In Omnia Paratus: Not So Much

Cary screenshotted us from Okinawa.

A newsletter I get through work has great quotes. They usually make me laugh, or feel happy or encouraged. But this one edition brought up a Latin quote from Gilmore Girls – "in omnia paratus." Or "ready for all things" essentially. I liked it. And then I didn't.

We felt ready for deployment. We were. Prepped to the point of creating ease and paving the way for help and peace of mind. You can't be ready for all things. No one is always coming. Yet we're putting pavement beneath and behind us every moment.

The snails there are huge.

I watched a movie about bears with the kids, and aside from the amazing things mama bears do – like mamas in real life – I mainly resonated with their hibernation, which works for a lot of necessary recharging especially at the beginning of deployment. Then there are the days I commit to two birthday parties for different reasons and stumble into bed feeling tired in my bone marrow.

Jules: Are you gonna be back for my birthday?

Cary: No I'll miss your birthday. And Cole's birthday... And mama's birthday. But I'll be back for mine.

Jules laughs.

For the first few weeks when I'd hear the neighbor's gate or ours when something's delivered, I couldn't help but jump inside thinking it was him.

Cole got potty-trained in the nick of time. Not before pooping at the same friend's house a second time and wondering if pink eye was coming for us this time.

I also don't love when we get home and they didn't eat enough hosted dinner, so now I have to give them second dinner before bed. I don't do it the next time.

With this friend – who dealt with the threat of poop again and kids complaining the sausage is too spicy while falling out of their chairs and screaming – I discuss signing up for things. Swim this time since she's been jumping through hoops like I had several months before. Why is signing kids up for stuff so complicated sometimes? We ponder.

I now drive a minivan. It's my favorite minivan and green and ours with an affordable Nevada plate and doors we don't have to interact with nor seats we have to squish into with guests, but it still killed a little of my soul and chipped away a little of my identity. I wanted to rage against the minivan. But it's a vehicle. And I'm practical. So it's me and can handle the mountains we visit. I buy knock-off expensive sneakers six months later and feel a little bit better too.

We're in the van, just Jules and I heading from after-school care to get Cole from daycare.

Jules: I'm so glad I was born.

The best weekends with this sassy angel and my sour patch kid are spent on the couch with two breakfasts in a row plus an outing where we breathe life into the truck that sits lonely all week. In the evenings or in bed I decompress, sitting in the quiet for a moment and listening to my breath or heart that I think beats too fast these days, feeling solely responsible for them and feeling every pulled muscle from the day. Exhausted but wanting to look at pictures and videos of them on my phone like most parents. Needing alone time but feeling lonely.

Sometimes when I share a schedule idea with the kids... "How about we eat and get ready then go to the library then the park."

Cole says: I like your plan, Mom!

I learn only military spouses understand.

At work the single parents and parents and married couples and former service members or spouses relate. At work, without operating on anyone or operating an aircraft, it's a break and a lovely workout for my brain. It's something that's mine alone, that I can care about with both a selfish and selfless, passionate level of service and skill.

At opposite points in the day, besides the weekend vegetation or sense of adventure, the kids are there and then not there. I can't soak up every detail enough during the day. I want to drink them up and feel them inside me again, keep them safe. However I don't want to be wiggled and kicked against or jumped on, spilled on, sneezed on.

The more I learn, the more I realize how much I don’t know. Albert Einstein.

We all miss Butters.

I want to prove them right. That we can do it.

We're running out of gas and I'm getting used to the van fuel gauge. It's dangerously low suddenly on my way home from work, and I'm not sure exactly how many miles to the base gas station though it's near. After grabbing Jules and then pulling away from Cole's daycare I say I hope we make it.

Cole: "I believe in you, Mom!

Me too.

Old Town has been the best excursion yet.

Don't Die, Don't Die, Don't Die, Don't Die*

On my morning jogs, an older woman keeps randomly wandering out from her house the same time I'm near, shouting: "ALY! ALY!"

ALY!!!

It's some animal named Aly. (Probably not spelled the same.) Scared the bejesus out of me the first few times. Especially that first time. Then I started putting it together. Seems like it's the highlight of her day. So I'm gonna keep on pretending it's me she's desperate to see instead of a sly, silky black cat or aging golden retriever.

I read this book How to Talk So Kids Will Listen & Listen So Kids Will Talk. Let's just say of course it's harder to pick up than the latest mystery sitting on my Kindle. This is maybe the third or second kid help book I've read. I remember some things; I try them out. Nothing really works that great. But one day I'm driving Cole to daycare and he's freaking out because he dropped his dinosaur in our humongous ginormous new used minivan and there's no way I can reach it.

Anyone else pulled muscles reaching for things in the car, risking everyone on the road's life because you can't take the tortuous sound? Definitely #notworthit.

So the book tells you to get imaginative, wish with them and get creative about how you wish too – how you wish you could give them what they want with your magical wizard parent powers. I'm so dunzo with these meltdowns where they can't see logic so I commit with a passionate, drama-drunk gusto.

"Cole! I want to get it for you too!! I wish I had Elastigirl's arms and could reach back and grab it with one long loopy noodle wrist. Or I wish I was a fancy white-haired wizard with a beard who could just POOF! – wave my powerful wand and say my powerful spell and make the dinosaur appear out of thin air, lifted up from the floor or zapped into your haaaand!!!!!!!!!!

I've tried this before. But not with as much Oscar-worthy endeavor. It worked like a charm.

And the 1,000 pages of kid help books were worth it. For that one time when I didn't have to listen to him scream.

His response? A quick pause. "And then there was snow?" he asks quietly.

"Sure, Coley. Lots and lots of snow." He continues talking about magical things, narrating a whole story about God knows what.

Looking back on these last several weeks, he's come out of a tough phase. For now. Maybe the books are worth it. Or maybe it's just him. Or maybe it's just me or us. Or maybe I should go back to reading Harry Potter or watching more Incredibles with them. Nah, it's probably the experts. Probably.

Our neighbor asked us the other day if the kids were doing any sports. Nope. Well, I guess swimming. That's a sport, they say. I mean, is it? I'm trying to make it so they don't die in water, not that they become the Elastigirl that is Michael Phelps' butterfly crawl.

I finally navigate the maze that is signing up for swim lessons post-move and in the age of COVID. Cary can't make it the first day but I've got the procedures down. I pack up everything the evening before.

"They say to put non-potty-trained kids in two swim diapers but I mean, they're kinda expensive right and I have to take him to the bathroom right before anyway, and they're hard to get off. Should I just do one?"

Jules stares at me for a moment while I stare at the swim bag, then: "I think you should probably just do two."

Aw good kid.

I pick them up from care after work and we make our way through the rigmarole of remembering the street and parking and finding the exact school pool location and access point in this urban suburban island life of yet another new location to our family.

Meander through the path, eyeballing signs. Tell Cole to hurry up. Tell Jules she dropped her goggles. Wait for someone at the desk to take our temperatures. Pray they don't care I don't have masks for the swimmers. (Oops, but I don't remember reading that part!) Hm, where to change, where to change ... I see a single bathroom door I think on the swim deck across the way. But the arrows on the ground don't point us that direction around the pool so here goes, gonna break the painted rule! Walking in front of everyone (seriously no one is looking or cares but it never feels like that)...yell at the kids some more so they don't fall into the pool while looking around. A sign on the bathroom door says no more than one person inside due to COVID. And the door is locked. Be cool, Aly. Continue around the pool. Find a quiet corner. Get them changed.

In the middle of sweating and wondering where I'm gonna take Cole for a potty-break, a (very kind but doesn't seem like it in the heat of the moment) woman with a baby in a stroller comes over and says:

Hiiiii. Just to let you know there's no changing on the swim deck. We just don't want little penises out you know. (barely nervous giggle; in fact kind of a confident giggle)

At this point I want to shove my son's penis in her face.

Jules: "My mom is Aly. What's your name? What's your baby's name?" God fucking bless her but I want to say, Stop! Jules, she's the enemy; we don't like her!

I explain we're new and the bathroom was locked and I came from work and where are we supposed to change? By the end of this inaugural swim lesson, this woman has kindly researched and found out the answers to all my questions, baby in tow, her filling in since someone was out.

But in the heat of the moment it's one more thing.

The kids are blissfully courageous and fun as the lesson kicks off. Ahhh, it's all worth it.

Then mid-lesson Cole screams:

I GOTTA GO POTTY!!!!

I run over, almost slip WHICH IS WHY WE DON'T RUN, grab him from the teenager and try to hit the bathroom again. Woot, unlocked!

Yep, pulling down two swim dipes is great. Scared the kid to pieces. Expected poop but he probably peed in the three minutes it took me to get his diapers and trunks down. I sing him a song while he perches on the toilet seat, miraculously balancing and pushing his penis toward the bowl as we stare at each other in the echo-y bathroom with water on the ground that always feels like urine even though it's pool, shower or ocean water most likely in these places.

I contemplate buying myself Golden Goose sneakers for this. I just made $60 on a freelance news story so I'm 12% there. I really think those sneaks are the best place for my side hustle money. A mom at the lesson has GG sneakers on. Gotta do it. Then my dad can say, you bought sneakers that come dirty? It's like MTV and ripped, distressed jeans all over again.

A post-lesson dip in our weird tiny house indoor/outdoor jacuzzi where you simply sit with your legs straight out on our back patio is just the ticket after these lessons. For them. For us it's after they go to bed sometimes. The kids never balk at being cold getting in the pool for their lessons on a beach evening but the hot tub idea always crops up for them on the way home.

It's a grand time. Until we all get folliculitis. Turns out it takes a bit to get chlorination figured out.

We also change in the van now before swim lessons. Penises and vaginas tucked safely away. Though I did accidentally park in front of a lacrosse practice wrap-up and Jules kept doing an oblivious naked jig. She also heard a boy making fun of his mom and Jules was like, hm, did you hear that? We can do that?

Kid, we can do whatever we want. Go against the arrows to go to the bathroom. Hit a nudist beach. Drive a minivan. Make fun of our parents. Take pride this month and always.

*Post title isn't mine; it's Jerry Seinfeld's scuba diving joke. It's what it's like watching Cole learn how to swim.

Your Name Here.

Jules writes her name with a big, solid period at the end. So sure of herself it seems. I've noticed other kids do this sometimes as they learn to write and learn punctuation. I like the idea of thinking of ourselves with a firm, confident period at the end of who we are.

Potty training a boy, at least my boy, makes me doubt putting a period at the end of my name.

Anyone else experience that rush of adrenaline, ripping your kid out of a swing or off the couch, or out of the bath, at the hint they're pooping while attempting to potty-train? Then trip getting to the portable potty you brought to the park? Then find you're too late and now that you've pulled their pants down, it's worse than you ever imagined?

You really learn what good friends are when your kid poops their pants at your friends' house and you came unprepared.

Cole taught us over the last year he cannot be trusted to stop having fun to hit the bathroom.

We taught Jules about crying wolf. Spoiler alert: A wolf will petrify any kid into avoiding that. We may have forgotten briefly it eats the sheep and had it eat the boy, our voices slowing down to a quiet trail as we realized what we were doing, her eyes wide in the dark before bedtime, us curled around her on top of the covers. Oops.

There are many immature ways I still feel young but I'm nonetheless getting older (and wiser at an eighth of the rate). Old move: I got a pap smear for my birthday last fall. Immature move: I think I might start doing that yearly because I got a few extra "happy birthday's," giving my birth date to check in and so on.

Let's see, I watched Enola and The Queen's Gambit and fell in love with women all over again.

Oh – I got a new, full-time job! It's been great. Rewarding. Uses my skillset. Makes me feel like a grown-up. It also takes about 30 minutes to explain so I'll spare you.

In other literal news, I got the cover of Crown City Magazine again. In honesty, the key is the photo someone more professional took. Also got a Coronavirus at Christmastime feature for the Coronado Times. You can read more about my island Times life here if you're really, really bored – so these are basically some of my favorite people ever and I wish we could have writer get-togethers which they did before COVID and I arrived.

The writing and income life is good for once. If only I could make time to finish that pesky 30-something coming-of-age novel instead of blogging therapeutically.

I still like how I saw this on Twitter and thought, yep.

Anyone else have an Apple Watch and not know what to do with it? If you have one and do know what to do with it, please tell me. I'm tempted to donate it to someone who needs it. I still love you for getting it for my birthday, Cary, don't get me wrong.

Yet it feels like the giant blue pleather planner I bought when I was 12 and pretty much just enjoyed rewriting my homework assignments in my best (still really bad) handwriting and seeing a five dollar bill in the clear plastic pouch inside.

I proceeded to leave it in every store – racing back in a panic – when I put it down to check out an item.

Cary was gone for some training for a couple weeks recently. The C.B. Strike series on HBO MAX and frozen burritos got me though. Also my amazing mom-in-law. Grandparents may not replace your spouse. They may spoil your kids or not know where everything goes, or not know how to communicate every drop-off, pick-up and chore or errand like your more intuitive spouse after nearly 15 years of marriage. But they sure damn do make it easier when you have to change one less diaper, discipline one less time, deal with one less load of dishes or laundry, make one less even simple meal; and they provide that much more love.

Plus I didn't have to clean the microwave that was laughing at and taunting me. I wanted to shed a tear.

Because when your kids are getting in their car seats, talking incessantly or fighting, and you close the car door on their high, penetrating voices. And you pause. Walk as slowly as possible around to your own car door. It's one break. Adding a grandparent is a whole other one.

Then we drive home, Jules asking me about our our poor dead dog, girls marrying girls, me dying, God, heaven, giving birth (seriously all one in day)... And I’m like, I want them to ask and learn and find their way but also I’m just so tired and can’t even explain these things when tip-top. I mess up these conversations so much. Like I don’t have the answers, kid. Just be a nice person. But like tough when you have to be. Ugghh, good luck.

For some wins – what I live for – we watched Earwig and the Witch (also on HBO), the whole weird thing in peace, both kids rapt, me with coffee I made it all the way through without heating up. And we watched Frozen 2 for the millionth time (still so good) one night while they licked clean bowls of popcorn, also peaceful and laughing together in the near darkness because Jules makes it that way for a "special night" and we were close to her birthday – and I realized how much Cole is absorbing these days, talking about the "ice boat" and the "dark sea." And it's all worth it all over again and again.

Us toward the beginning of the pandemic,
getting ice cream and eating it in the traffic median. 😳