The Luck of the Not-Quite Irish

A little part of me has always wanted to be Irish on St. Patrick’s Day. Between the freckles, the binge drinking, and the spontaneous singing of Danny Boy, what’s not to love about those people?

Most other days of the year I wouldn’t dream of changing my half-Italian, half-Polish background. But I’m sure I’m not the only person who suffers from intermittent cultural jealousy. I mean, think of all those Irish-Americans yip-yip-yipping and twirling to accordion music at big polka festivals? They stuff themselves silly with kielbasa, and just wish they had some of what I’ve got.

I married into Irish blood. But I never really felt I could claim it until we had kids. Somehow their Irishness embodied with my genes made me feel a closer kinship to Guinness beer. I’m not running out to get a four-leaf clover tattoo mind you, but in the past several days I’ve been experiencing what has just got to be the luck of the Irish.

On Friday we heard back from schools. Of the three we applied to for Kate, she was accepted at two, wait-listed at one. Or rather, “wait-pooled.” I wonder if that sounds more European—being in the pool rather than on the list? Or does the term ‘waiting pool’ conjure some sort of contented foot-bathing images in ones mind, making it seem like not a bad place to be?

At any rate, one of the acceptances was from my first choice. (Mark’s second runner-up.) I am SO WICKED EXCITED about this place. All three schools deemed Kate ready for kindergarten, and even though there’s plenty of time and potential for me to beat myself up over this decision later, we’re pulling the trigger and starting her next year.

Yesterday the girls and I drove to the school and happily handed over a check. And even though there are 19 (not 20) steps leading to the main entrance—something that left Paigey and I, who were counting as we walked, hanging a bit—I’m confident that we are going to love love love the place. I’ve already mentally signed up for every committee and volunteer opp.

Still riding high on the news about kindergarten, we went to Kate’s preschool auction Friday night. And I was feeling thrifty. Already we were shelling out for tickets to the event and babysitting. The last thing we should endeavor to do was get into a bidding war with some other family over a set of gymnastics classes or a weekend in Napa. (Because finally, a year or so into the recession, Mark and I are trying to be good about spending.)

But open bars tend to weaken people’s resolves. And after just one turn through the silent auction tables I’d bid on a painting (several times over), and Mark succumbed to the roving raffle ticket sellers.

Seconds before the auction closed I placed the winning bid on the painting. Yee-ha! It now hangs above our bed, and should The Big One hit, at least Mark and I will be clocked on the heads with a lovely work of art, the sale of which benefited a deserving preschool.

Desperate to get more drinks down before the school’s babysitting ran out, we were leaving for a restaurant when the bellowing auctioneer announced the raffle drawing.

“Please forgive me,” he muttered, squinting down at the square of paper. “I’m terrible pronouncing names.”

I had a twinge.

“Mark, uh… Mik-CLUSS-kee?” he said, looking up from the mic hopefully.

A roar of cheers went up amongst our friends, and I double high-fived Mark who’d already edged himself nearly out the door. We are the proud new owners of an “instant wine cellar,” a collection of 40 bottles of first-rate wine, each contributed by different families at the school. (Of course, Mark has already logged them all into our online wine cellar app, cackling with delight like a kindly Ebenezer counting his money.)

Saturday morning’s hangover made me useful for only one thing. Shopping. Specifically thrift shopping. I headed to San Fran with Kate to hit up my favorite stores for used kids duds. Nothing thrills me more than finding a lightly-used Oilily frock for $9.

The car ride over was Kate talking NON STOP. Now, I have no one but myself to blame for her propensity for chatter, but MY GOD, do these kids sense when you have a hang-over and set out to jabber like they’re filibustering? Ouch! “Blah blah ballet class. Blah blah dancing Swan Lake. Blah blah the bee-oooo-tiful princess turns into swan. He turns into swan. Have I ever seen a swan, Mama? Is a swan like a goose? Where is Swan Lake, Mama? Can we go there? Pleeeeez, can we? Can we get the book? Can we see Swan Lake some time?”

I said something that a non-abusive college-educated woman who is gently trying to shut her blathering child up might say. I mean, I’m not even certain now what it was. But there was a LOT of talk, and I was softly muttering hopefully conversation-curbing responses.

At our first store, after grabbing all the fabulous French outfits I could clutch, I scanned the book and toy shelf. And there, front and center was a pristine, hard cover copy of none other than Swan Lake. 99 cents.

“Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” I muttered in my best Irish brogue, as I slid the book off the shelf. “Would you look at that?” A little more luck of the not-quite Irish.

Gone Fishin’

It’s been about a week or two now since my breasts retired.

Yep, their workin’ days are done. With Paige being the final output from Mark and Kristen Productions and all, these girls of mine are hangin’ it up. Cashing in after years of noble milk-making service. Buying a nice little condo in Clear Lake maybe. Or better yet, Palm Springs. You know, subscribing to TV Guide and marking with a yellow highlighter all the shows they plan to watch.

As good as it all sounds, they do experience temptation to return to work. On a nearly daily basis, in fact. Paige has had a wretched hacking late night and early morning cough that makes them want to go to her, to comfort her with warm Mama’s milk. Not to mention a kind dose of healing antibodies.

And their desires aside, sometimes the whole of me will catch a glimpse of the little tummy paunch that wasn’t there just weeks ago. The eat-like-a-farm-hand,  turn-blood-to-milk, have-baby-suck-milk-from-boobies holy trinity, which requires no use of Thigh Masters or of even breaking a sweat, but manages to keep one’s weight in check. And is now sadly over.

Trouble is, I still eat like a farm hand.

But my head tells my heart—and my heart tells my boobies—that this decision was okay. Paige is nearly 16 months old now, and I’ve done right by her nursing her for as long as I have. Whatever mother issues she’ll bring to a therapist as an adult, I’ll have victimized her with honestly, but in totally different ways than this.

In the way that mother’s forget the pain of childbirth, children forget the bliss of breastfeeding. Right?

Well, whatever the case, planner, achiever and overall anal retentive gal that I am, I’ve got a plan. Any agita I’m experiencing during this transition I’m brilliantly intending to offset with the intake of alcohol. Consuming it happily and recklessly, knowing my body’s the only one I’ll task with processing its toxins.

As for the boobies, with all the free time they’ve got themselves now, it seems only natural for them to consider taking up golf.

Flying Solo

So, here I am with a baby who is 4 1/2 weeks old, and of course with Miss Kate who is 2 1/2 years old, taking care of them solo for the first time. And wonder of wonders I’m not weeping, freaking out, or calling Mark to come home immediately. But give me time.

As with Kate, I’m once again daunted by the prospect of staying home to care for kids. It’s really a luxury that I realize we are lucky to be able to afford (at least temporarily), but as someone who is addicted to people and action and energy and activity, in my most fearful hours I look at is as a jail sentence.

The thing is, if we lived in some turbo suburbia where there were rows of houses occupied by other stay-a-home moms (and kids), I think it would be easier. Just walk out the door and there’s someone else doing what you are doing–in other words, clutching a latte for dear life and looking desperately for something to do to entertain the kids that is inexpensive, safe, not overly taxing on your own energy, and maybe even somewhat educational. I guess if some were to walk through our neighborhood they’d make the argument that I have nothing to complain about. You can’t swing a dead cat in this town without hitting a $700 stroller.

But invariably it’s being pushed by a nanny. I mean, not that I’m opposed to socializing with a nanny and her charges, but somehow it’s different from conspiring (and sometimes commiserating) with another mom. Probably ’cause we’re not getting paid.

All this thinking has me wondering if a different setting would make the staying home thing more fun. I mean, shouldn’t I be springing from bed each day delighting in the fact that no part of my day will involve saying my name when I answer the phone, or sitting in a gray cubicle as Outlook tells me where to go and what to do? You’d think.

Oh great. Kate is wailing in her room, “Mama! Mama!” trying to dodge taking a nap, and the lawn/garden guys just pulled up in front of the house ready to turn on their volume 11 weed whackers and whack to high hell any hope of Kate settling down. See? I used to worry about client presentations. Now I fear that my well manicured lawn could result in a cranky over-tired toddler. Sheesh.

Paige, on the other hand, is napping nicely in her carseat bucket. Must remember to relish this early-life sleep ethic.

Okay, call me crazy but I’m “going in” to see if I can settle Kate down into restful slumber. Wish me luck, and see you in the grocery store. I’ll be the one in the $10 Target Mom sweatpants…

Things I Forgot about Newborns

1. It’s nearly impossible to put one of those stretchy hospital-issued baby hats with one hand. That’s one of the main reasons why you need to have someone help out with the new baby. The hat thing is definitely a two-man job.

2. Where toddler poop is discernible through smell, infant poo is audible.

3. Much time is spent deconstructing the newborn face. To wit: There’s consensus that Paige has Mark’s cleft chin, and Kate’s ears (which have a little heart-shaped notch). Thus far no features have been attributed to me–unless people are comparing the fat folds in our thighs behind my back.

4. Baby poop smells like butterscotch.

Baby on the Outside Now

Miss Paige Victoria McClusky made a fashionable and dramatic entrance to the world on January 31st at 2:50PM–12 long days past her due date.

Paige weighed a hearty 9 lbs. 3 ozs. at birth, and is 21.5 inches long. Her Apgar scores were perfect.

Mark, Kate and I are assimilating to life as a family of four, and spending long stretches of time gazing adoringly at Paige. Oddly, but thankfully, Kate finds diaper changing an exciting spectator sport. Thus far she hasn’t asked us to return Paige to the hospital, but God knows there’s plenty of time for that.

Thanks to all for the calls, emails, love, flowers, food and support!

Hello Society, I’m Back

Today I have returned to the working world. I’m, as they say, a contributing member of society again. Unless of course you consider lolling around on the couch with one eye closed while a nanny tended to my child “contributing.”

It was actually fine. There is a reason that I decided to work there which I was reminded of today. Being away for so long–7 weeks–made the best thing about the place–a pervasive niceness and friendliness–fade a bit.

Kate and I were happy to see each other at the end of the day though. She is getting more adorable and delightful by the minute, so being away from her rots.

Speaking of which, yes, her leg is in fact broken again. They mumbled something to Mark about maybe not having kept the first cast on for long enough. Greeeeeaat! The color of her new cast? Neon green!

The damn thing comes off on August 13th and we’ll hopefully not be in the “what color cast to get next” quandary for quite some time (if ever).

The Ultimate Pairing of Good and Evil

Dunkin’ Donuts [good] is now using Rachel Ray [evil] in their advertising.

What is this world coming to?

Grumpy Moi

Boy am I grumpy! A kind of “Don’t talk to me, Mark, I need to go into the other room and scowl” kinda grumpy.

My frustration with the nanny has re-emerged from where I’d swept it under the carpet of my consciousness. This time it may be too big to sweep back under there again.

Today I was in the car heading home at 5PM. Well, it was actually 4:57. And I get a call from Shelly saying did I remember that today was a 5:00 day, not a 6:00 day.

And no. I’d forgotten. Got Wednesday and Thursday confused.

So I’m in the wrong, but come ON. It’s the way she talks to me:

Her: [in a stern and pissy voice] This is not good, Kristen. I am going to miss another appointment.

Me: [getting up my gumption to not be intimidated] Another one? Did you miss one before because of me?

Her: [evading my question] I have to leave at 5:00.

Me: I’m sorry. I messed up. But let me call the neighbor to see if you can drop Kate off there so you can go.

Her: No, it’s already too late.

Me: [thinking "too late" doesn't fly when it's not even 5:00 yet] No it’s not. Let me call her.

Her: [sighing with annoyance because she would clearly rather lord this over me than let me attempt to fix the situation] Okay.

I reach Jennifer, a nice human (hooray!), who says it’s no problem and Kate can come by I call Shelly back to tell her and she says, “Okay. Leaving now. Bye.” And hangs up. Soooo pleasant.

When I call Mark to rant, he comments that it’s only 5:03. Yes, this entire interaction took place before 5:03 when she was set to work until. Mark made the wise comment that she really shouldn’t be planning her post-work activities with such maniacal precision that one minute of lateness will set her schedule off kilter.

And all this when it’s not like she arrives in the morning with Swiss-clock timing. A handful of times she’s arrive 5-10 minutes late, and of course neither Mark nor I have mentioned it to her. And of course, she never mentioned it either.

God this pisses me off.

Celebrating Stupidity

So I’m walking by the local bookstore, Diesel (totally cool place that makes you want to read every book in it), and I always stop to look at their window displays. In part, Kate just loves to look at all the books and say, “Book! Book!” as if alerting the other pedestrians that an anvil was about to fall on their heads. And I too just like to look at the books, but I keep my, “Book! Book!” on the inside.

Today they had a calendar in the window, one of those daily calendars that is small and you tear a page off each day, called Stuff on My Cat. The cover shows a lounging cat covered in small yellow Post-Its. And yes, there were 363 pages with other pictures of, as billed, things on someone’s cat.

(Yes, I had to go into the store to take a closer look.)

I couldn’t help but wonder when stupid things like this became so acceptable to so many people. And I’m not saying I’m above the celebration of it all. Maybe it’s these damn internets that allow everyone to let their freak flags fly. There is so much out there for us to process, that we’ve just had to move in a totally inane direction in order for anyone to stop and pay attention.

I’m by no means a dumb-stuff connoisseur, mind you. Our friend Jamie is pretty good at digging up cyber-weirdness and delighting in it. And every once and a while I’ll come home and Mark will need to drag me to his computer to show me something that he saw at work and found outrageously funny. One time it was a website that showed what happened when you left a gummi bear in water overnight–or for some faux-scientifically significant amount of time. What happens, somewhat unsurprisingly, is it gets all bloated. Anyway, Mark found it incredibly hilarious and I think I looked at him with disdain and thought, “I’m married to a 14-year-old.”

Ah well, one person’s stuff on a cat is another person’s waterlogged candy.

Everything Old Should Stay Old

In the line at the grocery store today I saw that Luke and Laura from General Hospital are getting married. AGAIN.

This is madness. I haven’t watched that show for, God, 20 years. (Feeling old now.) And I tuned into two of their weddings way back then.

Have they continued to obsessively renew their vows in all these years that I haven’t been watching? Or did one of the actors somehow return from their trailer park in Arizona where they were living in obscurity and beg the network to give them one last go of it?

At any rate, the passage of time has at least given Luke some perspective on hairstyles. The long shaggy male perm cum mullet is blessedly gone now, and he is actually kinda cute with short hair.

Which isn’t to say I’m watching again though.