Candy’s Mom Ditches Longtime Love for a Younger, Newer Model

Jul 2, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column | Tags: Candy's Mom

ME:  You finally sold your car?

MOM:  We did.

ME:  Wow.

MOM:  Had that car almost twenty years, you know.

ME:  I do.

MOM:  Longer than most of you kids stayed here!

ME:  So you loved the car more than you loved us, is what you’re saying?

MOM:  (AVOIDING)  Have to admit, I got choked up when they drove it away.

ME:  I’m sure.

MOM:  It was kind of like sending you off to kindergarten: at first I got choked up, then I was like, phew.  FREEDOM…!

ME:  ‘Phew‘?  ‘FREEDOM‘?!

MOM:  Just you wait.

Eleven Months

Jun 29, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column,Musings | Tags: Miss Skye

Dear Miss Skye,

Happy eleven-month-iversary!  Or, as I like to call it, holy sh*t, my baby is growing up too damn fast.  Please cover your ears, which stick out exactly like mine, whenever I utter this expletive-laden cry.  I suspect I will be exclaiming it many times the next, oh, forty or so years.  And, yes, I expect you to cover your ears each and every time.

Over the past month, you’ve developed a sassy attitude.  Or, as your Grandma Kirby likes to call it, karma.  Whenever your father and I try to show you how to do something, even something as simple as the proper way to use a sippy cup, you cry bloody murder.  Perhaps that’s just your way of telling us you’d rather google it.  You also refuse to eat most solid foods unless it comes from your own hands, with the exception of oatmeal — a culinary delight so delicious, evidently, that it causes you to snort at the very sight of it.  You are still getting the hang of feeding finger foods to yourself, so you have become quite popular with birds around Los Angeles.  Whenever the pigeons see us coming at Johnny Rockets, they pull up a chair on the patio and wait for the feast to fall their way on the ground.

And whenever the wait staff sees us and Miss ButterFingers coming, they rush to put up the “CLOSED” sign.  Weird.

Your sassiness amuses me, as does your nonstop chatter.  Other than “DaDa,” “MomMom” and “KittyCat,” I have no clue what you’re babbling about, but I believe your language skills will be of great use should NASA need to communicate with extraterrestrial beings.  One of your new, non-verbal ways of communicating is pointing at things excitedly.  Trees!  Lights!  Cats!  SpongeBob!  Air!  You smile with wonder and look at me to make sure that I, too, am taking in every single amazing detail of our surroundings.  And I am.  I am seeing things through your eyes, rediscovering the world as if just arriving here for the very first time.  It is awesome.

Except for SpongeBob.  Even through the eyes of rediscovery, I simply can’t trust anybody who smiles that much.

You’re not walking yet, Miss Skye, but you sure are “cruising” like nobody’s business (cruising as in getting around with support, not cruising as in what Jon Gosselin does at college bars) — standing up with the sofa, cruising to the chair, bending down to pick up a block, reaching over to me and… laying your head on my chest.  Still a shameless mama’s girl — only a phase, I’m sure, so I eat it up as voraciously as you eat a bowl of oatmeal — you not only reach for me every time I’m in the same room, but you also like to cuddle with me, often throwing your arms around my body and parking your head on my shoulder for minutes on end.  Sometimes you are so overcome that you squeal like a chipmunk on helium and grab my face, pulling it close to yours as you coo and giggle.  It’s at moments like these that I think…

Huh.  Giving up margaritas and salmon sushi for nine months really WAS worth it.

Eleven months after the nurse laid your wrinkly body on my chest for the first time, your father and I still gaze at you with the same wonder you gaze at the pipes on the ceiling in the garage.  “We are so lucky,” one of us is always marveling.

Now, if we could just work on using that sippy cup.  And slowing down this whole growing-up nonsense.  And developing a more refined cartoon palate.

With heaps of love and oatmeal,

MomMom

The “Normal” Family

Jun 28, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column,Musings | Tags: Long-ass Post

The relationship between my mother and me has always been special, a friendship marked by candor, laughter, verbal sparring matches and, most precious of all, juicy gossip sessions.  We dish about everything from the latest celebrity scandal — Oh, that Mel… he always did have the crazy eyes, Mom and I somberly agreed — to our own mishaps, to other families’ quirks.  Especially other families’ quirks.

The summer of 1990 was no exception when my mom and I, a wee high-schooler, giggled about the antics of my friend Jen’s mom.  Her mother was a Barbizon School of Modeling graduate, a tall, broad, heavily made-up woman with big brown eyes and a small voice.  The details of what, exactly, she did to tickle our funny bone that particular time escape me now.  But if I had to put money on it, it probably had something to do with her habit of mentioning just how much she resembled Kelly LeBrock, of Weird Science and “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful” fame.

The ONLY thing Jen’s mom had in common with Kelly LeBrock was a habit of making eye roll-worthy declarations.

“Thank goodness we’re a normal family,” my mom proclaimed once we had recovered from our laughing fit.

It was a statement of fact, not a question, and yet my silence hung over us like a giant question mark.  I lifted an eyebrow — no easy feat with virgin brows as big and bushy as a cheese-fed hamster.  Was mom serious?  I couldn’t imagine.  Mom was a realist, a call-’em-like-I-see-’em kind of woman who had ditched the rose-colored glasses in favor of the (sometimes brutal) lenses of honesty a long time ago.  This was the woman who made fun of my admittedly pathetic art projects instead of blowing smoke up my ass; the woman who offered compliments only when truly deserved, making me appreciate them all the more; the woman who surely must know that our family may be many lovely things, but “normal”…?

“No?” Mom asked, reading my expression with her usual eerie perceptiveness.

“Mom,” I drawled as only a teenage girl can, making it sound like maaaawm.  “You’re a hardcore Lutheran-turned-Atheist.  We’ve never gone to church.  My sister got pregnant and married when she was the age I am now.  We sell gloves at the flea market for a living.  And you think we’re ‘normal’?”

I hooked my fingers in quotation marks to punctuate my point.  FLOP.  My mom sat back on the couch, shocked.  I immediately regretted sharing my smart-ass observations.  Afraid I had hurt her feelings and ruined our fun time together, I could feel the pit in the bottom of my stomach expand upward, closing off my throat and making it hard to swallow, let alone breathe.  Quick, change the subject, I thought, racking my brain for more silly tidbits about Jen’s mom.  I was about to relate how she draws on her eyebrows with a pen when –

“You’re right!”

A howl cut through the silence.  My mom doubled over with laughter.

“Really?”

“Of course!  Yes.  There’s nothing normal about us!”

Mom continued to howl.  I broke into a wide smile, relieved.

“We work across the aisle from a man named Booby Bob,” I giggled.

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Welcome to My World

Jun 25, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column | Tags: Miss Skye, Ouch

Only a matter of time ’til I have to ask Jeremy Piven if I may borrow one of his hair pieces.

Help! My Hubby Gave Me a Case of The Babies (Like Cooties, Only Way More Expensive and Slobbery)

Jun 24, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column,Musings | Tags: Help Me, Medical Alert

Mr. Candy had only a few gifts on his Father’s Day wish list, among them a request that I finally populate his digital picture frame — a present from Christmas, I’m embarrassed to admit — with photos.  We shared a tacit understanding of what the breakdown should be:  at least a hundred pictures of Skye; a couple dozen of the cats; and maybe two or three of me, space permitting.  Tacit because, let’s face it, neither of us wants to acknowledge I rank below the cats.  Does it sting?  Sure.  But I understand.  After all, I would want the same — only with more cats, less spouse.

I’d thought it was a more than reasonable request, especially considering I’d promised to do so, oh, six months ago.  It wasn’t until I actually fulfilled his request that I realized what a sneaky bastard my husband is.  Because nothing — I repeat, nothing — makes you want to have another baby more than combing through almost a year’s worth of pictures of your first-and-only-born.  We’re talking five-thousand digital pictures of our beautiful daughter changing with every day, if not every minute, of her first year of life — many of which I don’t even remember seeing before.

Oh, the tears.  Oh, the laughter.  Oh, the longing.  Oh, the DAMN YOU, MR. CANDY.

I’ve been steadfast in my desire for only one child.  Mr. Candy, on the other hand, says he would like three — in hopes that I will compromise at two.  “Yeah, easy for YOU to say,” I always respond to the man who has never had a fetus do the samba on his pinched sciatic nerve, give up alcohol and caffeine for nine months, or get up a single morning with the baby.  (Okay, so the last zinger is partially my own fault, because I enjoy the bonding [if not the time on the clock] of her morning feeding, but still…!  Let’s just say Mr. Candy has become a huge advocate of breastfeeding.  Not because of the health benefits, mind you.  But because of daddy’s sleep benefits.)

Mr. Candy doesn’t have an MBA for nothing, however (contrary to previous belief).  Master negotiator that he is, he clearly knew that forcing me to stroll down Miss Skye Memory Lane would give me a case of The Babies*.  (Put your surgical masks, away!  It’s not catching.   Wait — leave yours on, Octomom.  Can never be too safe.)

Now, before my mother-in-law gets too excited, I am not convinced this urge is anything more than me coming to terms with Skye’s imminent first birthday.  But the pictures, combined with a poignant Motherlode post about moments when children grow up and how rarely we notice the “lasts” versus the “firsts” — e.g., the last time you carry your child, the last time the baby uses the swing, the last time you rock your child to sleep, etc. — has made me a bit of a blubbering mess.  The rate at which she’s grown this past year is matched by only, well, the rate at which I’ve grown this past year.  Parenthood coaxed something out in me that I didn’t think I was capable of:  the ability to say “no” to a second margarita.  And, yes, full-on selflessness.  It has made me mature both emotionally (yay!) and physically (boo).  Seriously.  I’ve aged.  Big-time.  The bags under my eyes are big enough to carry the entire contents of Oprah’s fifty walk-in closets.  Yes, both her “skinny” and “off-the-diet” clothes. I used to get carded when I bought beer at the grocery store (bless them for that).  Now they eye my haggard face and ask if I “need help carrying it to the car.”

Those whippersnappers are lucky I don’t kick their ass!  But I don’t want to risk making them drop my beer before they safely put it in the trunk, next to my cane.

The culmination of these events has given me even more appreciation for Miss Skye, leading to me hugging her a beat longer than usual and just generally trying to soak in and celebrate every single moment I have with her.  I wonder if this is the last time she’ll nap in my arms.  Or the last time she’ll squeal and grab my head with delight when I kiss her belly.  I take mental snapshots of her every move now, desperately trying not to take anything for granted.  Naturally, Miss Skye thinks I have lost my freakin’ mind.  There are TOYS on the ground, Mom!  Why are you stroking my hair and weeping when I could be chasing the cat around the room, you crazy woman?!

That’s right.  Even with the baby, I rank below the cats.  *Sigh*

*Nothing a day at Chuck E. Cheese’s can’t cure

Another Hazard of Parental Sleep Deprivation

Jun 23, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column | Tags: That's Hot

You probably can’t even notice it, but I think the lack of sleep might be starting to affect my skin…?   Oh well.  Nothing a little exfoliation can’t help, I’m sure.

Mornings Would Be Better If They Started Later

Jun 22, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column,Musings

I’ve been remiss in writing about my parenting adventures as frequently as I’d like, but please know I have an airtight excuse:  I’m freakin’ tired.

The world is made up of three kinds of folks:  morning people; night owls; and my mother-in-law.  My mother-in-law rises, without fail, at the ungodly hour of 4AM.  Not because she has to work or has a flock of crowing roosters in the backyard, but because, according to her, “that’s the best part of the day.”  I would have laughed when she said this, only I was too busy searching for the crack pipe from which she obviously smokes.  I’m not even sure alarm clocks work that hour.  If they do, they should really consider ousting the head of their labor union.  Because the only thing that should be going off at 4AM is Lindsay Lohan’s SCRAM bracelet.

Me…?  I’m a night owl.  My creative adrenaline doesn’t really kick in until 10PM, an inconvenient truth for the mother of a ten-month-old who, like most all kids, is a morning person.  People tell you the first three months of motherhood are the hardest; not so for me.  Miss Skye would sleep in till 10, 11AM, leading me to believe I’d accomplished something even more miraculous than the Virgin Birth — I’d given birth to the Miracle Morning-Averse Baby.  Morning-Averse Baby hated mornings just as much as her mom and dad, if not more.  Morning-Averse Baby would wake up with an ornery look that said, “Do not even TRY to change my diaper, woman, until I’ve had my coffee.”

I loved that baby.

Then she turned five months old, at which point we transitioned her to the crib.  If you look at the fine print on a crib’s instructions, it says:  WARNING:  DO NOT USE CRIB IF ANY PARTS ARE MISSING.   DO NOT LEAVE CHILD IN CRIB WITH SIDE LOWERED.  MOST IMPORTANTLY, DO NOT, BY GOD, LET CHILD SLEEP IN THIS THING IF YOU EVER HOPE TO SLEEP PAST 6AM AGAIN.

My Morning-Averse Baby became a happy morning person with absolutely no regard for my sleeping habits.  As if parents are supposed to adapt to their kids’ needs or something?  She would wake me up with her loud coos, greeting me with a wide, irresistibly cute smile as soon as I opened her bedroom door.  RUDE.  She knew morning sunshine was my Kryptonite!  Yet there she was blatantly rubbing her happy morningy-ness in my face, day after day after…dfsdfusdkfjskluto

Oops.  Sorry.  Took a brief snooze there.

I’ve tried to become a morning person.  I really have.  I’ve tried hitting the sack earlier, but no matter how exhausted I may be, I end up staring at the ceiling and brainstorming column ideas that I’ll invariably forget by morning.  Which further proves just how evil mornings are — they even steal your nighttime thoughts.

I’ve also tried “encouraging” Miss Skye to sleep in later by putting her to bed later — wait, listen.  Do you hear that?  That’s the collective laughter of veteran parents who know better.  Who know my plan made life even more miserable for everybody involved.  In theory, it seems logical, right?  But if I’ve learned anything in the past ten months, besides how to make a baby laugh by making fart noises on her arm, it’s that logic plays no role in parenting.  Turns out, the more tired a baby is, the less likely she is to go to sleep without protest.  And by protest, I mean fuss so loudly the people at the World Cup are like, “Whoa.  What is that?”  Yes!  My child’s tired screams not only travel 10,000 miles, but they also are the first known sound to effectively compete with those crazy South African buzzing trumpets.

Seriously.  The vuvuzela? Makes me long for bagpipes.

It also doesn’t matter what time a baby goes to sleep; her inner alarm clock is still set to go off at 6AM.  Bottom line:  There is just no stopping Happy Morning Baby, short of slipping Jack Daniels in her bottle or, even more cruelly, playing The English Patient on-loop in her crib…dfsdfusdkfjskluto.

Oops.  Sorry.  Just writing “The English Patient” makes me want to snooze.

I know parental sleep deprivation is not exactly a concept I’ve pioneered.  “Cry us a river,” veteran parents are scoffing, presumably while reinserting their Red Bull I.V.s (also:  a terrific baby shower gift).  Because, really, how else could some of you folks manage to juggle multiple kids, house chores and full-time jobs, all the while remaining (mostly) upright?  Unless, of course, you’ve gotten your hands on my mother-in-law’s crack cocaine pipe, in which case the mom in me must admonish you:  “Be nice and SHARE with your fellow parents!”

Bear with me; I am slowly learning how to survive — and work — on four-to-five hours of sleep.  There are nights when I just stare at the monitor, willing the words to appear.  If I’m lucky, a light-bulb will go on… and I’ll remember to turn on the computer.

Even in my bleary-eyed state, however, I know that it’s all worth it.  All I have to do is look at my beautiful daughter and realize that one day, fifty years from now, she’ll come into my bedroom where I’ll greet her with a look that says, “Do not even TRY to change my diaper, woman, until I’ve had my coffee.”

Karma, baby.

Happy Father’s Day

Jun 20, 2010 | Filed Under: Candy's Column | Tags: Candy's Dad

My dad and his mini-me (sans the Tom Selleck mustache, thank goodness).  Don’t be jealous of our stylish duds and ‘dos.  I’m pretty sure this is the last time I ever saw my dad in jeans — which he proclaimed would go out of style by 1988.

Ah, well, he is wise in other ways.  For example, I never go more than 3,000 miles without changing my oil.  And can hold a softball bat at just the right angle to whack the hell out of the ball.  And know that all boys have cooties.  Which is why I’m still a virgin, Dad, I promise!  Miss Skye:  The Immaculate Conception.  *Ahem*