Potty Training 101
We lay in bed, arms crossed, Steve’s over his chest, and mine across my belly, both of us unconsciously protecting our most valuable commodities: heart and womb.
“I think it’s time we just go military on ‘em and get it done with,” he asserts.
“I don’t know. What if one of them gets it, but the other isn’t ready. Let’s just play it by ear.”
We are talking about potty training our two-year-old twins, Benjamin and Marina. Steve, a math teacher, wants to take the logical, ordered approach. As an actress and artist, I want to go with a more creative, freeform method. I have to add that Steve’s techniques have always been the path to success in our previous efforts: sleep-training, feeding schedules, consistent discipline. Nonetheless, I feel a need to argue with him, if only to keep in shape for these tactical bouts.
“C’mon, Hon. They’ll pick it up at their own pace. I promise they won’t go to their Microsoft interviews still sucking their thumbs and wearing diapers.”
“Look, let’s try it my way. If they’re not potty trained within the week,” he concedes, “we’ll reassess it.” We’re like some kind of miniature parenting focus group, awaiting results from our study.
For each child, I purchase three pairs of outrageously overpriced training underpants, imagining, in my naiveté, that these will last three days. We have waited until the heat of summer in their second year, so that we can let them run around naked on the back deck, and, hopefully, become aware of the fact that they are peeing. We fill up a little wading pool for them to play in, and explain the rules.
“Alright. No peeing in the pool. If you need to pee, go and sit on the potty,” I say, gesturing to the lovely addition to our outdoor patio furniture.
“Okay,” says Benji as he is peeing out a stream into the pool. “Oh, look. I peed!” He is thrilled with this visible action that he is now able to perform with his useful equipment.
Not to be outdone, Marina exclaims, “Ohp.” Bowing her legs, she opens her eyes wide with surprise, “I can pee, too!”
“Run to the potty. Run. Run!” I shout, knowing full well this is a futile effort. The damage is done. Simultaneously, they race to the potty chair and in a hilarious game of musical chair, they try to sit on top of each other.
“Me first,” says Benji, and seven seconds later, “Nope. I can’t pee.”
That afternoon, we go through all six pairs of underwear. I race to Target and buy 12 more pairs. They are ridiculously pricey. We have to get a second mortgage on the house.
That night, we put the kids to bed in underpants. I know. Well, now I know. You could have told me earlier that most toddlers sleep in diapers.
The next morning….success! Benji’s pee actually ends up in the potty (not around it, under it, or on Mommy’s shoe). We jump up and down shouting, “Yay, Benji! Benji peed in the potty,” like a family of deranged village idiots. We call the grandparents and repeat the process. They shout over the speakerphone, “Wow, that’s terrific!” as if he had just won the Nobel Peace Prize. And then Marina succeeds, too. And more ecstasy and stickers on charts and promises of lollipops for going number two.
We become potty-obsessed. We have set up two potties in each bathroom for Simultaneous Pee Fests. On Ebay, we order a folding, portable, plastic seat insert for public toilets. (It arrives well after the hooplah, and pinches, anyway.) We carry a potty in the trunk of the car, and haul it with us to parks and playgrounds where restrooms are scarce. We have late night debates on the dueling merits of the potty ring vs. the floor model. In the car, we put plastic bags on the carseats, and under the driver’s seat we stow rolls of paper towels (the quicker-soaker-upper) and spare (gender-generic) pants and underwear. In the first week, we launder constantly – not just pants and undies, but socks, shoes, and shirts. Resolve carpet cleaner is our new best friend. The pee is ubiquitous.
We ride the potty roller coaster. There are successes and accidents. At the Issaquah Salmon Days Festival, I change a miserable, wet child on the counter of the police station, and sheepishly ask if we can use the restroom. At Kelsey Creek Park, the kids turn their lips down when offered the services of the Honey Pot Porta-John. Finally, Benji concedes. Suddenly, he is holding something and saying, “Mom, what’s this?” It is the urinal cake. I scream “Drop it! Drop it,” like it is a live grenade. (Well, maybe that’s not the exact metaphor…) He does and begins to cry. I feel like a creep. I realize, as I dig in my bag for some Purell, that I have probably just yanked the brakes on the potty train-ing.
Happily, the children have a new potty interest. They are fascinated by the size and shape of their poop in the potty. They have inherited this trait from their father, who has been known to exclaim, “Honey, come quick. You gotta see this!” Like images in a cloud, Benji and Marina see sculpted bunnies and bunches of grapes. One day, Marina shouted cheerfully, “Come quick!” We race into the bathroom. Pointing in the toilet she says, “See? A Mommy poop, a Daddy poop and two teeny, tiny babies.”
Benji is thrilled. “You pooped a whole family!” We flush, but the smaller pooplets don’t go down. “Oh, no! The Mommy and Daddy left without their babies!”
“Don’t worry,” Marina consoles. “They went to work. They’ll be back soon.” The remaining pellets are still swirling in the bowl. “See? They’re fine. They’re playing tag.”
Now, nearly a year later, our potty training travails are a mere glimmer. Like pregnancy and 2 a.m. feedings, our systems are trained to forget the pain-in-the-tush aspects of potty training, so that we will have the stupidity to go through it all over again for the sake of reproducing. So, when my friend Sylvia’s son was trudging through his first day of training, and his 16th pair of underwear, she asked me, “Was it this hard with your kids?” Thinking about the Porta-John, I smiled and said, “Piece of cake.”
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Travel Travails with Toddlers
Click here to view the PhotoStory of Paris and Switzerland. (Remember to turn on your speakers)
Or See photos of our trip at Kodakgallery.com
Usename: Ilanalong@hotmail.com
Password: Lonnie
“Let us know how it goes,” our friends smirked before we departed with our three year old twins on a two week foray into France and Switzerland. Steve and I loved adventure traveling together in our pre-kid days. We’d sling backpacks on our backs and spontaneously discover hostels and street food vendors in the back-alleys of Thailand, Turkey and Morocco. We knew this would be…well…different.
So, armed with two single umbrella strollers, clipped together to carry kids and bags through airports and train stations, we lugged our entourage to the gate at Iceland Air. Laying over in Reykjavik saved us over $1000 in airfare. But, when a delay in New York caused us to miss our Iceland flight to Paris, we spent six hours in a smoky Icelandic hotel, sleeping off the grumpies.
Finally, Paris. Aaaaah. With three-year-olds. Ooooh.
With a lovely little one bedroom apartment as a base, we practiced ADD tourism, visiting as many sights as possible, and then racing ‘home’ on the subway for a nap. Usually, we missed the window, and wound up with one or both children losing themselves to a Metro Meltdown. This was particularly painful because the unspoken rule of the Paris Metro is just that: silence. Imagine a shrieking howler monkey in an echo chamber and you’re right there with us.
There was, of course, plenty of glory. Eating a seven dollar ice cream cone after descending the Eiffel Tower – worth every penny. Visiting the Louvre on ‘Free Day” and going right to the front of the line because of the strollers. (We even considered, for future visits, pushing each other in a wheelchair, for ease of access.) Strolling the picturesque Luxemburg Gardens, and eating a sinfully delicious chocolate croissant.
Our train ride to Lausanne, Switzerland led us to Lake Geneva’s swan-spotted waters, in the foothills of the Alps. We found the high speed train fast and comfortable. Small ‘lap’ children travel free, to boot. Our kids napped in the “tents” formed between the back and forward facing seats.
Our mini portable car seats in the rental car worked moderately well. They would have worked better if we hadn’t forgotten to bring the locking clips. So, Steve devised a spider web like contraption that welded the seatbelts together securely.
Swiss road signs, incidentally, all look like an octopus doing the Macarena. We stopped to ask for directions, only to receive the same response – loosely translated as, “Straight. Straight. You go straight ahead. You can’t miss it, stupid Americans.” Two hours later, we were in Italy.
The room in the Swiss guest house had a bathroom the size of a small village, so we bedded the kids down in there for some ‘parental privacy’. (This was considerably better than the New York hotel room on our return layover, where Steve and I hungrily devoured Chinese food out of a Styrofoam container while sitting in the bathroom so that the kids could fall asleep in the tiny room.) At the guest house, the catch was, until the kids were soundly asleep, we had to use the hall bathroom. Steve assured me he was not using our balcony.
The Swiss sticker shocker took us by surprise. Our first evening, we ordered a small personal pizza and a half portion of spaghetti for $35! The kicker was that the waitress refused to bring us more than two glasses of tap water for the four of us, explaining, “You did not order enough food for four glasses.” The rest of the week we hit the markets and ate Museli and milk at breakfast, bread with deliciously creamy Swiss cheese for lunch and $45 dinners in restaurants. Meals, by the way, were always served without vegetables. We have never craved a good head of broccoli so desperately.
The Swiss countryside was pastoral, with lovely mountain views, a visit to the cheese makers in Gruyere, idyllic drives, medieval castles, fun funiculars and enough milk products and chocolate to seduce a lactose intolerant person into a stupor. Nonetheless, we were looking forward to returning to the exciting energy of Paris for our last night of vacation.
The city of Paris was abuzz. That very night, France would compete against Italy in the World Cup Soccer Finals. We high-tailed it to the Champs Elysee, where the road was mobbed with folks peering through restaurant windows, trying to get a glimpse of three of four tiny TVs. We marveled at the missed opportunity for capitalism. Americans would have set up big screen TVs everywhere, and charged admission! We slipped down a quiet side street towards the Eiffel Tower, and watched the match at a Chinese restaurant. At 11 p.m., as the game went into overtime, the children’s eyelids drooped, but they shook off sleep at the prospect of seeing the Eiffel Tower lit up at night.
By a hair, France was defeated. We strolled through the streets of heavy disappointment until we spotted the glimmering lights of the iconic tower. The magnificent image raised our spirits all the way home. Even through Iceland.
Click here to view the PhotoStory of Paris and Switzerland. (Remember to turn on your speakers)
Or See photos of our trip at Kodakgallery.com
Usename: Ilanalong@hotmail.com
Password: Lonnie
“Let us know how it goes,” our friends smirked before we departed with our three year old twins on a two week foray into France and Switzerland. Steve and I loved adventure traveling together in our pre-kid days. We’d sling backpacks on our backs and spontaneously discover hostels and street food vendors in the back-alleys of Thailand, Turkey and Morocco. We knew this would be…well…different.
So, armed with two single umbrella strollers, clipped together to carry kids and bags through airports and train stations, we lugged our entourage to the gate at Iceland Air. Laying over in Reykjavik saved us over $1000 in airfare. But, when a delay in New York caused us to miss our Iceland flight to Paris, we spent six hours in a smoky Icelandic hotel, sleeping off the grumpies.
Finally, Paris. Aaaaah. With three-year-olds. Ooooh.
With a lovely little one bedroom apartment as a base, we practiced ADD tourism, visiting as many sights as possible, and then racing ‘home’ on the subway for a nap. Usually, we missed the window, and wound up with one or both children losing themselves to a Metro Meltdown. This was particularly painful because the unspoken rule of the Paris Metro is just that: silence. Imagine a shrieking howler monkey in an echo chamber and you’re right there with us.There was, of course, plenty of glory. Eating a seven dollar ice cream cone after descending the Eiffel Tower – worth every penny. Visiting the Louvre on ‘Free Day” and going right to the front of the line because of the strollers. (We even considered, for future visits, pushing each other in a wheelchair, for ease of access.) Strolling the picturesque Luxemburg Gardens, and eating a sinfully delicious chocolate croissant.
Our train ride to Lausanne, Switzerland led us to Lake Geneva’s swan-spotted waters, in the foothills of the Alps. We found the high speed train fast and comfortable. Small ‘lap’ children travel free, to boot. Our kids napped in the “tents” formed between the back and forward facing seats.
Our mini portable car seats in the rental car worked moderately well. They would have worked better if we hadn’t forgotten to bring the locking clips. So, Steve devised a spider web like contraption that welded the seatbelts together securely.
Swiss road signs, incidentally, all look like an octopus doing the Macarena. We stopped to ask for directions, only to receive the same response – loosely translated as, “Straight. Straight. You go straight ahead. You can’t miss it, stupid Americans.” Two hours later, we were in Italy.
The room in the Swiss guest house had a bathroom the size of a small village, so we bedded the kids down in there for some ‘parental privacy’. (This was considerably better than the New York hotel room on our return layover, where Steve and I hungrily devoured Chinese food out of a Styrofoam container while sitting in the bathroom so that the kids could fall asleep in the tiny room.) At the guest house, the catch was, until the kids were soundly asleep, we had to use the hall bathroom. Steve assured me he was not using our balcony.
The Swiss sticker shocker took us by surprise. Our first evening, we ordered a small personal pizza and a half portion of spaghetti for $35! The kicker was that the waitress refused to bring us more than two glasses of tap water for the four of us, explaining, “You did not order enough food for four glasses.” The rest of the week we hit the markets and ate Museli and milk at breakfast, bread with deliciously creamy Swiss cheese for lunch and $45 dinners in restaurants. Meals, by the way, were always served without vegetables. We have never craved a good head of broccoli so desperately.
The Swiss countryside was pastoral, with lovely mountain views, a visit to the cheese makers in Gruyere, idyllic drives, medieval castles, fun funiculars and enough milk products and chocolate to seduce a lactose intolerant person into a stupor. Nonetheless, we were looking forward to returning to the exciting energy of Paris for our last night of vacation.
The city of Paris was abuzz. That very night, France would compete against Italy in the World Cup Soccer Finals. We high-tailed it to the Champs Elysee, where the road was mobbed with folks peering through restaurant windows, trying to get a glimpse of three of four tiny TVs. We marveled at the missed opportunity for capitalism. Americans would have set up big screen TVs everywhere, and charged admission! We slipped down a quiet side street towards the Eiffel Tower, and watched the match at a Chinese restaurant. At 11 p.m., as the game went into overtime, the children’s eyelids drooped, but they shook off sleep at the prospect of seeing the Eiffel Tower lit up at night.
By a hair, France was defeated. We strolled through the streets of heavy disappointment until we spotted the glimmering lights of the iconic tower. The magnificent image raised our spirits all the way home. Even through Iceland.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Timeshare Sluts
We had been amateurs, timeshare virgins, settling for measly gifts of costume jewelry, baby boom boxes or a never-available flight to Vegas. We didn't yet have the know-how to break into the competition for the paragon of prizes; that timeshare pot-'o-gold waiting for us in Mazatlan, Mexico. But that…that was years ago. Now we have mastered the subtle art of hooking and toying with the fish, only to let it go. We are the sportfishers of resort viewing. We are timeshare sluts.
On our most recent excursion to Mazatlan, Timeshare Mecca, Steve and I were smug as we headed towards the airport exits, dawdling just long enough to make ourselves noticeable to the timeshare sharks that swarmed the lobby. We were willing targets as we were propositioned by representatives of the pricey resorts. Eager for their commission, smiling enticers offered us tickets to the local tourist fiesta, a fancy meal at the hotel restaurant and transportation to and from the airport. We casually allowed ourselves to be lured. We had sat through these 90-minute presentations before. They were cake.
We had our routine down by now. Yes, we are over 28. Yes, we have a major credit card that is not a debit card. And yes, we are married. You don't have to be, but it adds authenticity. We had, of course, practiced on the plane, to avoid the unfortunate mishap that occurred on our visit last year, when we were still engaged:
"Are you over 28 years of age?"
"Yes."
"Are you married?"
"No," I sputtered
"Yes," Steve answered simultaneously.
"Well," I countered pathetically, "We're planning on getting married." She gave us the tour anyway. She is, after all, on commission.
In the taxi ride to our hotel, Steve effused over the prizes we would garner…our biggest take yet. I sulked. I had really wanted that fabulous prize of the catamaran trip to Deer Island, the one we got last year, with the all-you-can-eat-and-drink buffet. It hadn't even been offered by the resort we were to visit.
"Don't worry, Honey," Steve vowed. "If that's what you want, there are plenty of timeshare hawkers on the streets. We'll do another presentation from town, and they'll have the prize."
Steve was right. The next day, while meandering through downtown Mazatlan, we were accosted by Siomara. Fierce bargaining ensued. She offered us another fiesta plus a bottle of tequila, a fifth of Khalua and a Mexican blanket, approximate retail value: $1.75. But we held out for the combo-pack: a breakfast buffet, the fiesta, $30 American cash and, most importantly, the catamaran ride to Deer Island. The agreement seemed dubious, but we had it in writing. She said she'd pick us up in the morning at our hotel. "Don't go with anyone else," she warned, threateningly. This business was cutthroat.
We arrived sans incident at the ritzy Grande Resort Mazatlan. The sprawling lawns, cascading levels of swimming pools and the crystal blue beach were inviting, but we had come on a catamaran mission, and we would not be swayed. We were seated in an antiseptic holding pen, at a table where Sergio asked us if we were ready to buy a timeshare. We'd be interested in looking, we told him, and we'll see where we go from there. We knew from our vast experience that honesty is generally the best card to play. Once, on a previous timeshare romp, realizing his time could be better spent elsewhere, the salesman gave us our prizes without any hullabaloo at all. But, not so in Mazatlan. Mr. Simpers, the heavy, from Canton, Ohio was called to our table.
"Mr. Simpers, hello."
"Oh, ho," he laughed . "Call me Ian," he said with well-rehearsed joviality. "So, Sergio tells me that you don't wanna buy a timeshare. I'm gonna cut to the chase, here. We might not let you go on the tour."
Now, wait just a minute. This is not the timeshare experience we know and love. In Seattle, we were coddled; led into a room for a PowerPoint presentation as the host cheerfully mugged to the audience. "How many of you were talking to the wife on the way over here sayin', 'Now, Honey, remember, we're not here to buy anything. We're just goin' for the prizes.' C'mon, raise your hands. That's right. Heh, heh, heh. Well, seriously, folks, I'm here to change – your – mind. Hey buddy, you with the cough…want another cigarette?" No, that kind of 90-minute presentation gets you a dinner-for-two coupon at Bennigan's and zirconium earrings.
In Mazatlan, Ian argued that it would be a waste of his time to allow us to sit through his grueling presentation. "Tell me why you think I should let you go on this tour?"
We had been picked up from our hotel nearly an hour and a half earlier, and our stomachs were grumbling. "Look," said Steve, "We're hungry. Perhaps if you gave us the breakfast you promised, we'd be in a better position to buy. It's a leap of faith. You qualify your buyers. We fit your criteria, and then you take the leap of faith. There's no guarantee in sales." My real-estate agent husband added, "But, you're ruining your client relationship. So, either try to sell us something, or cut us loose."
"Hey," Ian said, hackles raised, "I don't come into your place of business and tell you how to run things."
"We don't invite you to," Steve reminded him calmly.
"Give me a minute," Ian grimly countered, reaching into his jacket pocket. Instinctively, I leaned sharply backwards. Was he going for his gun? I wouldn't buy his timeshare, and now he's gonna shoot me? He pulled out a cell phone, whipped it open with a flourish, and swiveled into a standing position, like James Bond. He whispered into his phone for a moment. I could only imagine him talking to his own answering machine. "Okay," he said, returning to us stoically, "My boss didn't want to let you go on the tour, but I did."
Sergio led us to the breakfast buffet, shaking his head. "Sorry about Mr. Simpers. He can be difficult." Classic good cop, bad cop. Unruffled, we filled our plates with papaya, pineapple, mango, fresh Mexican breads and an omelet stuffed with salsa and cheese. Fresh squeezed orange juice sat in glasses sweating with condensation on white linen tablecloths. I took in the sumptuous view from the veranda where we sat…nothing but sun, sand and surf. Sure, I'd stay here, as soon as it appears in the Lonely Planet Recommended Budget Accommodations section.
Making conversation, Steve asked, "So, Sergio, are you married?"
"Divorced," he answered brusquely. He looked at us to prod him for details. We did not. "It's a long story," he continued, hoping we'd bite. We did not.
Sergio, unable to contain himself, suddenly launched into the whole bitchy wife saga. "She wasn't a homemaker. She refused to care for the house, always complaining about the laundry and the cooking. When I married her, she pretended to do all these things, but really, she was just lazy. I was always working hard, but when I came home, she would say she was so tired from taking care of the baby. Well, isn't that her one job, to be a mother? And now I only see my daughter on weekends." We were enthusiastically cooperative when Sergio suggested we move on to viewing the property.
We were led on a cursory tour of the spectacular grounds: ponds and pools, flamingos and peacocks, strutting around as proud as the suntanned elite preening with their margaritas at the bar. I felt like the Little Match Girl shopping at Tiffany's. Not guilty, really, just numbed by the fact that with my teacher's salary, this would never be my lifestyle. Abruptly, the tour ended, and we were corralled back into the holding pen; relegated to a table in the back, so that our sour attitudes wouldn't spread like the plague.
Sergio rambled on about the benefits of "vacation property". The word, "timeshare", apparently, had gotten a bad rap. So, like the pathetic prune, vacation property is now the pitted plum of realty. Of course, a rose by any other name would still stink if you're charging a $350 annual maintenance fee.
Then, Sergio started with the Yes Questions. "Do you like to have a nice vacation?"
"Yes." How can you possibly say no to that?
"Would you like to stay in a luxury hotel, scuba dive and golf for half of what you already pay?"
"Yes." Of course we don't golf or dive, but what's the use in arguing at this point.
Then, to Steve, "Do you love your wife enough to get her a vacation property to show her how much you love vacationing with her?" No kidding.
"We're really not interested," Steve finally conceded.
Sergio would not give up. He scribbled furiously, writing upside-down so that we could see; an unnerving talent we'd witnessed at other timeshare presentations and when we bought a used car. My eyes glazed over. "We've been here for well over two hours, Sergio. The presentation was supposed to be 90 minutes. Can we just get our prizes, please?"
"I have to fill seven pages, or they'll fire me. I'm already on probation," he said, trying to play the pity card. "If I don't sell a property this week, they'll probably fire me, anyway." We were unmoved. The yellow legal pad was cluttered with oversized dollar signs, underlined for emphasis. Columns comparing impossibly unrelated figures proved that if you stay seven nights in a luxury hotel you'll be saving more money than if you camp in a tent on a riverbank in Montana. Twenty minutes later, Sergio wouldn't let us go until Ian had had one final crack at us. He was the closer. But now, Ian was going to make us wait. He had fish biting, or so he pretended, and paid us no heed, trapped at the back table.
Three hours invested, Ian finally sat down with us hurriedly. "So, what's the problem?"
Sergio gave him the run-down. "They don't want it. It's too expensive. It doesn't suit their lifestyle."
"If I offered you the package for $5,000 right now, would you take it?"
Considering the maintenance fees were more than we generally spent on a month-long vacation's worth of hotel rates, we declined. Ian stood up, flushed, in a huff. He made faces of astonishment and let out small, high-pitched squeaks of disbelief, drawing as much attention to himself as possible. "Wow," I commented, "You're very dramatic. You should have been an actor."
Momentarily stunned by what he perceived to be flattery, he blushed, and then smiled, puffing his chest out, "I 'd like to be!" Suddenly, remembering his rampage, he returned to his Mr. Hyde persona. "I signed for you to go on this tour. I signed my name and had faith in you," he burst out, channeling the likes of John Proctor in The Crucible or Martin Luther posting his signature on the church door. He reddened with righteous indignation, and it looked to me like his eyebrows might pop off. "You'll need to talk to my boss, Mr. Martinez. We may not give you the prizes. You misled us."
We were exhausted, worn-out and frazzled. Did they really think that at this point we would turn around and say, "No, no, please, because we want the prizes, we will take the timeshare." I held my tongue, as I realized that Steve was much better at maintaining a reasonable façade, whereas I was likely to turn into a raging nutcase. We were steered towards Mr. Martinez, a short, rodent-like, bald man.
"What? What's the problem here?" Mr. Martinez sputtered like a busted teakettle. "You come to our resort, eat our breakfast, don't buy a property, and then expect a prize? What is wrong with you people?" he spat at us. "Do you think you can just waltz in here and walk off with prizes?"
"You invited us," Steve reminded him gently.
"Yes, but we didn't subpoena you!"
The exchange had risen in volume and potential suckers were beginning to take notice. Despising confrontation, I turned away from the scene and began walking towards the lobby. I could hear Steve continuing. "Look, we've met our end of the bargain." My usually calm husband's voice rose to a bristly pitch. "We've listened to your sales pitch and spent over three hours here!"
Glimpsing backwards, I saw Mr. Martinez thrust the prize claim into Steve's hands. Lowering his voice he muttered, "Don't come back," as if surely, when we are retired and do choose to buy vacation property, this would be the first place we'd come.
In the lobby, the smiling concierge informed us that their resort does not offer the catamaran ride we had been promised as a prize. We had it in writing, we said, but they had, of course, misplaced our original agreement. We settled for a small motorboat ride out to the island, where we snuck off and joined the fun-loving catamaran gang for volleyball and kayaking.
Weary, but not beaten, Steve and I strolled several miles down the length of the beach, the posh resort shrinking to a speck behind us. At the end of the peninsula, we reached the colorful fishing boats and the homey, outdoor restaurant shacks that were so noticeably absent at the pristine resort. As the sun began to dip its fingertips in the water, a fisherman sold us a mouthwatering slab of freshly caught marlin, which the restaurateur cheerfully slathered in butter and garlic. As we relished the warm evening air, a cold can of Tecate and the spicy frijoles, we decided it would be at least a year until we braved another presentation. Even timeshare sluts have a bad date once in a while.
We had been amateurs, timeshare virgins, settling for measly gifts of costume jewelry, baby boom boxes or a never-available flight to Vegas. We didn't yet have the know-how to break into the competition for the paragon of prizes; that timeshare pot-'o-gold waiting for us in Mazatlan, Mexico. But that…that was years ago. Now we have mastered the subtle art of hooking and toying with the fish, only to let it go. We are the sportfishers of resort viewing. We are timeshare sluts.
On our most recent excursion to Mazatlan, Timeshare Mecca, Steve and I were smug as we headed towards the airport exits, dawdling just long enough to make ourselves noticeable to the timeshare sharks that swarmed the lobby. We were willing targets as we were propositioned by representatives of the pricey resorts. Eager for their commission, smiling enticers offered us tickets to the local tourist fiesta, a fancy meal at the hotel restaurant and transportation to and from the airport. We casually allowed ourselves to be lured. We had sat through these 90-minute presentations before. They were cake.
We had our routine down by now. Yes, we are over 28. Yes, we have a major credit card that is not a debit card. And yes, we are married. You don't have to be, but it adds authenticity. We had, of course, practiced on the plane, to avoid the unfortunate mishap that occurred on our visit last year, when we were still engaged:
"Are you over 28 years of age?"
"Yes."
"Are you married?"
"No," I sputtered
"Yes," Steve answered simultaneously.
"Well," I countered pathetically, "We're planning on getting married." She gave us the tour anyway. She is, after all, on commission.
In the taxi ride to our hotel, Steve effused over the prizes we would garner…our biggest take yet. I sulked. I had really wanted that fabulous prize of the catamaran trip to Deer Island, the one we got last year, with the all-you-can-eat-and-drink buffet. It hadn't even been offered by the resort we were to visit.
"Don't worry, Honey," Steve vowed. "If that's what you want, there are plenty of timeshare hawkers on the streets. We'll do another presentation from town, and they'll have the prize."
Steve was right. The next day, while meandering through downtown Mazatlan, we were accosted by Siomara. Fierce bargaining ensued. She offered us another fiesta plus a bottle of tequila, a fifth of Khalua and a Mexican blanket, approximate retail value: $1.75. But we held out for the combo-pack: a breakfast buffet, the fiesta, $30 American cash and, most importantly, the catamaran ride to Deer Island. The agreement seemed dubious, but we had it in writing. She said she'd pick us up in the morning at our hotel. "Don't go with anyone else," she warned, threateningly. This business was cutthroat.
We arrived sans incident at the ritzy Grande Resort Mazatlan. The sprawling lawns, cascading levels of swimming pools and the crystal blue beach were inviting, but we had come on a catamaran mission, and we would not be swayed. We were seated in an antiseptic holding pen, at a table where Sergio asked us if we were ready to buy a timeshare. We'd be interested in looking, we told him, and we'll see where we go from there. We knew from our vast experience that honesty is generally the best card to play. Once, on a previous timeshare romp, realizing his time could be better spent elsewhere, the salesman gave us our prizes without any hullabaloo at all. But, not so in Mazatlan. Mr. Simpers, the heavy, from Canton, Ohio was called to our table.
"Mr. Simpers, hello."
"Oh, ho," he laughed . "Call me Ian," he said with well-rehearsed joviality. "So, Sergio tells me that you don't wanna buy a timeshare. I'm gonna cut to the chase, here. We might not let you go on the tour."
Now, wait just a minute. This is not the timeshare experience we know and love. In Seattle, we were coddled; led into a room for a PowerPoint presentation as the host cheerfully mugged to the audience. "How many of you were talking to the wife on the way over here sayin', 'Now, Honey, remember, we're not here to buy anything. We're just goin' for the prizes.' C'mon, raise your hands. That's right. Heh, heh, heh. Well, seriously, folks, I'm here to change – your – mind. Hey buddy, you with the cough…want another cigarette?" No, that kind of 90-minute presentation gets you a dinner-for-two coupon at Bennigan's and zirconium earrings.
In Mazatlan, Ian argued that it would be a waste of his time to allow us to sit through his grueling presentation. "Tell me why you think I should let you go on this tour?"
We had been picked up from our hotel nearly an hour and a half earlier, and our stomachs were grumbling. "Look," said Steve, "We're hungry. Perhaps if you gave us the breakfast you promised, we'd be in a better position to buy. It's a leap of faith. You qualify your buyers. We fit your criteria, and then you take the leap of faith. There's no guarantee in sales." My real-estate agent husband added, "But, you're ruining your client relationship. So, either try to sell us something, or cut us loose."
"Hey," Ian said, hackles raised, "I don't come into your place of business and tell you how to run things."
"We don't invite you to," Steve reminded him calmly.
"Give me a minute," Ian grimly countered, reaching into his jacket pocket. Instinctively, I leaned sharply backwards. Was he going for his gun? I wouldn't buy his timeshare, and now he's gonna shoot me? He pulled out a cell phone, whipped it open with a flourish, and swiveled into a standing position, like James Bond. He whispered into his phone for a moment. I could only imagine him talking to his own answering machine. "Okay," he said, returning to us stoically, "My boss didn't want to let you go on the tour, but I did."
Sergio led us to the breakfast buffet, shaking his head. "Sorry about Mr. Simpers. He can be difficult." Classic good cop, bad cop. Unruffled, we filled our plates with papaya, pineapple, mango, fresh Mexican breads and an omelet stuffed with salsa and cheese. Fresh squeezed orange juice sat in glasses sweating with condensation on white linen tablecloths. I took in the sumptuous view from the veranda where we sat…nothing but sun, sand and surf. Sure, I'd stay here, as soon as it appears in the Lonely Planet Recommended Budget Accommodations section.
Making conversation, Steve asked, "So, Sergio, are you married?"
"Divorced," he answered brusquely. He looked at us to prod him for details. We did not. "It's a long story," he continued, hoping we'd bite. We did not.
Sergio, unable to contain himself, suddenly launched into the whole bitchy wife saga. "She wasn't a homemaker. She refused to care for the house, always complaining about the laundry and the cooking. When I married her, she pretended to do all these things, but really, she was just lazy. I was always working hard, but when I came home, she would say she was so tired from taking care of the baby. Well, isn't that her one job, to be a mother? And now I only see my daughter on weekends." We were enthusiastically cooperative when Sergio suggested we move on to viewing the property.
We were led on a cursory tour of the spectacular grounds: ponds and pools, flamingos and peacocks, strutting around as proud as the suntanned elite preening with their margaritas at the bar. I felt like the Little Match Girl shopping at Tiffany's. Not guilty, really, just numbed by the fact that with my teacher's salary, this would never be my lifestyle. Abruptly, the tour ended, and we were corralled back into the holding pen; relegated to a table in the back, so that our sour attitudes wouldn't spread like the plague.
Sergio rambled on about the benefits of "vacation property". The word, "timeshare", apparently, had gotten a bad rap. So, like the pathetic prune, vacation property is now the pitted plum of realty. Of course, a rose by any other name would still stink if you're charging a $350 annual maintenance fee.
Then, Sergio started with the Yes Questions. "Do you like to have a nice vacation?"
"Yes." How can you possibly say no to that?
"Would you like to stay in a luxury hotel, scuba dive and golf for half of what you already pay?"
"Yes." Of course we don't golf or dive, but what's the use in arguing at this point.
Then, to Steve, "Do you love your wife enough to get her a vacation property to show her how much you love vacationing with her?" No kidding.
"We're really not interested," Steve finally conceded.
Sergio would not give up. He scribbled furiously, writing upside-down so that we could see; an unnerving talent we'd witnessed at other timeshare presentations and when we bought a used car. My eyes glazed over. "We've been here for well over two hours, Sergio. The presentation was supposed to be 90 minutes. Can we just get our prizes, please?"
"I have to fill seven pages, or they'll fire me. I'm already on probation," he said, trying to play the pity card. "If I don't sell a property this week, they'll probably fire me, anyway." We were unmoved. The yellow legal pad was cluttered with oversized dollar signs, underlined for emphasis. Columns comparing impossibly unrelated figures proved that if you stay seven nights in a luxury hotel you'll be saving more money than if you camp in a tent on a riverbank in Montana. Twenty minutes later, Sergio wouldn't let us go until Ian had had one final crack at us. He was the closer. But now, Ian was going to make us wait. He had fish biting, or so he pretended, and paid us no heed, trapped at the back table.
Three hours invested, Ian finally sat down with us hurriedly. "So, what's the problem?"
Sergio gave him the run-down. "They don't want it. It's too expensive. It doesn't suit their lifestyle."
"If I offered you the package for $5,000 right now, would you take it?"
Considering the maintenance fees were more than we generally spent on a month-long vacation's worth of hotel rates, we declined. Ian stood up, flushed, in a huff. He made faces of astonishment and let out small, high-pitched squeaks of disbelief, drawing as much attention to himself as possible. "Wow," I commented, "You're very dramatic. You should have been an actor."
Momentarily stunned by what he perceived to be flattery, he blushed, and then smiled, puffing his chest out, "I 'd like to be!" Suddenly, remembering his rampage, he returned to his Mr. Hyde persona. "I signed for you to go on this tour. I signed my name and had faith in you," he burst out, channeling the likes of John Proctor in The Crucible or Martin Luther posting his signature on the church door. He reddened with righteous indignation, and it looked to me like his eyebrows might pop off. "You'll need to talk to my boss, Mr. Martinez. We may not give you the prizes. You misled us."
We were exhausted, worn-out and frazzled. Did they really think that at this point we would turn around and say, "No, no, please, because we want the prizes, we will take the timeshare." I held my tongue, as I realized that Steve was much better at maintaining a reasonable façade, whereas I was likely to turn into a raging nutcase. We were steered towards Mr. Martinez, a short, rodent-like, bald man.
"What? What's the problem here?" Mr. Martinez sputtered like a busted teakettle. "You come to our resort, eat our breakfast, don't buy a property, and then expect a prize? What is wrong with you people?" he spat at us. "Do you think you can just waltz in here and walk off with prizes?"
"You invited us," Steve reminded him gently.
"Yes, but we didn't subpoena you!"
The exchange had risen in volume and potential suckers were beginning to take notice. Despising confrontation, I turned away from the scene and began walking towards the lobby. I could hear Steve continuing. "Look, we've met our end of the bargain." My usually calm husband's voice rose to a bristly pitch. "We've listened to your sales pitch and spent over three hours here!"
Glimpsing backwards, I saw Mr. Martinez thrust the prize claim into Steve's hands. Lowering his voice he muttered, "Don't come back," as if surely, when we are retired and do choose to buy vacation property, this would be the first place we'd come.
In the lobby, the smiling concierge informed us that their resort does not offer the catamaran ride we had been promised as a prize. We had it in writing, we said, but they had, of course, misplaced our original agreement. We settled for a small motorboat ride out to the island, where we snuck off and joined the fun-loving catamaran gang for volleyball and kayaking.
Weary, but not beaten, Steve and I strolled several miles down the length of the beach, the posh resort shrinking to a speck behind us. At the end of the peninsula, we reached the colorful fishing boats and the homey, outdoor restaurant shacks that were so noticeably absent at the pristine resort. As the sun began to dip its fingertips in the water, a fisherman sold us a mouthwatering slab of freshly caught marlin, which the restaurateur cheerfully slathered in butter and garlic. As we relished the warm evening air, a cold can of Tecate and the spicy frijoles, we decided it would be at least a year until we braved another presentation. Even timeshare sluts have a bad date once in a while.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
The Fleeting Quality of Happiness
Three weeks later,
The missing sock
The long, beige one
Gone AWOL in the laundry
(Mourned for, Dearly missed)
Finally Found!
Oh, Splendiferous Sock.
You match so many skirts and slacks.
How thrilled I am to see you
Clinging like a Joey to the pocket
Of my running pants.
Oh, happy reunion.
You sidle up in rolled bliss
To your partner, who
Waited like a war wife
In the far left corner
Of the sock drawer.
White with envy, a lone ankle sock
Peeks from beneath the heap
And deflates me with her piercing plea,
“But, oh, where is mine?”
Three weeks later,
The missing sock
The long, beige one
Gone AWOL in the laundry
(Mourned for, Dearly missed)
Finally Found!
Oh, Splendiferous Sock.
You match so many skirts and slacks.
How thrilled I am to see you
Clinging like a Joey to the pocket
Of my running pants.
Oh, happy reunion.
You sidle up in rolled bliss
To your partner, who
Waited like a war wife
In the far left corner
Of the sock drawer.
White with envy, a lone ankle sock
Peeks from beneath the heap
And deflates me with her piercing plea,
“But, oh, where is mine?”
Black Crows
The ash-black crows settle at dusk
On the bare trees of Kelsey Creek.
Their squawks and caws tangle in the branches;
Silhouettes in the dimming light.
Then, lifting in unison,
All flap and shriek,
Dark wings eclipse the startled sky.
Ruby, my unfettered dog
Pricks up her periscope ears
And stops time,
Wishing she could catch
Just one.
The ash-black crows settle at dusk
On the bare trees of Kelsey Creek.
Their squawks and caws tangle in the branches;
Silhouettes in the dimming light.
Then, lifting in unison,
All flap and shriek,
Dark wings eclipse the startled sky.
Ruby, my unfettered dog
Pricks up her periscope ears
And stops time,
Wishing she could catch
Just one.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
The Mommy Files
Notes from a Tantrum
Benji is a good boy. I just wanted to say that, right off the bat, because as you read this, you might form other impressions of my lovely little boy. He is mercurial, and I imagine it must be difficult for a three-year-old to always maintain his charismatic “Mr. Fabulous” personality. And, of course, how would we recognize what a great kid he is if we never experienced the tougher moments? So here’s what happened…
Hindsight being 20/20, it probably would have been best to just stay home from the library that morning. Benji had been overtired from our vacation in Florida, and he had kept Marina up with relentless fussing the night before. But, it being Wednesday and all, Storytime must go on.
So I pack the kids into the car, struggle with the carseat restraints, unload two fidgety three-year-olds, and sit on the radiator at Crossroads Library while Miss Franje explains the intrinsic value of the letter U. (Umbrella, Up, and, to the delight of the children, Underpants.)
“Okay kids. Let’s go,” I say. We had stamps on hands, an Angelina DVD and the book “Some Dogs Do”. It was time to go.
“But not yet,” pipes Benji. “ I wanna play on the computer.”
“No computer today. We don’t have time. Mommy has to get to work.”
His lips tremble. His eyes narrow. His cheeks appear to slide off the face. Oh, no. He’s gonna blow……
“But I wanna play on the computer. NOOOOOOO!”
Great. A library tantrum. Isn’t that the best kind? I grab Benji by the arm and simple say to Marina, “Hand.” She complies, and we walk briskly out of the library, all the while Benji wailing “Noooooooooo. I don’t wanna go.”
As happens with these two, Marina is as mild as cream cheese while her brother has his tantrum. She cheerfully looks up at me with an angel’s face and asks, “Mommy, why is Benji having a tantrum?” I know this is a rhetorical question; that she is just showing me that she can play the cherub to his demon spawn.
Ah, the parking lot at a crowded mall. I have the boy’s wrist now, as he screams and struggles against me. This is the point where any sane mother would pick up the child, march out to the car, and wrangle him into his seat. However, after a month-long coughing bout, my ribs had become so sore that I could no longer push, pull, carry or lift a thing. Certainly not a thirty pound child. Benji was well aware of this, and had used my impotence to his advantage.
The car is what? Forty steps away, maybe thirty five if we take long strides. We can do this. Step by step, I tug him through the busy lot.
We are almost at the car when Benji has a sudden screeching outburst. He throws his body vigorously to the ground, and spins like Michael Jackson on a breakdancing spree. Twisting out of my grasp he makes a break for it. I race after him, pulling Marina, but she is unable to keep up. “Grab my pantleg,” I shout to her as she stands paralyzed with panic. We chase Benji a few steps further, and I throw my body on top of him, pulling Marina along with me. I have tackled my son in a parking lot. My ribs are throbbing. This is going well.
The next moments are a blur as my sense of mortification has, mercifully, erased some of the smaller details. But somehow I get Benji into the car with the door shut. Not, of course, before a helpful passerby on his way to his business lunch “Tsk, Tsks” me.
Benji knows I don’t have the ability to wrestle him into his carseat. Standing on the carseat, he makes it clear that he has still not let go of his intense desire (which has risen to the level of an imperative) to play on the computer. I let Marina in the other side, and then open the driver’s door. Quickly, I roll down the driver’s window a bit. I am trying to reason with a hysterical three-year-old through a two-inch crack. “Benji,” I try to say in a reassuring voice that I can hear is tinged with hysteria, “Benji , it’s time to get into your carseat.” Now, I’m suddenly yelling, “I said SIT DOWN in that carseat.” My “Mommy Dearest” tactic clearly does not work.
He screams louder. He bangs his fists against the window. He bites his sister, and I let her out of the car to stand beside me. It’s a standoff.
I toy with the idea of taking him back to the library, but I know this is “crazy-talkin”. I toy with the idea of asking a stranger to wrestle him into the carseat, but I imagine that would somehow wind up in a lawsuit, or a 911 call at the very least.
Marina and I take a few steps away. We can wait him out. I hear the sobs die down and I walk back towards the car. The moment he sees me, he wails his new mantra; “I wanna go back in the library.”
Marina clutches my slacks. I grab my cellphone and call my husband, Steve. I don’t know what I expect him to do. I just want to hear his voice.
“What do you want me to do?” he asks helplessly.
“I don’t know. Come here? Put him in his carseat?” I suggest, knowing that it’s not realistic.
Now that I know I’m in this alone, I rest my head on the top of the car, and choke on a small sob. It’s been 45 minutes, and I need to get home to get ready for work. I take a deep breath and lift my head. I can handle this, I think. I’m a grownup.
Just then, a woman gets out of a car nearby. She hears the screaming and shakes her head sympathetically. “We’ve all been there,” she says.
And this calms me a little. This unconventional Sisterhood of Tantrum Survivors. This is just a stage, really. Isn’t it? Marina went through it. He’ll get through it. Then it will be something else, like, The Electric Scooter Purchase, The Car Key Trials, or The You Absolutely Will Not Date That Drug Addict Girl Again Episode.
Miraculously, he has climbed into the carseat, and begun fastening the top buckle. I drive home. It seems I’ve won, but I still feel crummy. I yelled. I lost my cool. I forgot all of the “What to Expect the Toddler Years” advice of firm but calm reactions.
This morning Marina had a tantrum right before nap. She was upset because she decided that she didn’t want the Purell after she had already rubbed it into her hands. I took Benji to his room while Steve took care of Marina. Once Benji and I are alone in the bedroom, it’s his turn to show me he’s the “Good One”. Benji runs his hand through my hair, and then traces a gentle line down my cheek. “I love you, Mommy.”
“I love you, too,” I said. I know I’m being manipulated, but it sure beats a tantrum.
Notes from a Tantrum
Benji is a good boy. I just wanted to say that, right off the bat, because as you read this, you might form other impressions of my lovely little boy. He is mercurial, and I imagine it must be difficult for a three-year-old to always maintain his charismatic “Mr. Fabulous” personality. And, of course, how would we recognize what a great kid he is if we never experienced the tougher moments? So here’s what happened…
Hindsight being 20/20, it probably would have been best to just stay home from the library that morning. Benji had been overtired from our vacation in Florida, and he had kept Marina up with relentless fussing the night before. But, it being Wednesday and all, Storytime must go on.
So I pack the kids into the car, struggle with the carseat restraints, unload two fidgety three-year-olds, and sit on the radiator at Crossroads Library while Miss Franje explains the intrinsic value of the letter U. (Umbrella, Up, and, to the delight of the children, Underpants.)
“Okay kids. Let’s go,” I say. We had stamps on hands, an Angelina DVD and the book “Some Dogs Do”. It was time to go.
“But not yet,” pipes Benji. “ I wanna play on the computer.”
“No computer today. We don’t have time. Mommy has to get to work.”
His lips tremble. His eyes narrow. His cheeks appear to slide off the face. Oh, no. He’s gonna blow……
“But I wanna play on the computer. NOOOOOOO!”
Great. A library tantrum. Isn’t that the best kind? I grab Benji by the arm and simple say to Marina, “Hand.” She complies, and we walk briskly out of the library, all the while Benji wailing “Noooooooooo. I don’t wanna go.”
As happens with these two, Marina is as mild as cream cheese while her brother has his tantrum. She cheerfully looks up at me with an angel’s face and asks, “Mommy, why is Benji having a tantrum?” I know this is a rhetorical question; that she is just showing me that she can play the cherub to his demon spawn.
Ah, the parking lot at a crowded mall. I have the boy’s wrist now, as he screams and struggles against me. This is the point where any sane mother would pick up the child, march out to the car, and wrangle him into his seat. However, after a month-long coughing bout, my ribs had become so sore that I could no longer push, pull, carry or lift a thing. Certainly not a thirty pound child. Benji was well aware of this, and had used my impotence to his advantage.
The car is what? Forty steps away, maybe thirty five if we take long strides. We can do this. Step by step, I tug him through the busy lot.
We are almost at the car when Benji has a sudden screeching outburst. He throws his body vigorously to the ground, and spins like Michael Jackson on a breakdancing spree. Twisting out of my grasp he makes a break for it. I race after him, pulling Marina, but she is unable to keep up. “Grab my pantleg,” I shout to her as she stands paralyzed with panic. We chase Benji a few steps further, and I throw my body on top of him, pulling Marina along with me. I have tackled my son in a parking lot. My ribs are throbbing. This is going well.
The next moments are a blur as my sense of mortification has, mercifully, erased some of the smaller details. But somehow I get Benji into the car with the door shut. Not, of course, before a helpful passerby on his way to his business lunch “Tsk, Tsks” me.
Benji knows I don’t have the ability to wrestle him into his carseat. Standing on the carseat, he makes it clear that he has still not let go of his intense desire (which has risen to the level of an imperative) to play on the computer. I let Marina in the other side, and then open the driver’s door. Quickly, I roll down the driver’s window a bit. I am trying to reason with a hysterical three-year-old through a two-inch crack. “Benji,” I try to say in a reassuring voice that I can hear is tinged with hysteria, “Benji , it’s time to get into your carseat.” Now, I’m suddenly yelling, “I said SIT DOWN in that carseat.” My “Mommy Dearest” tactic clearly does not work.
He screams louder. He bangs his fists against the window. He bites his sister, and I let her out of the car to stand beside me. It’s a standoff.
I toy with the idea of taking him back to the library, but I know this is “crazy-talkin”. I toy with the idea of asking a stranger to wrestle him into the carseat, but I imagine that would somehow wind up in a lawsuit, or a 911 call at the very least.
Marina and I take a few steps away. We can wait him out. I hear the sobs die down and I walk back towards the car. The moment he sees me, he wails his new mantra; “I wanna go back in the library.”
Marina clutches my slacks. I grab my cellphone and call my husband, Steve. I don’t know what I expect him to do. I just want to hear his voice.
“What do you want me to do?” he asks helplessly.
“I don’t know. Come here? Put him in his carseat?” I suggest, knowing that it’s not realistic.
Now that I know I’m in this alone, I rest my head on the top of the car, and choke on a small sob. It’s been 45 minutes, and I need to get home to get ready for work. I take a deep breath and lift my head. I can handle this, I think. I’m a grownup.
Just then, a woman gets out of a car nearby. She hears the screaming and shakes her head sympathetically. “We’ve all been there,” she says.
And this calms me a little. This unconventional Sisterhood of Tantrum Survivors. This is just a stage, really. Isn’t it? Marina went through it. He’ll get through it. Then it will be something else, like, The Electric Scooter Purchase, The Car Key Trials, or The You Absolutely Will Not Date That Drug Addict Girl Again Episode.
Miraculously, he has climbed into the carseat, and begun fastening the top buckle. I drive home. It seems I’ve won, but I still feel crummy. I yelled. I lost my cool. I forgot all of the “What to Expect the Toddler Years” advice of firm but calm reactions.
This morning Marina had a tantrum right before nap. She was upset because she decided that she didn’t want the Purell after she had already rubbed it into her hands. I took Benji to his room while Steve took care of Marina. Once Benji and I are alone in the bedroom, it’s his turn to show me he’s the “Good One”. Benji runs his hand through my hair, and then traces a gentle line down my cheek. “I love you, Mommy.”
“I love you, too,” I said. I know I’m being manipulated, but it sure beats a tantrum.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
.jpg)