Everything is Snoring

I am awake. And I have been since 4 a.m. The Benedictines, who follow a liturgy of the hours that involves praying seven times a day starting at around 4 a.m., describe this first hour of prayer as "matins" or "vigils." It is supposed to be a good time to worry about things, or try not to worry about them. Alas, I cannot not worry. I can only listen. To Jason, snoring lightly in my ear every time he rolls onto his back (I keep rolling him over onto his side. Gently. And sometimes not so gently). To Ramona, who I think has some kind of dog sleep apnea. To the air conditioner, which also seems to be snoring (and coughing and generally struggling to breathe).

And to Lu, who is the reason I am awake in the first place. She cried out a couple of times in her sleep. I wonder what she is dreaming about. When I have asked her, she tells me "I dream about a wolf" or "I dream about a fox" or sometimes simply "stars," which I find very sweet. I want to go in there now and check on her, but this is the fragile hour — like me, if she stirs now, she is likely to be awake, awake, awake. For the moment though, she is among the stars. I am among the snores.

Overheard

"Where's my horn? I need to make some music."

"Pig's in time-out because he hit Clifford."

"No, Dora, don't hit Pig. We don't hit. You need a time-out, okay?"

"Pig, Dora's sorry. Give Pig a hug, okay?"

"Pee-pee in the potty. Not on the ground, okay?"

"Just one more time. I promise. Just one more."

"I looking for a recipe."

"I need to cook now."

"I can't find my keys. Keys! Where are you, keys?"

"Bye y'all. I going to the office."

"I FORGOT! I NEED TO PAINT MY FINGERNAILS! FINGERNAILS!"

What Is Wrong With Me?

I make this really good chicken, marinated in various things for while. Asian things like mirin and ginger and sesame oil and rice wine vinegar and fish sauce (which is such a bad name it will make you question anything anyone makes with it — they should just call it Top Secret Asian Delicious). After the chicken has been hanging out in this good stuff for a while ("a while" being until you remember that you have raw chicken in stuff in the fridge), then you grill it.

Well, at our house, you throw it on the grill pan, because you musn't go through the elaborate religious ceremony of the charcoal grill for something as pedestrian as the chicken I make all the time. Anyway, I put this chicken on the grill pan — the chicken Lu can eat almost a pound of herself all in one sitting, which is a very satisfying, if star-less, experience for a chef. And I cook it. And all the sugar in the mirin and the soy and who knows what the fish sauce has in it...makes this mysterious, determined crust on the pan.

Which then has to be cooked out of the pan. I cook the crust out of the pan with dish soap and water. And it is more satisfying to me than coooking the chicken itself.

They Weren't Kidding About Terrible

Describing this phase as "The Terrible Twos" is not a cliche — it's an understatement. Here is her rap sheet over the past few days:
• Frequent hitting, mostly of the mother
• Kicking, screaming, violent opposition to getting dresed
• Refusal to get into carseat
• Refusal to have diaper changed
• Refusal to sit in chair and eat
• Constant, yelled demands for food, different food, cold water, dropped items and generally "NO, NOT THAT!"

I know you're thinking, she's two, how can she win? We are bigger, we drive and unlock doors, WE ARE THE PARENTS. But we are losing. Yesterday something very bad happened, something I swore Jason to secrecy about and am deeply ashamed of, yet I cannot help but write about.

I spanked her.

Jason and I were trying to wrestle some clothes on her, and inexplicably, she was flailing and screaming. Maybe it is not inexplicable, maybe it was the fact that we were running late (we now have to add an extra 30 minutes to any departure process because multiple time-outs must be accounted for) and when we are running late, which we are a lot, Lu and I get into this stress spiral where she senses that I really want her to do something and she, naturally, does NOT want to do it. N-O-T not. She was thrashing her limbs, and I smacked her on the butt. And we all gasped. And I ran into the other room to give myself a time-out.

It was a truly horrible feeling, not because spanking is the very worst thing in the world, but because in that angry moment, spanking could have been...beating. I am sick over hitting her, because even that fairly benign smack flies in the face of all the things we are currently trying to teach her. Like, you know, don't hit people.

I went back into her room, where she was letting Jason dress her (a dismaying discovery: spanking works). I said, "Lucy, I'm sorry I hit you. I should not have done that." I gave her a hug and a kiss, and she seemed not to even know what I was talking about. Two-year-olds are more forgiving than their parents, it seems.

33 Years of Independence

Thirty three years ago today, my mom and dad were debating whether it was a good idea to go to the First Annual Willie Nelson Fourth of July Picnic. It was too hot, they decided, and my mom had a backache and was nine months pregnant. So they decided to skip the picnic and go to Brackenridge hospital and have a baby instead.

And I was born. Delivered by Dr. Bud Dryden, who was the mayor at the moment. Really he was the mayor pro-tem, but the mayor was out of town, so if you're not into specifics, I was delivered in the Capital of Texas on the Fourth of July by the mayor. Dr. Dryden was a medical school friend of my grandfather and uncles, a one-time mayoral candidate, long-time city council member and even longer-time community doctor. The emergency room at Brack is named for him, and the only thing he was more famous for than caring for Austin's poor was his gruff manner.

My parents had a bad car wreck and while my mom lay in a coma, Dr. Dryden noticed that the very tip of my mom's ear had been sheared off. "Dammit, Jim," he said to my dad, "I could have sewed that back on if you'd brought it in." My mom was fairly newly pregnant with me at the time of the wreck, and though she recovered and everything appeared to be okay, she still had a subdural hemotoma that Dr. Dryden was worried labor would disturb: they'd planned a C-section. So when my mom arrived at the hospital in pretty advanced labor, his response was, "Well, goddammit, Diane!"

I don't know the specifics of how they got me out (and neither does my mom, thanks to whatever good drugs they gave you in 1973 — and I don't mean the kind at the picnic), but the hematoma stayed where it was and I had all my fingers and toes. I am certainly getting some of the details of my birth wrong, and I am sure my mother will correct me in the comments section of this entry, but that's the basic outline as I know it.

Jason just distracted me from this post with a question about gestalt. I am not sure I understand what gestalt is in general or mine is in particular, but Willie Nelson is surely part of it. Willie Nelson and Bud Dryden, inextricable pieces of the pattern of elements started 33 years ago today.

Sweetest When Sleeping

The last time I saw Lucy today, she was lying face down, bare-assed and screaming on the bathroom floor. She and Jason were in a panty/pull-up conflict. Pull-up? NOOOOOOO, I WANNA WEAR PANTIES. Okay, panties? NOOOO, I WANNA WEAR A PULL-UP. Okay, let's get that pull-up on. (Note: "pull-ups" are misleading. Once a child is actually coordinated enough to get the pull-up...up by him/herself, the kid should not be soiling him/herself.) I attempted to kiss the pants-less beast goodbye ("NOOOOOO!"), then said to Jason, "Hey man, I'm getting off this crazy train. Vaya con dios."

And that, sadly, is the last I saw of her until about 9 tonight, when I came home from work and peeked in on her as she slept. She stirred in the sliver of light from the hall, poking up her diapered (yes!) butt, then rolling over to peer at me sleepily. "Goodnight, mama," she said, turning back over with her thumb in her mouth. It's funny how quickly I shift gears: is she lucky to be alive, or are we lucky to have her?

New Parenting Skills

Since I've had Lucy, I have learned to do a few new things:

Juggle. Both metaphorically and physically. I can catch almost anything you throw at me, especially if it is urp or plastic dishes.

Swear creatively. Pie and I went running on Sunday morning with Lu in tow, and I realized we were having an animated conversation with all the swear words spelled out. That is a real commitment to cursing.

Plan. I pack Lucy's lunch and set out her clothes the night before. I have a complex laundry cadence that has everything clean — including at least one Duck — by Tuesday morning before she starts the new school week.

Go without sleep. I know how cliched it is to talk about not sleeping, but I went from being a famously sound sleeper who needed her 8+ a day to...well, less than that. The sound of Lu sucking her thumb down the hall can awaken me. At which point I lie there and resent everyone who is asleep, while Jason proves his ability to snooze through hostile tossing and turning.

I am thinking I will list these things on my resume alongside "Proficient in Spanish" and "Working Knowledge of Microsoft Word."

Fish Dad

I was just reading Lu "Mister Seahorse," which is about a bunch of progressive underwater dads. Mr. Seahorse carries the seahorse babies in his belly, Mr. Tilapia hatches the tilapia eggs in his mouth, and Mr. Catfish swims around tending his little catfish brood. Maybe the moms are at the undersea spa. But wherever they are, they're lucky fish wives (who, I bet, never sound like fishwives because of the parenting contributions of their husbands).

Jason has always been a fish dad. He was the one who taught Lu how to sleep on her own. He is still the one who can calm her nuclear reactions. He's a generous partner and a gifted parent. I don't appreciate him as much as I should, but I did this weekend when he was in hanging out with Bill Clinton, and I was a single parent. I don't know how people do it by themselves — or without a partner like Jason. I am lucky I don't have to find out.

Add to the List of Things I Swore I'd Never Do/Be/Tolerate

My whole life, I have been disgusted by lost stickers. You know, the kind that stray from their proud places on notebooks and hands and lunchboxes and wind up on floors of restrooms or subway walls. Ignoble dehorned unicorns, who could be mere horses except no one ever made a sparkly purple horse sticker. Happy faces whose smiles have dimmed. Stars fallen from their galaxies of praise. All gummy and desperate. Ew.

I know that is a lot of prose to describe something so pedestrian, but this sticker thing grosses me out. And now I have them ALL OVER MY HOUSE, thanks to the sticker/praise system of potty training, which is iffy. So far, all we have to show for it is a series of soiled Elmo panties and lots of orphaned "Good Jo" and "ood Job" stickers in places I don't even want to think about, places I don't clean or look. Places you will most certainly consider after you have been at my house, when you find a strange "Kate Donaho, 5813 Highland Hills Drive, etc." sticker on the bottom of your shoe (did I mention Lu is satisfied with any kind of sticker and I have been tempted to put a postage stamp on her after a successful potty?). May you be as grossed out as I am next time you find one.