Casa de Chaos

Germans are so polite and nice, but my god, I find their language to be just soul-crushing right now. The constant blast of announcements in the airport is killing me. It’s 7:30am here, but 1:30am to my body.

My brain is on fire. Remind me next time to do a long layover in Madrid or something. Better yet, remind me to win the lottery so I can buy myself fancy nonstop tickets.

There is a woman online for boarding with wonderfully frizzy and curly hair a la Alex Kingston. One of her carry on items is a helium balloon reading “welcome home!”

Is it terrible to hope that I’m not sharing an aisle with a helium balloon for 7 hours? Seems like it could get annoying.

There are a lot of odd-looking people waiting at the gate with me for the flight to Dusseldorf (dusseldorf! Try not to be too jealous). Milo cried today when I was leaving, but my father quickly assuaged his tears with the promise of an ice cream purchase. Apparently, chocolate chip ice cream was purchased at the store after I left.

I miss them already, an emotion I can only attribute to the fact that my parents got up with them this morning at the crack of dawn, letting me sleep until 8am.

I’m nervous. But excited! I’ve had two drinks at the airport, so am hoping that the ingestion of a Xanax or two once we depart will help me to snooze for a bit on this first leg of my trip.

Also of note: the gentleman who checked me in exclaimed “only 1 suitcase? And such a small carry on? For a week in France? Madame, I am impressed!” But perhaps that was his way of subtly informing me that I was woefully underprepared for a trip to the French Riviera?

All it took was three days of 5am wake ups to put me back in brain-fog crazytown. My mom swears that the baby woke up at least once last night, and that I got up to give him a bottle. I don’t have any memory of this, but I suppose I could have sleepwalked my way through it.

Thank the good lord for the diner in our neighborhood that opens at 7am and for the good grandparents that cheerfully woke up at 6am to get dressed and take their grandsons out to breakfast there.

Coffee, do your magic. I have so much to get done today!

My closet is filled with things too stained or holey or otherwise ruined to wear them in public anymore. I hold on to them though. Not for any sentimental reason, but just because I have a hard time throwing things out. I recycle religiously. I use cloth diapers 95% of the time. I never use paper plates or plastic cutlery. I do these things because I hate the idea of things ending up needlessly in a landfill. It makes me agitated just to think about it.

And yet, friends, when the baby took an enormously and horrifyingly explosive poop at the museum on Wednesday, a poop so explosive that it escaped the diaper and went up the backside and down his legs, I have to admit that I threw his whole fucking outfit in the trash. I just couldn’t face the idea of carrying it around for another hour and then home on the subway during rush hour and then trying to wash it out by hand once we got home. While I was dealing with Zachary, Milo discovered the automatic foaming soap dispenser. By the time I got Z’s clothes off and a new diaper on, Milo had accumulated approximately 900 cubic inches of soap all over his body. Everybody has their breaking point, and that was where I found mine.

And since he was on his second outfit of the outing already, Zachary got to spend the remainder of the outing wearing nothing by a diaper and a denim jacket. It was like pushing around a baby Matthew McConaughey. Classy!

My parents arrive this afternoon, and I’m leaving for France on Saturday (Matt left on Tuesday). The baby has been really considerate and thoughtful the past two days, waking me up at 4:52 and 4:57 these mornings so that I can get a jump start on adjusting to a time zone change. Thanks Senor Gordito!

It feels weird to think about leaving the boys. We’ve left Milo for a few days before, but this will be the first time I’ve left Zachary.  It’s even weirder knowing I’ll be traveling by myself. I can’t remember the last time I went somewhere by myself. I’m meeting one of my best friends in Nice, and we’ll meet up with Matt in Cannes on Tuesday so it’s not like I’m taking a vacation alone. But I’ll be getting on an airplane! By myself! Sitting in a seat next to strangers! Enduring a 7 hour layover in Dusseldorf by myself! No one else to be responsible for or worry about. I might read a book (more than 7 pages at a time!) or drink an inappropriately-early glass of wine at the airport, who knows.

I’m slightly bummed that the weather is predicted to be pretty crap the whole time I’m there. I was counting on it being sunny and warm when I was carefully (and with the personal shopper-esque assistance of Bageldreams!) trying to buy some clothes that actually fit me and weren’t covered in yogurt/squeezie/booger stains.  I now have quite a few pretty dresses and sandals and other warm-weather things, but no light jacket or cardigans that haven’t been totally trashed in the last three years by small children tugging at me or using me as their own personal giant tissue.

With this in mind, I made a rather last ditch and desperate attempt to find some kind of non-denim jacket yesterday even though shopping with two small recalcitrant children in tow is a fool’s errand. Found nothing in the end, but discovered that quick and purposeful shopping with Milo in tow can be done! All it took to keep him in the stroller and fairly quiet were the crafty offerings of lollipops at strategic times. What’s a few cavities in the ol’ baby teeth, right? (Don’t worry, guys. I gave him those organic fruit juice lollipops. I’m pretty sure those are practically like eating a piece of fruit straight from the tree, right?)

The best moment was when I quickly tried this kind of weird but potentially cute jacket on at Zara. The baby was snoozing (and, as I later discovered, taking a horrifyingly explosive poop), and I didn’t think Milo was paying me and my sartorial options any mind.  As I looked at myself in the mirror, Milo took the lollipop out of his mouth to tell me “that’s a ugly coat, mama!” and then went back to slurping.

Obviously, I did not buy the jacket.

I’ve been sneaking looks at photos from Milo’s first months a lot this week. I can’t believe this guy is about to turn three next week!

One of our earliest moments together. He was so tiny, not even seven pounds and maybe 19 inches long. Hard to believe three years have gone by!

In case the author of “Go the F**k to Sleep” is interested in writing a follow-up book, may I suggest the title “Stay the F**k Still So I Can Wipe the Poop from Your Butt.”

I know most of my posts lately have been total bummers, but it isn’t all doom and gloom around here (JUST MOSTLY). There are, thankfully, always some moments of levity.

Favorite Milo moment of the week: I was putting Zachary to bed the other night (I’ve finally moved Zachary into his crib in the boys’ room, hooray!)  I was rocking Zachary while singing Edelweiss, I heard the door creak open and saw Milo tiptoe across the room. I whispered to him to go back to the living room, but he shook his head. He stood there for a moment, then began to sing along very softly with me as he did some weird interpretive dance to Edelweiss, complete with a mix of very funny hand gestures, Axl Rose-esque head weaves and bobs, and over the top, wobbly arabesques. I had a hard time stifling my laughter long enough to put the baby into his bed.

Favorite Zachary moment of the week: Earlier today while Milo was at school, Zachary was crawling around their bedroom while I was putting things away. He found a toy bottle, the one that goes with Milo’s baby doll. He picked it up, examined it closely then (logically, I suppose) tilted it up to try to drink from it. He frowned as nothing came out. He tilted it up again, sucking vigorously. It was to no avail, obviously. He looked at it again, frowning while turning red from frustration. He banged the bottle on the bed frame. He tried, once more, to drink again. When it didn’t work the third time, he flew into a fit of rage fit quite worthy of Tom Thumb from a Tale of Two Bad Mice. Zachary banged that bottle into the floor, against the bed and then against the dresser, all whilst screaming with rage. He then looked over at me, gave me a genuine “harumph” and crawled grimly over to the wastebasket. He sat up, tipped the wastebasket toward him and threw that toy bottle inside with such finality that I felt quite sorry for myself imagining what kind of surly teenager he’s going to make when thwarted.