Feeding Time

"Mother knows breast." ~ Author Unknown

I'm giving up on the template for this darn thing ... for now, anyway. I'm sad to say that I'm soo glad it's Monday -- this weekend was a complete doozy. J and I were at each other's throats for most of it, and nothing we had planned worked out quite as we'd hoped. Ohwell, we'll survive.

Because neither of us wanted to cook last night and it was already too late to eat anywhere decent, we found ourselves at Taco Cabana for dinner. Now, I'm a big fan of Taco C, but the people there never cease to amaze / entertain / scare the living crap out of / surprise me. Depends on the day. And last night was no exception.

Inside was freezing so we decided to sit on the small patio. J went inside to wait on the food, while I absentmindly began wiping dried guacamole off the table. Two young ladies -- maybe in their mid twenties -- were sitting at the next table. One had a boy about seven, the other had a baby in a carrier. I tried to drown out the boy's shouting by staring at the passing cars.

I heard one lady say something about feeding the baby. A few moments later I happened to look over, and noticed she was holding the baby against her with one arm and eating queso with the other. It took me a minute to realize that she wasn't holding a bottle for baby. She was breastfeeding. With no blanket. On the patio. While people were eating at tables all around them.

I must have had a sour look on my face when J came outside with the food. Thankfully, he blocked my view. I just couldn't believe it -- breastfeeding in a restaurant?? Sure, we were at a fast-food joint, but still. Have a little respect for those dining around you. Use a bottle, feed in the car, at least don't sit facing the door to the inside where everyone can see you.

Am I wrong to be disgusted?

Holiday Wrap Up

"Christmas is a race to see which gives out first - your money or your feet." ~ Anonymous

I know, I know -- I'm a little late in wishing everyone Merry Christmas. But I do hope you all had a fabulous one! It seems like forever since I've had time to sit down and read my favorite blogs, let alone post anything.

I'm still working to polish off the leftover desserts from my parents' house. Mom went a little overboard, making German chocolate cake and homemade fudge, along with brownies and a cheesecake. And don't you know she sent all of the leftovers home with me? But of course I've exhibited self control *wiping cake crumbs off my face* and haven't completely pigged out all week *reaching for a piece of fudge*.

At least my headache has finally subsided. It all started the day before Christmas Eve as J and I hit the stores to finish up our Christmas shopping. I swear there must have been 30 people in line at Best Buy. So I waited 25 minutes in line just for a freakin' gift card. Yes, we're starting earlier next year ... at least that's what I keep telling myself.

The headache carried over to Christmas Eve, when we went to J's grandparents' house for dinner and gift exchange. Five kids under the age of 5 makes for lots of laughs but tons of noise. We're the last amongst his immediate family -- cousins and sister -- to have kids, so we're told every five minutes that someday we'll understand why kids pour juice on their head, or why it's okay to change a poopy diaper in the middle of the living room. On the white carpet. With no blanket or pad underneath. *Shuddering* J's grandparents are such wonderful and honest people, though, so it's always nice to be around them.

We didn't get home until after 11, and we still had to fix stockings for the furry babies*. The headache was still there when we awoke before dawn Christmas morning, let the babies rummage through their stockings, showered, dressed and drove over an hour west to J's parents' house for breakfast and gifts.

Honestly, I had been dreading this all week. I know that sounds horrible, but seriously, we see them at his grandparents on Christmas Eve. Yet they insist we come over Christmas morning, eat breakfast and open their gifts. And the grandparents and sister are there, too, because J's family all live right down the road from each other. So it's basically Christmas Eve all over again, minus a few people. Which I guess is fine, but it always ticks me off when they expect us to spend more time over there. It's like they forget I have family, too. And what about when we have kids? I'm not skipping Santa and presents just to have cold eggs. But of course J doesn't see my perspective, so the couple of times I've suggested just doing Christmas Eve with his family a fight ensues**. So, guess I'll drop it until next year.

At lunch, we jumped in the car and drove an hour south to my parents' house for gifts and Christmas dinner. Although there's less people than at J's, I swear the noise level is the same. My sister and I spent the better part of the afternoon chasing our nephew around the house with a Nerf dart gun, while mom yelled at us to stop running through the kitchen. My brother always causes trouble, but he fell asleep in the recliner after dinner like clockwork. My dad and my sister closed out the night with an all-out Nerf gun war, until dad shot her between the eyes. Never mess with a war vet!

The car loaded down with gifts and leftovers, we finally made it home a little before midnight. Tired, we popped some Advil and crawled into bed. Sometimes I miss the days when Christmas seemed to last forever.


*Okay, so J and I were made fun of for making stockings for our pets ... but why not include them in on some holiday cheer?
**I would never want him not to see his family on a holiday. But, my parents' moved our Thanksgiving to the weekend after to accommodate everyone else's plans. Just wish his family would do the same for Christmas.

Night at the Spastics

"Every burden is a blessing." -- Walt Kelly

Last night, J and I went to our new neighbor's house for dinner. Honestly, we had been dreading it all week. While we've enjoyed talking to them the few times we have since they moved in a few months ago, their two kids are a whirlwind of spastic energy. Well, one is spastic, the other quite adorable.

They've come over a few times (unannounced) to play with our dogs. Which is great because our dogs love new people and every ounce of attention they can steal. But five minutes with these kids feels like five hours, and you're left wondering why the whole "kids should be seen and not heard" theory was laid to rest. Seriously.

If there was a contest for "How many questions can you ask in one minute?", Spastic would be world champion. And he's 7, so you can imagine the types of questions he asks as he's doing laps around our coffee table: Why do your dogs bark? Why is your cat black? Why won't he play with me? Why do you wear shoes inside? Why do I have feet?

I digress.

We were due at the neighbor's promptly at 5 o'clock. At 4:59 I pulled a pouting J away from the Dallas Cowboys game ("Why would they have us over during a Cowboys game? It's un-American!") and we slowly walked the 15 steps from our front door to theirs. We took a deep breath, plastered on smiles and rang the door bell.

Silence. "Are you sure they wanted us to come over?" pouted J. I shot him the shut-the-hell-up-and-be-a-good-sport-cause-we're-in-this-together look. Then we heard squealing, a running of feet, and the wooden door flew open.

"YOU'RE HEEEEERRRREEEEEE!" shouted Spastic as he grabbed my hand and jerked me inside. "Why are you late? Where have you been? What have you been doing?" he asked, pulling me down the hallway. I looked back down the hall at J, who was still standing in the door way, just as he was attacked with hugs by Miss Adorable. Lucky him, I thought.

Mr & Mrs Spastic greeted us in the kitchen, where they were busy making salad and setting the table. We exchanged small talk as I helped chop carrots while trying to ignore Spastic's plea to use the big kitchen knife. He began to throw a fit, crying and grabbing for the knife so Mrs Spastic let him peel cucumbers. Then the salad was done, but the lasagna was still 30 minutes from being done. Damn.

"LET'S PLAY A GAME!" screamed Spastic. We followed the kids upstairs only to notice Mr and Mrs Spastic stayed downstairs to keep an eye on the food. Double damn. I felt a little betrayed as I thought maybe we were only here to keep their kids entertained.

We got a tour of each of their rooms -- Spastic's decorated in horses and seashells, Miss Adorable's in hot pink and flowers -- and then sat down to play Trouble. I couldn't remember the rules, but it didn't matter as Spastic changed them every two seconds. I usually enjoy playing with kids but my head was throbbing and my heart felt for J who was crouched on the floor amongst dollhouses and board games, trying to forget about his precious Cowboys.

Finally, the magic words "Dinner's ready!" floated up the stairs, and we all raced down, the kids arguing about who they would get to sit next to. Ten minutes and several tears later, everyone was in their seats.

"Who wants to say the blessing?" asked Mr Spastic. I quickly adverted eye contact like a child in school who doesn't want to be called on. Not that I have anything against a dinner prayer, it's just not something I grew up doing, not something I currently do, and not something I want to try for the first time in a strangers home not knowing what religion they are.

"I WANT THE GUESTS TO DO IT!" shouted Spastic. Luckily Mr Spastic sensed the delayed response and volunteered one of the kids. Ten minutes and several tears later, Miss Adorable said blessing to the prophets, and we all laughed when she forgot to bless the food.

Dinner turned out great. Mr and Mrs Spastic are actually pretty laid back. We talked about their old home back in California, how the kids were adjusting, our jobs, life in general. When not interrupted by Spastic, it was quite enjoyable. Miss Adorable -- who's 4 -- told us stories and was just precious. Not one to usually gush over kids, I wondered if she would fit in my purse so I could keep her for my own.

After dinner we got roped into watching cartoons with the kiddos. Ten minutes and several tears later, we were all piled on the couch upstairs watching cartoons. After a few corny episodes, Mr and Mrs Spastic told the kids to stay upstairs while we went downstairs to talk. Over pumpkin chocolate cookies, they began to tell us that Spastic actually had several mental development problems, severe ADHD and were worried that it was getting progressively worse.

My heart sank for them as Mrs Spastic told how Spastic awoke every night and was up for three or four hours at a time. How he can't be alone ever. How he has no sense of space. Worried that his self-centeredness and fits would eventually lead to him getting in trouble in school and keep him from making friends. They're trying to find a psychiatrist as they're at the end of their ropes and no longer know what to do. They were tired and frustrated.

I felt a little guilty for my feelings towards the kid, but I could only imagine being his parent and feeling some of the same emotions. It wasn't long before Spastic came downstairs and began to throw a fit. And. Would. Not. Stop. He was tired, he wanted us to come upstairs, he wanted a cookie, he wanted his mom to hold him, he wanted to go to bed, he wanted to stay with us because he was scared, he didn't want to stop crying.

Defeated, Mrs Spastic thanked us for coming and went upstairs to get them ready for bed. J and I stayed a little longer talking to Mr Spastic. It's hard enough to be a parent, but it's even harder to raise one child that doesn't understand time and rules and who is too paranoid and too immature to be remotely independent, and then one child who is completely adorable and well-mannered. Sometimes I think it's easy to take children and parenting for granted, to establish a delicate balance between the two worlds so one isn't left behind and one isn't propelled too far forward.

J and I left last night with a full belly, new friends and a better understanding of what it truly takes to be a parent -- lots of Advil, courage and unconditional love. Because sometimes, even blessings can be challenges.