Ah, grandparents.

 

His lower lip started to quiver even before I said: "we have to go home now." 

I got his shoes on, but as I tried to thread reluctant arms through his ski jacket sleeves, Hudson swatted at my head and threw himself backward onto the ground.  

Every time he leaves his grandparents he melts down. 

"My poor Hudson!" one of them inevitably exclaims.  They console him, sending me nasty glances as if shielding this defenseless little creature from an unfortunate, obviously awful, tyrannical mother, who will - gasp! - put him to bed or do some other unspeakably horrible things to him, like feed him food that isn't chocolate.

(My parents didn't think I needed a lot of sugar as a kid, but seem to believe Hudson's diet is dangerously low in the Elf food groups: "candy, candy cane, candy corn and syrup.")

I get it re: grandparents. They want our children's love and to be associated with fun! and generosity! And candy, which is emblematic of fun and generosity. But, is it necessary to school them in hedonism and slothfulness as well?

Hudson clung to my mother's legs, tears flooding his cheeks Monday night. I kept him home from nursery school that day because he seemed a teeny bit sick, but mostly because of grandparent-induced guilt that he had a hectic weekend (he'd been in New York with his dad for a family function) and I shouldn't just "shove him off" to school right away.

Instead of frolicking in a positive, civilized space filled with rules and multigrains and nap-times, my son spent the day channeling his inner gluttonous, ancient Grecian monarch.

I let it happen because he looked so cute and happy. Everyone deserves to be pampered sometimes, right?

"What can I get you my sweetheart?" my mother regularly implored of Hudson who was:

- in front of the TV

- sucking on his pacifier (which I don't let him have during daylight hours)

- eating in bed

And, as always, 

- lavished with some or all of the following presents:

A new tractor! A tool bench! Another train set! Blinky phone! etcetera etcetera!

And Chanukah and Christmas are still two weeks away!

After a painful separation from his grandparents and a difficult night it was finally time to go back to nursery school (or risk losing what is left of my sanity) the next morning.

My good, sweet little boy seemed back to normal after the great binge. All smiles, he walked into his classroom and straight over to a little girl holding a toy on a string. 

He grabbed it. 

"Oh god," I said, my heart flooding with guilt. "I'm raising a brat."

"Don't be silly," a nice nursery teacher said. "He's two!"

Right. He's two. There's still time...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I'm laughing smugly in my quiet home.

When I told a friend Ted was taking Hudson on a three day trip this weekend, leaving me home alone with Scarlett, she responded with "woohoo" for me and bid my husband "bonne chance."

He needs the luck!

Below, a brilliantly written e mail from Ted to me, after he and Hudson landed in New York this morning, where they're visiting family. 

Here's what you need to know before you read: 

I stayed home because I'm tired and wanted a "free" (only one kid, the easier kid!!) weekend. 

Ted's mom Elaine is accompanying my boys on the trip.

We forgot - until minutes before Ted and Hudson left this morning - that we need a notarized letter from me permitting Ted to take Hudson out of the country. So, I wrote one by hand on a sheet of scrap paper.

Ted forgot to bring along a pacifier (yes, my son is addicted to his paci. A lot more on this in a soon-to-be-written post) and, panicking, bought a sub par sub when he got to the airport. "Oh my god, we don't have a paci," Ted said over the phone, about 10 minutes after his car pulled away from our house this morning. "Good luck!" I said.

Grandpa Louis, is Ted's beloved, deceased Grandpa Louis.

This e mail is in response to one I wrote asking: Are you guys there yet? How was the flight?

Ok, so Huds had the BIGGEST tantrum that I have ever seen in my life or his. He was happy as we got our tickets, but as we started on the customs line, he wanted to bolt away and run back to the ticket area. I caught him and he started BALLING. And screaming: "Mommmmmy, Mommmmy, I WANT MOMMY!!!" So I took him out of line to calm down, and let him roll around on the ground, and he was yelling and crying and screaming "Mommy" for at least 10 minutes. He was inconsolable. Eventually a lady came out and said we could go straight to a Customs agent. Which was good because I thought we'd miss the flight, but bad 'cause I'm thinking: this kid is screaming "mommy" and his strange dad is trying to take him out of the country. But he was nice...he asked for the note, said it wasn't a great note (I guess because not notarized) and then said ok, no problem. But Huds was still kicking and screaming and flapping out of my arms. The couple times he got quieter he asked for his pacifier and, when I gave him the substitute, he immediately spit it out and it just enraged him further. So what could be worse, right? Well, they decided at security to randomly check me AND Hudson. Seriously. His check involved swabbing Hudson's hands. Seriously. And they full-body-scanned me, but of course, I had to give Huds to my mom which caused him to freak again. But finally finally we got to the waiting area, saw some planes, and he started to calm down. And then we got on the plane and was PERFECT. A perfect angel. So happy, so chatty, hungry for crackers and juice, hugging daddy, perfect. Asked for the pacifier a couple times. So we're getting off the plane, they bring out the stroller and say "a few coins fell from your stroller pocket". I go to pick up 2 toonies and I look up and guess what: the real pacifier is in his mouth!!! It was in the stroller too and fell out - but did not fall out the 4 other times I folded and stored the stroller. I felt like it was Grandpa Louis shining down on us as soon as we arrived in NYC - it was sort of a miracle. And as soon as we got him into the car - boom - asleep. And now we're at the hotel and he's still sleeping - 2 hours later. What's new by you???? Love, Ted

 

Will I ever get a break?

Time was I viewed my car as a mode of transportation. 

Now, our only vehicle - a very family un-friendly (family hostile, in fact) Mazda 3 - has become a nursing station, diaper change pad, tropical sleeping pod, where I sometimes crank the heat to coax Scarlett to drowsiness, and, of course, the only place where I get a break from holding my kids.

"Keep driving," I instructed Ted with a hostage-taking tone last Sunday around 9 p.m. when I looked into the backseat and saw two sleeping children. We were on our way home from dinner at my parents' where we bathed Hudson and popped him in pajamas.

"This is my only time off," I said. "I want to keep it going for as long as I can."

"That's pathetic," Ted said. "A bit disconcerting and worrying, actually."

This is my life!

Scarlett likes to be held. Make that, insists on being held. All the time. If I get to put her down, my hands are full of Hudson.

My beautiful, demanding little boy wants to be carried or needs "a drink," bath, for me to "use the crane so we can play construction site." Or, my hands are busy grabbing at his shirt mid run so I can wrestle him into his jacket and shoes.

Night affords me even less time off.

"What's that?" I say into the dark, usually around 3:30 a.m. The sound of tiny, accelerating feet slapping against the hardwood floor intensifies outside my bedroom. 

"Mummmeeee!" I hear as he arrives at the doorway. 

And so begins our almost-nightly routine: 

"Ted," I whisper, clutching Hudson, who feels like 50 kilograms of gravel. "There's no room for you here. Go sleep somewhere else."

My husband, feigning upset, whips off the covers and pops off the mattress. For him being turfed means sprawling out by himself instead of getting lost in a stew of tiny limbs. For me, it means being kicked in the head by a kid who sleeps horizontally across the mattress. 

Seconds, mere seconds, after Hudson settles into my matrimonial bed, Scarlett wakes up. 

Oh hell, I mutter to myself while I feed her, then ever so gingerly place her on the mattress as far from Hudson as possible (yes, even though I swore up and down, down and up that I would never give into "co-sleeping" turns out I was lying. More on this later). 

Then, as I do most nights now, I curl up at the foot of the bed. Inevitably that's when the worst happens (and funnily enough I'm brought back to motor vehicles): Thomas the Tank Engine invades my head and won't stop playing his theme song...

"They're two, they're four, they're six they're eight.."

Maybe I should just get in my car. Alone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Look - It's me, working out. Maybe avert your eyes.

 

As punishment for gaining so much weight during pregnancy I wear a hideous, dirty green zip up sweatshirt during most of my workouts.

Public ridicule makes me work harder. 

Check out my really gross shirt and some workout moves on the Star's site today. I wrote an article about losing the baby weight... something I'm obsessed with and will blog about frequently!