The Daily Nusz

A few weeks ago, a bunch of friends of mine posted “A Day in the Life of . . .” for their babies, all of whom are the same age as Dec (more about these friends another time).  They shadowed their child all day long, snapping pictures, and at the end of the day they made a slide show, captioned with descriptions of their child’s activities.  They were all adorable, and I enjoyed looking at all of them.

I haven’t done mine.  I don’t know why.  I think because I secretly wonder if anyone would find the lives of a three-year-old and an infant interesting (aside from my friends, who would be avid viewers).  But yesterday, I woke up with the best of intentions.  I was going to snap pictures, think of witty captions, and present it all beautifully in a slideshow at the end of the day.

Well, it didn’t happen.  I took, I think, about 10 pictures, and they all occurred during dinner.  Only one was interesting. 

So, today, my plan changed.  I was going to write about my day.  Of course, since it always involves the kids, you’d hear about them too.  I mean, I can only give my best estimate as to what they might be thinking during any given moment.  My thoughts, however, are much more accessible.  So, that’s what you’re going to get.

5:35 am:  My alarm goes off.  I’m supposed to meet my friend Kelly outside in 10 minutes to go workout.  After my initial angst over having to get up so damn early, I actually begin to look forward to doing some serious weight-lifting while rocking out to some good music with 20 strangers and an instructor who likes to sing along to Kelly Clarkson.  Shoes on, banana eaten, water bottle filled;  I’m good to go.

7:20 am:  Driving home from the gym, Kevin calls and nervously asks me when I’m coming home.  He normally leaves for work at 7:40, and I’m anticipating getting a shower before he leaves.  He reminds me that a co-worker is picking him up at 7:30 because our car is in the shop getting a new tire rod.  I’m around the corner, so I rush home.  Too late.  Decky is up, and Kevin is dressing him.  Kevin deposits him on the bathroom floor as I race through my shower.  Dec gleefully opens and closes every drawer in the bathroom, and screams with frustration when he realizes that the toliet paper roll doesn’t really have enough paper left on it to make a big pile.  As I turn the water off, I can hear Savannah talking over the baby monitor.  It’s a pleasant sound.  Decky investigates the empty toilet paper roll, taste-testing it voraciously.

7:27am:  Savannah enters the bathroom, grinning, and greets me with a hug.  After I dress, we go to her room to pick out an outfit for the day.  This is when battle #1 occurs.  She chooses a pair of shorts that are too big and a gaudy, sparkly hand-me-down t-shirt that if I allowed her to wear would convey the following message, “My mom thinks I’m going to work at Hooters and read while moving my lips when I grow up” (seriously, why are kids’ clothes so trampy these days?  Note to self:  Put trampy t-shirt in Goodwill box).  I select an adorable pair denium shorts and a colorful tank top.  We compromise on the big shorts and the tank top.  I decide to refrain from putting a bib on her during breakfast, knowing that she’ll get the outfit dirty and I’ll be able to change her into whatever I want.  Meanwhile, Dec has pulled everything off of her bookshelf and is sucking on the cord to her baby monitor.  Oh, and he has pooped his pants.  I decide to wait before changing it, since I’m sure he’s not done pooping.

8:00 am:  Savannah is sitting in her chair with a bowl of “Dora the Explorer” cereal (good product placement, Lowes Foods), half of a banana, and a waffle.  She’s watching Curious George.  Dec’s diaper is now truly ripe, and as he pulls himself up on her chair, reaching for her banana.  She screeches, “Mommy, Decky smells disgusting!” and kicks out her foot, sending him sprawling.  I chastize her, but really, I don’t blame her.  He smells like a toxic waste dump. 

8:03:  A screaming, writhing Declan is getting his diaper changed on the living room floor.  He hates getting his diaper changed and getting dressed.  He tries mightily to crawl away, his naked little buns dimpling as he rolls over again and again.  He quiets as soon as the job is completed.  One diaper down, at least 5 more to go until bedtime.  I think about how it would be nice if diapers contained the smell as well as the actual poop, but realize his dirty buns would be seriously neglected if that were reality.

8:15 am:  Dec has been given his bottle and is systemically taking everything out of the kitchen set.  Savannah is staring tranfixedly at the TV while slowing chewing on her waffle.  I savor the fact that I’m not expected to do anything, and write start writing this blog. 

8:30am:  Dec crawls over and starts saying, “Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma”.  I take that as a hint that he’s hungry, and put him in his high chair and feed him some yogurt.  He ingests 90% of it, then grabs the spoon and flings it at me, spraying me liberally.  As he drops the spoon, I encourage him to say, “Uh-oh”.  He responds by saying “Ah” and peers over the side of his high chair.  I retrieve the spoon and he throws it again, giving us another opportunity to practice “Uh-oh”.  No dice.  Savannah experimentally throws her spoon on the floor, saying “Uh-oh”.  I hate to shut her down, but she knows better.  I explain that Decky is learning to say, “Uh-oh” and remind her that she is a big girl who knows better than to throw utensils on the floor.  I make her get off of her chair and pick it up.  She does so, with a sour look on her face.

8:35am:  I remind Savannah that she is going over to play with Ellie, our neighbor, at 9:00 am, so she needs to get her hair combed, go potty, put on her sandals, and take her vitamins.  She scowls through the combing of her hair, trying to negoitate using less rubber bands.  “Only one rubber band, Mommy” (ponytail).  I insist on three, making two little pigtails and connecting them with a third rubberband.  As predicted, her clothes are covered with her breakfast, so I change her into the denium shorts I wanted her to wear this morning and a white t-shirt.  She’s motivated to complete the rest of her tasks so she can play with Ellie.  She asks, “Can I play with Decky now, Mommy?”  I say sure, and she saunters over to him, rips a toy out of his hand, and scolds, “Don’t touch it, Decky!”.  Nice.  She sounds eerily like me.  I defend him, explaining that he was playing with it first, and demanding that she give it back.  She says, “No, I don’t want to” and I assure her that unless she gives it back right now, she’s not going to play with Ellie this morning.  She flings it at him and stalks away.  Peace reigns for about 45 seconds.  Decky loses interest in the toy, crawls over to where Savannah is sitting, pulls himself up using the chair next to her, and catapults himself onto her.  She grunts, lands on her back, and he begins to flail his arms and legs, giggling madly.  She joins the game, hugging him and rolling him onto his back.  They are both laughing.  I watch for a minute, then decide to break it up before someone gets hurt.  Oh, too late.  Dec’s head gets pressed against a toy, and loud sobs emit.  I pick him up, and Savannah looks down at her shirt in horror—one of Decky’s green boogers is splayed across her chest. 

9:15am:  Shirt changed.  I’ve mediated at least three more altercations, two of which were instigated by Decky.  All of them ended in Decky getting hurt.  I’m getting fatigued, and it’s only 9:15.  I haven’t had breakfast, my shirt is covered in yogurt, and I’m wondering where Ellie’s mom (aka:  my guardian angel) is.  Just then she arrives, puts Savannah in the wagon with her daughter, and promises she’ll bring her back when the girls stop playing nicely.  Um, does that mean I’ll be seeing Savannah in 10 minutes?

9:20am:  Dec is bundled off to bed, immediately following a diaper change and a quick read of “Barnyard Dance”.  I can hear him jumping in his crib and turning on and off his music.  I rapidly get out my dissertation supplies and start work.  Decky’s noises fade as I work, and after awhile, I snap out of my dissertation-induced haze and note that at 9:35, he’s quiet and most likely sleeping.

9:50am:  Babysitter arrives.  I retreat to the office and my books, keeping one ear open for harsh screams or the ringing phone, hoping that Savannah will hold out at Ellie’s house until I can get some revisions done.

__________________________End of Chapter 1______________________________________

Savannah got a terrible gift for her birthday.  It haunts me throughout the day, visits me in my dreams at night, and I’ve actually felt the hair rise on my neck just from thinking about it. 

She got a recorder.

You know, those musical instruments that every child is introduced to in elementary school? Hers is wooden and multi-colored and simple.  Just the kind of gift that will spark her imagination, allow her to play independently, and keep her busy for hours.  And it’s musical.  Music is so important for a young child, don’t you think?

Did I mention it’s the worst gift ever?

I assure you, the noise that emits from it does not resemble music.  It is piercing.  I have a permanent headache, and I suspect a brain tumor has started developing.  Apparently, in order to truly enjoy playing it, it needs to be blown into until the user is red in the face and sweating.  Saliva needs to pour out the end, soaking the user’s clothes and the chair they are sitting on.  Sometimes, when I am really lucky, the user will have just eaten some chocolate teddy grahams or some goldfish crackers, and the saliva will be tinged the appropriate color.

The worst part is, both children love this gift.  They fight over it, and seem to be competing over who can damage their eardrums the most.  When one child yanks it from the hand of the other, the scream emitting from the offended competes with the user’s best efforts to break the sound barrier.

The recorder, or the “whisker” (whistle) is not allowed in the car.  Can you imagine being trapped in a car with that terrible, terrible, thing?  Thank goodness I had the foresight to outlaw that from the start.  That might be my best parenting decision to date.

Maybe the children will soon be deaf, and it’s allure will fade?  Or maybe I will become so hearing-impaired that the sound of it will fade into background noise, similar to the sound of the running dishwasher, or the hum of the television?  Please, please, let that day come quickly.

Who got her this terrible, terrible birthday gift?  Who has to take responsibility for virtually ruining my life?

This gift smacks of Kevin.  Or maybe my parents.  Or, even more likely, my brother Nathan.  Yeah, he seems like he’d get endless satisfaction from torturing me all the way from Boston.  What a jerk.

Oh, wait.  I bought it. 

And now I have to live with it.  And Kevin can hold this parenting mistake over my head for the rest of my life.  I mean, the next time he plays too rough with the kids, causing tears and mayhem, he can retort, “At least I didn’t buy Savannah a recorder for her birthday.”  Or the next time he goes to the store to pick up diapers and comes home with a bag of cheetos, an air filter, and a 12-pack of cheap soda, he can simply say, “At least I didn’t buy Savannah a recorder for her birthday”.  And that’s it.  Argument over.  He wins.

This recorder is ruining my life.  It’s impacting my marriage, my health, my sanity, and my overall happiness.

And we haven’t even owned it for 24 hours.