she’s 8
Approximately 8 years and 5 days ago, as Ali and I drove a screaming 2–day-old Maya home from the hospital for the first time, I realized one thing:
Labor is a piece of cake. The problems start when you have to take care of an actual baby.
At Maya’s art-themed party…
When Maya was 3 days old I realized other things:
- Wipe and bottle warmers only lead to expectations.
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Cheap diapers are a bad idea.
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3 am infomercials selling sleep training DVD’s are just wrong. And mean. (And yet I succumbed?)
Maya opening her presents…
When Maya was 4 days old I realized even more things:
- A good stroller is a smart investment.
- A sturdy swing is an even better investment.
- Buying batteries in bulk – so the swing never stops – is the only way.
A very large birthday cake….
When Maya was a week old I realized she’d be an only child. Forever.
So aside from my usual negativity you may be wondering what the point of this post is. Well, not much.
My mom and I did the decorations…
Except that I just want to say – to all the other mothers out there who may be struggling – that all children eventually turn 8.
And aside from the occasional smart ass comment and the troubling lack of study skills and the hoarding tendencies?
They are actually sometimes very much enjoyable.
a very strange thing
A very strange thing happened on Saturday morning: For the first time ever, my husband offered to go get breakfast.
Just in case you’re skimming this post (I don’t blame you!) and didn’t fully get that, allow me to repeat: My husband offered to get breakfast.
I approached this unique offer with doubt. Fear even. Was it a trick? Reverse psychology?
I was so hungry that I took a chance anyway. I asked for bagels and cream cheese. Smoked salmon and capers. A tomato. I even threw caution to the wind and specified wild salmon with no added color.
And just for $hit$ and giggles? I threw in a request for fresh squeezed orange juice.
I even broke out a “good glass” for the occasion. For myself anyway.
As my husband wrote these things down, jumped in the car, and headed to Bristol Farms, I surveyed our empty fridge to determine what Plan B would be when he inevitably came back missing a critical item on the list. Like the bagels.
But here’s the crazy thing: Ali got everything on the list. He even took the initiative to purchase some fruit from the deli and had them slice my tomato too.
(That costs $0.40 in case you are wondering. And no, I didn’t know they’ll slice a tomato for you at the deli either. And yes, I’m wondering what they thought of that request too.)
A decent breakfast = good moods all around.
So the three of us had breakfast. Together.
And since Ali made such an effort I too decided to make an effort. This means I refrained from peppering the conversation with smart ass comments like, “For crying out loud Maya, did you learn to eat in a barn?” and “Placemats were invented for a reason, people.”
I think there are many lessons to learn here including the fact that I’m a much nicer person when I’m not hungry. And Ali? He’s a nicer person when he is.
a pop up shop
This past Sunday afternoon, while most children across the nation were still watching cartoons and eating Pop Tarts in their pajamas, my enterprising 7-year-old was hard at work manning a Therapy Pop-Up.
Why yes Maya…I do have problems, am stressed out, and am mad. And your arbitrary capital letters aren’t helping…
Initially Maya’s marketing ploy was to yell, “My shop is open!” from the doorway of her room. When that tactic yielded no customers she toured the house with a sign that read“Follow Me for Therapy.”
A mobile advertisement, if you will.
I was so preoccupied that my daughter used the word “therapy” that I had no choice but to stop cooking dinner (read: assembling a no-bake noodle lasagna) and investigate further.
Maya: “Do you have a problem I can help you with?”
Me: “Yes, I do. Your father won’t stop leaving his socks all over the place. What should I do?”
Maya: “You could buy more hampers and put them around the house.”
Me: “But he leaves them in the living room. I can’t put a hamper in the living room, can I?”
Maya: “I guess not. What if you stop making him food until he starts cleaning up his socks?”
Me: “Okay, I can do that. Thanks for the advice.”
Maya: “That’ll be $1.00. Also, here’s the address of my massage store. We do good massages that will calm you down until Dad starts putting his socks in the hamper.”
Don’t I look calm? The $1 was worth it.
As I walked away with a business card, a potential solution for a 13-year-old sock problem, a new-found respect for my daughter’s upselling abilities, and fear in my heart that my 7-year-old knows too much for her age, Maya said, “Oh, and Mama? I also give advice on the phone and by Skype.”
I think I need someone to help me explore how I feel about all of this.
While I'm not going to win Mother/Wife of the Year Award anytime soon, I haven't killed anyone yet or shot myself in the head. And that, my friends, is how I calculate success these days. 
FANCY THAT FANCY THIS 