Will you still need me, will you still feed me?

Last night I made my son two reckless promises: That he would not die until he is a hundred years old, and that when he did, I'd still be with him.

We were listening to a Classical Kids CD called Mr. Bach Comes to Call, in which the ghost of Johann S. appears to a little girl who is begrudgingly practicing the piano. She is soon won over by the jolly old man and his tales of a busy, happy, music-filled life. At the end of the disc Bach mentions a composition that he was unable to finish, because "everyone has to die sometime."

We've played this CD probably a hundred times, but last night Opie stopped to think about that line. His face grew fearful. His voice quivered as he asked if that meant he would die. "Yes," I told him, but not for a very very very long time, when he was a very very very old man. "How old?" he pressed, and that's when I told him a hundred years (the biggest number I thought he could grasp--as it turns out, he didn't, and I had to count almost all the way from 3 to 100 to show just how far that was).

Still he wasn't satisfied, and his voice continued to teeter on the brink of tears. "But when I die, you won't be there."

"I will," I said, tears sliding down my own cheeks. "I will always be with you." Because I will, I thought. In Heaven, in memory, in some little sliver of DNA, one way or another. Unwilling and unable to explain all that, I defaulted to the simple lie. And then I perpetuated it by promising that Daddy would be there too, and Jo, and even our dog.

I know I'll break a lot of the promises I make my children, intentionally and not. I just wasn't quite prepared to discuss one of the universe's greatest unknowns right there in the dark, at 9 p.m. after a full day of solo parenting. (And you better believe I was the one who stayed awake staring at the ceiling when it was my turn to go to bed.)

Sleep is for suckers!

1. My review of mom-blog-thology Sleep Is for the Weak is up today at The Full Mommy.

2. Speaking of sleep, my son is trying to kill me. No matter what we try, it takes an hour to put him to bed. An hour of hands-on shushing, corraling, returning-to-bed time. It just seems to take him that hour to wind down enough to fall asleep. Short of drugs (which believe me I have contemplated), what else can we do?

Bedtime non sequiturs

• Mommy! Where do rabbits live?
• My favorite large construction machine: is a forklift.
• Later can we go to the airport?
• Mommy! Did you know, that in Star Wars, Luke Skywalker's uncle's name is Owen?
• My fire truck is not sleeping.

And that's just one night's worth.

Rosy-fingered haiku

Small boy up at dawn
Declares "Mommy, it's oh-clock!"
Abandon all hope

Why don’t you just let him cry?

How about because I’m not a heartless bitch? How about because he’s a tiny baby and he needs me? How about because I didn’t sign up for the shortcut route to motherhood, aka “how to ignore your infant’s needs for your own convenience”? How about because he’s hungry, or scared, or lonely, or cold, and he doesn’t know how to talk? I’m his mom. I think I know him a little better than you do.

Spare me the “he’ll never learn to fall asleep on his own” crap until my kid is bigger than a loaf of bread, OK? Unless you’re right here under my roof, all night, every night, figuring out that this cry means “I’m starving” and that cry means “Don’t leave me,” that he burps best if you hold him like this and that he likes the blue blanket best, then keep your helpful hints to yourself.

You asked me how he was sleeping, I told you, now I wish I’d kept my trap shut. I didn’t ask for advice. A little sympathy would have been OK. A remark that I could just “give him a bottle” would not. My kid is not waking up at night because he is breastfed. He is waking up because he is a little baby. Do you actually think I would stop nursing because of your brilliant suggestion? Breastmilk is the best food I can give him, and I’m not going to stop just because you think a can of formula is magically going to zonk him out for 12 solid hours a night. It worked for you? Fine, keep on believing that tired old myth. I'll stick with what I know my kid needs--whether you like it or not.


I wish I could have just handed them this instead. Today’s Parent Bloggers Network Blog Blast posed the question: What’s the most annoying question you were asked as a new mom, or while you were pregnant? Post yours--and the snarkiest answer you can muster--and submit it to PBN. There are prizes involved (beyond the satisfaction of telling someone off). Get all the details.

A kid-free weekend: Let me count the ways

2: hours we traveled out of our way (but at least the forest/lake scenery was prettier than the endless farms that we should have been passing, had we not missed our turn)

1: sign I saw that caused me to regret not bringing my camera (a gas station called, I SWEAR, the “Kum&Go”). Oh good, a guy named Dave did take a picture.

1: unnecessary showers I took just because I could

8: times my son threw up while we were gone

3½: hours my dad spent on the floor keeping the vomitous boy company

180: extra minutes of television Jo watched while Grandma and Grandpa were cleaning up vomit

200: sit-ups my mother claimed to do while keeping vigil over napping, sick child

2: family historical sites we passed (Eau Galle, and my grandmother’s hometown – I have her class ring from the local high school, class of ’26)

40+: years that my grandmother’s former boss, an insurance executive who lived in the city which we visited, sent her a box of candy at Christmas

7: tapas dishes we tried, + 1 to-die-for order of blackberry-goat cheese empanadas with vanilla-thyme ice cream

2: things from home I missed (my Tempur-Pedic pillow and my electric toothbrush)

2: kids (+1 dog) from home I didn’t really miss, except I felt bad about the barfing

2: presents I bought for myself (pants, book)

4: presents I bought for the kids (fire-truck flashlight, kiddie gardening set, sunflower seeds, nasturtium seeds)

6: sections of the previous Sunday’s New York Times I brought with me

6: sections of the previous Sunday’s New York Times I actually read

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P.S. Thank you all for the nice comments about our backyard. Of course you're all invited for a cold drink (beer, wine, mojito, milk, take your pick) anytime you're in Mayberry!

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Also, I should say that Opie is fine. The throwing-up lasted a few hours, and then (apparently) he ate like a horse for the rest of the day.

Happy baby to you (and you and you)

Some of the loveliest ladies in the blogosphere are about to deliver what are sure to be some of the loveliest babies in the blogosphere. So in their honor, here's a little unsolicited counsel (and you're invited to their baby shower--go join in the fun!).

The worst assvice I received as a new mom: "She's still not sleeping through the night? Oh, because you're breastfeeding, that's why." Gee. Thanks. Sooo helpful.

And the best advice, right after "give breastfeeding at least three weeks before you decide to stop": Pick your battles. Baby won't sleep anywhere but the carseat? Buckle him in and enjoy the ride. Toddler will only eat from a red bowl and drink from a red cup? Stock up on the scarlet and dine in peace. Preschooler wants to wear 14 different colors, textures, and patterns at once? Beam with pride at her individuality and independence. You only think people are staring at the grocery store. And if they are? Screw 'em--they obviously have no sense of humor.

24 hours of decadence

1. 8 hours alone

• Mostly in the car, marinating in NPR.
• Especially charmed by a story on This American Life, about a boy who idolized his late father so much that he decided to build a time machine so he could see his dad again. He spent more than 50 years studying quantum physics so he could figure out how to build the machine. (TAL's web site doesn't allow me to link directly to the story but it's called "Tragedy Minus Time Equals Happily Ever After"; the subject of it also wrote a memoir).
• A large chai tea latte consumed entirely by me with no one pestering me for a drink of it.

2. 8 hours asleep.

• Stayed up late.
• Slept in cushy hotel bed.
• Woke up at nine-thirty a.m. and read People magazine before taking a hot shower while not also listening for someone yelling "Ma-MAAAAAA!"

3. 8 hours with Julie.

• Drinks, and appetizers, and an attempted pick-up by a really drunk guy at an Irish bar. I mean, I think Julie and I are cute and all, but we had like 15 years on this guy and were both wearing wedding rings. A few minutes later he was involved in some sort of altercation and was escorted from the bar by a pair of cops.
• Slept through breakfast, proceeded directly to lunch.
• Had chocolate fondue for dessert at lunch. Fondue, as in molten chocolate.

Yeah. It was a good day.

P.S.: I didn't include this at first because it technically happened outside of the 24 hours, but the icing on the day's cake was finally, finally meeting my fellow Mayberrian Movin'Mom! I vow that another six months will not pass before it happens again.