baby is a baby is a baby.  Especially during their warm-up laps in the marathon of life, they're really only doing a few things and there are only so many loops they can throw you: do they like getting their diaper changed or do you have to be like those kids with the flip-cup pyramids and get them changed in 3 seconds flat?  Do they like to lie on their back or kind of propped on their side-ish?  Do you have to strip them down naked and run them under cold water to rouse them enough to eat, or are they always ready for the all-you-can-eat buffet?

These mind-benders aside, once you've had one kid it should be relatively smooth sailing with the next one.  Or so I thought.  But then I remembered I'm an idiot.

Granted, I would say that I'm a calmer parent in round 2.  There are some general things that Emilia did and Mateo now does, and I friek out about those things less.  Emilia once got a rash on her forehead and I called the emergency line at her pediatrician's office to figure out if they were going to Medivac her to a specialist or if I should just run screaming down the street until someone stopped  to help me.  (Turns out the answer was call back in the morning if the rash was still there.  It wasn't.)  Mateo recently had a rash covering his entire torso and parts of his legs.  I figured I'd wait until his 6-month check-up to see what was up.  That was three weeks from the time I discovered the rash.  Turns out he, too, was going to survive it.  When Mateo deviates from his sleep schedule, or spits up more than usual, or isn't interested in his favorite chew toy, I don't buy six books to cross reference on how to bring my child back from the brink of sleep deprivation, a gastro-intestinal disease, or depression.  I know that kids are cyclical, no day is the same, and I should just take a deep breath and hold off on screwing up my children until they're at least in middle school.

These broader lessons aside, as soon as I got home from the hospital with my little blue bundle of joy, I realized that I'd forgotten almost all of the basics about tending to a baby.  When is the belly button attractiveness supposed to fall off?  When do I introduce solids?  How do I get him to recognize the difference between day and night?  IS there a difference between day and night?  What's my name again?

Yet another reason to berate myself for not being more diligent with Emilia's baby-book.  My failure to document her every milestone has left me no choice but to look at Mateo every morning and ask him "what's supposed to happen today?"  Depending on the octave of his gurgling response, we just do that. 

So today he rode a bike to day-care.

The thing that's really got me thrown for a loop is his size.  Emilia was a whopper as an infant.  Weighed a pound more than the baby of the woman I met during intake who was having a c-section because her doctor was worried about her baby's size.  E was literally off those charts they use to track your kid's weight, height, and head circumference percentiles.  She has since tapered off and happily doesn't look like she could eat her friends at pre-school, but as a baby she was solid and therefore not all wobbly and bendy.

Mateo is a different story.  He was a good size at birth, but he's already done his tapering off.  He's in the measly 25% for weight and 50% for height.  His head, though, is huge.  It's in the 90%.  So he always looks exhausted from trying to hold it up all day, and it's impossible for him to look at you straight on.

These proportions mean he is nowhere close to sitting up on his own.  And I can't remember when Emilia was sitting up, so I don't know if this is normal or not.

I know there are books out there to answer big questions such as these, but I prefer to reference my inner paranoia and the trusted statistics of Facebook.  I troll status updates looking for pictures of babies that appear to be boasting some level of upright posture.  Last night I saw a 3-month-old nestled among some pillows on her parents' bed and I zoomed in for a closer look.  Definitely looked like she was going to be an early sitter.  Nice spinal support, strong eye contact.  I looked down at Mateo.  He was sprawled on the floor on his stomach, grunting with the effort of lifting his head to figure out where the hyperventilations were coming from.

So I flipped him on his back, brought his head to his knees in what I'm going to trademark as a "baby crunch" (catchy, no?) and added some vanilla protein powder to his bottle.

And I said to myself, "Self, relax.  Your arsenal of parenting tricks is right where you need it to be."

My point here is, trust yourself, parents of the world.  You know what you're doing, even when you think you don't. 

You're welcome.