When did I get so lame?
I used to know a lot about movies. For many years I worked as copywriter at a DVD distribution company, so writing film synopses was my jam. I was up on the Oscar® nominees, went to see big new releases and could tell you when something was coming out on DVD. Since I had Caroline, I’m so behind the times. I’m sure this happens to every parent, but when did I swap knowing the casts of summer blockbusters for knowing the theme song to every show on PBS? I went to two movies in the theater in 2016, The Secret Life of Pets and Bad Moms. One was to appease my kid, the other to escape her. So that’s probably a wash.
The reality of my decreasing entertainment knowledge hit me hard last night as I sat down for my first viewing of Finding Dory with Caroline. Somehow this is the best movie I’ve seen in six months. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I loved it. But I’m 28 years old, how is a movie about a separated fish family the top-ranking movie in my recent memory? Also, when did I become such a softy? Sweet Dory loses everyone (spoiler: it’s only temporary) and I totally lost my shit. The only movies I couldn’t really watch before I had kids were comedies about divorce (probably the least funny thing I can think of). Now apparently I can’t handle undersea adventures. After baby #2 I’ll probably have to stop watching PBS, too. The educational value will likely bring me to tears.
Mornings with toddlers are THE worst part of the day. Don’t get me wrong, I love my kiddo. She’s wonderful, and as far as overall behavior goes, she’s a breeze. But she’s smart. You’re probably like, “Are you complaining that your child is intelligent? My kid is a dumb ass, do you want to trade?” I love that Caroline is totally enthralled by books and often has a better vocabulary than her father. But I hate that I can’t trick her. She knows all my games, never falls for my bribes and according to Andy, “plays me like a fiddle.” BUT SHE’S SO BELIEVABLE!
Today was no exception. We’ve been transitioning after a long weekend of holiday festivities and mornings have been treacherous. Caroline cried about brushing her teeth, about what Milk-Bone the dog got to eat and where the seams fell on her socks. I get it girl, it’s hard to go back to work after a break. I mean, look at me, I’m over here writing a blog entry instead of attending to my clients. Awesome role model.
I’m always late, this morning included, and it’s like she could sense that. Every time I said, “Mom’s going to be late for work,” she dialed her speed down and increased her whining volume. The straw that broke the camel’s back was Mom v. Chocolate Milk. As the minutes ticked by, Caroline casually sipped her chocolate milk like she was on a coffee date with her long-lost college roomie. HURRY IT UP, PLEASE! I mean, this wasn’t gourmet, it was Nesquik. I finally just picked her up and asked her to drink it in the car, to which she screamed, “I WANT TO PUT IT IN THE SINK!” Again, you’re probably like, lady, are you complaining that your kid wants to clean up after herself? No, I’m not. I’m complaining because she wants to do it at the most inopportune times, which I guess is when toddlers do everything. I set her back down, she finished her drink, put it in the sink and we hit the road. I was sweating and she had tear-streaked cheeks, but we made it out the door.
The cherry on top? I forgot the kid’s hat and mittens…in December…in Minnesota. #winning.
My husband gets up early because he is a productive human. I, on the other hand, will lay in bed until my alarm clock goes off, even if I’ve been awake for three hours. It feels like a waste if I don’t use up every minute of sedentary time available to me, because you know, my sales job is so physically strenuous. Meanwhile, Andy lifts entire walls over his head while standing on stilts (and balancing a ball on his nose and swallowing a flaming sword) and he can just pull an Elf, “I got a full 40 minutes of sleep!” Desk jobs are hard work, people.
So Andy’s awake, doing all the things, and my mom thoughts start. For those of you who aren’t familiar, these are the strange things mothers worry about and fathers don’t. Mom thoughts often strike at 4am like a bolt of lighting, “When is 3K enrollment?!?” “Did I put that bill in the mail?!?” “Is Caroline’s winter coat too small?!?” The soundtrack to these thoughts is usually Andy snoring away in perfect slumber, while I rack my brain, trying to remember every detail of what I was supposed to accomplish in the last 72 hours. Usually I just internalize these worries and stew on them until some shitty Netflix crime show lulls me to sleep. Luckily for Andy, today he was awake to share in my anxiety. As he leaned over to kiss me goodbye, I blurted out this train of nonsense:
“Do you know where our sleeping bags are?”
“Can you check this boob for me? It hurts like hell. Is there a lump?”
“Do you think we should buy a double stroller?”
And this, folks, is what it’s like to be married to me.
P.S. I still have not found the sleeping bags, the cause of my injury was deemed to be a restless-legged toddler and I Craigslisted a duallie the next day. Not totally unproductive.