Some Assembly Required

In a past life, back when my brain functioned correctly, before the only reliable thing about me was having spit up somewhere on my clothing, I was a scientist. My job was to take a gene that encoded a protein, mutate the genetic code so that it encoded a slightly different protein and then do it again. Yes, I was trusted with this task by myself. And it was easy. My work was ordered, organized. Give me the problem and I will create your solution.

Unfortunately my life has shifted to the solving the unsolvable. Like laundry. No matter how much attention I give that sweaty pile of goo there’s always more. Like dinner. No matter how many masterpieces I create in the kitchen, (very few I assure you), my husband never fails to ask, (usually at 8:30am by the way), “What’s for dinner?” Like my favorite two-year-old who is screaming from exhaustion, “no nap!” Like the ‘low tire pressure’ light on my van though I have measured the pressure one hundred times and reside in the safe zone. Like my very happy baby girl by day and wailing Siren by night. The unsolvable problem. We are not friends.

But there is a light at the end of this anally organized scientist’s tunnel and it isn’t another Malaria lab. Three little words: Some Assembly Required. Ahh. Catharsis. For a small fee, I can bring home a flat box holding 63 pieces, various screws and an Alan wrench, and I will be at peace for one hour. Hooray for children’s toys that need to be put together. I love you. Will you marry me? In the last couple days I have created a beautiful 50s play kitchen, a plastic grill complete with hot dog and bun, two adorable children’s chairs, and I am craving more. There is a small bruise in my right palm where my trusty Alan wrench digs in to my flesh when the screw starts fighting back. I love it. I am at peace. Assemblage is my game and IKEA is my Mecca.

I’m sure I am revealing something terrible about my personality. Maybe I’m a control freak who suddenly found a way to control my environment if only for a hiccup of a moment in my day. Maybe I am too anal and organized. Maybe I need to seek help . . .

Maybe you should call me if you need something assembled. I’ll come pick it up, put it together and bring it back to your house. No charge. Crazy or not, that sounds like a deal to me.

Goodnight. Sleep Tight.

My son has an inordinate amount of crap in his bed. It’s a plush toy extravaganza, one barks, one sings, the rest are silent but all are necessary and must be accounted for. So, tonight when we tucked the Kraken in bed, Daddy carried my son and I carried . . . two Bas (his blankets, one blue, one green), Amy the giraffe, Mugong the seal, Scout the singing dog, E.O. (really his name is Otis) the teddy bear, Otis’ Big Brother (yep that’s his name) also a teddy bear, Annie also a dog, Daddy Doggy the newest addition, and a barking doggy puppet who shall remain nameless.

Phew, I’m exhausted.

I kissed my Cherub’s little head and said goodnight. “Momma?” he said. “Have Momma’s Ba too? I might need it.” Sure son, you may also have my blanket. You are right there is way too much extra space in that big boy bed of yours. You might get cold.

If you check on the Kraken throughout the night you would find him totally uncovered and his nighttime pals strew all over the floor. Apparently the thought of being surrounded by friends is great, but in practice the Kraken likes his space.

Cookies and an Eating Disorder

I make really good chocolate chip cookies. This is a fact and not a feeling. The world goes wild for them. I'm not kidding. And so whenever I have been a little too nasty, I whip up a batch to patch things up with whomever I have offended. This time it was the general. I've been much too snappy with the general. This batch, as always, was splendid and was working remarkably well reminding my husband he does truly love me.

At dinner this evening, our beloved Kraken was very nearly nodding off in his high chair. (I have always admired the pictures of other children falling asleep whilst eating. However, my son has only once been that tired. We forced him to run a marathon a while back and even then he wasn’t tired enough to conk out at the dinner table.) There’s no way we were putting the Kraken to bed at 5:30pm. NO way. He would be rip-roaring ready to go at 4:30am, and I don’t function that early. So being the fantastic parents that we are, we offered him a cookie to pump some life back into his little self, if only for another 45 minutes.

He refused. (He is two and was awfully tired.) Daddy popped the cookie in his mouth and moved on . . . to my cookie which lay innocently half eaten on the counter. The Kraken promptly let out a moan of mourning and sadness, “Ohhhhhhhhhh. Daddy ate momma’s cookie! Poor momma.” What a sweet little thing. Then he added, “No get to eat my cookie either.” No Kraken you didn’t. What a mean daddy.

So I did what any mother would do, I reinforced that momma loves him more and offered him another cookie. The Kraken then wedged himself between my leg and the island and under the overhang of the countertop, a protective cave of sorts. There he stayed until he munched his cookie into crumbs. Happy and satisfied he bounded away to play until his sugar buzz wore off.

I guess the moral of the story is if my son develops a fear of eating in front of others, it is daddy’s fault.

Broken Bed

The box spring of our bed is broken. Now, any normal human would try to replace it post haste. I have to admit that it is a bit annoying. We have to balance the box spring just so on the bed frame or it just, boom, collapses and nearly throws my husband off the bed. At which point he mumbles something under his breath and forces me off the bed so he can once again place the mattress in its precarious home.

So, why not replace it? It’s been broken for many months. Well, for one thing we don’t like this bed. It was a donation to us when we were young and newly married. The thought of sleeping each night with each other was still exciting and frankly, we enjoyed cuddling. We didn’t mind back then that this bed is a double wide. Now, over 7 years later, we are a little bit larger, a little bit older, a little bit grumpier and a little less forgiving of morning breath. We want our space. Sad? Maybe. The truth. Yes.

Second, in case you didn’t notice, we are parents. I’m pretty sure it is more fun to purchase Christmas presents for the rugrats than to have a safe, reliable bed structure. On top of diapers, wipes, clothing, food, blah, blah, blah there isn’t much money left for a beautiful bed. And I’m ok with that.

I guess I could fix it. I own a drill and am one kick butt mother on a mission. However, a quick jaunt to the hardware store with two bouncy baby chicklets doesn’t really tickle my fancy. I can see the Kraken deciding to test a hammer on his sister’s little noggin. Or Rosie may decide a screw would make a fantastic lunch. Frankly, I don’t have time for a hospital visit nor do I have time for drilling a rickety box spring. Now drilling for boogers, that I have time for.

So, for the time being, we will deal with it. And after a VERY long day at work, my hubby will flop down on the bed in sheer exhaustion only to be tossed off like a rodeo clown. At which time he will grumble and force me to get up so he can balance the bed just so once again. Then we will look at each other, laugh and cuddle in the middle because it is the safest bet. And the most pleasant too.