When the G-man was born, I was intent on breastfeeding. I performed and did my duty through months of anxiety always believing I would never have enough.  My sob story mirrors many mothers’ agonizing moments of pumping, which I fondly referred to as the “booty call” because I swear this is the sound that the Medela breast pump makes at 2 am. After 5 months of dutiful booty calls (and yet not much action), it was finally time to go to my first post-pregnancy trip to Vegas, and the boobs called it quits.

Through this experience, the best breastfeeding advice came from the Guatemalan mafia (a fond nickname we’ve created for the housekeeper and nanny).  She of course told me “the milk of the breast is best.”  In her country, formula is not quite as available as here in the good old USA.  She then added you must eat the “Kuker”.   Now not knowing what this “Kuker” was, she explained that it’s a special drink that we also “eat” here.  I immediately assumed it was an herb that I had to get my hands on.  She explained it would provide me with so much milk flow that I would have a surplus of breast milk that would fill my garage freezer to such an extent I would actually have to remove the vodka I also store there (for emergency cases only).

I scoured the internet and my baby books for something, anything, that could provide me more info on this wonder herb known as “Kuker”.   I asked the other mommies, my mother, even called the lovely lactation specialists that fondle a breast likes it’s a piece of machinery.  No one could offer me any answers.  After a few days of searching, I realized that something was lost in translation. I implored again for more information from the Guatemalan mafia and she finally described the old man with a mustache and funny hat on the front of the package.  I realized immediately then, the secret to breastfeeding, it was a clear as daylight, you must drink the Quaker. 

 Much of my experience as a mother has been like this, making motherhood more complicated then it really is, not enjoying the small things and finally realizing so much communication is lost in translation between a child and his mother.  Then of course saying at the end of the day, you don’t have to be great, just good enough.

Recently, my son was in a stage of throwing everything out of his stroller. Depending on his mood such sacrificial items would include his bottle or my wallet; he had little bias for ownership or value.  One afternoon, as we were walking around Fashion Island, my son decided to toss his pacifier for the second time, I told him one more toss and that pacifier was mine.  Well sure enough, the G-man wanted to test the boundaries of our relationship and tossed that pacifier on the ground.  My husband, apparently assigned referee of this match shouted “oh dude you are in trouble now, mom is really pissed.”  The ladies at the cosmetic counters turned, lipsticks drew a line across collagen filled mouths and I could hear the slight chortle of laughter coming from moms everywhere. 

So when did it become my responsibility to be pissed?  Shouldn’t he be upset also? Shouldn’t we being putting our heads together to discuss these behavioral issues?  These are major decisions, major choices in life where Disneyland Dad has to do more than decide between the hot dog and the cheeseburger.  But no, I glimpsed into the future – the first speeding ticket, the parties in which obscure pieces of clothing are found months later – and the words “oh boy, your mother is really going to be upset with you this time” rings timeless.

So once I discovered that I was “la jefe of la familia”, or at least where discipline was concerned, it became quite visible who was in favor and out of favor (and there is no comeback tour – sorry Britney).  I know now that when Disneyland Dad returns from work, I become completely invisible.  Although my ego may be bruised, I remember that my husbands’ ego swells, and he has a buddy, often referred to as the Tiny Terrorist.  However, when that same Tiny Terrorist stands on the couch and throws his tiny Matchbox cars in anger because he just does not want his diaper changed right now, La Jefe will return, as unpopular as she may be, she is a force to be reckoned with.

Since G-man was born, I often find myself wondering, who is this little person and where did he learn certain behavior?  Was he born with it or did he really watch me that many times on my cell phone that he now carries it around like his own personal accessory?  Is texting the other tykes at My Gym the next step?   Was G-man born with a sports car gene that made his Hot Wheels Corvettes and Porsches instantly his favorite toys, or perhaps it’s watching his daddy play with the big boy version in the garage that started the obsession?

The other day I walked into the Trina Turk outlet store for the very first time.  Words cannot describe my visceral reaction to the colors, the cuts, the resort wear!  Chills went up and down my spine and I knew there were deals to be had.  I knew there were some great items that must be purchased.  To be clear,  I am not talking the kind of giddiness you feel getting a good parking spot at Trader Joe’s.  No it’s a Zen-like happy place where even the ring of the cell phone may annoy you because you know there is a job to get done and you are ready to take it on.  No doubt about it, I like to shop.  More specifically,  I like to purchase.  I am fast and usually accurate and known to buy things for friends that are just right.

So, yesterday at Irvine’s newest kid-friendly attraction, Pretend City, I begin to wonder if my son has been blessed with the same shopping gene.   I watch as the G-man runs up to the miniature ATM machine and grab wads of 5 and 10 pink dollars and start handing them out to other boys and girls (I swear I’ve seen my husband do this same move with casino chips in Vegas).  He then takes one look at me and runs as fast as his size [5?] Pumas will take him to the gift shop with pink 10 dollar bills flapping in the air behind him.  Without a blink of an eye, he dashes toward for the yellow dump truck he checked out on the way in.  I know the “generosity” of the moment is definitely a genetic trait from my husband (aptly appointed the Minister of Fun and Finance of our household).  However, as I watch G-man’s eyes glaze over at the cold cash in his hand, I  know immediately what he is feeling…. it must be spent. 

I guiltily admit that this self-indulgent genetic disorder of shopping the minute you get money in your hand may have come directly from my gene pool.  The G-man has this genetic code, good, bad or indifferent.  Did I actually teach him this?  Probably not since most of my indulgences are purchased without his presence.   So did I really pass on the shop gene to my son and will scientists soon discover the marker for this gene and provide us with a cure or maybe just a vaccine?  I find comfort in knowing that at least I can protect him from the possible wrath of post-purchase guilt by teaching him to hide the packages in the car (a technique that was, of course, passed on from my mother).

I called my daughter, the Pregnant Girl blogger, to tell her I’m not speaking to her.

Daughter (D):   Why?  (I’m sure with an eye roll.)

Mom (M):   Because you had a guest blogger and I want to be a guest blogger!

D:   You’re in luck.  A vendor just called and wants to send me some wipes and I need to blog about them.

M:  Wipes?  What kind of wipes?  I love wipes.  Wipes make everything clean.

D:   I don’t know.  I haven’t received them.  I’m busy, I’ll call you later.

M:  The call never came so I took matters into my own hands and started preparing for my blog about “Wipes”.

Later that evening, I was telling my husband about the potential blogging gig I got.  I’m so excited.  I might get to blog about wipes.  This should be easy because everyone loves to be clean.  Not everyone loves clean like you do, he said.    The next day I Googled “baby wipes”.  I got 1,690,000 results.  That tells me someone likes to be clean besides me.  There’s even a recipe on how to make baby wipes at home – ick!  Did you know Brad Pitt keeps fresh with baby wipes – who cares?  I guess I’m getting off subject on my first and perhaps last blogging job.

What does a new mom need to look for in a wipe?  In addition to the numerous types of wipes there are also countless brands to choose from.  So, I say if you have brand loyalty, stick with the brand you like.  As far as the type of wipe, I’m just overwhelmed and discouraged by too much info.  Read on:

There are eco-friendly wipes, natural aloe wipes, hypoallergenic wipes, non-toxic wipes, unscented wipes, wet wipes, homemade wipes, wipes with no harsh chemicals, flushable wipes, wipes you can warm, natural wipes, soft skin wipes, shea butter wipes, non-woven fabric wipes, organic cotton wipes, lightly scented wipes, premoistened wipes, soft and thick wipes, triple value pack wipes, wipes for breastfeeding, chlorine free wipes,  wipes for the face, wipes for the tushie, cloth wipes, cotton wipes, wipes by Huggies, Pampers, Luvs, Target, Johnson & Johnson, Rite Aid, Wal-Mart, and on and on and on. 

Wow, I had no idea there are so many choices out there.  When the Pregnant Girl blogger was a baby I put a wet wash cloth in a plastic bag and off we went.  I used it on her face first and tushie last!

Prior to Gavin, or as my husband and I have fondly termed that decade, Pre-Gavin or PG, I had only visited an amusement park once with my husband.  It was unforgettable.  With family visiting from the east coast, the desire to trek to Six Flags Magic Mountain was insurmountable, 8 of us traveled to the great 5 freeway in traffic through the valley to throw our lives into the wheels of roller coasters.  I remember it well because it was what began as a great adventure and ended as a quest.  Due to the demands of my husband; bathroom breaks were limited, upon exiting a ride a full sprint was required to aboard the next thrill seeking adventure ride, camels consumed more water that day than we received.  It was a day I never thought I would repeat.  

After having a child, roles were easily designated.  My husband became Minister of Fun and Finance and I was awarded Vice President of Education, Health and Discipline. As all parents know, no matter how much you tell a child that Disneyland is on a different continent, at one point in time you will be forced to visit the 6 foot rat named Mickey.  I was persuaded by the Minister of Fun and Finance, coupons and a clear case of amnesia that the family should venture to Legoland with our 16 month old son.  Forgetting the traumas that took place sometime ago, I had lowered expectations on the length of time we would spend there, hoping to catch some great photos and that would be the end of it.

The Minister had a different idea; it became an all day quest.  After having him stand in lines and realizing that our son did not even meet the minimum height requirements, watching the fire truck extravaganza and seeing the miniature city (jealous of the lego ladies laying out at the pool at the Wynn).   Four hours later, nap time had definitely come and gone; the Minister was carrying the child on his shoulders while ice cream was dripping down and pointing at Bob the Builder while I was checking my watch periodically hoping that we would make it home for cocktail hour.  Finally the time came, I had changed his diaper, completed the tour of the aquarium and we were heading back to the homeland while the Minister sank into the couch and tuned on a football game.

So  there are always awkward moments with new mommies at the park, I mean there is the “OMG you are still breastfeeding” conversations or the “your child just took a shovel to my kids face” serious confrontations.  But only in the OC, do you get awe-inspiring question – “is she the nanny or the mommy?” 

As I stand at the playground awkwardly shifting my toddler, a blondish (we never know what’s real here) and 20-ish female chases around little Jackson.  I start talking to her about his age and how my little one had not started walking yet, she giggles, they hug, and then I mention dinner and getting back home.  She immediately turns and says “oh no he’s not mine”.  I stare stunned by her honesty and silenced by her rejection of the idea that he could be her offspring.  It certainly wasn’t insulting, just quietly confronting, like when the garbage collectors see you braless dragging your garbage cans to the street corner.  You know they are still staring, but you quietly and as gracefully as possible sneak back into the home.

I have to wonder if it’s only a local phenomenon when my husband excitedly bounds through the door with our 1 ½ year old son and says he met “Olivia’s mom”, and then stops starry eyed and quickly says “I mean I think she’s the mom.”  Either way, he’s ready for another playdate. 

And only in the OC, does the nanny get 2 weeks paid vacation to get her breasts implants done by the newest hottest plastic surgeon in Newport Beach, while you sit stranded at a packed beach with your toddler throwing sand and shells at your face.  I wonder if in Omaha, Nebraska,  a mother and a nanny get frequently confused or is it just in this southern material world we call home? 

RACSRANTS