Come Waste Your Time With Me

Recently I decided that the husband and I needed a kid free weekend. An actual overnight adventure without a tiny terrorist simultaneously killing me with cuteness and driving me to an early grave with her outrageous demands. It was now or never, I figured. As if toddler tantrums, all-consuming full-time jobs and the daily demands of life in general don't keep both of us with very little free time for anything other than a quick hello kiss and dinner in front of the television (where one of us always manages to fall asleep with the fork hanging midair), I am belly deep in baking another bundle of joy. If we didn't run away for a romantic getaway now, right this very second, we probably would never ever in a million bazillion years get to do anything again for the rest of our lives. Or until the kids fly the coop. Whichever comes first.

We settled on a quick jaunt over to Catalina Island. My parents bravely agreed to babysit, and as we said goodbye our trip was almost instantly sabotaged by the toddler terrorist as she screamed "MAMA NO!" with such intensity that my heart promptly broke into a million tiny pieces. I didn't even have time to pick up the shards of my guilt ridden heart as the husband, seeing my resolve begin to diminish, slung me over his shoulder, threw me in the car and skidded out of the driveway like a masked bandit on the run. And so, like most mothers, I began our romantic getaway by leaving my heart behind in the tiny, destructive hands of my precious, diabolical everything.

No matter! Who needs a heart when you have the vast Pacific Ocean beneath you, the sea breeze blowing through your hair, the sweet song of freedom on your lips and the man you like more than anyone else (most of the time) enjoying the ride along with you? To the outsider, we looked like the perfect picture of a footloose and fancy free couple. But inside, I was panicked. All sorts of thoughts were swirling around in my head like a tornado of doom. How is the Outlaw Bugsy Malone? What will she think when she wakes up in the morning and I'm not there? This is our first weekend away ever without her. Will she ever forgive me?

And then my thoughts turned to the man standing next to me. Oh my god, what are we going to talk about for a whole weekend? What do we have in common besides two years worth of poop, no sleep and endless episodes of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse?  Holy crap, who is this man I married?! What's going on behind those sparkly green eyes? For the love of all things boozy, I need a cocktail. Dammit, I'm pregnant. Cocktails are off limits. Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit ohshitohshitohshit. Turn this boat around, let's call the whole thing off.

Just as I was about to take a flying leap and abandon ship, Catalina came into view and for the first time in a hundred years, the rat wheel in my mind skidded to a halt. I took a deep breath, grabbed my husband's hand and allowed myself to be swept away by the beauty of it all. I gave myself permission to put Bugsy on the back burner of my brain, knowing that she was safe and spoiled by her grandparents. I looked over at ol'e what's his name and laughed. We have over ten years of shenanigans together - how bad could this be!

We crammed so much fun into two short days it was one for the history books. Do you even know how much can be accomplished when you are not worrying about putting someone else's needs above your own? Imagine a world that is not dictated by nap time. You may say I'm a dreamer, but I know I'm not the only one, baby!

For example, you can do things like be on a boat without worrying that your toddler might catapult herself into certain slumber with the fishes:

If you are so inclined, you might want to rent a golf cart and mob around the island without car seat installation frustration:

You could stop and take in the spectacular view without hearing a tiny voice complaining about "my shoe, it's stuck" over and over:

You could leisurely kick your husband's sweet behind at miniature golf and be a total obnoxious jerk about how much you suck way less than he does:

You could ooh and aah over the wildlife without frantically chasing your tiny terrorist who insists the deer is a "doggy!" and is hell bent on pulling said dog's tail:

And, if you are feeling feisty, you could take a hike without beginning at a race worthy pace and ending with a toddler demanding to be carried the remaining 5,000 miles because she ran the first ten minutes.

Not pictured: The time we got a couple's massage and Jeremiah alleges he was molested, the time we ate ice cream all day everyday, and the time we slept until 7:30 a.m.! Oh and the time we went kayaking and Jeremiah almost got eaten by a sea lion. I've never seen him so scared - and he saw my large intestine during my c-section.

So it turns out that we do exist as a couple outside of our primary roles as Bugsy Malone's mommy and daddy. The truth is, we kinda like each other. And as the boat pulled out to sea to return us to our everyday responsibilities, as the ocean churned beneath us and promised to deliver us to the tiny terrorist holding my heart, I leaned my head back, closed my eyes and smiled inwardly at the sound of drunk early twenty-somethings behind me carrying on with their early twenty-something antics. We might be frazzled, exhausted and up to our eyeballs in freaking Doc McStuffins, but we sure are the lucky ones.

There's Something Amiss in the Old Clubhouse

I owe a lot to the old Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. The toddler terrorist has loved the show since she was a little baby. This baby crack has saved me many a time when all avenues of child soothing was exhausted. I don't know what it is about this show, but it just does the trick. Do I feel guilty that Mickey is a better parent than I? Sure. Do I sometimes cringe when I use Mickey as a babysitter so that I can do super fun things like clean the bathrooms, cook dinner, steam clean the floors, vacuum the bedrooms...? Absolutely. Do I sometimes swear off the Micky sauce? Totally. But without an Intervention style rehab stint, it's just not going to happen. And if you did try an intervention, I would be the addict who agrees only after stipulating that I get to go home first and pick up some "stuff". I'd then pack up all the Mickey and the terrorist and fly the coop.

Because the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse acts a surrogate husband and father in our house, I have had the luxury of noticing a few action items that require some attention. These things simply do not make sense. I have outlined my observations below because I am a responsible parent who pays attention to details.

1. Why do Daisy and Donald refuse to wear pants while Mickey likes to rock it shirtless? I might wear the same outfit day in and day out. I might forget to put on makeup and on a crazy day when the tiny terrorist has tried to kill me, I might even forget deodorant. I often forget to brush my hair. But I always remember my pants and my shirt (you're welcome, world). Do the ducks face a closet devoid of pants or do they actively decide not to don their bottom duds? I know Mickey can afford a nice shirt with that fat Disney paycheck. His girlfriend Minnie seems like a proper lady. Why doesn't she do the girlfriend thing and buy him a shirt that he hates but wears anyway because he knows wearing the shirt is easier than receiving the silent treatment for the next few weeks? I'm just fascinated by these various states of undress. Perhaps I'm just jealous.

2. If Goofy and Pluto are both dogs, why does Goofy get to wear clothes and speak English while poor Pluto is...well, a dog? Poor Pluto! It must be so frustrating to be the same species of canine and yet he can't communicate but for a few ruff ruffs and a couple wags of the old tail. His agent probably had to negotiate the title of Pluto the Wonder Dog just to overcompensate for the fact that he doesn't get to be a lovable, clumsy, Goofy mess. He probably gets paid less, proving that even a cartoon canine can hit a glass ceiling.

3. Minnie has two nieces, Millie and Melody. Where the heck are their parents? These adorably mischievous trouble makers just show up sans parents demanding attention. When they don't get the requested consideration from their aunt, they resort to giggling maniacally, combining forces and wreaking havoc. Poor Minnie is the fun auntie and therefore has trouble with disciplining this child power couple. Remember when they screwed up Minnie's winter bow show? They giggled their way right out of trouble and then dragged poor Minnie along on their crazy adventure, causing her to completely neglect the bow show on which she worked so hard. Where were the parents? Taking a nap? There's nothing that bothers me more than a mysterious parent who drops their adorable but rebellious pint sized terrorists off with the sweet, unsuspecting relative. Better to plop them in front of the old babysitter Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and be done with it.

4. How does Daisy squeeze those duck feet into such a cute pair of shoes? Does she ever wish she could run around barefoot like Donald? I wonder if she ever gets sad that she can't just breathe a sigh of relief as she slips on a pair of flip flops. Everyone knows that webbed feet don't allow for sandals. She probably can't wait for the end of her work day when she can finally kick off those ridiculous shoes, stretch out her wide, flat feet and relax with a glass of wine.

5. Does anyone ever get the feeling that there is about to be a coup at the clubhouse? Mickey is clearly the star of the show, but Donald seems awfully exasperated a good portion of the time and Pete is always sabotaging his pal's plans. Seems innocent enough if you're not tuned in to the political power play that is prevalent in each episode. There is trouble in the clubhouse, folks. I'm telling you, there could be a House of Cards style power upset coming to a clubhouse near you. Minnie appears sweet, but you can tell there's a little Claire Underwood buried under all those pink bows. I'm just saying - things are about to get interesting.

These are just a few things that I have noticed about our good friend Mickey the Mouse. What things have you noticed amiss in the clubhouse?

Baby Terror Tactics

I am currently writing this with one bleary eye open, typing fast and furious in fear that I may be discovered taking a moment for myself. I have hidden myself away in a bunker far from the ever watchful eye of the baby terrorist. If you are reading this, then you must have noticed my weak attempt at a distress signal. I was too tired to manage a full SOS - I think I stopped somewhere around S before I fell asleep while still awake. It's possible. I can hear the little one jumping away in her jumparoo. I think I have about five minutes to get this blog post out to the world before the terror tactics resume.

Never mind. The husband found me, and these days I'm not sure which baby is needier.

The little one turned four months old yesterday and she took that as a signal to exert her independence more than ever. She has never been a cuddly baby. She is pretty much the smartest baby that ever lived and that, my sweets, is a terrifying thing. It's like she can see right through me, and there is nothing scarier than a 13 pound terrorist that's got you all figured out. What the world sees as precious cooing I believe is her communicating with the mother ship, telling them the surest and fastest way to destroy me.

She began with being the cutest baby in all the world, lulling me into a false sense of security. She was all smiles and giggles, batting her pretty long eyelashes at all to see and giving that gummy smile that can melt even the hardest of hearts. She had me right where she wanted me. Silly mommy never saw the impending doom.

You see, Osama Bin Baby has decided that naps are for well, babies. And she is no baby. She will stay awake at the expense of everyone's sanity, including hers. I make myself crazy trying to soothe the cranky pants that she becomes as a result of her stubborn resolve to never sleep again ever for as long as she lives. I dance, I sing, I stand on my head (literally! At least the baby is helping me sharpen up my yoga practice.), I bounce her, I rock her, I read to her, I put on Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and resign myself to having the Hot Diggity Dog song stuck in my head forever. I walk with her, I drive with her, I even try to rhyme with her.

And then I had reached my limit. She was having a fit and falling in it, and I thought to myself, "You know, sometimes a girl just has to have a good cry." So I put her in her crib and sat just outside her door listening to her scream like I was the worst mom in the history of mommy hood. As she yelled obscenities in baby language, I dissolved into a puddle of tears worrying that I may just very well be the biggest failure ever.

And what do you do when you start to feel like a failure? You demand that your husband take that baby out of the house and you pour yourself a stiff drink. So that's just what I did and suddenly, the line between failure and success became blurred just enough that I didn't even mind that the terrorist did, once again, win.

Osama Bin Baby