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.

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