Fear and Parenting in Las Vegas

Apparently in my dictionary, “no” has become a four-letter word. I think I must have added a couple of silent “o”s at the end.

It’s not that I have a great aversion to four-letter words. I’ve been known to utter them every once in awhile here in Nancyville.

But “no” seems to be unable to cross my lips. Especially when it comes to over committing myself.

Case in point…

My friend, Whit, tracked me down hunted me like a lion to a three-legged gazelle DM’d me a few weeks ago, asking if I’d be interested in taking back my old position as editor of SavvySourceLasVegas.

I hemmed. I hawed. My last experience was less than satisfying. It turned out to me a lot more work than I had bargained for and the compensation wasn’t enough to offset the stress. In talking with the editors this time, things seem to be much better organized, the site is more focused and the regular posting commitment seems more manageable.

Looking ahead at the next few months, I see a host of bills for “extras” coming up and the extra cash would ease that load substantially.

My arm was twisted.

Now, I have to get 30-50 feature posts done in the next two weeks. For most paid bloggers, that’s not a big deal. But blogging is a hobby for me. The paid gigs fund things like Disneyland annual passes, birthday parties, and Christmas. It’s the full-time job that takes 40-60 hours each week to keep a roof over our heads and food on our table. So, finding the “extra time” to write 5 posts a night for the next 14 days will mean a lot of lost sleep.

“Oh, and by the way,” Whit says to me, “the folks over at Uptake are looking for nightlife bloggers. There’s nightlife in Vegas, right?”

The next thing I know, I’m on the hook for a couple of posts a week for them. Rough gig. Last weekend I went to a women’s roller derby match and an 80′s cover band show, and it’s all a tax writeoff and I get paid to write it up. It was a blast, but it’s the last part that’s the hurdle.

Writing funny stories about my fascist son are one thing. Writing for someone else brings stress regardless of what I’m getting paid. I’ve said on more than one occasion that the best way to kill a hobby is to make it into a business.

Don’t get me wrong, I am really excited about it. There are folks who would give their right earlobe for such opportunities. And their writing talents far outshine mine. It should be a lot of fun. No one made me do it. I’m a big girl, I’ll buck up and, in the immortal words of Tim Gunn, “make it work.”

So bear with me as things may get a little quiet here at FandPinLV for a few weeks. I’ll be pounding the keys. Swim class and summer camp bills are coming soon.

I’m beginning to wonder if Doodle is headed down the road to OCD-ville.

I mean, his blankets have to be layered in a certain order…

first the sheet….

then the blue blanket…

then the cars blanket…

then the blue and green fuzzy blanket…

and then the dinosaur blanket that his grandma made him…

then the playquilt that I made him…

then the rainbow afghan his aunt made for his sister’s baby dolls.

Just a reminder. I live here….

not here….

Why my son has to pack himself into his bed like an Inuit in an igloo is beyond me, especially when I know within 10 minutes of falling asleep, he’ll kick them all off.

Okay, I understand a blanket layering fettish does not an OCD child make. Let’s go to the next ritual – getting in and out of “mommy’s purple bus.”

Step 1: I open the doors with my remote access keychain (a godsend in vehicular technology).

Step 2: The children scramble into the car going in the door opposite of their seats, and therefore stepping on top of each other/kicking each other as they pass in the middle.

Step 3: Boo gets into her seat, buckles herself in and uses the interior lever to close her door. (The day she could do this on her own was huge for me. You’d think she’d won an Olympic gold medal.)

Step 4: We begin to joke, cajole, advise, request. admonish, and occasionally raise our voices to get Doodle to sit in his seat.

Step 5: He threads his arms through his straps and buckles his chest clip.

Step 6: We sing the “tushie back” song (think JT’s SexyBack and replace the words accordingly) while he scoots his butt back so I can get ahold of the crotch clip and buckle him in without pinching his junk.

Step 7: He then “pushes his button” to close his door. The “button” is merely a rivet cover under the armrest of his carseat. At some point last year, we convinced him that he could control the fate of his door with the push of this “button,” a fatal parenting move on my part, which I will detail shortly. Anyway, when he pushes his “button” I slyly press the close button on my keychain fob or dashboard and close the door.

Believe it or not, this routine actually saves us time….IF it all goes in the right sequence AND he’s ready to play along.

If Boo goes in her own door, he screams at her.

If I get tired of his stalling and buckle his chest clip for him, he screams at me until I unclip it and let him do it himself.

If I don’t sing the song, we get screamed at.

If I don’t sing the song well enough, I get screamed at.

Are you catching my drift yet?

“Oh, he’s just a spirited little guy!” you say. “He’s a typical two-year-old,” you console. “He just needs a nap!” you advise.

I pick my battles and, trust me, he may think he’s in charge, but he truly knows who calls the shots.

Crap. I’m being held hostage by a freaking two-year-old facist with OCD.

I made the mistake of buckling for him. Stupid me.

Please send tequila, ice packs, and earplugs.

I gave birth to Mousollini.

Yes, I know it’s wrong to compare your child to an epic villain responsible for the deaths of thousands. But he’s a goddamn fascist if there ever was one.

The likeness is much stronger, anyway.

I stripped away all the ugliness and self doubt, the shame, and the bitterness. I peeled off the anger, doubt, and resentment. What was under it all wasn’t the solid core that I expected. I was not a tree with deep roots and long shady branches. I am a spring. A spring that wells from within and needs to flow. There wasn’t a dam high enough or strong enough to contain it.

The river within me needs to meander through hills and valleys. Sometimes it crashes spectacularly in a waterfall. Other times it’s a still lake with peace and tranquility. One thing was consistent: it moved.

My river is an exciting adventure for some, a heady whirlwind to others. Some people sail my waves for a decades. Some have merely dipped their toes in and found my temperature and flow not to their liking. With or without them, the river flows.

It searches for the unknown, the unchartered. It seeks the means to defy gravity – scaling to the highest height, knowing full well that the crash from the peak may lead to a misty doom.

But the mist will gather and condense. The rain will fall and the drops will gather again, united to flow towards a new and uncharted destination.

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