In Defense of the Night Shift: A Manifesto.

Have you every considered the term "regular business hours"? Generally regarded as sometime between, say, eight a.m. and six-ish, this is when the normal people work. When the OPEN sign is on, a real human answers the phone, and you can still find food for sale that hasn't been rotting under a heat lamp for 6 hours, this is when regular humans are out and about.

But not me.

I work at night.

We are a strange breed, we workers of the night. A little crazy, a lot of fun, and a whole lot of slap-happy by clock-out time, we love each other with a fierceness unmatched when the sun is up. Our team, made up of a couple of doctors, a handful of nurses, and the cops and medics that stop by to visit a few times per night, is a tight-knit ragtag bunch. Throw in a few Walmart employees, gas station attendants, a Betos cashier, a couple of folks at the McDonalds, and some delivery trucks, and guess what? That's the crew who keeps the world spinning after the sun goes down.

Mike Rowe should do a show on us.

Because many people haven't had the pleasure of working through the night (count your many blessings, name them one by one), here is a bit of education for you in the form of a list of things that really bug us.

1- Referring to our sleep in the daytime as "naps." Example: Oh, you took a four-hour nap today?! That must be nice! 

It's not a nap, ladies and gentlemen. It's all the sleep we get. And, generally speaking, it's crappy, door-bell-ringing, sun-shining, neighbor-running-the-lawn-mower-filled sleep.

2- This: "Oh yeah, I used to pull all-nighters in college all the time." Of course you did, Sherlock. Everyone pulls all-nighters in college. It's like eating horrible frozen burritos and stealing your roommate's milk for your cereal; it's part of the experience. This is not the same as working overnight over and over again until your internal alarm clock throws up its pointy little hands in defeat and takes off for El Paso. In fact, I'm barely qualified to write this at all since I only work part-time. (Read: WIMP!) My full-time graveyard coworkers are the real rockstars, and their experience is nothing like that one time you crammed for that American History: Pre-Revelution through the Antebellum Period final.

3- Scheduling required meetings repeatedly during the daytime.

Now, I get it. Sometimes meetings have to happen. It is what it is, and mostly, I'm cool with it. But do you know what I sometimes want to say?

"Fun! So is the next meeting going to be held at three a.m. then? Hmmm? HMMM?"

I see you smiling, like we're in on a secret little joke, the two of us. Of course we won't be holding a meeting in the middle of the night, you chuckle, because that's when people sleep.

Except, not me. I'M NOT ASLEEP.

Do you know when else I'm not asleep? During that daytime meeting. Admittedly, it's not just because of that daytime meeting, although that is incredibly inconvenient. No, I'm not asleep during that daytime meeting because--get this-- I have other things to be doing during the day. Believe it or not, that's why I work AT NIGHT. Believe it or not, I'm not some sort of bat or chinchilla or any other sort of mammal identified by Wikipedia as nocturnal. (I know, I checked.)

Actually, I sacrifice my sleep and my sanity as a result of a very conscious decision about what works best for my life and my family. I slog through a shift while everyone else sleeps and snores because that's my preference. It works for me, and if it means enduring the extra ten pounds that have taken up residence on my hips due to that accursed midnight cafeteria run, well, so be it.

Don't get me wrong, I consider the flexibility of my job to be a very tangible blessing, and I don't ever, ever forget it. I have lived through the alternative in the daytime working world, and in my case, it was horrific. I feel very, very lucky to work while my children sleep. I work with people who are smart, funny, and overwhelmingly fantastic, and I am better for it. I love the night shift.

That said, please don't call it a nap.

Confessions of a Never-Danced Mom

When I was about 7, my mom drove my little sister and me to our first dance class. I sort of vaguely remember wearing a leotard and some tights, but I acutely remember NOT wearing a tutu. (Maybe I was a little bitter about that.)

In that dance class, I learned the following things:

#1- How to point and flex my foot while happily shouting "Pencil point! Fishhook! Pencil point! Fishhook!"

#2- How to sashay across the stage in tap toes. 

That's it. That's everything I learned. I never took another dance class again. 

(It's a miracle, then, that the modern dance moves I execute while wearing socks in my kitchen look so graceful and balanced. Just ask my husband.)

(My husband doesn't think that my dance moves while wearing socks in my kitchen are the least bit graceful, balanced, or even awesome, even though they clearly are.)

(He's a terrible judge of talent.)

Anyway, now I'm all grown up and so is my little girl. She's got another entire year before preschool, so when I saw a friend mention on Facebook a perfectly adorable and affordable dance class very near our house for three and four year olds, we approached Bug with the idea. She was on board almost instantly, and that's how I found myself the mother of a dancer. 

I'm going to be honest--I have fears about dance. Not three year old dance, really, but dancing as she grows up. I worry about ballet and eating disorders and body image and injuries. I worry about hip hop and costumes and choreography that sexualize my little girl. I worry about interpretive dance and how I just don't get it.

I know lots of women who danced growing up, and in every case they are lovely, healthy, well-adjusted people with fond memories of recitals and practices and friendships and opportunities, and I want that for my daughter. I am a mother and a social worker and I worry about things, but long ago I decided that fear alone is not a good enough reason to miss things.

So, on her first day of dance, I'll tell you what I want for my baby girl. 

I want her to love the way it feels when she moves her body. I want her to be happy and grateful for the way her legs are strong and sturdy, the way she can run and jump and skip, and the way her feet connect her to the earth. I hope she learns to care for her body. I hope she learns to treat her body with respect, to feed it when it is hungry and rest when it needs rest. I want her to learn to move gracefully, and carry herself with pride. I want her to learn how to sit quietly and listen, and then follow instructions from her teacher. I want her to learn to be the leader, and I want her to learn to let other children have a turn at being the leader, too. I want her to learn to be independent and brave. 

I hope that dance helps to teach my little girl that being a girl is wonderful and amazing, and that her world is full of opportunity. I hope she learns that it is a gift and a pleasure to be soft and lovely, and that it is also a gift and a pleasure to be strong and powerful. I want her to know that her femininity and her strength are not mutually exclusive, but are important parts of her whole self. She need not sacrifice one to satisfy the other. I want her to learn to let her natural happiness bubble out of her. I hope she learns to always, always do her best, and learns that being her best self never, ever means making someone else feel like anything less than their best self. She can choose to dance and she can choose to do things other than dancing, and I hope that each of those experiences help her to love herself and love other people, too. Maybe dance is one of those experiences and maybe it isn't, but we're going to give it a try.

So today, we twisted her hair into a little bun and got dressed in the perfect little leotard that Grammy Lu got for her and we took pictures before we left the house. She looked like this:

Just kidding. That's just what she looked like in my mind. Really, she looked more like this:

Bug excitedly marched right into her dance teacher's house and headed down the stairs without even looking back. "Have fun, sweetheart! I love you!" I called from the porch.

"Love you too, Mama!"

And that was that. She's learning already.

I guess it'd be ok if along the way she picked up a little "Pencil point! Fishhook!" too.

Old, judgmental people attend local theme park, praise merits of hand sanitizer

Each August, Paddy's work hosts a Lagoon Day. It's pretty great, because otherwise I'm not sure where I'd fill that compulsive need to dress the family up in matching t-shirts and spend an evening carefully shielding my children from viewing an abhorrent amount of teenage PDA.

As I rapidly approach the ripe old age of 30, it seems I am out of touch with current teenage norms. When I was a teenager, see, articles of clothing that were entirely sheer, mesh, made of netting, or otherwise classified as transparent were not considered sufficient to cover ones undergarments, no matter how brightly colored or well-adorned with sequins said underwear might have been. If Lagoon represents an accurate cross-section of society, this has apparently changed. 

Things that are also now true at Lagoon (and possibly the rest of the world):

* Bubble gum is no longer relegated to the mouth or the garbage can only. No, no-- jamming it into painted metal fencing at eye-height is actually encouraged!

* One need not be inconvenienced by the terrible hassle that applying deodorant before going out into public presents.

* Is your text-based conversation incredibly urgent? Awesome! It's fine if your children push, shove, and holler at the top of their lungs while in line next to other children, so long as you don't have to look up from the screen of your super fancy smart phone and the obviously riveting conversation your thumbs are having with... someone who isn't here. 

My penchant for judging my fellow theme park patrons notwithstanding, we actually had a fantastic time watching Bug ride on various animal- or vehicle-themed rides. 

Even Mr. Baggins got in on the action on a few particularly slow rides.

The weather was great, the kids were surprisingly well-behaved and brave, and every single one of us had a blast.

Thanks to the reasonably affordable bounce back option, Schmoops and I actually headed back about a week later on a date night sans kids. I don't even remember the last time I rode Colossus, but even all these years later, it's pretty awesome. We opted not to wear our matching shirts on the return trip, though. 

Instead, I decided to wear a neon yellow spike-studded bra with an oversized sheer white tank top over it and booty shorts. You know, when in Rome.

You're gonna miss me when I'm gone.

Leave it to me to pick the only blustery, windy day all summer to plan a trip downtown with the kiddos. Figuring the kids would like a change of pace from the old carseat routine, we decided to take the train to City Creek to meet up with Aunt B.

Both of the kiddos loved it.

I loved it when the nice man helped me lift the stroller into the train. Turns out those blue handicapped squares on the platform only mean wheelchair accessible sometimes.

There are lots of things I really love about autumn. Leaves changing, sweater weather, college football, my birthday-- there are all kinds of things to look forward to! I've got to say, though, I have had a fantastic summer with these two babies, and I'm missing it already.

A wordy post wherein I love having two kids.

When Mister Baggins was still very small, I had this wild idea that I was super mom and that being outnumbered wasn't going to stop me and all sorts of other dangerous thoughts and I left the house by myself with two kids, to go to--get this--THE MALL. I had a gift card and I thought I'd just snag a scarf so I didn't have to try anything on and I hadn't yet learned the importance of only going places with carts to strap small people into and basically it was a recipe for disaster. I hauled that baby carrier back out to the car, dragging one two year old behind me determined to NEVER LEAVE THE HOUSE AGAIN and that was my solo introduction to parenting two kids at a time.

Since then, we've gotten pretty awesome at venturing into public as a threesome, and handling both kids by myself is totally do-able. People had warned me that two kids was going to be a lot harder than one, but no one ever bothered to tell me that sometimes it's way EASIER than just one.

This business where your kids get old enough to entertain each other is freakin' awesome. It's like if you were 14 and you got to stay home from school only you weren't really sick and it turns out your mom had just stocked the pantry with Cinnamon Life and also there's a Boy Meets World marathon on TV. That's how awesome it is.

By way of example, my two munchkins are currently playing "Hiii-YAH!" together. This is a very complex and intricate game Bug invented after a couple of viewings of Mulan on Netflix (which she refers to as Fa Mulan since that's what they call her maybe like twice in the entire movie and it obviously stuck in her brain.) Essentially, Bug and Baggins both arm themselves with wooden spoons and run around the house striking poses as karate-like as a three- and one-year old can manage and shouting "Hiiii-YAH!" at each other. (And there is no way you could have mentally worked out those details on your own based on the name of the game, obviously.)

And, if you wanted to know, Bug is in her pajamas and Baggins is in, well, just a diaper because he's that size where he's a little too big for one size of diapers and a little too small for the next (not to mention we just bought a Costco-sized box of the smaller diapers so he's going to have to deal with it) which basically just means that the overnight diaper cannot possibly contain everything he's sending in to it and his PJs are soaked in the morning (please, parents, say that happens to your kids, too.)

And, if you wanted to know, I am using all this extra time that not entertaining my kids myself has freed up by... wasting time on the internet. Hello, funny Buzzfeed lists of humorous short GIFs and photos!

Sometimes, they decide instead to play the Laughing Game, which was also invented by Bug and is basically identical to Hiii-YAH only without the karate moves and with more giggling. (There is a lot of chasing each other going on at my house.) It turns out that my pots and pans, already spread all over the floor courtesy of Mister, also make for a great drum set, and Daddy's old electronic tennis racket makes a perfect 'buitar' (as Bug would say.) We're basically the Jackson 5 over here, minus the overbearing and abusive father-manager, and, you know, the talent.

Anyway, all of this to say that having double the littles really IS double the fun, and sometimes more.

And now, because I don't know how to wrap this up, some pictures:

Mister loves his puppy. "Doddy!" he shouts, excitedly signing dog every time he sees her. In fact, he can say doggy, Daddy, and Bug's name, with nary a Mama to be heard.

Every morning, Bug gets up our of bed, grabs a green yogurt out of the fridge, and treats herself to an early morning breakfast snack. One particular day, she must have had the horse before the cart a bit, as she was clearly not done being asleep. 

Heave ho, or, Costa Rica Recap: Part III

After several days in the rain forest, we all loaded up on a bus and headed off for sandy shores. Along the way, we saw some wildlife you don't normally stumble upon during an average day in the American West.

(Note: My undergraduate college experience included a sort of difficult to describe sloth fascination by my roommates and me, so I was pretty excited when our bus driver spotted one in real life. Excited enough that I tried REALLY HARD not to whine when I fell on a mossy rock while trying to take pictures of it and scraped my knee. The real take-away blessing of the trip is that I didn't lose my leg to some sort of Central American fungal infection.)

Do yourself a favor and google a closer up picture of scarlet macaws. It's unbelievable that something that gorgeous exists. 

Roadside market. Somewhat cooler than a 7-11, huh?

We stayed in the most incredible beach house in Jaco, Costa Rica. The pool was awesome, the beds were comfortable, and in case you were wondering, yes, that is the ocean immediately outside the gates.

We headed into the water nearly the moment we got there, and let me just take a minute to emphasize that the water was 80 degrees. EIGHTY DEGREES. The ocean was honestly warmer than our pool. The sand was a darkish-grey sort of color, which is really different than any sand I had ever seen, and it was soft, like powdered sugar. Basically, a recipe for PERFECT.

 

I did feel sort of bad that this crab crawled all the way up from the ocean, through our security fence, over the grass and patio, and into our pool just to die.

A day or so after arrival, a few of us headed out for deep sea fishing. Let me be clear about the level of anticipation that a certain member of our traveling party had for this part of the trip: essentially, Paddy flew 2700 miles and spent 10 days in Costa Rica juggling his two small children and leaving behind a super hectic work schedule (in his business, if he doesn't work, he doesn't get paid) all for this one activity. Originally, I wasn't going to go along, but we decided to go together as our anniversary gift to each other.

All the way out to the fishing grounds, I prayed silently in my head.

 Please let him catch a fish, I begged. Please, please, PLEASE give this good man whom I love more than life a fish. PLEASE.

My prayers worked, to the tune of an 80 pound red dog-toothed snapper!

Unfortunately, I should have left the fish up to fate and switched the topic of my prayers a whole lot earlier. Why I would EVER think that someone related as closely to my father as I am could manage being on the ocean on a small boat without motion sickness medication is BEYOND ME. My much-bragged-about non-pregnancy puke-free streak came to a violent ending on multiple occasions throughout the afternoon.

In case you were wondering what I might look like if I found myself in a situation where I sought, yea, even begged for the sweet release of death to ease my suffering, I present the following:

Paddy has ME to thank for his giant fish, what with my generous offer to personally chum the waters for him with my stomach contents. Aren't I thoughtful?

 Anyway, that experience (and my lunch) in the record books, we headed back to the house to finish the remainder of our vacation in lazy, wonderful days on the beach.

Mister liked using the muddy sand as an art medium for whomever was within reach of his stubby little finger.

Bug collected sea shells, made sand castles, and even tried out a little boogie boarding. (I hope this one five second ride justified hauling two child-sized life jackets in our luggage, because that's the only time either one left our suitcase.)

We were unbelievably lucky to be able to enjoy such a fantastic trip, and can't thank Nana and PopPop enough for their generosity. We made the most amazing memories, and Bug's voice lights up with energy whenever she talks about COSTA RICA! (That's how she says it, too. Not plain ol' Costa Rica, but COSTA RICA!)

That my babies have stamps in their passports before preschool is just, well, mind-blowing. I am so blessed.

These Shoes Were Made For Walking, or, Costa Rica Recap: Part II

After our super busy first full day in Costa Rica, we were happy to relax a little bit and slip back into some sort of schedule. (Interpretation: HOORAY FOR NAPTIME!) We decided not to river raft with a bunch of the family (Baggins can't wield a paddle quite yet) and instead spent the day lounging around and playing in the swimming pool while Daddy got some work done courtesy of the wifi in the lodge. The next day, we went on the 2 hour nature walk around the absolutely BEAUTIFUL grounds of the lodge.

Baggins and I took a short detour from the rest of the group while he finished screaming, but we were able to meet up with them again for the second half of the walk.

 Just, you know, a regular day.

We hiked down a million steps to this pretty waterfall while Daddy and Baggins stayed at the top. Let's not talk about whether I sort of fell down the stairs like an old person. (I am an old person.)

The whole hike was beautiful (and FREE!) but I have to admit we were pretty thrilled when a "Jungle Bus" (trailer behind a tractor in real life) picked us up at the end. It would've been a long walk home!

Baggins was so darn excited to be out of that hot baby sling he couldn't even stand it.

We wandered back up the hill to our villa and settled in for a quick nap. Here is where I brag a little more about my packing genius. I was pretty worried about what to do with Mister in terms of sleeping arrangements on the trip. Our kiddos have never slept with us, and I didn't think an international vacation was a good place to see if sleeping won out over the novelty of poking Mama and Daddy's faces all night. I knew he'd just hop out of a regular bed and wander around, and there was no way I was hauling my beloved (but bulky) pack and play all over Latin America.

The geniuses of the internet led me to this portable little tent. It folds up to about the size of a frisbee only a few inches thicker. AH-MAZ-ING. Worked like a champ, and kept the bugs out, to boot.

After nap time, the whole family went down to the hot tub to play around. It's much too long of a story to go into, but just know that at one point, Tommy had a life preserver around his waist tied to a rope anchored by Paddy as he leaned waaaaaay over into a potential snake bit to rescue a beach ball. I love my family and trust me, we are so funny you'd never believe it.

That night, we elected to eat at the lodge restaurant as it was our last day in the Arenal area. (Plus, Kari sprained her ankle at the pool and we didn't want to piggy back her all the way to the villa, her tiny frame notwithstanding.)

At dinner, Benner continued his love affair with ketchup (Uncle Ashton is so proud right now) and Bug continued her love affair of looking right past the camera.

That night, while Paddy and I packed up our things in preparation to leave the next morning, we saw (and he killed) this little piece of the underworld IN OUR BEDROOM:

Let's not talk any more about that.

The next day, it was off to the beach!