A Momma and . . . Volume 2

I am a momma and . . .

a bargain shopper - I buy all my kids clothing a year in advance at the end of each season. This means the grand total for all those cute new winter clothes that I'm going to bust out soon comes to a whopping sum of $30.00. Pants, shirts, sweaters, coats, socks, dresses, leggings = $30.00. The grand total of all my winter clothing this year probably also adds up to about $30.00. The only difference, and it's such a small difference, is that my kids will look adorable, and I will look like a ragamuffin. What can I say? I love a bargain.

an efficient showerer - The Kraken finally passed out on the floor mid dance marathon for a quick snooze and Rosie has been napping for 87 minutes, which means I have exactly 3 minutes to shower. Shampoo? Check. Conditioner? Check. Full body scrub? Check. Relaxing steam vapors and back massage? Not on your life.

an all you can eat buffet - My body has been responsible for growing or nursing a baby for the last 37 months straight. That's 2 pregnancies, my son breastfeeding for a year and my daughter nursing for 7 months and counting. Um, no wonder I am always tired. They have literally sucked their life out of me.

a maid - Whine, whine, whine. I know this one goes without saying. Moms clean a lot of stuff. Kitchens, bathrooms, living rooms, laundry, vacuum carpets, dust, dirty faces, stinky feet, sheets, towels, mud off the carpet, urine off the couch, ring around the tub, bug guts off the wall, dirty mouths with soap, fingerprints off windows, spit up, babies, refrigerators, craft time explosions, cheerios from car seats, vomit, the occasional bloody lip, little behinds, little bit larger behinds . . .

a voice of reason - "Yes my love, I know that you are mad, mad, mad. It isn't fair that mommy ran out of eggs, but throwing yourself on the floor will neither summon the egg fairy nor magically materialize a breakfast omelet." Or the ever popular, "Yes, my love, I understand that you really enjoy 'naked time', but it's about 7 degrees outside and I'm pretty sure I will be arrested for taking you outside without any clothes on. And I am positive that your new mommy doesn't want to read Brown Bear, Brown Bear What Do You See? 300 times every night, so believe it or not, you would miss me."

a judge, jury, executioner, and parole officer - You are charged with hitting your sister and have been found guilty by a jury of, well, me, for which you will serve a two minute sentence staring into the corner. Once released, you will be closely monitored for repeat offenses. If witnessed you will surrender your playtime and spend the rest of the afternoon in your room. This will continue until the court decides you are rehabilitated or until Rosie graduates high school, whichever comes first.

a safe place - Perhaps the best perk of motherhood. Be it thunder, a skinned knee or the buzzer at a basketball game, my babies are looking for momma. Not daddy (sorry babe). Not grandma or grandpa (nice try with the cookie bribes). Me. If they need a reassuring nod or an all out cuddle and lullaby, I'm the one. It doesn't get any better than that. Granted I don't especially love the traumatic thing/event that drives them to my arms, but I'm certainly going to love them up and make it better. That's my job. And it's the best in the world.

The Kraken speaks

Some of my favorite speeches from my little man . . .

~With butt thrust high in the air "Momma! Watch me toot."

~I walked into the room where previously an entire sofa was covered with clean, folded and sorted clothing, but now the clothing was all over the room. When I asked my guilty toddler what happened he replied, "Big big big guy in room. Big mess. Ran outside. All gone."

~"Candy bar please. Daddy said ok." Um, daddy was at work.

~I sat down to change him into his pjs and he said "No momma. Space. Need my space."

~"Rosie eat vegetables. Just a little. Good share!" He was trying to get rid Rosie to eat the food he didn't want.

~I was really sad the other day and started crying. The Kraken came over, planted a big kiss on my cheek and said "OK momma. No sad. Everything ok." Then I got a big hug.

~Every night he asks to read "a couple books."

~We were driving around a neighborhood when from the back seat I heard "No look at houses momma. So tired of look at houses. No want new house." Perhaps we do that a little too often : )

I find it rather amazing what a little 2 year old mind can come up with!

N. O. Rosie. NO.

My baby girl doesn't cry. She never has. As a newborn she would grunt like a rhino, but never much crying. (I need to add a small footnote here. Rosie HATES the car. She screams her bloody head off. I always forget about it until someone new rides in the car with us. I seriously block it out. So I stand by my previous claim that my baby girl doesn't cry.) I have become far too accustomed to the fact that she doesn't cry.

In the past three days, my little Rosie has started screaming out in agony complete with crocodile tears. In my slightly rational mommy brain I know that she must be dealing with newly erupting teeth. She is, after all, 7 months old now and is drooling like a fat kid at a dessert buffet. This also isn't my first day at the mommy rodeo. I have done it and seen it all before. This is baby number two. I am a seasoned veteran. Yeah, in theory.

Something physical, mental and psychological snaps in me when my little girl cries out. I start sweating and am convinced that something is really wrong. Then I begin to panic because I don't know what to do to make her stop. How do I soothe a crying infant that never cries? How do I hold it together myself? How will we get through this?

Today when Rosie started screaming for what seemed like no reason my son, The Kraken, came running over, put his face right up against her nose and said "Stop crying Rosie. Right. Now. I am mad mad mad." She stopped and smiled at him. He laughed. I wiped her tears and moved on. But I fully expect to panic the next time she cries. My gift of "calm under pressure" appears to have passed on to my son. Yeah, he's 2.

Boys love toots

Boys like toots. And boys like poop. And boys like all manner of yuck. At least my boy does. I promise I didn't push him toward grossness. I didn't call him over to investigate Rosie's first poops. I don't get excited when I audibly fart in the grocery store. His love of ick is a genetic mutation passed on from man to man. There is no other rationale. None.

So when my son wakes me in the morning with "Yuck momma. Big big big poopie." I pray that the poo is still in the diaper.

And when he rushes over and wrestles with my arm to see the bucket of yuck that Miss Rose has created in her diaper, I can only roll my eyes and blame his daddy and his daddy and his daddy and his daddy . . .

And when we smell something terrible, he will laugh hysterically and shriek "momma stinks!" even if he has no idea where the stench is coming from.

And so we I audibly toot in the grocery store, I will laugh and say "Did you toot Mr. Kraken?" and he will say "Uh Huh!" Because boys love toots. And boys are expected to toot in public. And I don't feel the least bit bad for making him take credit for my passing gas. Not even a little.

I saw that going differently in my mind . . .

I bought an egg timer for my son for time-out purposes. He can get out of the corner when it dings. Problem is my egg timer doesn't ding. I guess I can use it for 'kip ticking torture.'

I made shrimp rangoon and wonton soup for dinner. I couldn't find my usual wrappers at the super market and settled for a new kind. Every single wonton I painstakingly wrapped popped open. So we ate meatball soup with really large square noodles. It was good though.

We told the Kraken he could have ice cream if he pooped in the potty. Problem was he didn't have to poop, but he sure tried hard . . . for an hour.

I will both lose weight and save money by not bringing any regular pop into my house. Last night we went out to dinner, and I got a refillable fountain beverage, which I refilled 12 times.

The upstairs neighbors always get up and 5:20am no matter what day it is and always walk with gusto (or cement shoes on). Usually we all wake up and deal with the consequences (my husband gets ready for work, I replug Rosie and gently put the Kraken back in his bed). This morning I jumped out of bed startled into my favorite karate move. Let's just say I looked prepared to crane kick someone in the face.

My husband and I made a bet as to where a particular store was located. We were both positive we were right that at stake was human servitude. I lost. Awesome.

Don't be alarmed, but I'm going to be in here awhile.

I have decided that I need a new kitchen hobby. Why?

1. I don't spend quite enough time in my kitchen. Three meals for me, 5 meals/snacks for the Kraken, 2 baby food feedings for Rosie and 1 family dinner everyday leaves me craving more quality time with my pots and pans.

2. I have way too much time on my hands. The other day I sat down for literally 5 minutes before I found something to do. Okay, so maybe I just forgot what I was in the middle of doing, but whatever it was couldn't have been that important.

3. Baby food peas are army green in color. I always thought peas where by definition, pea green. I'm not very comfortable giving goo to Rosie that I wouldn't eat myself. Call me crazy.

4. There is nothing sexier than a woman covered in vegetable puree. "Is that poo on your shoulder?"

So, I said to myself, "Self, let's make homemade baby food for Rosie and hide vegetables in desserts for the Kraken." I am going to deceive my kraken and hope it's delicious ala Jessica Seinfeld.

Tonight I paced myself and chose three vegetables: a head of cauliflower, a bag of carrots and a large butternut squash. The cauliflower was dissected first and was deceptively easy. Steam, blend, aliquot (aka split into bags for you non science geeks), store and freeze. Check. Carrots came next. Peel, steam, blend, gag, aliquot, gag, store, gag, freeze, wipe random carrot splatter off face and gag. Something about an enormous pile of liquidish carrots makes my tummy uncomfortable. (And for this very reason I must apologize to my sister who had a gagging/vomit moment during childhood while eating cooked carrots. We never let her live that day down and, let's be honest, no one ever believed her. She was totally trying to get out of the 'no dessert until you eat your carrots' threat. Today I sorta understand. Karma just jumped up and bit me in the butt.)

Lastly came the butternut squash. I don't know anything about squash. Was I supposed to thump it like a cantaloupe before purchasing? Was I supposed to smell it, shake it, hold it up to the light? All I know is that in order to split this gourd down the middle I used three different knives and my meat tenderizing hammer. My husband kept asking if I needed help, but I was bound and determined not to let this damn squash beat me. And it didn't. Take that you stupid squash.

An hour and a half later I was left with 4 bags of cauliflower, 4 bags of butternut squash, and 8 bags of carrots all in 1/2 cup portions. Tomorrow I shall attempt coffee cake with squash and applesauce, scrambled eggs with cauliflower and chicken nuggets with carrots. I will let you know what the Kraken thinks.