carl in casimirland.

It seems like every other day we have some kind of mini "disaster," which I will put in quotes and add a giant grain of salt to, considering the world news. Like, I get up extra early to make three pies for a big dinner at the grandparents because the electricity went out the night before when I was supposed to make them, and then we arrive and the pies look delicious on the dining room table. Back at my house. Forgotton.
Or I let Casimir run around naked for awhile after his bath, because this is apparently veerry important to him, to rush to his toys so he can play naked by the Little People barn. And then I find him standing up, piddling (PRISS ALERT: I hate the word "pee") onto the floor and his newly framed picture of Peter Rabbit. And then I clean up and he then (diapered) slips on the wet spot and falls and I rinse off the picture and see the water seep through the frame onto the picture.
Or we go to the store to get a baby gift and his hand-me-down ladybug rainboots keep falling off and he's fussy and it's raining, and while waiting to be helped we get blatantly cut in front of by a pushy, fur-coat-clad lady, leaving me holding a fussy child, ladybug boots on the floor, and letting out a very shrill (and ignored), "EXCUSE ME!!??"
The other days it goes just fine and we're all happy.

Acquisitions and Assessment.
And Casimir really raked it in over Christmas. I know going overboard makes you some kind of bad, materialistic parent. You're supposed to keep it down to two little educational toys, preferably wooden, but Casimir has lots of cousins. Lots. So now he has lots of trains and trucks. It bothers me a little bit that my mom and I are the only ones getting him nongendered or traditionally girlie toys, but oh well. You just don' t turn down some good Tonka trucks or Thomas the train engine, now do you? Of course not.

DISCLAIMER: I'M NORMALLY A PERFECT PARENT.
I was reading in another blog about how the blogger actually gets emails, lots of emails, lecturing her on the evils of television if she writes about her daughter's affection for one itty bitty kids show. Or emails lecturing on this if she does that, or that if she does this. Another blogger mentioned emails containing constipation related health lectures if she mentions her love of Doritos. And so I'm thankful I don't have that many readers, because I am defensive enough as it is, thank you very much. Emails like that would just make me the defensive, enraged blogger on the block.

It always annoys me when people make assumptions about someone based on very little (Well maybe I do it, but I keep my mouth shut and finger off the Send button), but parenting seems to really bring out the finger wagging like nothing else. I mean I get it, the lives of the vulnerable innocent are at stake, but we're talking cartoons here, not abusive behavior. What are you supposed to do? Should you be like: We really enjoy the Wiggles (BUT WE WATCH A HALF HOUR OF TV EVERY OTHER DAY, AT MOST! AND ONLY IN WINTER!) and Casimir loves chocolate and shouts "Mo!" for "more" and it is so cute (BUT I KNOW IT'S BAD FOR HIM! IT'S REALLY A RARE TREAT AND HE CONSUMES A LOT OF SPINACH AS WELL!) and then today I got so fucking frustrated and nothing went right and I was so upset (BUT I HAVE NEVER SPANKED OR HIT MY CHILD OR ANYTHING! DON'T WORRY! I LOVE HIM, REALLY.) That would be a fascinating read. But I bet you'd get approval! And no bad emails!

Resolution? I have no resolution.
I am making no New Year's resolutions this year, for the same reason that I never do: because it just gets out of hand. I start with something simple, like "I will go to bed early and work out more," and then I think, "Oh and will eat less and drink more water, and will write more, and watch less TV, and read more." And pretty soon I'm thinking, "I should start volunteering again, and take French classes again, and save more money" and on and on until I'm thinking I should also cook more, and take more time to myself, and definitely stop cussing for good, and be nicer to mean people, and be more positive. And meditate. And now I can add "become a perfect parent and an eternal fountain of smiling patience" since I'm a parent for only the second New Year's in a row.

I don't know what's wrong with me, that I can't just aim low and go for a simple goal. I'm not usually troubled by myself until I start thinking about how I can be New and Improved. Maybe I've seen too much Oprah over a lifetime. Because I could come up with a little resolution. I could swear I'll stop cracking my knuckles and my toes. But it just snowballs into a quest for some level of perfection. And I'm generally not on one of those self-help, Oprah-esque quests to make my life perfectly ordered, and it's not that messy. But apparently the topic is just too overwhelming for me. Apparently I'm good with the big picture, and not the specifics.
Although I will try to exercise more. And drink more water. And go to bed early.

We've been busy around here sending holiday cards too late, making large amounts of Chuck's fudge, named after my late great Uncle Chuck and his recipe (4 CUPS OF SUGAR!), and loading up all the manger folk into the Little People school bus and tooting them back to Bethlehem to the tune of Wheels on the Bus. I feel kind of stupid insisting on getting the cute Christmas picture of Caz to send people, but still I insisted on getting it, and for two weeks he proved remarkably recalcitrant about smiling in front of the tree. We ended up sending two dozen cards with a picture of his profile as he stares at the tree intently.

He's saying lots of new words, except he seems to call every grown up woman Mommy and every grown up man, Daddy. Which is kind of embarassing when grandma is walking him and he points to the mail carrier and says, "Daddy!" Which I hear he did. I think I'm in the clear, seeing that the mail carrier is from Jamaica and Casimir looks more Polish and German than Jamaican. But still.

Lesson learned: I put my luke warm coffee in the MIDDLE of the counter, stepped a few feet away, and turned when I heard Casimir's sweet little, "mommy!" to see him handing me my coffee cup, precariously balancing it between his little hands as he walked toward me. It was sort of sweet and of course sort of humbling that I did such a dumb ass thing that could have gotten him hurt. If I don't watch it, the next thing I know he's going to be helping by handing me the drill or something. Never underestimate how far those little arms can reach. Sometimes he hotfoots it suddenly out of the kitchen, I follow him to see what's up and find him with a stolen piece of fruit, the juice dripping right out of his wicked smile and down his chin. Or I hear "Ick! Ick!" and look down to find him holding a raw zuchinni with a little bite out of it. I've never seen him reach that far. It's when my back is turned that he must just elasticize and extend extra far. So drink your coffee cold, and leave it on top of the fridge. Even zuchinnis can be dangerous.

And I think we've overdone the Wiggles. Paul asked what I would choose if I could attend either my favorite band in concert or the Wiggles in concert. We watch them at 6:30 in the morning so that I have time to wind myself up and fully come to life again, and then later in the day Casimir sometimes stands in front of the closed armoir, waving the remote and shouting for Dorothy the Dinosaur (Do-thy!). The show can be a little annoying at times, and Captain Feathersword really needs to be killed off somehow, but the music is catchy. We say things like, "Who's your favorite Wiggle?" and "What's your favorite Wiggle song?" and Casimir isn't even in the room. I'm not sure if we're entirely kidding or not.

And the answer is Greg, and Fruit Salad.

I'm a Slave 4U
We got a Christmas card today from kind of a distant, elderly in-law that was addressed to "Master Casimir and his Slaves." It's my favorite card so far.

If only I could stop having all these mini-breakdowns, I'd be doing so great.
I had that thought about the breakdowns while washing dishes the other day, and the sheer stupidity of it actually cheered me tremendously. I think in every stay-at-home-mommy or any mommy story, there comes the climax where Mommy goes a little bonkers. Take me, add freezing temperatures, active toddler, stringent budget, play classes going on holiday hiatus, and me getting extra hormonal, and shake it up and you get crazy.

I loved (mostly) being at home for like a year and-a-half, but now I'm fantasizing occasionally about daycare and a corner cube. And like, leaving every morning. Yet I hesitate to say something like, "Whoa I am so bored at home! I'm going nuts!" not because I feel badly saying that, as if I'm slighting my child and not appreciating the ability to stay home (Well, maybe a little bit). Mostly I hesitate to say that because I feel like people often interpret that as confirmation that yes, stay-at-home-moms are boring. It is boring and they are boring. Boo-oorriing!!! It almost seems like if you are an SAHM, you'd better add a "but" and say that it's sooo boring and horrible, and you are DYING INSIDE, if you want people to believe that you still have a brain. I've never really encountered much compassion on the topic unless it's coming from a mom (or stay-at-home-dad, yeah, they're sooo common) who's really been there and done that, and knows why you are doing it and how complex the decision can be. And when someone seems to really enjoy staying at home with their kid full-time, I don't assume they're intellectually stimulated by Play-doh or are patriarchy's soldiers. Maybe some of them are, but I usually assume they are just more patient, resourceful, and selfless (and stable) than I am, and just doing what they feel works out best for their family at that point in time. I do kind of wish I were more like them. Just without the scrapbooking and holiday sweaters that are sometimes required.

The truth is I also find sitting in a cube all day rather boring, and I've had jobs that seemed to suck the spark of life from me the second I stepped off the elevator. So I don't want to paint that grass too green. I think it was just when someone I know mentioned that I'll have time to cook more often when "the kids are all in school" that I kind of flipped out. School?! Like, high school too? I thought this staying home thing was a temporary gig! I won't be cooking, I'll be working and can-opening! I guess I could go for some more money and independence and grown up stimulation afterall, even if it's in a boring cube.

I wasn't like this before. I think the domestic lifestyle is just getting to me lately. It can get isolating and I do miss aspects of my life before, even when it's going great. Even I'm getting to me. And I'm fearing this looming winter with some trepidation, hoping we'll survive it, and stockpiling some second-hand toys to help get us through it. It feels very pioneer, being concerned about getting through the winter. And I know you can't force yourself to be happy in a job if you're not, but Casimir isn't quite any job. He's definitely better than a textbook or an encyclopedia. So I am trying to appreciate being his numero uno care provider. At least for now. It's just hard sometimes. In winter. And being crazy and all.

The other day I came home and thought Casimir was excited to see me and calling out Mommy! Paul informed me that no, Casimir just wanted more salami. Paul had decided that salami would be a good nutritional addition to a young toddler's diet, and sure enough, Casimir was flapping his arms and jumping up and down in the kitchen, asking for more mami. I like to think it's at least spelled differently inside his little brain. He does say "Mommy" all the time now, which is an improvement (for me) from his Daddy obsession. It's just that, linguistically, I can be confused with some hard Genoa Salami. And he sometimes says Mommy! to other mommies walking with their little kids. Hopefully he knows that they aren't his special Mommy Salami.

And we started ordering this organic produce delivery from some farm, which sounds lazy and special and fancy, and I'm way too excited about it, but it's actually cheaper than getting organic produce from the store, and considerably easier since we are miles and miles and miles from any store that actually sells organic produce. But I was a little annoyed by their introductory brochure that reads: Organic Produce Delivered to the "Lady of the House!" I feel pretentious enough, insisting on completely homegrown organic for my little kid. I don't need to feel like some kind of moron who's going to feel special being referred to as the "lady of the house." And I can't stop thinking of alternatives, like "Organic Produce delivered to the Bitch in the House" or "100% organic produce, delivered to retentive New Moms!" Not that there's anything wrong with pesticide-free produce, but I just can't come up with anything better.

Probably not so secret: I secretly love it when Casimir meets someone new or sees someone again and buries his head in my neck and hugs me tighter. I say, "Oh, are you being shy? Do you want to say hello?" But if he's not really scared, I'm secretly enjoying it, when he's afraid of you and hugging me tighter.

I should probably deal with those aggressive feelings of mine regarding babysitting, because I obviously had too much to say on that topic. On babysitting. Oh, if only we were all so complex inside.

Anyway, 'tis the season, and Casimir saw his first Santa. In our local park district play "class," a big ole white guy dressed as Santa came to the gym to sing songs to some eager older toddlers and some frightened younger ones. Casimir was intrigued for a few minutes and smiled once, and then that was that. He doesn't know the part about the presents yet. It felt kind of strange and sentimental being there with my child who is now old enough to (sort of) be entertained by Santa, and I felt kind of emotinoal and lonely in the big gym underneath the basketball hoops. I was surrounded by moms and kids I didn't know who all seem to know each other. It kind of got to me for some reason, and I felt really isolated among all the camcorders, but I tried not to cry in the gym to Jingle Bells. And thankfully Casimir got tired of St. Nick pretty quickly and snapped me out of it. He's so good at that.

And further instances of Casimir's adorable mix of cuteness and briliance keep manifesting themselves, like when he got quickly bored with his first Santa encounter and ran to the soda machine, pressed buttons, reached for my pockets and shouted, "Money! money!" I didn't even know he knew that word. Not that I give him soda. But Mama sneaks it sometimes, and I think he's seen me work the magical machine once. And the best is when he manages to get all the goodies: my purse, the car keys, my wallet, and stands by the door shouting, "Hey!" which is sometimes all he says, but it can mean a variety of things, like "Let's go!"
So he can't understand a Spanish nanny and speak in complex sentences involving subjects and objects and linking verbs yet, like the little girl his exact age who we heard all about on Thanksgiving. But he knows how to get a soda at least. It's the little things.

And I'm not sure when these big, inflatable holiday decorations came into fashion, but as much as I dislike the sight of a big inflatable Turkey or Mickey Santa on all the lawns, lit up and bloated, Casimir loves them. Yay for the neighbors who got the Christmas lights and decorations up the day after Thanksgiving! I think you're a little flakey, but your stuff is fun to look at!