Happy Birthday Two You

My son turns two today. I realize if he is a year older, that I too must have aged a year. But, I am enjoying a younger version of myself through him.

Time spent coloring is cut short by his toddler attention span. I long to finish my picture (I do) and hang it on the fridge next to his 53 colorful crayon portraits. I have spent more time in a bathing suit playing and splashing in the pool instead of bone dry in a cover up sitting self consciously in a chair. I play more than weed in the backyard. Gallons of bubbles have been blown from the front porch and dozens of messy cupcakes shared. I’ve never felt so excited for weekends, evenings, mornings, and vacations. Our summer project is covering the porch with sidewalk chalk and daily dancing sessions in the living room to the earthy music of homemade shoe box drums.

I just don’t recall a summer being this wonderful and packed with joy. I can’t wait to see what he has planned for fall.

Sticky Situation

I took an entire day to clean my house on Monday. Cleaning ourselves free of sinister Sippy cups that claim to be spill proof, leak proof, and splatter proof. My 1 and a half year has proven none of them toddler proof.

After the house was spotless I unleashed our professional sampling of three new cups all with their great claims. One literally was Sippy proof, no drink would come out of it. To my OCD side this appealed to me greatly, but thinking about the Wayne County Department of Children’s Services I took it away. Unfortunately, the two others cups leaked like creeks after heavy rain storms. Sweet sticky apple juice once again stuck on the ceramic tile of the kitchen and bathroom, the dark walnut living room floors, and politely dotting the once all-beige carpet in the bedrooms.

These lying cups have brought out a weakness in me. An inability to just be laid back about letting my shoes stick to the kitchen floor slowing us all down for a half a second. Those dirty dots of sugary juice sprayed all over our home makes me feel like a failure and like I don’t have it all together. When I’m sticking to my own couch, I can’t even pretend that I am successfully balancing work and family life with a graceful ease as I am using a shoe horn to get myself unseated from the now fermented juice. Cleaning or always keeping the house clean gives the very false illusion that we could be on a magazine cover for Garage Sale Weekly. Although my heart melts at the thought of this perfection, it just isn’t true. Just try to come over and use the toilet without a plunger.

I have always felt the need to keep the house tidy for other people, and was literally blown away at how difficult it became when we came home from the hospital after delivering my son. My husband had to leave right away for work and we had family coming in town to see the baby so I didn’t miss a beat. I had been in the hospital giving birth of course and was kept extra time for preeclampsia. So there I was going on no sleep and ready to scrub down the shower. I had the bathroom window open hoping the fumes wouldn’t get to my new baby. I realize now I should have been using the time to rest and that our family was coming to help not to critique our shower. And it should have been clean enough after I was cleaning a week earlier while on “bed rest.”

So no matter how many articles I read on balancing work and family life, I just think it is a challenge. It’s a challenge to remember to take it easy on the cleaning. No matter how stuck I may feel I can’t be as stuck nor as sticky as the terribly confused creators of no-spill Sippy cups.

"Did You Just See That Coach Flaming Across The Mall Parking Lot?"

Once, during the brief time between parking my car and walking into a Cincinnati mall, my purse caught on fire. I smelled smoke, looked around me assuming someone’s car was overheating in the humid summer weather and instead noticed a black plume of smoke coming out of my usually calm brown Coach bag. I have to admit my shock as I stopped, dropped the expensive handbag, and attempted to roll it across the parking lot. I found that an overly dramatic and attention-seeking book of matches had miraculously lit themselves to start my most unusual purse fire.

Don't Lose It Over Last Minute Shopping

Waited until the last minute to do your Christmas shopping? Lucky for you the Dysfunctional Bungalow has some ideas for you, like:

• dysfunctions-guided-journal or

• Gift certificates for therapy.

I encourage you to explore the kinds of therapy options that are available. I have known types of therapy where you beat bats into pillows, group therapy where "the group" guides your life, giving you advice on dating and career (yes this borders on a cult, but whatever works), therapy where you throw dishes and any other no-longer-needed-breakables. For easiest clean up, I suggest throwing directly into a dumpster. Yes, you get a certain reputation as the “crazy dumpster lady,” but who wants to spend the afternoon cleaning up that kind of mess at your own house?

Living in the country lends itself to screaming therapy; otherwise you will get the police at your door. I once shared a house where “the screamers” met one Saturday a month. I would wait until they were in deep waves of pain screams to sneak into the kitchen and grab some tasty snacks they brought.

Just remember times are tough. Give a gift that will offer some relief for the jobless, foreclosed upon, and the sick without healthcare.

It has gotten so bad these folks are winding up on my doorstep. Last night I pulled into our snowy driveway to find a little girl sledding down it. I was glad to see that our lack of shoveling benefits someone. I introduce myself and we started to get to know each other. She tells me her name is Elizabeth and that our next door neighbor is babysitting her while her foster mother is working. She assures me driveway/alley sledding is safe as long as you look out for cars. She also informs me this will be a horrible Christmas. Elizabeth isn’t interested in sharing the details, which I can appreciate. I simply offer her a stack of our old dishes and lead her to our silver aluminum trash can to help her work it out.

Real or Artificial - Either Way I'm Afraid

I fear Christmas trees. I realize it is like fearing lollipops, children’s birthday parties, frosted chocolate cupcakes, fuzzy bunny rabbits, or dishes of pudding. I am sure it is considered un-American, satanic, and the 73rd reason I will be going to hell. But to me Christmas trees are big and intimidating and overbearing and needy.


They start out naked and need lights and garland, and bows, and a tree topper, and popcorn, and sentimental ornaments you need to have some story about, ornaments that some kid made you with peeling glue and despite the fact it’s falling apart you love it more each year.

Everyone around me has these fabulously rich stories of growing up with Christmas, decorating the tree, rising early on Christmas morning to sparkling gifts magically placed under the tree, and I just can’t relate making me feel like a foreigner.

Recently, we got a tree and I have attempted to join in the magically delicious fun to decorate it and it never looks like the one’s I see in magazines. One year I imagined the tree as a person instead of a thing and hung vintage air fresheners with pictures of tantalizingly naked ladies on her. I gave her a tree skirt made of a fur stole. And I added some shiny, rhinestone costume jewelry to top it off. We had a party and I could tell from our guest’s reactions this is not how other people had decorated their trees in their homes and I would not be rewarded with gifts next to my furry tree skirt on Christmas morning.

Some of our friends had travelled to Spain during the Christmas season. They were so desperate for a tree they drove their rental car into a wooded area and illegally cut down a tree to take home. Very conspicuously they drove past suspicious eyes back to town with a freshly cut tree riding high in the back of their convertible.

I am uncomfortable with my very unpopular indifference toward trees when most people are willing to risk an unsavory encounter with the Spanish police for their passion for the Christmas tree.

Recipe for Comfort

Thanksgiving is my most beloved holiday. No religion claims it. No sending of cards, buying of gifts, decorating a house, dressing up in costume to participate. The only requirement is to be thankful for something or someone and to eat. Thanksgiving is full of many of my favorite foods from side dishes to pie.

My most memorable Thanksgivings have been times where we have travelled to a bed and breakfast out of town. I love how full the houses were of “odds and ends type family members” like my husband and I who don’t always fit into a family’s big picture. I felt comforted there, probably like you are supposed to feel on holidays. I was reassured knowing that even if I’m alone on a holiday I can find a bed and breakfast on the west side of Michigan or the southwest side of Ohio who will welcome me. They may have some sheep that listen to Christmas carols and eat buttered toast, or a Shepard-mutt who demands a belly-rub at the door.

I think holidays should be about finding comfort for ourselves however unconventional the recipe might be. I hope this Thanksgiving tastes delicious and you sit down and enjoy as much as you want.

Gender-free Parenting

My dad often comments on how great it is that both my husband and I are involved parents, which I appreciate. Usually my son is in daycare part-time and my husband cares for him the other days of the week.

My father is impressed by my husband’s ability to be both “mother” and “father.” I wonder on the days when I am alone with my son if I am successfully engaging in both roles or am I simply being defined as a mother. Mothering seems to be all encompassing to include any and all tasks and roles but no additional titles or accolades. But to co-parent (this is actually a term for parents parenting equally) is out of the norm and modern, and gives father’s a new title.

This is not to say I am not grateful for my parenting partner, because I am, but my expectations with the birth of our son were that we would share the workload. As we have done with our marriage, our home, our dog, and however many other things. Nothing is ever exactly split in half evenly of course, but things are certainly shared so it is comfortable and manageable for us both. Otherwise, having a baby would have been too overwhelming to me and too detached for my husband.

But, as I am reading this phrase co-parenting in magazine articles and on blogs more often, I realize this is a newer concept. As silly as it seems to give parenting the name co-parenting, I do appreciate it receiving the credit it deserves. I simply can’t grasp how one gender could be more tuned into parenting than another. This concept just seems outdated.

If our families are fortunate enough to have two caregivers available for a child, then unleash whatever you have to give. Two males, two females, one of each, whatever, just love the kid up. Just sing some songs off key. Just make up a silly game that involves jumping on one leg. Just start dancing that involves turning in circles. Just do anything that ends up with tickling. Isn’t that the bottom line? Your child doesn’t know if he or she is being mothered or fathered or grand mothered if they are feeling loved.

We wait for the sound of hiccups to tell us we’ve done a good job. When our boy is really, really giggling he gets the hiccups. This brings me a happy, settled satisfaction. What signs do you look for?