All I am Asking for is a Little Mariachi

You can never find Mariachi music when you need it.

T Junior and I were rolling along in the trusty blue minivan while "Under the Sea" filled the inside of the Odyssey and sunshine danced along on the dashboard when I noticed he was quiet. I didn't hear his horsey jingling or crinkling or being slammed against the window.

I glanced in the rearview mirror. Panic washed over me.

T Junior's eyes were glazed over and four out of five fingers on his right hand were being used as a pacifier.

We were 20 minutes from home and he was falling asleep.

When he was really little, I wished he would sleep in his car seat, but he never did. I complained. "I thought babies are supposed to like sleeping in the car." My kid didn't care for it most of the time, so I was often pushed to the limit trying to drive and soothe a wailing child.

These days, I do my best to keep him awake. Twenty minutes of sleep in his car seat means he'll think he's done and that means he won't nap at home and THAT, my friends, means no break time for Mommy. Not good.

I leaned forward, so I could see him better in the mirror and keep my eyes on the road at the same time. I had to keep him up.

"T Junior, what does a cow say? What does a horse say? What does a dog say?" I went through our entire animal-sounds repertoire a few times. I got louder on each round until I was whinnying and mooing at the top of my human-sized lungs. But, he wouldn't participate. He just kept sucking the skin off his fingers.

I cranked up "Hakuna Matata" to speaker-blowing levels (well, speaker-blowing for a minivan at least), and I screamed along with Pumbaa and Timon. We were 10 minutes from home.

I checked the mirror and saw that his chin was resting on his chest and his hand was free. Really? With all this racket?

I reached back and wriggled his car seat enough to wake him.

"Hey! Hey, you! Hey, T Junior!"

His eyes fluttered and his fingers went back in.

"La-la-la-la-la-la-la! Yay-yay-yay-yay-yay!" I screeched.

Slow blink.

"T JUNIOR! WEEEEE! HIIII! YAAAAY! MOOOO MOOOO! WOOF WOOF!" My throat throbbed and my ears ached.

Head-roll.

I turned up "Ugly Bug Ball." Deep breath, then: "YAY-YAY-YAY-YAY-YAY! WOOO-WOOO-WOOO! NO SLEEPING!"

He just kept on sucking his fingers.

Five minutes from home. Wake up, KID!

Loud Disney wasn't cutting it. I tried to think of something different. Something he'd never heard. Maybe Mariachi?

That should be easy enough on AM, but all I got was fuzz and talk and sports. I found one Spanish-language station, but it was just commercials...I think. I left it there, but knew it was hopeless.

I still think Mariachi might have worked if only I could've found it. I'll have to save that idea for another day. Maybe I'll dedicate a preset button for it.

Now, if you'll excuse me. Where's the Ibuprofin?

Tastes Like Tahoe

We went to Winco Foods in Kent on Saturday. We were there in search of Torani Creme De Menthe because Mr. T wanted to make Mint Juleps for Mardi Gras. They didn't have the syrup, but they did have Shasta.

Remember Shasta? "I want a pop. I want a Shas-ta!"

Mr. T likes his soda and I could tell the trip to Winco was worth it. Worth the pushy carts, worth other people's children's tantrums and worth the maddeningly slow shuffling pace down each aisle, all while trying to entertain a teething 9-month-old and attempting to keep a smile on my face. Attempting.

Mr. T was high on his Shasta find and mostly oblivious to all of this. He loaded two 12-pack boxes in the cart. Diet Grape and Diet Cream Soda. I really didn't care about his discovery. I just wanted to get the hell out of there.

But, then last night, I noticed a tall clear glass filled with cream soda and ice sitting on our island countertop. The carbonation was whispering softly and the transluscent caramel liquid was sparkling in the recessed kitchen lighting.

I snuck a sip.

As soon as the cold drink washed over my tongue, I was transported back in time to a faded blanket covering a square of yellow coarse sand on the shore of Lake Tahoe. Fresh pine and mountain air filled my nose as the memory lapped over me and then quickly retreated.

My mother sat neatly on the blanket with my father who stretched his legs out in front, crossing his ankles and leaning back on one hand. A silver Coors Light can in the other. A small cooler in between them was ready with homemade sandwiches for me and my younger sisters. There also was green grapes, Ritz crackers and warm cheddar slices, Pecan Sandies and Shasta Cream Soda.

Mom didn't buy soda to have at the house. It was for special occasions like road trips or vacations. We went to Tahoe a few weekends every summer and winter. It wasn't very far away, just under two hours from where we lived in Granite Bay, Calif. My dad's parents lived in a great big house in Tahoe City at one point, so we either stayed with them or in our cabin depending on which year it was.

Summer in Lake Tahoe is full of contrasts. It is warm, but somehow still crisp and clean. It stays around 80 during the day, but the temperature drops to jeans-and-a-jacket weather at night. The beach sand is rough and hot, but the sapphire water is as cold as snow.

Me and my sisters built sandcastles, collected pine cones or practiced skipping smooth-sided stones across the shoreline. We mostly stayed out of the lake except to wash the sand from our knees, which left thousands of tiny red indentations on our skin.

When we got hungry, we sat on the blanket and ate pieces of greasy cheese on crackers. When we were thirsty, we shared a soda.

I thought of this in the middle of my quiet kitchen on a cold, dark night in Washington state during a 3-second taste of Shasta Diet Cream Soda. "Tastes like Tahoe," I told Mr. T, who looked at me curiously.

Sometimes I wonder what T Junior will remember about his childhood. I know he won't be able to recall anything from this year or the next year or maybe even a couple more years after that.

But, what memories will Mr. T and I end up creating for him in the future? What will be his Shasta Diet Cream Soda? What's yours?

My Sanity: One Year Later

One year ago, most everything was gray. Gray carpet squares flecked with shades of darker gray, a hard plastic gray desk, gray metallic cabinets, and matching gray pants and suit jackets all inside a gray, old concrete building filled with graying corporate traditions.

And, everyone was older. Not aging, just older, or my age or maybe even a bit younger. Walking around in their gray and black suits. They gave me career advice and life tips as I lumbered around with my obvious life-transition sticking out.

The smells were older, too; the odor of adults. The sharp aroma of coffee over the slight chemical scents of commercial carpet fibers, copier ink and yellowing paper. All familiar flavors, but older than the common kind found in an elementary school classroom: Elmer's white glue, bleach water and sweaty kid.

Every morning, there was an adult routine. An alarm-clock wake up time, a speedy shower, suit up and drive to meet the carpool partner. Then, the commute and fending for your right to get two lines of traffic over into the HOV lane on 405 with Bellevue in the distance, like Oz. All while resisting the urge to let the idiot who won't let you in know how mad you are. Or not.

I carried with me adult necessities in my cute compact purse: my phone, wallet, office ID, Zune, sunglasses and some lipstick.

Things are different these days. The gray in my life shows mainly in some wiry strands of hair on my 31-year-old head. But most of the world exists now in primary shades: apple red, sun yellow, grass green and water blue glazed on shiny plastic toys.

And, it's all about the young and small and new. My little man. His tiny hands and fingers feeling things for the first time every day. And, pudgy new toes that haven't learned the pain of walking. There are the new smells of sour spit up, powdery diapers, lavendar baby lotion, and the oily ointment smell of A&D.

And these days, each time I cruise over to the carpool lane, I whisper a little apology because it is just me and the baby in the back, and we can't possibly be in as much of a hurry as the office population is.

Now when I go out, I pack as if I'm leaving for a week. No more quaint sophisticated purse. My bag is bulging with travel-sized Aloe hand sanitizer, countless crumpled receipts, Wet Ones, a plastic monkey container with peach-flavored cereal puffs inside, T Junior's soft blue striped cotton baby hat (my favorite), a stuffed horse toy with all the bells and whistles, fuzzy baby slippers, two sets of earbuds, my Zune, and a zipped pouch holding three lipglosses, a scratchy file that has never been used on my short nails and clippers that have seen plenty of action. Then, there's my wallet, phone and sunglasses. It's as if my purse and T Junior's diaper bag got together and had a baby.

One thing that hasn't changed is my emotional breakdowns. Well, maybe a little. I still have them, but not like before. They were really bad when I was pregnant, and I had lots of them. Crazy ones. The kind I couldn't control. Yelling. Screaming. Crying. For stupid reasons. No WiFi access. Misplaced items. Late for work. My emotional meltdowns were so bad and frequent that sometimes I feared T Junior would turn out to be a really unhappy baby. He's quite the opposite, actually.

But it's why I started this blog one year ago. I needed an outlet. I needed to feel not-crazy. I needed to stay sane.

Beware of Bubbles

When should parents transition a child from a baby tub to the big-boy (actual adult-sized) bathtub?

Tonight, my question was bluntly answered.

Some day, my son will be mortified about this post, but it is just too good and it must be shared.

T Junior loves to bathe. Technically, he doesn't care for the actual washing part, but he lives for the splashing and playing portion.

For the past couple of months, I have been bathing him in an inflatible ducky tub. It's softer, requires less water to fill up, and its size keeps his toys within reach. Plus, he likes to put his mouth on the side of it and make farting noises.

Tonight was no different from any other night, really. He got in and, first thing, tried to stick his face in the water, inhaled, which made him cough, and then looked at me like, "Why'd you let me do that?"

Then, he went about flailing his arms in and out of the water making as much splash-action as he could. Next, he hammered the side of the actual tub with his plastic purple octopus. After that, he tried to find out how far his suspiciously-Nemo-looking fish would fit in his mouth. Once he was done, he held it up so that I could give the saliva-covered finned friend a kiss, which meant that he had to turn sideways in his duck. The ducky tub is long enough for him, but it's not very wide.

This made me think that maybe it's time to transition into the actual tub. After all, my very active 8-month-old is crawling now and trying to stand (scary). I was thinking this when I noticed T Junior holding very still.

Strange.

In a matter of seconds, I saw bubbles in the tub.

You know what bubbles mean, don't you?

Yep, it was the pool scene straight out of "Caddyshack," except there was no Baby Ruth. No Bill Murray either.

I did what any mother would.

I waited till he was done. I mean, what else can you do?

I was laughing out loud, though.

Then, I plucked him out of the ducky, held the wet, naked (and now mad) kid under my right arm and, with my left hand, scooped the stuff out with a couple of soggy wads of toilet paper. As I was flushing, it occurred to me I could have just sat him on the potty. Duh.

Obviously, the duck was contaminated. So, big-boy tub it was, and T Junior LOVED it. Why hadn't I moved him in there sooner?

Sometimes, life answers questions in the grossest ways.

I mean, couldn't I just have looked up the answer to my question online?

On Kisses, Smiles and a Little Bit of Magic

The oversized cushy chocolate chair in T Junior's room is one of the best seats in our house. Plus, it's where my favorite part of the day takes place. Bedtime stories.

Every night, rain or shine, in sickness and in health, early or late or right on time, there's a bedtime story (or two or three or four) going on in that chair. And every night, T Junior sits in the middle of his nursing pillow with his back against my chest, his little round head on my heart and his PJ'd-feet up and over the Boppy. In T Junior's lap, a tiny stuffed Tigger waits for the stories to begin. Every night.

While I adjust the stack of board books on the desk to my left with my uncoordinated arm, T Junior flings Tigger around by his foot, or his paw, or his skinny striped S-shaped tail. Sometimes he stuffs Tigger's entire head right in his mouth. Tigger's a trooper.

This particular night was no different. Except for one thing.

As I prepared the books, I realized the typical toy-flailing seemed intentional. Tigger wasn't haphazardly bouncing off of my lips, the bumping was being repeated on purpose.

"Oh!"

I looked at T Junior who had screwed his neck to the side and tilted his face up to gaze at me with grinning black eyes; his arm outstretched holding his favorite stuffed animal in place. I pursed my lips, noisily sucked in air and delivered a loud, smacking kiss right on little Tigger's fuzzy red nose. But, my eyes never left T Junior. I wanted to remember his reaction.

It was a smile, of course, but not an ear-to-ear grin or an open-mouthed laugh. It started in the middle of his mouth, then the corners slowly stretched outward and up into something so sweet and special, I'm not sure I can capture it here. Even his eyes twinkled. A magical moment between mother and son. But, then he abruptly turned to wait for his story, and poor Tigger's face fell victim to two tiny baby teeth.

I'm taking that moment out now and letting myself linger on it. T Junior is sick with croup and happy faces aren't coming to him as easily. "I miss his smile," Mr. T said yesterday after a long and stressful morning at the doctor's office.

I do, too. Luckily, I've got a little magic stored away.

Baby Bowl VIII (Months)

First Quarter: The Diaper Challenge

Concept: Change an 8-month-old's loaded diaper as he is twisting and turning like a tornado on a changing table as he tries to put his hands in it, with no wipes readily available, the phone ringing and you are supposed to be somewhere in 10 minutes.

Required skills: Gentle strength, patience, quickness, mental toughness and a strong stomach

Second Quarter: The Carrot Hail Mary

Concept: Feed an 8-month-old highly stainable pureed carrot mash from the tip of a flimsy plastic spoon while he bobs and weaves like a head-banging rocker from the '80s and waves his arms up and down minigolf windmill-style.

Required skills: Quickness, ability to anticipate and stay calm

Third Quarter: The Crawl-and-Tackle

Concept: Stand on the far side of the room behind something solid like the dishwasher, high chair or pile of laundry, then dash after an 8-month-old crawler making a beeline for something he definitely shouldn't be licking, like a Roomba or the dusty tile floor around the fireplace.

Required skills: Maneuverability, quickness, sense of humor

Fourth Quarter: The Shopping Cart Lick-Off

Concept: Hold a squirming 8-month-old in one arm as you Clorox every nook and cranny on the germ-infested child's seat area on a shopping cart with the other. Then, still holding the 20-pound child, secure a fabric seat barrier including Velcro straps and wrap-around handle cover. Next, place child in seat and sprint through Wal-Mart (preferebly on a busy day such as Christmas Eve) collecting things listed on a sheet in front of you and before you get too close to nap time while keeping child from licking and chewing on non-covered areas of cart.

Skills needed: Energy, arm and leg strength, ability to think on your feet

Go team Mom!