Attack of the Vintage Banana

Our "vacation" ended with a symbolic banana bang. Toddler, Baby and I waited on a convenient little bench at Laguardia's baggage claim while Husband heroically wrestled suitcases and carseats off that slow-spinning luggage belt. Toddler decided that it was the perfect moment for story time, so she reached into one of our myriad carry-ons to find her Diego bug book. When she handed it to me to read, I noticed that it was rather slick and smelly.

Me: "Something spilled."

Toddler: "Uh oh, Mommy."

Baby: "Aaaaaah-Daaaaah" [Translation: "Daddy," or more likely "Give me a Cheerio."]

Dutifully, I popped a Cheerio into Baby's mouth and told her Daddy would be with us soon and I examined the bag wherein something mysterious and stinky spilled. Nothing like the blind reach-in and feel-around. I stifled my scream. Because for goodness sake, there were kids around. My kids. And this is what we parents do, right? We pretend all is A-OK.

But all was not A-OK. No. When I removed my hand from the bag, it was covered in blackened, rotten, liquefied banana. Even Baby cringed and screeched in disgust. (Or, more likely, she wanted another Cheerio). So, we had made it through our ten days of travel without an episode of bona fide vomit (yes, there was the grocery-store-Baby-spitting-up-in-my-mouth-episode but that is for another post) and there we were within an hour from home and something, something gross and random and metaphorical, just had to happen, right?

I gathered bits and pieces of the mashed banana remains from the bag, told my babies everything was okay. I told Toddler her book would dry. I kept the Cheerios coming to keep Baby, well, Cheer-i-o.

And in the taxi on the way home, I once more served as the trademark (and now banana-slicked) mommy meat sandwiched between my two exhausted girls. And as we sped toward home, I kept sniffing my sticky, rotten hands, challenging myself not to gag.

When did "vacation" become something utterly deserving of scare quotes? When did "vacation" become something to survive? I've always been genuinely irritated by people who say those painfully platitudinous words, "After that vacation, I need a vacation!" But I am now officially one of them. And now I will utter those cliched, annoying words: I. NEED. A. VACATION.

Don't think you are getting off that easy... Stay tuned for some highlights from our actually-quite-wonderful-given-my-current-propensity-to-focus-on-a-lone-liquid-banana-trip...

Having Some

Toddler: "Where's Mommy?"

Nanny: "She's working now, but you'll see her after your nap."

Toddler: "Then I wanna nap now."

On big writing days, I spend a lot of time outside the house. Because if I were home, Toddler would sit on my lap the whole time and pound away on my keyboard. And that would be fun, but Laptop would probably break. And my blog posts and book chapters would look like this: gdfWJKLGFHJ SSGLSDJFNNNNNNNNNN which does not a career make. So, I leave Toddler and Baby and head to my Starbucks sanctuary where I write. And though I'm able to enter a freakish zone of focus even in the Macchiato mayhem, there is always something in the back of my mind. Two things, actually. My girls. 

Even though I see my girls all the time (and know there are countless women and men out there who are forced to spend the majority of their days and weeks away from their kids and I do not pretend to understand how hard this must be), even though I know my girls are mere blocks away and very happy, I miss them. And each and every day, I wonder if it's worth it. If it's worth pursuing goals that don't (directly) involve them, goals that necessarily take me away from them. And, at my little table in the back of that bustling and cliched coffee shop, I nod every time. Yes, it's worth it. Because I love writing. I'm happy when I write. And I'm a better mother when I'm writing and when I'm happy. So, it's both very worth it and very hard. 

And when I return home, Nanny usually has a litany of cute stories to tell me. And I love hearing them. Yes, even when they are stories about how much my girls miss me when I am gone.

No, we can't have it all. But we can have some. The challenge is to convince ourselves that some is indeed enough.

Humbling Hearsay

Yes, I was multi-tasking.  Baby was cradled in my left arm, chewing on a very safe key-chain-thing.  On my right, trusty Laptop was open, feeding me that nutritious morning mix of news and Facebook updates and tweets (yes, I joined! follow me!). Husband was in the kitchen feeding Toddler her equally balanced meal of chocolate milk and peanut butter.  

Well, apparently, Toddler came into the living room to tell me something or show me something or just say hi.  I don't know because I neither saw her nor heard her.

Well, she returned to Husband and reported (and remember this is hearsay-via-Husband):

Daddy, Daddy! Mommy is soooo busy.  She can't hear me!

When Husband told me this, I snapped Laptop shut and got defensive.  She did not come to talk to me. Right? Right? 

Wrong.

Then, presumably to make me feel like an even more delinquent mom, Toddler took Husband to play in her room. Amidst the towers of toys, she found her own toy laptop. She popped a squat on the carpet and pried open the plastic, held up her little hand, and said to Husband:

Daddy, I'm very busy on my puter.  I can't talk to you now!

Great.  Not only am I setting an excellent example, but I am instilling lovely anti-social behavior in my little girl.

But then, in the trademark and torturing throes of doubt and insecurity and guilt, I felt a fierce flash of optimism and then partook in a very un-me moment of looking on the bright side. Sure, zoning out one's progeny is not exactly commendable behavior, but it is my ability to zone out and focus that allows me to write. When I am in "the zone" it doesn't matter whether there is music playing or cars honking or dogs fighting (or, apparently, a Toddler talking). And I am a mom and a writer.  And sometimes motherhood and career might clash.  Like, say, on a random Thursday morning. Right? Right?

And then something else made me smile: I imagined sassy little Toddler becoming the world's first baby blogger. Sitting behind her melon-colored computer, brow furrowed with Mom-like concentration, sharing her pint-sized stories about toilet training and tumbling at the playground.  Oh, and being ignored by Mom.

A Good Idea

"Mommy, I have an idea."

"You do?"

"Yes.  I will have a cupcake and watch Dora the Explorer.  Now that is a good idea, Mommy."

Today's Toddler-ism

Toddler points to her new digital Dora watch and says, "Mommy, it's time to go to Starbucks (pronounced Star-booooks)."

"Is that so?"

"Yes.  And I've had too many chocolate milks, so this time I want a Gorilla milk."  

And then, like the good-teacher-mom I am, I try to teach her how to say vanilla.  "It's called vanilla.  Va-nil-la milk." 

And she looks at me and says, "Now Mommy, that is a very hard word to say."

You Learn Something New Every Day

Quick.  What kind of animal is depicted here?  If you know, you are smarter than I am.

This morning, Toddler convinced me to take her to Starbucks for a chocolate milk.  This is becoming a daily activity (okay, more of a tri-daily activity) and I'm not complaining because I love coffee and I love Starbucks and I drink the Pike Place Roast which is "responsibly grown" and this makes me feel very responsible.  And caffeinated.

So off we went to Starbucks.  It was supposed to be a quick trip, so that Toddler could get a bit of fresh air and I could get a little pre-writing buzz going.  But Toddler had other plans.  Our quick coffee run was followed by a quick trip to the toy store and then the pet store and then the "sticker store" and then the grocery store and then to my Mom's house.  Four hours later, I returned home with a happy Toddler and decided that it was about time for some more Pike Place.

But it was a great and spontaneous morning and I learned something.  At the pet store, Toddler and I looked at all the fish and the birds and the gerbils.  All of the tiny cages were clearly marked, but there was one larger and unmarked cage with two bunny-like things.  Toddler pointed and said, "Look, Mommy, Chinchillas!" Now I looked down at her skeptically for all I knew about chinchilla was that the Olsen twins are often snapped wearing it in eighty degree weather.  But Toddler nodded vigorously.  "Chinchillas, Mommy!" 

We went to the front of the store and I asked the man behind the counter about the creatures in the back that looked like bunnies but were not bunnies and he said they were in fact chinchillas.  And then I asked him what percentage of people knew that and he said almost no one.  And I announced proudly, pointing to the little ponytailed two year old next to me, "Well, she did!"

What is clear from this story? (1) A trip to Starbucks is never just a trip to Starbucks; (2) The animal part of the education of  our children should be left to Husband, Dora, and Diego; (3) You don't have to be in school to learn things. (For instance that a mouse costs only $1.99 and the Medium Rats are a bargain at $5.99 and that my daughter is a fan of the male orange factor canary.)

Now depending on the day or my mood or my view of the world, I am homesick for school.  For the discourse, the dialogue, the interpretation, the learning.  But on days like today, when the sun is shining and the morning coffee run turns into a mini adventure and my little girl is teaching me something I do not know, I am confident I am exactly where I should be.

I love being a mom.

How's that for a happy post? Chin chin!