Fright Night

My family deserved a quality Halloween experience. All previous Halloweens have gone poorly, and by "poorly" I mean they made us wish we had never had a child. For Paolo's first Halloween, we took baby Wizard to my boss's Halloween party, where Sam spilled a beer all over her granite countertop, making a huge mess for her Honduran maid to clean up. Halloween II entailed carrying little Frog Prince around crowded, miserable Malloween to procure smashed Tootsie Rolls and luggage coupons. Halloween III was epically terrible. Paolo's gorgeous dragon costume had puffy feet that rested on top of his actual feet. Paolo could not be persuaded that his actual feet still existed because, looking down, he could not see them. Screams of MY FEEEET echo to this day in the dark recesses of my memory. We had to carry Paolo around this Halloween, too. He refused to walk because he had no feet. And also, he threw up the teeny bites of candy I allowed him. Last year Paolo invented the character of Super Tiger Boy. You can read about that debacle here.

Which brings us to Halloween V. Sam and I went trick-or-treating with mini-Superman, and my mom stayed home with the pea pod. The experience couldn't have been more perfect, strolling through a historic neighborhood of big Victorian houses, teeming with giggling, costumed kids racing from door to door. I was thoroughly enjoying this idyllic slice of small-town America until we spotted two tween-age girls dressed up as Mammies. That's right: faces painted brown, slave clothes padded to form giant bosoms and bottoms, kerchiefs knotted around their heads a la Aunt Jemima. Holy lynch mob, Batman, I'd almost forgotten I live in the South. How, HOW did they think that was a good idea? Where were their parents? Probably out burning crosses. Sam tried to help me stop hyperventilating by assuring me that, at some point during the night, those idiot girls would run across a black family, preferably some hard-luck New Orleans transplants, and get their heads kicked in. That Sam, he always knows the right thing to say.

I should have married beneath me.

We were driving to the mall, and I noticed a half-built dome atop some new construction on the corner. While sitting at the red light, I quipped, "Oh, look, they're putting a dome on that building. They certainly didn't get Brunelleschi's advice." Sam didn't reply. "It isn't very often a person can reference Florentine architecture, you know," I added, feeling smart and unappreciated. Sam glanced over at me and said, "It looks more like a Spanish dome." God, I hate him.

Replace with...

I just got an email from my sister-in-law thanking me for Gianluca's birth announcement. Yes, he's seven weeks old. I've been busy. Anyway, "Gianluca" had been turned into a hyperlink by the email program. Sweet, I thought, I'll click on this and a whole army of Gianlucas will appear, hopefully none of them porntastic. Turns out it was only a spell-checking feature suggesting that I should replace Gianluca with Ganglia, Galician, Gigantic, Gigantically, Granular, Gail, or Gallup. I don't know about you, but I think Gallup William has a nice ring to it.

Can't you see I'm blurry? Maybe this blues can wait.

That's a lyric from Night of a Thousand Verses by Semisonic, who coincidentally will be coming up on my playlist soon, as I am in the R's in my continuing quest to listen to my music collection alphabetically.

I'm convinced that 80% of post-partum depression is sleep deprivation, 15% is insecurity, and 7% is resentment. That adds up to 100 after three months without a decent night's sleep. I'm a little prone to suffering from "the baby blues," or post-partum suckitude as I like to call it. I'm a perfectionist with no patience for a learning curve. If the baby is crying, it's something I'm doing wrong. If Paolo is sad because I'm not spending enough time with him, I am failing as a parent. And, of course, there are the countless ways I disappoint my husband. Not only does he have to make up for my shortcomings, he has to put up with my being sad about them. Now how depressing is that? Without enough sleep, I can't see how false and negative this thinking is. It is my reality.

I was barely getting enough sleep during my maternity leave. Now that I have to get up for work and can't nap during the day, I'm down to five interrupted hours of sleep a night. I can't think how to fit in more sleep that doesn't come unfairly at the expense of my family. After his day of caring for both boys, making me lunch on my break, cleaning house, running errands, doing laundry, cooking dinner, putting Paolo to bed and washing my breast pump, I just don't feel right asking Sam to do more. Call me crazy.

I never thought having a baby would be easy, but I didn't realize how hard a second baby would be. As Gianluca gets older, he'll sleep longer at night, so I'll sleep more and be a happier, more productive person. So, little one, not too much longer, okay?

Ninja Warrior

There is a show on G4 called Ninja Warrior that has captivated my household, most notably the testosterone set. Ninja Warrior reminds me a lot of Iron Chef: a crazy, campy, competitive show has come out of Japan and completely changed the face of television. My television, anyway. One hundred competitors--athletes, garbage collectors, firefighters, comedians--begin the first stage of a bizarre obstacle course in hopes of reaching the final, fourth stage. The courses are physically grueling and insanely hard. Sometimes no one makes it past the third stage. The Warped Wall and Spider Walk can be real killers, and the Pipe Slider has shattered many dreams. In fact, there is only one Ninja Warrior.

We watch it every weeknight, and Paolo lives it every day. He creates Ninja Warrior courses at the playground, but he also puts himself through his ninja paces at the grocery store, library, and restaurants. Anywhere there is a wall, door or ledge, Paolo is bouncing, jumping, hanging and creeping in complete earnestness. Sam is, of course, Paolo-sahn's Mr. Miyagi. I'm left to be the responsible parent, which is a shame because I'm much better at frowning than enforcing. Besides, with more upper-body work, I think Paolo could be a contender. I can hear the cheesy dubbed announcer now, "Our next competitor has been training for this from the tender age of four. Don't let his cherub smile fool you. The face of an angel disguises the soul of a WARRIOR!"