I was displaying all the classic signs. My hair had a subtle frizzy look that only an electric shock or a child plowing through the terrible twos can produce. My eyes were red and puffy from a recent cry. I was pale as a ghost and not making eye contact with any of the other parents. It had obviously been an extremely rough day. But The Kraken had swim lessons, and I am a momma not a quitter. So I picked myself up from our horrible day, dusted off and didn’t even bother covering up the bags under my eyes before leaving the house.
Ladies, ladies, ladies, will we ever learn to be supportive of other mothers around us or will we always be critical meanie heads? Can you cut a mom a break now and then, especially one in the fragile state I was in? Can you just take a step back and realize that just because you aren’t excited about certain activities (like jumping on the bed or eating fair food or smiling) doesn’t mean I am a bad parent for disagreeing. Now if you see me allowing my children to wrap plastic bags around their heads by all means, step in. If there is an empty refrigerator that I feel my children are safe to play in, please kindly remind me the oxygen is limited and the door difficult to open from within. If however you witness our weekly rec center ritual, just back off.
After swim lessons were over, I took my son to the locker room to change where he promptly clambered into a locker and asked me to shut the door. And I did. I let the kids hang out in the lockers while they dry off and I get their clothing out of the bag. I’ve never really thought much about it. They enjoy being in their “caves”, and I enjoy thirty seconds of peace to get organized. No sooner had I closed the door than a mother behind me turned to her daughter and shouted, “Don’t even ask me to do that. So dangerous. You will run out of air and you will die. So dangerous.” I did what I do best and avoided a confrontation by pretending not to hear her. I told The Kraken to come out so I could dress him. He popped out, clearly oxygen deprived and asked, “May I go in locker again after I dressed?”
To which I replied, with perhaps a tad too much gusto, “Absolutely!”
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
In Need of a Hobby
During a recent car ride The Kraken began his normal barrage of questioning. As usual his curiosity focused on “fast fast” cars. My son, way too observant for his own good, wanted to know the difference between wheels and tires. That’s a tough one to explain to a three year old, and frankly it had been a very long week. Mommy was exhausted and to tell the honest truth, I just don’t give a good gosh darn about wheels or tires or race cars.
So I did what any devoted and loving mother would do, I deferred to daddy. Why does daddy know the answers and mommy does not? Well, my son, daddy loves fast cars just as much as you do. Mommy doesn’t love cars and therefore hasn’t spent any time learning about the inner workings of the automobile. The Kraken pondered for a moment in silence and then wanted to know what mommy loves if not cars.
Hmmm. I love my children . . . and . . .
(Four short years ago I would have listed a million things: playing volleyball, reading the classic novels, scrapbooking, hiking, camping, keeping up on current events, blah, blah and blah. My greatest passion these days is a nap lasting longer than 30 minutes. I think I am in need of a hobby.)
The silence must have been deafening because my son suddenly stepped in with “and ambulances and fire trucks and police cars and firemen?” Yes! Eureka, you have found it! Mommy certainly loves men in uniform!
So I did what any devoted and loving mother would do, I deferred to daddy. Why does daddy know the answers and mommy does not? Well, my son, daddy loves fast cars just as much as you do. Mommy doesn’t love cars and therefore hasn’t spent any time learning about the inner workings of the automobile. The Kraken pondered for a moment in silence and then wanted to know what mommy loves if not cars.
Hmmm. I love my children . . . and . . .
(Four short years ago I would have listed a million things: playing volleyball, reading the classic novels, scrapbooking, hiking, camping, keeping up on current events, blah, blah and blah. My greatest passion these days is a nap lasting longer than 30 minutes. I think I am in need of a hobby.)
The silence must have been deafening because my son suddenly stepped in with “and ambulances and fire trucks and police cars and firemen?” Yes! Eureka, you have found it! Mommy certainly loves men in uniform!
Sunday, October 30, 2011
For the record, I HATE running
My clothes are too tight. It is a simple problem really. I am fulfilling my daily caloric intake with coke and candy which doesn’t leave much room for breakfast, lunch and dinner. As I see it, I have two options: buy bigger pants or cut some crap out of my diet and get moving. As for the first choice, I have been to every clothing store I can think of and tried on every make, model and fit of anything remotely resembling a pair of jeans. It seems this lumpier version of myself isn’t compatible with denim. And so I have no choice but to eat healthier and find a workout regime I can stick to.
So yesterday I got off my couch and ran a 5K.
My sister and her coworker recruited a rag tag group of seven women to take their best shot at 3.2 miles on Fright Nite, two nights before Halloween. We all had slightly different goals for entering this race: some wanted to run the whole time, others wanted simply to finish, I prayed I wouldn’t pee my pants if someone were to jump out of the shadows to scare me. All in all we just wanted to survive it. The men in our lives also had expectations. Advice to the most fit and most trained member of the group was to make sure she stretched or she would certainly fail. My sister’s husband very sweetly gave her his lucky turtle necklace in the hopes that she wouldn’t be slow. My extremely competitive husband looked me in the eyes as I was walking out the door and said, “Win it. Win. It.” No pressure there.
I didn’t win it. I finished somewhere in the middle just doubling the winning time. But I am still alive, and I very nearly ran the entire time, walking just long enough to relieve a cramp. I am pretty proud. Who cares that I was passed by two eight year olds dressed in Halloween costumes? What does it matter that I can’t quite seem to control the bottom half of my body today due to soreness? I did it.
In celebration I had two doughnuts and a coke for breakfast. I suppose the healthier eating portion of my plan will begin tomorrow . . .
(My brother-in-law was waiting at the finish line with a dozen roses for my sister. This act awards him the gold star for awesome husband and makes her the big winner. Thanks for running with me sis!)
So yesterday I got off my couch and ran a 5K.
My sister and her coworker recruited a rag tag group of seven women to take their best shot at 3.2 miles on Fright Nite, two nights before Halloween. We all had slightly different goals for entering this race: some wanted to run the whole time, others wanted simply to finish, I prayed I wouldn’t pee my pants if someone were to jump out of the shadows to scare me. All in all we just wanted to survive it. The men in our lives also had expectations. Advice to the most fit and most trained member of the group was to make sure she stretched or she would certainly fail. My sister’s husband very sweetly gave her his lucky turtle necklace in the hopes that she wouldn’t be slow. My extremely competitive husband looked me in the eyes as I was walking out the door and said, “Win it. Win. It.” No pressure there.
I didn’t win it. I finished somewhere in the middle just doubling the winning time. But I am still alive, and I very nearly ran the entire time, walking just long enough to relieve a cramp. I am pretty proud. Who cares that I was passed by two eight year olds dressed in Halloween costumes? What does it matter that I can’t quite seem to control the bottom half of my body today due to soreness? I did it.
In celebration I had two doughnuts and a coke for breakfast. I suppose the healthier eating portion of my plan will begin tomorrow . . .
(My brother-in-law was waiting at the finish line with a dozen roses for my sister. This act awards him the gold star for awesome husband and makes her the big winner. Thanks for running with me sis!)
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Life of the Party
If we are home, The Kraken is naked. Well, mostly naked. (There may only be a couple things cuter than my son in his superhero tighty whiteys. Thankfully he inherited his father’s “it’s there somewhere” bum and not the larger “shelf” butt that is so common on my side of the family.) Why he feels he needs to strip the second he steps into the house, I don’t know. He’s been doing it for years. This is not a battle I chose to fight. We have an understanding that “Nakey Time” is appropriate in the house but not so suitable in public. We don’t fight about it or even have to talk much about our rule. He is on my train. Or at least I thought he was.
Last night we were invited over by our neighbors for a get together. Hopefully we were invited because they like us and not simply to avoid that awkward “So I saw you had all the neighbors over last night . . .” conversation, though I certainly wouldn’t blame anyone for not inviting us over. We are a loud, ornery, bratty, tantrum-throwing bunch. The Kraken immediately teamed up with the big kids and headed to the basement to play. We didn’t hear any screaming nor did we smell any smoke and thus assumed all was well. For the first time ever, he was basically unsupervised and the world did not implode. I believe we are making progress.
The Kraken’s choice for BFF, (a term I promised myself I would never use), decided to don his Halloween costume so, naturally The Kraken also wanted to play dress up. He asked me if I would go get his Captain America costume, but I was too lazy to walk three houses down to get it. He smiled and said he had a better idea anyway. That should have tipped me off, but as my social anxiety was having my brain come up with all the horrible things that would happen to me if I said something stupid, I missed that little clue.
A few minutes later, The Kraken came bounding up the stairs enthusiastically wearing his better idea . . . His Mickey Mouse underware and soccer shin guards. That’s it. He laughed, placed his hands on his hips and did his best impersonation of a superhero. He was adorable. I was oddly proud of him and his imagination. Daddy was a little embarrassed.
We may be throwing the next neighborhood bash, just to ensure an invite.
Last night we were invited over by our neighbors for a get together. Hopefully we were invited because they like us and not simply to avoid that awkward “So I saw you had all the neighbors over last night . . .” conversation, though I certainly wouldn’t blame anyone for not inviting us over. We are a loud, ornery, bratty, tantrum-throwing bunch. The Kraken immediately teamed up with the big kids and headed to the basement to play. We didn’t hear any screaming nor did we smell any smoke and thus assumed all was well. For the first time ever, he was basically unsupervised and the world did not implode. I believe we are making progress.
The Kraken’s choice for BFF, (a term I promised myself I would never use), decided to don his Halloween costume so, naturally The Kraken also wanted to play dress up. He asked me if I would go get his Captain America costume, but I was too lazy to walk three houses down to get it. He smiled and said he had a better idea anyway. That should have tipped me off, but as my social anxiety was having my brain come up with all the horrible things that would happen to me if I said something stupid, I missed that little clue.
A few minutes later, The Kraken came bounding up the stairs enthusiastically wearing his better idea . . . His Mickey Mouse underware and soccer shin guards. That’s it. He laughed, placed his hands on his hips and did his best impersonation of a superhero. He was adorable. I was oddly proud of him and his imagination. Daddy was a little embarrassed.
We may be throwing the next neighborhood bash, just to ensure an invite.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
I don't think it is going to fit in there.
The mommy-mobile comes in many shapes and some particularly large sizes. Let’s face it, kids come with a whole bunch of crap that needs to be hauled around. My super uncool vehicle of choice is the soccer mommy minivan. Its interior is completely crusted over with cheerios residue that I swear will one day be scraped off, but it allows me to carry two mythological creatures, all their crap, groceries and a can of coke. We are happy. Sometimes I will look at another mother’s choice in transportation and cringe at the thought of parking, going in reverse or negotiating that twisty thing in the parking garage of the airport, but I will not chastise someone for possessing more bravery than I, to each her own.
I would say my mom van handles fairly well. I haven’t gotten myself into a situation that I couldn’t appropriately maneuver out of. Heck, I can park that thing in my oddly configured garage-driveway combination, which coincidently, my husband told me couldn’t be done. (And I have only hit the house once!) I am not however about to enter the van into some sort of obstacle course competition. There are limits to what I can do.
Some have yet to understand the limits of their ever so slightly oversized vehicles. Or perhaps, more people than just myself slept through two semesters of physics. At any rate, I have a new favorite form of entertainment. I call it “pick up your kid at preschool” time. The Kraken attends preschool at a fantastic little school that has any even smaller, less fantastic parking lot. Knowing that space was limited the parking spot painter person made the spaces as small as possible to accommodate the most Mini-Coopers as he could. Since he still had half a can of paint remaining when he was finished, he continued to paint around a curve and up a small hill. Woe to the SUV that ventures up that hill.
I made the mistake of being on time to release The Kraken from his first day of preschool and had to park way too far down the street for the muscles in my left arm responsible for carrying The Siren to handle. So now I get to school way too early, find a prime parking space and watch the mayhem. There are no rules! It really makes me much happier than it probably should. I literally laugh out loud and what frazzled mothers attempt under the influence of baby brain. (For the record, I am not laughing at these woman. These are my people.) So today, I was allowed to watch as a Honda Element attempted to back into a spot, (good idea, poor execution, tiny margin for error), no less than 8 times. She finally gave up and drove up the hill. I never saw her again . . .
I would say my mom van handles fairly well. I haven’t gotten myself into a situation that I couldn’t appropriately maneuver out of. Heck, I can park that thing in my oddly configured garage-driveway combination, which coincidently, my husband told me couldn’t be done. (And I have only hit the house once!) I am not however about to enter the van into some sort of obstacle course competition. There are limits to what I can do.
Some have yet to understand the limits of their ever so slightly oversized vehicles. Or perhaps, more people than just myself slept through two semesters of physics. At any rate, I have a new favorite form of entertainment. I call it “pick up your kid at preschool” time. The Kraken attends preschool at a fantastic little school that has any even smaller, less fantastic parking lot. Knowing that space was limited the parking spot painter person made the spaces as small as possible to accommodate the most Mini-Coopers as he could. Since he still had half a can of paint remaining when he was finished, he continued to paint around a curve and up a small hill. Woe to the SUV that ventures up that hill.
I made the mistake of being on time to release The Kraken from his first day of preschool and had to park way too far down the street for the muscles in my left arm responsible for carrying The Siren to handle. So now I get to school way too early, find a prime parking space and watch the mayhem. There are no rules! It really makes me much happier than it probably should. I literally laugh out loud and what frazzled mothers attempt under the influence of baby brain. (For the record, I am not laughing at these woman. These are my people.) So today, I was allowed to watch as a Honda Element attempted to back into a spot, (good idea, poor execution, tiny margin for error), no less than 8 times. She finally gave up and drove up the hill. I never saw her again . . .
Monday, September 19, 2011
She's gifted and mad mad mad about it
During a well child appointment with the pediatrician, parents will say they just want to know their kid is healthy and doing well, but we all know what we really want. We want to know our kid is great. We want a licensed medical professional who sees hundreds of children to tell us our kid is the cutest or the smartest or the tallest or has the best curly hair or is the most advanced child they have ever seen. When a complement is received (or perhaps perceived) some parents will brag to the nearest passerby with a child or without, while others will hold onto their prize and walk around the park smiling smugly at all the other less than exceptional children knowing theirs is truly great. Parents can’t help it. We know deep down our kid is the best and wish the rest of the world would just admit it and move on.
So when I took Miss Rosie to her 18 month checkup, I was more than stoked when our new pediatrician announced my daughter was advanced. She summed up the exam by saying my Rosie was doing things children her age just don’t do. Ha. Take that all you other mothers. I am doing something right after all. I assumed like a fool that her comment had something to do with my daughter’s efforts to repeat much of what the doctor was saying. Or perhaps the pediatrician noticed Rosie’s attempt to dress herself, something she has never ever tried at home and may never attempt again. Whatever caught her attention wasn’t my concern. My daughter is gifted and is on her way to something great.
Less than twenty four hours later, I have decided perhaps my joy was misguided. It seems my daughter has advanced from laid back easy going adorable toddler straight to hormonal not even I know why I am pissed off pre-teen disaster.
When I signed The Kraken up for preschool, I envisioned joyous one on one time with The Siren consisting of collecting flowers in the meadow, having tea parties on the veranda, baking cakes with layers of love, mani/pedis in the garden . . . you know, girl stuff. What I got instead were tantrums. A tantrum getting into her carseat after seeing her brother off to school, a tantrum getting out of the carseat at the mall, a tantrum when we approached the playpark, a tantrum when I gave up and left the playpark, a tantrum getting a treat (I’m going to have a nice time with my daughter whether I have to bribe with doughnuts or not) and a tantrum when the treat was gone. Day one went well.
I just can’t wait for the day when our cycles line up and we can terrorize my boys at the same time. I’m sure they are waiting in anticipation for that one too. The way Rosie is advancing, that day will be upon us in the next week or so. Should I warn the boys or just enjoy the view from this side of PMS?
So when I took Miss Rosie to her 18 month checkup, I was more than stoked when our new pediatrician announced my daughter was advanced. She summed up the exam by saying my Rosie was doing things children her age just don’t do. Ha. Take that all you other mothers. I am doing something right after all. I assumed like a fool that her comment had something to do with my daughter’s efforts to repeat much of what the doctor was saying. Or perhaps the pediatrician noticed Rosie’s attempt to dress herself, something she has never ever tried at home and may never attempt again. Whatever caught her attention wasn’t my concern. My daughter is gifted and is on her way to something great.
Less than twenty four hours later, I have decided perhaps my joy was misguided. It seems my daughter has advanced from laid back easy going adorable toddler straight to hormonal not even I know why I am pissed off pre-teen disaster.
When I signed The Kraken up for preschool, I envisioned joyous one on one time with The Siren consisting of collecting flowers in the meadow, having tea parties on the veranda, baking cakes with layers of love, mani/pedis in the garden . . . you know, girl stuff. What I got instead were tantrums. A tantrum getting into her carseat after seeing her brother off to school, a tantrum getting out of the carseat at the mall, a tantrum when we approached the playpark, a tantrum when I gave up and left the playpark, a tantrum getting a treat (I’m going to have a nice time with my daughter whether I have to bribe with doughnuts or not) and a tantrum when the treat was gone. Day one went well.
I just can’t wait for the day when our cycles line up and we can terrorize my boys at the same time. I’m sure they are waiting in anticipation for that one too. The way Rosie is advancing, that day will be upon us in the next week or so. Should I warn the boys or just enjoy the view from this side of PMS?
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Sunday School Teacher
Long story short, I am a people pleaser. I have a hard time saying no and a hard time drawing boundaries. I am working on it. However, when the director of Sunday school called, she caught me at a weak moment. Apparently one doesn’t need to possess the ability to control their own three year old in order to be qualified to teach an entire class of three year olds. She didn’t ask if my son was a hellion, and I didn’t tell. I am now the newest member of the teaching staff at my church. My heart is already racing.
(As a side note, it was my husband who answered the call on my cell phone and then passed the phone to me. When asked if he could also help, I naturally said yes. I couldn’t help myself; It’s a sickness. I don’t think he will be answering my phone ever again.)
On our first teaching day we had a lively group of 21 three year olds. 21. Three adults versus a mob of adorable little shavers, the adults didn’t stand a chance. And if you listed the children from best behaved to worst, guess where my son would land. If you guessed at the very bottom, you win the gold star! To add insult to injury, I learned timid, shy, kind and polite three year olds do in fact exist. I was slightly shocked and amazed to witness this miracle. It isn’t an anomaly either. There are a bunch of them. I left my first foray as a Sunday school teacher exhausted and a bit defeated.
Week two brought with it my mother-in-law and therefore my best helper was sidelined to entertain his mother and her boyfriend. On the plus side, I left The Kraken with them thus allowing someone else to step up as trouble maker for the class. Hooray. We had another full week with 18 kids but the night was relatively calm and easy. We even traveled to the indoor play park and no one fell while trying to fly off the climbing wall. Something, no doubt, The Kraken would have attempted. The biggest issue of the evening was trying to locate the source of a horrible stink in a class full of ‘potty trained’ children. I stepped up and found the culprit then coaxed her away from the toys so her mother could be called. Again I left exhausted and defeated. No one wanted to steal the title of worst behaved from my and frankly that sucks.
The other teacher, a very responsible 9th grader, was a no-show for week number three. 22 cherubs showed up before we were allowed start sending kids to the overflow room, which by the way had seven children for the evening. There has to be a better system, but I am still a bit new to be rocking the boat with new ideas. I thought it would be so cool to let the kids paint for craft time. I wish I could accurately describe the mayhem. A lidless blender comes to mind. . . We survived. We even travelled to the puppet show room without misplacing a single child. I think that says something right? My darling daughter decided that she just could not handle Sunday school any longer and was brought to my room partially through one of the most chaotic nights of my life. Thankfully my mother and brother were poised and ready to take The Siren if she were to begin her wailing. They were not disappointed. After running running running for over an hour I realized I literally had sweat dripping down my back. Isn’t that special?
I don’t know quite how long I am on the hook for teaching this class. I’m not sure how many parents think their kids’ new teacher is a sweaty creep. I’m fairly certain The Siren will never make it through a church service without crying until her teachers give up. I know for a fact however, that my fellow teacher, (you know that really responsible 9th grader?), will not be getting a Christmas present from me.
(As a side note, it was my husband who answered the call on my cell phone and then passed the phone to me. When asked if he could also help, I naturally said yes. I couldn’t help myself; It’s a sickness. I don’t think he will be answering my phone ever again.)
On our first teaching day we had a lively group of 21 three year olds. 21. Three adults versus a mob of adorable little shavers, the adults didn’t stand a chance. And if you listed the children from best behaved to worst, guess where my son would land. If you guessed at the very bottom, you win the gold star! To add insult to injury, I learned timid, shy, kind and polite three year olds do in fact exist. I was slightly shocked and amazed to witness this miracle. It isn’t an anomaly either. There are a bunch of them. I left my first foray as a Sunday school teacher exhausted and a bit defeated.
Week two brought with it my mother-in-law and therefore my best helper was sidelined to entertain his mother and her boyfriend. On the plus side, I left The Kraken with them thus allowing someone else to step up as trouble maker for the class. Hooray. We had another full week with 18 kids but the night was relatively calm and easy. We even traveled to the indoor play park and no one fell while trying to fly off the climbing wall. Something, no doubt, The Kraken would have attempted. The biggest issue of the evening was trying to locate the source of a horrible stink in a class full of ‘potty trained’ children. I stepped up and found the culprit then coaxed her away from the toys so her mother could be called. Again I left exhausted and defeated. No one wanted to steal the title of worst behaved from my and frankly that sucks.
The other teacher, a very responsible 9th grader, was a no-show for week number three. 22 cherubs showed up before we were allowed start sending kids to the overflow room, which by the way had seven children for the evening. There has to be a better system, but I am still a bit new to be rocking the boat with new ideas. I thought it would be so cool to let the kids paint for craft time. I wish I could accurately describe the mayhem. A lidless blender comes to mind. . . We survived. We even travelled to the puppet show room without misplacing a single child. I think that says something right? My darling daughter decided that she just could not handle Sunday school any longer and was brought to my room partially through one of the most chaotic nights of my life. Thankfully my mother and brother were poised and ready to take The Siren if she were to begin her wailing. They were not disappointed. After running running running for over an hour I realized I literally had sweat dripping down my back. Isn’t that special?
I don’t know quite how long I am on the hook for teaching this class. I’m not sure how many parents think their kids’ new teacher is a sweaty creep. I’m fairly certain The Siren will never make it through a church service without crying until her teachers give up. I know for a fact however, that my fellow teacher, (you know that really responsible 9th grader?), will not be getting a Christmas present from me.
Friday, August 19, 2011
You are what you eat
My sister and I have been rocking a new workout system. We have a chart complete with stickers to prove it. What I don't have however is the weight loss to go along with it. I'm not aiming for much loss. Just a few pounds I packed back on during the move followed by a carbon monoxide leak scare, followed by police pounding on my door at 1 am, followed by a gigantic tub leak that affected 3 floors, followed by a son who refuses to sleep past 5:30am. I'm a little stressed and a little overwhelmed and a bit of an emotional eater. My jeans are a bit snug producing my favorite aliment, the muffin-top.
Anyway, the woman who relentlessly chirps at my sister and I to "shake it" also implied writing down everything that I eat will help me really see where I can make changes. After two weeks without any poundage lost I took her advice. Here is yesterday's list. . .
Bowl of Cereal
Coke
Hershey Bar
Ham sandwich
Apple
Coke
Necco Wafers
Granola Bar
Chili
Corn Bread
Coke
Necco Wafers
Wow. That Granola bar in the middle of the day really killed me.
Anyway, the woman who relentlessly chirps at my sister and I to "shake it" also implied writing down everything that I eat will help me really see where I can make changes. After two weeks without any poundage lost I took her advice. Here is yesterday's list. . .
Bowl of Cereal
Coke
Hershey Bar
Ham sandwich
Apple
Coke
Necco Wafers
Granola Bar
Chili
Corn Bread
Coke
Necco Wafers
Wow. That Granola bar in the middle of the day really killed me.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
I Need a Business Card
I am exhausted, overwhelmed and apt to collapse in a puddle of tears and slime in response to a seemingly benign stimulus. But no one wants to read about that. It’s not funny. To cope with my fragile state I did what any other barely treading water mother of two toddlers does . . . I took the rugrats to the zoo!
Everyone and their brother decided today would be a fantastic day to view animals, probably because the moment we stepped out of the car we didn’t melt into a lump of sweaty meatloaf for the first day in weeks. Needless to say it was packed. Sweet little Rosie no longer wants to be strapped into her stroller but wants to get out and “play.” Imagine if you will, a 3 year old running running running, an 18 month old running running running in the opposite direction and one tired momma running running running in between and shouting random commands. I was either very entertaining to watch or very annoying and frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn. My kids were having a great time, and I was earning my third coke of the day.
As luck would have it, we happened upon a live animal show just in time to get a great seat a couple rows from the stage. All seemed to be going well until a mother of two delightfully behaved school aged girls turned around and said with a snarl, “He is kicking us.” Sure enough The Kraken, bored from the three minute wait, was in his own little world singing and dancing and consequently kicking the family in front of us. I scolded him, threatened to leave if he couldn’t sit still and made him sing the “Patience” song, which he did and considered the situation handled. The woman however would huff and puff or turn and glare every time my son wiggled a bit too close to her blond beauties. I began to sing the “Patience” song to myself.
As the show began we were warned not to stand or get out of our seats for any reason for the safety of ourselves and the animals. Unfortunately, about 10 minutes in my son’s bladder decided to defy the aforementioned rule. Emergency! Now I am not a rule breaker, but I am also not about to ask a three year old to hold it. Who knows how many of us would be sprayed with urine at the end of that experiment. I quickly collected my brood and headed for the exit. On the way I caught the eye of the ever judging mother in front of us. She was not shooting me a supportive “been there, done that” smirk, but rather a “you are a terrible mother” sneer. And I nearly snapped her nose off but simply smiled and moved on.
This confrontation has convinced me that I need business cards. It could house my name, number and a cute little picture of me and my two out of control chicklets. I figure this way in about 7 years, when those two angels of hers have hormones raging through every pore and are ripping her apart as only preteen girls are capable, she can call me up and apologize for being such a jerk that one day when my son had the wiggles. Apology accepted.
Or maybe I should have just let The Kraken pee on her.
Everyone and their brother decided today would be a fantastic day to view animals, probably because the moment we stepped out of the car we didn’t melt into a lump of sweaty meatloaf for the first day in weeks. Needless to say it was packed. Sweet little Rosie no longer wants to be strapped into her stroller but wants to get out and “play.” Imagine if you will, a 3 year old running running running, an 18 month old running running running in the opposite direction and one tired momma running running running in between and shouting random commands. I was either very entertaining to watch or very annoying and frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn. My kids were having a great time, and I was earning my third coke of the day.
As luck would have it, we happened upon a live animal show just in time to get a great seat a couple rows from the stage. All seemed to be going well until a mother of two delightfully behaved school aged girls turned around and said with a snarl, “He is kicking us.” Sure enough The Kraken, bored from the three minute wait, was in his own little world singing and dancing and consequently kicking the family in front of us. I scolded him, threatened to leave if he couldn’t sit still and made him sing the “Patience” song, which he did and considered the situation handled. The woman however would huff and puff or turn and glare every time my son wiggled a bit too close to her blond beauties. I began to sing the “Patience” song to myself.
As the show began we were warned not to stand or get out of our seats for any reason for the safety of ourselves and the animals. Unfortunately, about 10 minutes in my son’s bladder decided to defy the aforementioned rule. Emergency! Now I am not a rule breaker, but I am also not about to ask a three year old to hold it. Who knows how many of us would be sprayed with urine at the end of that experiment. I quickly collected my brood and headed for the exit. On the way I caught the eye of the ever judging mother in front of us. She was not shooting me a supportive “been there, done that” smirk, but rather a “you are a terrible mother” sneer. And I nearly snapped her nose off but simply smiled and moved on.
This confrontation has convinced me that I need business cards. It could house my name, number and a cute little picture of me and my two out of control chicklets. I figure this way in about 7 years, when those two angels of hers have hormones raging through every pore and are ripping her apart as only preteen girls are capable, she can call me up and apologize for being such a jerk that one day when my son had the wiggles. Apology accepted.
Or maybe I should have just let The Kraken pee on her.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Irish Whiskey and a Battle Axe
We bought my son an axe.
I thought about ending with that statement, but as we know my son is 3 and crazy so perhaps I should offer a bit of explanation.
My family crashed the Irish festival to discover all things Ireland, and we were not disappointed: Irish dogs, Irish food, Irish fiddling, Irish dancing, Irish clothing, Irish beer. It was all awesome, well mostly. In all my years attending this festival I have never been able to catch the Irish dancing portion. The tents are always packed, and I am a people-a-phobe. On this day, I was determined to see some cute little kids with their curls bouncing. The dancers emerged from their holding area, nary a curl to be found, nary a cute little Irish child to be seen. This was the 60 and over dance club. And while I applaud your efforts, (I certainly won’t be dancing at that age), it left a little something to be desired. Sorry ladies.
During the shopping bit of our trip, The Kraken wandered into a wood-worker’s shop that makes, among other things, weapons for children. This shop kindly places their skillfully hand-carved swords, axes and shields out in the walkway for any and every child to literally stumble upon. The Kraken was smitten with a battle axe. For the record, we did not buy the axe on the first pass. We were both hoping his little mind could be focused (or manipulated) in another direction. But no, we were not that lucky.
We entered the festival for free thanks to a nonperishable food donation for the hungry and left with bellies full of corned beef and other Irish delights. Oh, and a handcrafted wooden implement of destruction. It was a great day.
It could have been worse though. I was pretty close to buying a miniature kilt for The Kraken. (They were so stinking tiny and so stinking cute.) That would have sent us straight to therapy for sure.
I thought about ending with that statement, but as we know my son is 3 and crazy so perhaps I should offer a bit of explanation.
My family crashed the Irish festival to discover all things Ireland, and we were not disappointed: Irish dogs, Irish food, Irish fiddling, Irish dancing, Irish clothing, Irish beer. It was all awesome, well mostly. In all my years attending this festival I have never been able to catch the Irish dancing portion. The tents are always packed, and I am a people-a-phobe. On this day, I was determined to see some cute little kids with their curls bouncing. The dancers emerged from their holding area, nary a curl to be found, nary a cute little Irish child to be seen. This was the 60 and over dance club. And while I applaud your efforts, (I certainly won’t be dancing at that age), it left a little something to be desired. Sorry ladies.
During the shopping bit of our trip, The Kraken wandered into a wood-worker’s shop that makes, among other things, weapons for children. This shop kindly places their skillfully hand-carved swords, axes and shields out in the walkway for any and every child to literally stumble upon. The Kraken was smitten with a battle axe. For the record, we did not buy the axe on the first pass. We were both hoping his little mind could be focused (or manipulated) in another direction. But no, we were not that lucky.
We entered the festival for free thanks to a nonperishable food donation for the hungry and left with bellies full of corned beef and other Irish delights. Oh, and a handcrafted wooden implement of destruction. It was a great day.
It could have been worse though. I was pretty close to buying a miniature kilt for The Kraken. (They were so stinking tiny and so stinking cute.) That would have sent us straight to therapy for sure.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Pirate
One evening we decided that as good parents, we really should clean the tub that the kids bathe in. It’s a jetted tub, totally unnecessary and yet totally in need of a cleaning. We filled it up with bleach water, turned on the jets and walked away. After a bit, we drained the thing, refilled it, turned on the jets and walked away. At some point in the cleaning process a jet decided it had had enough and exploded sending water under the tub, through the ceiling below (which coincidently is the Master bedroom ceiling), onto the carpet below and seeped into the crawl space. We were totally unaware and would have remained so for many days (we are sleeping in the guest bedroom upstairs until we get bedroom furniture) except that my husband needed a ‘fancy’ shirt for work and headed to the master closet. I didn’t know when we bought our dream house that it was a fixer-upper.
For the last three days I have been waiting impatiently for different experts to come and give an estimate or assess damages or fix what turns out to be an unfixable bathtub. They all promise an arrival between the hours of crack of dawn and naptime but manage to come by dinner which is great except that I have two very stir crazy in need of stimulation at all times children who at this point want to get out of the house. We have all had enough. I show my frustration by drinking more coca cola classic. Rosie cuddles (stranger danger in full effect). The Kraken takes a slightly different approach.
The Kraken to the Insurance Agent assessing what his company will and will not pay for: Avast you Scurvy Dog!
Insurance Agent: Are you a pirate?
The Kraken: Arrrrrg. You will walk the plank, matey!
Insurance Agent to me: That’s a spirited boy you have.
You think?
For the last three days I have been waiting impatiently for different experts to come and give an estimate or assess damages or fix what turns out to be an unfixable bathtub. They all promise an arrival between the hours of crack of dawn and naptime but manage to come by dinner which is great except that I have two very stir crazy in need of stimulation at all times children who at this point want to get out of the house. We have all had enough. I show my frustration by drinking more coca cola classic. Rosie cuddles (stranger danger in full effect). The Kraken takes a slightly different approach.
The Kraken to the Insurance Agent assessing what his company will and will not pay for: Avast you Scurvy Dog!
Insurance Agent: Are you a pirate?
The Kraken: Arrrrrg. You will walk the plank, matey!
Insurance Agent to me: That’s a spirited boy you have.
You think?
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Sass
There is a bit of Diva in my little girl (that much we knew). There is also a heap load of sass. Where she gets either is beyond me. I am the most even tempered, respectful, kind and helpful person on the planet. (This is going to be my husband’s favorite blog.)
Rosie likes to build towers and then climb them. The last couple months a good “no, Rosie” would suffice to stop the danger and have her climb down and move onto the next activity. Yesterday however she built a tower with a drum and a small cooler, climbed on top and barely flinched when I said, “no, no Rosie.” She turned her little face to me, smiled her devilish grin and began to dance, Rockette style, on top of her tippy creation. Sass.
Today Rosie decided to scale the outside of the staircase complete with a turn. Where was mommy? The Kraken was with his Yaya and I naively thought I could sit for three seconds on the couch while The Siren had free rein of the living room. After a short silence that could only mean danger was brewing, I got off the sofa to find Rosie clinging to the banister two steps above my head. She turned to look me straight in the eye and gave me the raspberries. Sass.
Daddy was out at some swanky restaurant for a business dinner so I passive aggressively took the kids to their favorite pizza joint to score some cool mommy points. Naturally we ran out of pizza, (I prefer to call us good eaters and not pigs). Both children noticed this fact, but it was The Siren who took her half eaten slice, offered it to The Kraken with an adorable ‘here go’ and then pulled it back to her mouth once he started to reach for the piece. Then she looked to the sky a cackled a crazy laugh. Sass.
The Kraken learned paybacks are hell. I learned the teen years are going to be hell. But hey, we already knew that didn’t we?
Rosie likes to build towers and then climb them. The last couple months a good “no, Rosie” would suffice to stop the danger and have her climb down and move onto the next activity. Yesterday however she built a tower with a drum and a small cooler, climbed on top and barely flinched when I said, “no, no Rosie.” She turned her little face to me, smiled her devilish grin and began to dance, Rockette style, on top of her tippy creation. Sass.
Today Rosie decided to scale the outside of the staircase complete with a turn. Where was mommy? The Kraken was with his Yaya and I naively thought I could sit for three seconds on the couch while The Siren had free rein of the living room. After a short silence that could only mean danger was brewing, I got off the sofa to find Rosie clinging to the banister two steps above my head. She turned to look me straight in the eye and gave me the raspberries. Sass.
Daddy was out at some swanky restaurant for a business dinner so I passive aggressively took the kids to their favorite pizza joint to score some cool mommy points. Naturally we ran out of pizza, (I prefer to call us good eaters and not pigs). Both children noticed this fact, but it was The Siren who took her half eaten slice, offered it to The Kraken with an adorable ‘here go’ and then pulled it back to her mouth once he started to reach for the piece. Then she looked to the sky a cackled a crazy laugh. Sass.
The Kraken learned paybacks are hell. I learned the teen years are going to be hell. But hey, we already knew that didn’t we?
Monday, July 25, 2011
Bang Up Car
My husband likes cars. That may be the biggest understatement of the year. Usually when the passenger of my car gasps, I assume I am about to be struck by an oncoming vehicle or I’m about to strike a pedestrian or Jesus has returned and can be seen coming on the clouds. When my husband gasps however, it’s because some fantastically overpriced magic on wheels has caught his eye. Some wonderful piece of mechanical engineering lives a few houses down from us, and he shrieks with glee every time he sees it, every time. Miss Practicality, otherwise known as this beloved author, doesn’t get it. That may be the second biggest understatement of the year. I need something safe, large enough to carry groceries and a stroller and get me reliably from point A to point B. That’s it. The end.
My son, mini-man, is following in his father’s footsteps in this area. He can point out a ‘racecar’ at 20 paces, oohs and ahs at fast cars and has already selected his future car of choice. “When I get big big big I will buy an orange Mustang no have top on it.” And yes, he knows exactly what he is saying. This has been the car of choice for many months, even though, I admit, I have been throwing other choices out there when opportunity arises, just to test his resolve. “NO, momma. Orange Mustang no have top on it.” At least he isn’t pining for a Lamborghini, which coincidently was my dear husband’s dream car when he was three.
So imagine my surprise when on the way to church he announces he is going to buy a ‘bang up’ car. Naturally my first question was if this was to replace the Mustang. To which he replied, “Of course not momma. That’s a silly question. Still have my Mustang.” Oh, right. Sorry. So what exactly is a ‘bang up’ car you wonder, “A bang up car is a really really old car I can smash with a hammer.” We never really got to the bottom of why exactly he needed both a flashy racecar and literally an old beater because a red Porsche decided to cruise by, which did not go unnoticed by The Kraken. There’s no talking to them in the car trance state, and so I drove on.
My son, mini-man, is following in his father’s footsteps in this area. He can point out a ‘racecar’ at 20 paces, oohs and ahs at fast cars and has already selected his future car of choice. “When I get big big big I will buy an orange Mustang no have top on it.” And yes, he knows exactly what he is saying. This has been the car of choice for many months, even though, I admit, I have been throwing other choices out there when opportunity arises, just to test his resolve. “NO, momma. Orange Mustang no have top on it.” At least he isn’t pining for a Lamborghini, which coincidently was my dear husband’s dream car when he was three.
So imagine my surprise when on the way to church he announces he is going to buy a ‘bang up’ car. Naturally my first question was if this was to replace the Mustang. To which he replied, “Of course not momma. That’s a silly question. Still have my Mustang.” Oh, right. Sorry. So what exactly is a ‘bang up’ car you wonder, “A bang up car is a really really old car I can smash with a hammer.” We never really got to the bottom of why exactly he needed both a flashy racecar and literally an old beater because a red Porsche decided to cruise by, which did not go unnoticed by The Kraken. There’s no talking to them in the car trance state, and so I drove on.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Color Induced Sleep
In case this is your first foray into the world of The Kraken, or you live under a rock, my son is a bit, uh, high energy. My world revolves around the daily pursuit of exhausting activities. Like all good mothers, I occasionally throw the ABCs into the mix or have him count to 180 during his 3 minute timeout, (The Kraken shall be educated), but in general I am always on the lookout for feats of physical daring. Typically, I succeed only in tiring out my already exhausted self.
And then suddenly out of nowhere my fantastical brain decided to kick in and make a suggestion. Hooray! Let’s use the power of color to soothe and calm the beast. And so I embarked on a quest to find the most calming color palette for a three year old boy’s room. Something so peaceful he would have no choice but to slip into a state of quiet for at least 10 hours.
I packed up the family and drove to the paint store with every intention of buying sleepy green or daydream blue or puffy cloud white but instead bought something much different. You see, I made the classic blunder. I asked my son what he thought his room should look like. He flashed a crooked little smile, tipped his head, accentuated that one dimple and told me.
And I caved.
The Kraken’s room is now orange. Bright orange. Okay so not really. Only two walls are orange. I’m not that stupid. The other two walls have two large racing stripes with either a green or orange stripe running through the center. And while it is possible this room is bright enough to keep the entire neighborhood awake, when he saw the finished product I got a, “Oh. My. Gosh. Thanks Mommy. This so awesome.” And that is totally worth it.
Who needs sleep anyway?
And then suddenly out of nowhere my fantastical brain decided to kick in and make a suggestion. Hooray! Let’s use the power of color to soothe and calm the beast. And so I embarked on a quest to find the most calming color palette for a three year old boy’s room. Something so peaceful he would have no choice but to slip into a state of quiet for at least 10 hours.
I packed up the family and drove to the paint store with every intention of buying sleepy green or daydream blue or puffy cloud white but instead bought something much different. You see, I made the classic blunder. I asked my son what he thought his room should look like. He flashed a crooked little smile, tipped his head, accentuated that one dimple and told me.
And I caved.
The Kraken’s room is now orange. Bright orange. Okay so not really. Only two walls are orange. I’m not that stupid. The other two walls have two large racing stripes with either a green or orange stripe running through the center. And while it is possible this room is bright enough to keep the entire neighborhood awake, when he saw the finished product I got a, “Oh. My. Gosh. Thanks Mommy. This so awesome.” And that is totally worth it.
Who needs sleep anyway?
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Nature or Nurture
I’m not much of a girl really. I own two purses, neither of which I ever carry. If I have to wear shoes, they are $2 flip flops. The fanciest pair of shoes I own were donated to me from a much more stylish sister that I have. I only wear makeup to my husband’s work functions and seldom pluck my eyebrows unless a sister gets married. My cell phone has been nonfunctional for 4 days now and frankly I could care less. I like sports and danger and outdoor activities and, alright I admit, the occasional sparkly thing. But overall, I am missing most of the girly genes.
That brings up this little thing I created, Rosie B. I’m pretty certain she is mine. I was there that morning when she made her appearance, albeit fashionably late. This little princess is a girly girl. Each morning while I am making breakfast, she picks out which shoes she will wear, most often her yellow jelly shoes, and locates her bucket which serves as a purse. Once slung over her shoulder, she is ready to venture into the world. Oh, wait, her hair needs a bit of a combing and a hair bow. Ready. It’s all pretty cute really, even if she didn’t get any of that from watching me.
I feel I should also admit there is a smidge of drama in Rosie’s life. Okay, perhaps more than a smidge. She has the ability to melt at the touch of a button, or the stealing of a toy, or the too slowly prepared lunch, or the end of playtime, or the slightest eastwardly breeze, or the sticking to her butt of a diaper. Who knows? Drama. Drama. Drama.
I do sometimes wish I could deal with my problems the same way my beautiful daughter deals with hers. When the grocery store is out of milk for instance, I wish it would be perfectly acceptable for me to throw myself to my knees and cry out for mercy. And if Krispy Kreme sells the last sprinkled doughnut to the lady in front of me, and I feel it necessary to flail like a fish face down on the ground, I should be entitled to that. No stares from the other patrons please. Because you know if your favorite glazed treat was unattainable, you would flop from your face to your back and keep thrashing just for good measure too.
Hmmm. Perhaps I passed a bit more girly genetic material on to Miss Priss than I first anticipated . . .
That brings up this little thing I created, Rosie B. I’m pretty certain she is mine. I was there that morning when she made her appearance, albeit fashionably late. This little princess is a girly girl. Each morning while I am making breakfast, she picks out which shoes she will wear, most often her yellow jelly shoes, and locates her bucket which serves as a purse. Once slung over her shoulder, she is ready to venture into the world. Oh, wait, her hair needs a bit of a combing and a hair bow. Ready. It’s all pretty cute really, even if she didn’t get any of that from watching me.
I feel I should also admit there is a smidge of drama in Rosie’s life. Okay, perhaps more than a smidge. She has the ability to melt at the touch of a button, or the stealing of a toy, or the too slowly prepared lunch, or the end of playtime, or the slightest eastwardly breeze, or the sticking to her butt of a diaper. Who knows? Drama. Drama. Drama.
I do sometimes wish I could deal with my problems the same way my beautiful daughter deals with hers. When the grocery store is out of milk for instance, I wish it would be perfectly acceptable for me to throw myself to my knees and cry out for mercy. And if Krispy Kreme sells the last sprinkled doughnut to the lady in front of me, and I feel it necessary to flail like a fish face down on the ground, I should be entitled to that. No stares from the other patrons please. Because you know if your favorite glazed treat was unattainable, you would flop from your face to your back and keep thrashing just for good measure too.
Hmmm. Perhaps I passed a bit more girly genetic material on to Miss Priss than I first anticipated . . .
Saturday, July 2, 2011
'A' for Effort
Every mother at some point wishes she had the ability to hover daintily over a public toilet, quickly finish her business, and gracefully rezip her mom jeans all without peeing on herself or the beautiful infant/toddler she is holding. If this activity necessitated a bit less acrobatic skill, life would be a bit more carefree.
I admit I never really gave much thought about a father’s feelings on the matter. Point and shoot, how hard can that be? When traveling as a family, my husband is usually in charge of taking The Kraken to the potty. Recently, on a very long car ride, my son announced that he had to go poopy really badly. “Emergency Stop!” he wailed. I pulled off the highway at a fast food joint; my husband whisked my son out of his car seat and ran him inside. He didn’t feel there was time to put his shoes on.
While The Kraken did the deed, my husband’s coffee suddenly kicked in. And now he was faced with a dilemma . . . hold his son, hold his bowel movement or set my boy down on the ground barefoot. If I’m honest, I would bet most men would set their kid on the ground and quickly hose his feet down in the sink on the way out the door. Am I right? What my man decided to do, possibly knowing the magnitude of the freak-out coming his way if he chose a previously mentioned method, was to delicately balance my son on his shoulders while he popped a squat. I give an ‘A’ for effort and cleanliness. Way to go honey.
He said The Kraken only very nearly fell off and into the toilet once. Perhaps a statistic I could have lived without.
I admit I never really gave much thought about a father’s feelings on the matter. Point and shoot, how hard can that be? When traveling as a family, my husband is usually in charge of taking The Kraken to the potty. Recently, on a very long car ride, my son announced that he had to go poopy really badly. “Emergency Stop!” he wailed. I pulled off the highway at a fast food joint; my husband whisked my son out of his car seat and ran him inside. He didn’t feel there was time to put his shoes on.
While The Kraken did the deed, my husband’s coffee suddenly kicked in. And now he was faced with a dilemma . . . hold his son, hold his bowel movement or set my boy down on the ground barefoot. If I’m honest, I would bet most men would set their kid on the ground and quickly hose his feet down in the sink on the way out the door. Am I right? What my man decided to do, possibly knowing the magnitude of the freak-out coming his way if he chose a previously mentioned method, was to delicately balance my son on his shoulders while he popped a squat. I give an ‘A’ for effort and cleanliness. Way to go honey.
He said The Kraken only very nearly fell off and into the toilet once. Perhaps a statistic I could have lived without.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Summer Sucks (Ok, not really but kinda)
There are many things I love about summer. I could list them but who wants to read that? Borrrrrring. Instead here are the things I hate about summer. Enjoy.
Not everyone should wear a bikini. Must I go on? There are some body parts I really shouldn’t have to teach to my 3 year old son after a trip to the pool. I applaud your self-esteem ladies, I do, but please, pick up a tankini the next time you are out and about. The world would be ever so grateful.
Sunscreen. With two kids, it is hard to go anywhere. In the summer I have to add 15 minutes per child to our prep time, all for the application of sunscreen. Sticky, oooey, gooey, sunscreen. Boo. The Kraken is as cute as ever slathered in sunscreen. The Siren, poor little thing, turns into a grease ball. Her hair gets slimy and begins to collect dirt and random treasures. Picking her up is impossible. She just sorta slides right out of my arms. Not cute. Not safe.
My eczema kicks it up about 10 notches. Now right off, some of you may want to quote statistics about how hot and humid weather makes life easier on the eczema sufferer. Blah. Blah. Blah. Maybe for most people, but I am special. Hip hip hooray. By the end of August I am one red, puffy, scabby beast, which makes me really attractive in my tankini.
I sleep horribly most of the time. Somehow it gets worse in the heat. It’s hard to explain, but I think my already larger than most personal space bubble enlarges when I am hot or sweaty. This may be the main reason we didn’t co-sleep with either of our children. Stay out of my bubble or you will pay. Ask my husband, the man who has invaded my space since the day I met him and lived to tell about it, he knows.
Fireworks. Hate them. When I was much younger we attended a Fourth of July celebration that started well enough but ended in a huge ball of flames. Everyone was running and I was worried I was going to be lost in the crowd. I’ve never liked 4th of July festivities since. I did get a great piece of advice that evening, once safe and sound back at my aunt and uncle’s house. A news anchor was giving tips to have a safe 4th of July. Among the normal things like wear sunscreen and pack bug spray, he suggested everyone carry a bucket of water. I guess that would have been helpful with the flaming ball of death coming my way. Would have helped a lot.
Okay. Those are my major beefs with summer. Not many. I hope you all have plenty of fun in the sun and stay safe on vacations. All I ask is not to shoot a firework in my general direction and don’t let your boob pop out at the pool. Not too much to ask I don’t think.
Not everyone should wear a bikini. Must I go on? There are some body parts I really shouldn’t have to teach to my 3 year old son after a trip to the pool. I applaud your self-esteem ladies, I do, but please, pick up a tankini the next time you are out and about. The world would be ever so grateful.
Sunscreen. With two kids, it is hard to go anywhere. In the summer I have to add 15 minutes per child to our prep time, all for the application of sunscreen. Sticky, oooey, gooey, sunscreen. Boo. The Kraken is as cute as ever slathered in sunscreen. The Siren, poor little thing, turns into a grease ball. Her hair gets slimy and begins to collect dirt and random treasures. Picking her up is impossible. She just sorta slides right out of my arms. Not cute. Not safe.
My eczema kicks it up about 10 notches. Now right off, some of you may want to quote statistics about how hot and humid weather makes life easier on the eczema sufferer. Blah. Blah. Blah. Maybe for most people, but I am special. Hip hip hooray. By the end of August I am one red, puffy, scabby beast, which makes me really attractive in my tankini.
I sleep horribly most of the time. Somehow it gets worse in the heat. It’s hard to explain, but I think my already larger than most personal space bubble enlarges when I am hot or sweaty. This may be the main reason we didn’t co-sleep with either of our children. Stay out of my bubble or you will pay. Ask my husband, the man who has invaded my space since the day I met him and lived to tell about it, he knows.
Fireworks. Hate them. When I was much younger we attended a Fourth of July celebration that started well enough but ended in a huge ball of flames. Everyone was running and I was worried I was going to be lost in the crowd. I’ve never liked 4th of July festivities since. I did get a great piece of advice that evening, once safe and sound back at my aunt and uncle’s house. A news anchor was giving tips to have a safe 4th of July. Among the normal things like wear sunscreen and pack bug spray, he suggested everyone carry a bucket of water. I guess that would have been helpful with the flaming ball of death coming my way. Would have helped a lot.
Okay. Those are my major beefs with summer. Not many. I hope you all have plenty of fun in the sun and stay safe on vacations. All I ask is not to shoot a firework in my general direction and don’t let your boob pop out at the pool. Not too much to ask I don’t think.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Cinderella is Stupid
It’s been a rough couple days. My insomnia has been back in full force for about a week now after a 6 month hiatus. A well-known friend I did not miss. I had forgotten what it’s like to function on literally no sleep and am not quite in my sleep-deprived groove. Rosie has been screaming basically all day every day, which is so not like my little beauty. Turns out she has a new and very pointy eye tooth attempting to pop out. They aren’t friends either. The Kraken, well, he’s three. One minute he is delightful and a snuggle bug. The next he is screaming and beating me with a drumstick because I didn’t get chocolate milk with lunch, his puppy has gone missing or maybe his underwear is too tight. Whatever. This is one tired momma.
Needless to report, like all great mothers, I have been using the TV to babysit a little more often than usual. Sometimes you just need 20 minutes of quiet to concoct a dinner with ingredients that taste good together. I let my son choose the babysitter. His most recent choice was . . . Cinderella. Not a movie we watch often.
After answering no less than 80 questions, (we are in the ‘why?’ phase), I have realized why we don’t watch Cinderella very often. What a stupid movie.
I hate cats. Hate. I, however, deal with my hatred by not owning one. I didn’t purchase a cat and then punish him by naming him Lucifer. How am I supposed to answer, “Who is Lucifer?” Well, son, he is the evil one, the devil, the fallen angel, the prince of darkness (or is that Ozzy). I guess along with a serpent, the devil is also a really fat and lazy cat. I guess that makes sense.
I genuinely wish all mean girls in the world were really ugly, terrible singers, had annoying voices and wore dresses that made their bums look gigantic. It would be so much easier for me to warn my children who not to associate with. As it stands, the ugly step sisters plant a whole lot of dysfunctional crap into my son’s mind and maybe my daughter’s, who knows. Just another topic we will cover in therapy, no doubt.
Glass slippers? Really? Enough said.
If a man has the stamina to dance the waltz for hours on end, shouldn’t it also stand to reason that he could chase down a woman running in glass slippers? To add insult to an already bruised pride, chick loses one of her shoes. So now, off she runs, hobbling along in one fragile glass pump and one bare foot and yet you still can’t catch her. Come on man.
There are, I am sure, a million other reasons why Cinderella is stupid, but my chocolate trifle is ready complete with a layer of beef sautéed with peas and carrots. Yummy. Let’s eat. (Okay so don’t hate me. I lied. I love Cinderella. For crying in the sink, it’s a classic.) But still, let’s be honest, the movie is lame.
Needless to report, like all great mothers, I have been using the TV to babysit a little more often than usual. Sometimes you just need 20 minutes of quiet to concoct a dinner with ingredients that taste good together. I let my son choose the babysitter. His most recent choice was . . . Cinderella. Not a movie we watch often.
After answering no less than 80 questions, (we are in the ‘why?’ phase), I have realized why we don’t watch Cinderella very often. What a stupid movie.
I hate cats. Hate. I, however, deal with my hatred by not owning one. I didn’t purchase a cat and then punish him by naming him Lucifer. How am I supposed to answer, “Who is Lucifer?” Well, son, he is the evil one, the devil, the fallen angel, the prince of darkness (or is that Ozzy). I guess along with a serpent, the devil is also a really fat and lazy cat. I guess that makes sense.
I genuinely wish all mean girls in the world were really ugly, terrible singers, had annoying voices and wore dresses that made their bums look gigantic. It would be so much easier for me to warn my children who not to associate with. As it stands, the ugly step sisters plant a whole lot of dysfunctional crap into my son’s mind and maybe my daughter’s, who knows. Just another topic we will cover in therapy, no doubt.
Glass slippers? Really? Enough said.
If a man has the stamina to dance the waltz for hours on end, shouldn’t it also stand to reason that he could chase down a woman running in glass slippers? To add insult to an already bruised pride, chick loses one of her shoes. So now, off she runs, hobbling along in one fragile glass pump and one bare foot and yet you still can’t catch her. Come on man.
There are, I am sure, a million other reasons why Cinderella is stupid, but my chocolate trifle is ready complete with a layer of beef sautéed with peas and carrots. Yummy. Let’s eat. (Okay so don’t hate me. I lied. I love Cinderella. For crying in the sink, it’s a classic.) But still, let’s be honest, the movie is lame.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Discipline
While sitting on the couch, my husband leaned oh so gently to his right and farted in my general direction. So, naturally, I punched his bum. I was promptly sent to timeout by my three-year-old. "Put your face in the corner. 1, 2, 3, . . . 13, 16, 19, 20. Come here momma. You no hit. You be nice. Go tell daddy 'sorry' right now!"
For snack this afternoon we stopped at Panera for a bagel and family time. Midway through The Kraken had to go potty started to get up from the table with daddy. Suddenly he stopped, pointed his chubby little finger in my face and said, "You no eat my food, momma. You eat it and you go sit in timeout in that corner by that strange man. Get it? No eat my food." As he walked to the bathroom he peeked over his shoulder a couple times to check on his beloved cinnamon crunch happiness. After peeing all over the wall, he came back to the table and asked, "You eat my food." No, I hadn't. "Tell the truth, please." Still, my answer was 'no'. It seems he believed me as I didn't have to spend 20 seconds sitting next to a stranger. Thank goodness.
I am the owner of a delightfully loud and equally mean Sun Conure who is living, for the time being, at Oppa's house. My dad took in my bird for the sole purpose of keeping all my children's fingers on their hands and not at the bottom of a bird cage. Thanks dad. The Kraken has been told close to a million times not to put his sweet puffy hands near the cage. This evening The Siren went dangerously close to the mouth of the beast. Using his fast fast fast speed he stopped The Siren police nightstick style with a block of wood he found earlier and immediately cherished. "Not good Rosie. Big bad hurt. Back up back up back up." (It seems I repeat everything in threes and may begin to write this way as well.)
Here's what I learned today: a#1 - The Kraken listens to what I say. Yes, I am also amazed by this revelation. b#2 - Some part of my son, no matter how small, does like his sister. Or at least her hands. Or maybe just wants to be the boss. Or maybe wants to smack people with his nightstick. (Ok so b#2 was a bit of a flop.) And last but not least c#4 - The timeout corner isn't really a terrible place to stand. You can see out the window into our 'yard'. I'm pretty sure I saw a bird eat a bee. Educational but not much for punishment.
My goals for tomorrow are to stay out of timeout and find a really boring horrible spot for timeout . . . maybe next to the dirty clothes hamper . . .
For snack this afternoon we stopped at Panera for a bagel and family time. Midway through The Kraken had to go potty started to get up from the table with daddy. Suddenly he stopped, pointed his chubby little finger in my face and said, "You no eat my food, momma. You eat it and you go sit in timeout in that corner by that strange man. Get it? No eat my food." As he walked to the bathroom he peeked over his shoulder a couple times to check on his beloved cinnamon crunch happiness. After peeing all over the wall, he came back to the table and asked, "You eat my food." No, I hadn't. "Tell the truth, please." Still, my answer was 'no'. It seems he believed me as I didn't have to spend 20 seconds sitting next to a stranger. Thank goodness.
I am the owner of a delightfully loud and equally mean Sun Conure who is living, for the time being, at Oppa's house. My dad took in my bird for the sole purpose of keeping all my children's fingers on their hands and not at the bottom of a bird cage. Thanks dad. The Kraken has been told close to a million times not to put his sweet puffy hands near the cage. This evening The Siren went dangerously close to the mouth of the beast. Using his fast fast fast speed he stopped The Siren police nightstick style with a block of wood he found earlier and immediately cherished. "Not good Rosie. Big bad hurt. Back up back up back up." (It seems I repeat everything in threes and may begin to write this way as well.)
Here's what I learned today: a#1 - The Kraken listens to what I say. Yes, I am also amazed by this revelation. b#2 - Some part of my son, no matter how small, does like his sister. Or at least her hands. Or maybe just wants to be the boss. Or maybe wants to smack people with his nightstick. (Ok so b#2 was a bit of a flop.) And last but not least c#4 - The timeout corner isn't really a terrible place to stand. You can see out the window into our 'yard'. I'm pretty sure I saw a bird eat a bee. Educational but not much for punishment.
My goals for tomorrow are to stay out of timeout and find a really boring horrible spot for timeout . . . maybe next to the dirty clothes hamper . . .
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Best Day Ever
This morning I slept in until 9am because my husband is a saint. I awoke, took a long hot shower and emerged from my bedroom into a clean house because my husband loves me. The kids’ bathroom didn’t smell of urine but of a nice lemony fresh scent because my husband knows I hate the smell, however faint, of pee in the morning. (Yes, The Kraken is still having an aiming issue, which is less of an aiming issue and more of an attention span issue. Four seconds straight is just way too long for any Kraken to stand without wiggling, am I right?) The post out of town wedding explosion had been cleaned out of the minivan and sorted into piles because my husband is my best friend. (It should be a bit obvious by now that “Gifts of Service” is my love language. The General was speaking it big time!)
After surveying the tidy home that normally resembles a crash site, I was greeted with laughter and hugs from the two most adorable children in the whole entire world. And no, not biased at all. They are the cutest. Ever. Deal with it.
My dad, bless his heart, agreed to watch my cutest, albeit most active, two kids all by himself while The General and I headed off to spend our free tickets to Cirque du Soleil! Awesome! I shall say it again, AWESOME! When we arrived home, my children were still alive. (Not a surprise. I had total faith.) My dad was still alive. (A bit of a surprise.) He said the afternoon went really well, even mentioning something about when he babysits the next time. (A HUGE surprise. I figured after four hours alone with my kiddos he would run away and never look back. That is, after all, what I do.) Thanks dad!
My husband cooked dinner because he my soul mate. And as I sat in a kitchen I didn’t clean, eating a splendid well balanced dinner I hadn’t prepared, my little Kraken looked up and said, “Momma, may I hug you?” Um, yeah. He laid his curly cherub noggin on my shoulder and said, “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.” My heart melted. “I so sweet.” Yes, my son, you are the sweetest thing ever!
After surveying the tidy home that normally resembles a crash site, I was greeted with laughter and hugs from the two most adorable children in the whole entire world. And no, not biased at all. They are the cutest. Ever. Deal with it.
My dad, bless his heart, agreed to watch my cutest, albeit most active, two kids all by himself while The General and I headed off to spend our free tickets to Cirque du Soleil! Awesome! I shall say it again, AWESOME! When we arrived home, my children were still alive. (Not a surprise. I had total faith.) My dad was still alive. (A bit of a surprise.) He said the afternoon went really well, even mentioning something about when he babysits the next time. (A HUGE surprise. I figured after four hours alone with my kiddos he would run away and never look back. That is, after all, what I do.) Thanks dad!
My husband cooked dinner because he my soul mate. And as I sat in a kitchen I didn’t clean, eating a splendid well balanced dinner I hadn’t prepared, my little Kraken looked up and said, “Momma, may I hug you?” Um, yeah. He laid his curly cherub noggin on my shoulder and said, “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.” My heart melted. “I so sweet.” Yes, my son, you are the sweetest thing ever!
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Helpful
I am a co-matron of honor in my sister’s wedding on Saturday! (My sister is getting married! Wahoo!) And as such, I feel I should be helping with the plans and preparation as much as possible to help ease the stress from the bride and mother of the bride. Unfortunately, I live about two hours from party central. On top of the distance, I come in a package deal. Anywhere I go I bring the death and destruction that can only be my Kraken, and the unrelenting sleep depriver that is my Siren. By day we knock over wedding cakes and shred invitations. By night we keep you tossing and turning in order to create dark under eye circles which are all the rage with brides these days.
It seems absence makes the heart grow fonder, or maybe we relieve more stress by staying away. Whatever the case, I still want to do what I can to help.
So I did the only thing I knew was absolutely necessary. I started blowing up my Facebook page and consequently the pages of my ‘friends’ with Steel Magnolias quotes. The women in my family have an odd addiction to this movie and, no we don’t need help. Steel Magnolias contains the answer to any problem, and can make us laugh in any situation. How to do your hair: “Just tease it and make it look like a brown football helmet.” What to do with a dog that is stressed out: “Serve him on toast.” How to make friends and influence people: “NOBODY MOVE! MY CONTACT!” How to deal with a drunk: “I don’t care what you do in your fridge, but you will not keep liquor in mine.” How to conduct a sports interview: “Would you call that grape or Aubergine?” How to tell someone you care: “I love you more than my luggage.” Like I said, awesome movie and just the ticket to get us laughing. Operation: Relieve Stress from afar is a success!
What else? Oh, yeah. All eyes should be on the bride on her glorious day, not the wildebeest standing up front in a cute strapless dress. If you know me, I hope you would agree that I am about as low maintenance as a girl can come. Mostly a good thing, except when it comes to hair removal. I don’t have the time, the strength nor do I really care enough to shave, pluck or wax regularly (my husband, poor fellow, must really like me just for being me). In college when I was playing volleyball, I would only shave from where my kneepad ended to where my spandex shorts began. That’s it. Not kidding. Also, among other wonderful aliments, I have a bit of a moustache problem. I’m learning to like myself, but that guy has got to go. So, just for my favorite older sister, I waxed the stache, plucked my eyebrows, pulled some extroverted nose hairs and unbraided my leg hair so it could be shaved smooth. I’m not sure my shower drain will ever recover, but I look a bit like a woman and less like a Sasquatch.
All for my sister on her big day! I am nothing if not helpful.
It seems absence makes the heart grow fonder, or maybe we relieve more stress by staying away. Whatever the case, I still want to do what I can to help.
So I did the only thing I knew was absolutely necessary. I started blowing up my Facebook page and consequently the pages of my ‘friends’ with Steel Magnolias quotes. The women in my family have an odd addiction to this movie and, no we don’t need help. Steel Magnolias contains the answer to any problem, and can make us laugh in any situation. How to do your hair: “Just tease it and make it look like a brown football helmet.” What to do with a dog that is stressed out: “Serve him on toast.” How to make friends and influence people: “NOBODY MOVE! MY CONTACT!” How to deal with a drunk: “I don’t care what you do in your fridge, but you will not keep liquor in mine.” How to conduct a sports interview: “Would you call that grape or Aubergine?” How to tell someone you care: “I love you more than my luggage.” Like I said, awesome movie and just the ticket to get us laughing. Operation: Relieve Stress from afar is a success!
What else? Oh, yeah. All eyes should be on the bride on her glorious day, not the wildebeest standing up front in a cute strapless dress. If you know me, I hope you would agree that I am about as low maintenance as a girl can come. Mostly a good thing, except when it comes to hair removal. I don’t have the time, the strength nor do I really care enough to shave, pluck or wax regularly (my husband, poor fellow, must really like me just for being me). In college when I was playing volleyball, I would only shave from where my kneepad ended to where my spandex shorts began. That’s it. Not kidding. Also, among other wonderful aliments, I have a bit of a moustache problem. I’m learning to like myself, but that guy has got to go. So, just for my favorite older sister, I waxed the stache, plucked my eyebrows, pulled some extroverted nose hairs and unbraided my leg hair so it could be shaved smooth. I’m not sure my shower drain will ever recover, but I look a bit like a woman and less like a Sasquatch.
All for my sister on her big day! I am nothing if not helpful.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Have Patience
There are many things I am not. I am however, patient. Very patient. I’m convinced when God was making me, he had my little Kraken in mind and added an extra splash of patience powder. He knew I would need it.
This morning the kids woke up way too early for the second morning in a row. Momma hadn’t slept very well, and The Kraken was very whiney. Nothing could remedy the mood of my son. Not even the television. Nothing. Not even storytime at the library. Not a cookie or a book or a random weather check by running out the front door. It was a rough morning.
After lunch I made the executive decision that all three of us needed a nap. The Siren agreed and went down as easily as ever. I think she enjoys naptime as it is the only time The Kraken can’t steal her toys. The crib is her sanctuary. She was asleep in minutes. The Kraken however, is never excited about rest period. The best way to get The Kraken to sleep is to wrap him up like a mummy and hold him down. (No, not really but if you can get that child to stop moving he nods off midsentence.) That sounds a bit like torture to me, so I was relying on hope; hope that he would sit still long enough to crash.
He was relying on stubbornness. He wasn’t going to stop moving and he wasn’t going to stop yelling at Momma to go potty, to have some milk, to read a story, to tuck him in . . . Who was going to break first?
Turns out it was me. I didn’t let him out, but I did lose my patience and snap at the poor child. “I am NOT coming in here again. We will do NOTHING fun until you take a nap.” I didn’t hear another peep out him, but I also couldn’t enjoy the quiet because I felt so horrible.
Two hours later my sweet cherub awoke and gave a big hug. I said, “I’m sorry I snapped at you. Momma should not have been so mean to you.” He replied, “That’s ok momma. I’m sorry I wasn’t behaving. No obey my momma. That’s no nice. We all need a good good nap.”
Then he sang the “Have Patience” song and stole his sister’s pacifier. Here we go again.
This morning the kids woke up way too early for the second morning in a row. Momma hadn’t slept very well, and The Kraken was very whiney. Nothing could remedy the mood of my son. Not even the television. Nothing. Not even storytime at the library. Not a cookie or a book or a random weather check by running out the front door. It was a rough morning.
After lunch I made the executive decision that all three of us needed a nap. The Siren agreed and went down as easily as ever. I think she enjoys naptime as it is the only time The Kraken can’t steal her toys. The crib is her sanctuary. She was asleep in minutes. The Kraken however, is never excited about rest period. The best way to get The Kraken to sleep is to wrap him up like a mummy and hold him down. (No, not really but if you can get that child to stop moving he nods off midsentence.) That sounds a bit like torture to me, so I was relying on hope; hope that he would sit still long enough to crash.
He was relying on stubbornness. He wasn’t going to stop moving and he wasn’t going to stop yelling at Momma to go potty, to have some milk, to read a story, to tuck him in . . . Who was going to break first?
Turns out it was me. I didn’t let him out, but I did lose my patience and snap at the poor child. “I am NOT coming in here again. We will do NOTHING fun until you take a nap.” I didn’t hear another peep out him, but I also couldn’t enjoy the quiet because I felt so horrible.
Two hours later my sweet cherub awoke and gave a big hug. I said, “I’m sorry I snapped at you. Momma should not have been so mean to you.” He replied, “That’s ok momma. I’m sorry I wasn’t behaving. No obey my momma. That’s no nice. We all need a good good nap.”
Then he sang the “Have Patience” song and stole his sister’s pacifier. Here we go again.
Monday, April 25, 2011
The House Always Wins
I bought a two pack of pajamas on sale for cheap for my son, though why I needed to add they were cheap is beyond me. It is me writing after all. I’ve never paid more than $30 for a pair of jeans and never over $4 for a pair of children’s jeans. I refuse. Some might call that thrifty or even smart, but sadly it gets much worse. I recently went out for my sister’s Bachelorette party. We were out until 2am, she bought me two drinks; I bought her zero. Boo! (Sorry, Sis.) Alright, you get it, I’m cheap. Moving on. The Kraken wore one pair of jams a couple nights ago. For some reason, daddy wanted him to wear the other pair tonight. I kinda did too. There is nothing cuter than my kids in their pjs.
Let the epic battle commence.
Problem Number 1: The Kraken prefers to wear shorts to bed. The second set, covered in a piranha motif, unfortunately is a pair of pants. “NO NO NO. No wear pants daddy. Wear yorts.” Let the screaming begin.
Problem Number 2: The Kraken is a creature of habit: each morning we “release the Kraken”, breakfast is always eggs occasionally with pancakes, before getting dressed he checks the temperature by running out the front door, once Rosie is tucked in bed for nap time we do worksheets in his tracing book, and on and on our day goes. My little man loves routine, which hopefully doesn’t suggest anything more than feeling comfortable with a large strange world. So, when my husband suggested wearing the fish encrusted shirt with the gray shorts from the other ensemble, The Kraken was not pleased. “But daddy, that no match! Gray yorts match other yirt not this yirt. AHHHHHHHH.”
Problem Number 3: Both of the men in my life are stubborn as heck. Daddy dresses our son in piranha shirt with gray “nonmatching” shorts. The Kraken continues to scream.
Problem Number 4: Momma believes a three year old needs things in his life that he can control. This makes him a bit more helpful during the rest of his day when he does not and often cannot have much voice. And as such has been allowing her little man to wear whatever he wishes to bed. Sometimes he sleeps in his orange underwear, sometimes the outfit he’s worn all day or most often, shorts and a tee shirt. It’s sorta a house rule. The rest of the day he generally gets a choice between activities or items, but bedtime is his time to rule the world.
Problem Number 5: It’s been very rough for my husband with work hours this past month. Pretty sure he was only able to participate in our bedtime routine two or three times out of the last thirty. Therefore, poor daddy doesn’t know the house rules. And so the Titans clash.
I settled The Kraken down long enough for him to choke out the words, “But this no work. Wear other yirt. I pick other yirt. Please, daddy please. Change now please, please, daddy?” Not even daddy can say no to that little face. And so The Kraken sleeps soundly in his jams not covered in little fish.
Perhaps I should brief the General on all the new rules I pass while he is away. Maybe I should turn all his pajama pants into cut offs. I think the best course of action though is to sit back and take notes for when my lovely Siren becomes a pre-teen. Can’t wait for that.
Let the epic battle commence.
Problem Number 1: The Kraken prefers to wear shorts to bed. The second set, covered in a piranha motif, unfortunately is a pair of pants. “NO NO NO. No wear pants daddy. Wear yorts.” Let the screaming begin.
Problem Number 2: The Kraken is a creature of habit: each morning we “release the Kraken”, breakfast is always eggs occasionally with pancakes, before getting dressed he checks the temperature by running out the front door, once Rosie is tucked in bed for nap time we do worksheets in his tracing book, and on and on our day goes. My little man loves routine, which hopefully doesn’t suggest anything more than feeling comfortable with a large strange world. So, when my husband suggested wearing the fish encrusted shirt with the gray shorts from the other ensemble, The Kraken was not pleased. “But daddy, that no match! Gray yorts match other yirt not this yirt. AHHHHHHHH.”
Problem Number 3: Both of the men in my life are stubborn as heck. Daddy dresses our son in piranha shirt with gray “nonmatching” shorts. The Kraken continues to scream.
Problem Number 4: Momma believes a three year old needs things in his life that he can control. This makes him a bit more helpful during the rest of his day when he does not and often cannot have much voice. And as such has been allowing her little man to wear whatever he wishes to bed. Sometimes he sleeps in his orange underwear, sometimes the outfit he’s worn all day or most often, shorts and a tee shirt. It’s sorta a house rule. The rest of the day he generally gets a choice between activities or items, but bedtime is his time to rule the world.
Problem Number 5: It’s been very rough for my husband with work hours this past month. Pretty sure he was only able to participate in our bedtime routine two or three times out of the last thirty. Therefore, poor daddy doesn’t know the house rules. And so the Titans clash.
I settled The Kraken down long enough for him to choke out the words, “But this no work. Wear other yirt. I pick other yirt. Please, daddy please. Change now please, please, daddy?” Not even daddy can say no to that little face. And so The Kraken sleeps soundly in his jams not covered in little fish.
Perhaps I should brief the General on all the new rules I pass while he is away. Maybe I should turn all his pajama pants into cut offs. I think the best course of action though is to sit back and take notes for when my lovely Siren becomes a pre-teen. Can’t wait for that.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Fetch
My Rosie is gifted. Yep, I am one of those mommas. But she is, really.
I just say, “Rosie where is (fill in the blank)”, and she will go find it. Sure, her superpower may at this point be limited to her doll, her blanket, dancing Mickey, a pacifier, or her other favorite things, but even prodigies need a little guidance sometimes. With a shove in the right direction I think she will be off and running in no time.
So try not to be jealous when I say, “Rosie where is dinner? “, and she walks over with lasagna, rolls and a salad. These things cannot be taught. It’s her gift.
I just say, “Rosie where is (fill in the blank)”, and she will go find it. Sure, her superpower may at this point be limited to her doll, her blanket, dancing Mickey, a pacifier, or her other favorite things, but even prodigies need a little guidance sometimes. With a shove in the right direction I think she will be off and running in no time.
So try not to be jealous when I say, “Rosie where is dinner? “, and she walks over with lasagna, rolls and a salad. These things cannot be taught. It’s her gift.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
There will be repercussions when he is older
So I said to myself, Self, maybe we should stop calling our son, The Kraken, at least to his face. It may cause some harm when he figures out what that means. Deal? Deal.
With my multiple personalities having reached a simpatico, I woke up this morning to my wonderful Kraken (I said to his face) calling out, “Momma, get me outta here!” Ahh, my favorite sentence to hear at 6am. Dragging my weary body from my bedroom to his, I smiled and gently opened the gate blocking the door.
“What are you doing momma? I no say RELEASE THE KRAKEN! You no open the gate yet. What are you doing? In the morning we have to RELEASE THE KRAKEN! This is no good. This is no good. What a bad bad bad day.”
So I said to myself, Self, don’t ruin the kid’s day.
I replaced the gate, walked back to my room, sat on my bed and waited. “Momma, get me outta here!” Dragging my weary, yet slightly more awake body from my bedroom to his, I smiled and asked, “What do we say?”
“RELEASE THE KRAKEN!”
And so I did.
With my multiple personalities having reached a simpatico, I woke up this morning to my wonderful Kraken (I said to his face) calling out, “Momma, get me outta here!” Ahh, my favorite sentence to hear at 6am. Dragging my weary body from my bedroom to his, I smiled and gently opened the gate blocking the door.
“What are you doing momma? I no say RELEASE THE KRAKEN! You no open the gate yet. What are you doing? In the morning we have to RELEASE THE KRAKEN! This is no good. This is no good. What a bad bad bad day.”
So I said to myself, Self, don’t ruin the kid’s day.
I replaced the gate, walked back to my room, sat on my bed and waited. “Momma, get me outta here!” Dragging my weary, yet slightly more awake body from my bedroom to his, I smiled and asked, “What do we say?”
“RELEASE THE KRAKEN!”
And so I did.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Coke and a Smile
I believe in three things:
First and foremost, God loves me as much as He loves his only Son. He can’t help it. He IS love. He loves you too, just as much as Jesus, regardless of age, weight, gender, race, religion or lifestyle. Anyone walking around preaching something else has missed the point and is lost.
Second, I strive to be the very best momma I can possibly be. It’s not perfect and it certainly isn’t always pretty, (even my flip flops screamed when they saw my non-pedicured little toes emerge from my socks), but it is my very best. I hope The Kraken and The Siren look back and remember all the fun we had and the adventures we took and not how dirty the house always was. And hopefully they don’t hate me for the nicknames. (I am saving up a counseling fund just in case.)
Last and definitely least . . . bum baba bum . . . Coca-Cola Classic can heal all wounds. The Kraken jumps from the back of the sofa and lands inches from his sister just because he wanted to feel like a rocket ship. Sip of coke. Rosie spends an entire night waking and screaming every 40 minutes or so. Can of coke for breakfast. Husband working late again, (those darn sick kids stealing my man). Crack open another can. “Potty trained” son showers the entire bathroom with yellow rain shortly before guests are slated to arrive. Sip of coke and maybe some bleach wipes. Rosie runs over and gives an unsolicited snuggle. Coke and smile. Twenty minutes running around the van attempting to catch a running sonshine to take him to a play date, which scares the living goo out of momma, simply because this child needs to be socialized. Sip of coke and a satisfied sigh of the conqueror (me, in case you were wondering). Let me be clear, I’ve heard all the stats about the time it takes a T-bone steak to digest in coke and that it makes an excellent engine degreaser, and while those thoughts do gross me out, I like my coke. My name is Kip and I am an addict.
But I am at peace, Jesus loves me enough to die, addict or not. Sip of coke.
First and foremost, God loves me as much as He loves his only Son. He can’t help it. He IS love. He loves you too, just as much as Jesus, regardless of age, weight, gender, race, religion or lifestyle. Anyone walking around preaching something else has missed the point and is lost.
Second, I strive to be the very best momma I can possibly be. It’s not perfect and it certainly isn’t always pretty, (even my flip flops screamed when they saw my non-pedicured little toes emerge from my socks), but it is my very best. I hope The Kraken and The Siren look back and remember all the fun we had and the adventures we took and not how dirty the house always was. And hopefully they don’t hate me for the nicknames. (I am saving up a counseling fund just in case.)
Last and definitely least . . . bum baba bum . . . Coca-Cola Classic can heal all wounds. The Kraken jumps from the back of the sofa and lands inches from his sister just because he wanted to feel like a rocket ship. Sip of coke. Rosie spends an entire night waking and screaming every 40 minutes or so. Can of coke for breakfast. Husband working late again, (those darn sick kids stealing my man). Crack open another can. “Potty trained” son showers the entire bathroom with yellow rain shortly before guests are slated to arrive. Sip of coke and maybe some bleach wipes. Rosie runs over and gives an unsolicited snuggle. Coke and smile. Twenty minutes running around the van attempting to catch a running sonshine to take him to a play date, which scares the living goo out of momma, simply because this child needs to be socialized. Sip of coke and a satisfied sigh of the conqueror (me, in case you were wondering). Let me be clear, I’ve heard all the stats about the time it takes a T-bone steak to digest in coke and that it makes an excellent engine degreaser, and while those thoughts do gross me out, I like my coke. My name is Kip and I am an addict.
But I am at peace, Jesus loves me enough to die, addict or not. Sip of coke.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Diva Moment
There is a little bit of drama living in my 13 month old Siren. Not at all sure where she gets it from either, but she sure knows how to kick up a tantrum. I’m talking throwing oneself down prostrate on the ground while wailing. Wow. I assure you this behavior has never been demonstrated for her, honest. But nevertheless, she has her “Diva” moments down to a perfect, manipulative science.
Today, for example, The Kraken stole her paci. In typical Oscar winning style, she threw herself on the ground in a heap of lament complete with real tears. Apparently my Kraken has seen enough and didn’t respond by returning the paddy mo right away. That little actress peeked up from her position just to make sure her brother was paying attention, and then promptly went back to an inconsolable heap.
The Kraken blinked first. For her acting efforts she was rewarded with her pacifier. And so the manipulation and Diva moments will undoubtedly continue. Perhaps forever. Hooray.
Today, for example, The Kraken stole her paci. In typical Oscar winning style, she threw herself on the ground in a heap of lament complete with real tears. Apparently my Kraken has seen enough and didn’t respond by returning the paddy mo right away. That little actress peeked up from her position just to make sure her brother was paying attention, and then promptly went back to an inconsolable heap.
The Kraken blinked first. For her acting efforts she was rewarded with her pacifier. And so the manipulation and Diva moments will undoubtedly continue. Perhaps forever. Hooray.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Can you smash a headlight with an imaginary golf club?
My husband and I have a couple new rules when out on a date.
Imagine if you will a crowded restaurant on a Friday night. One very tired but very excited couple is sitting at the bar waiting for a table. They are sans children for the first time in months. The conversation revolves around a home purchase the couple is currently into knee deep. The banter is light and hopeful. But then the club comes out. The wife rolls her eyes and quickly becomes sour. All eyes in room turn to the husband who is practicing his golf swing with his imaginary golf club.
Rule Number One: no golf on a date unless we are in fact golfing, which I assure you, will never be a date night activity. (My husband, who doesn’t understand the personal space bubble rule and likes to read over my shoulder, has ever so helpfully added that you can’t golf at night and therefore agrees that we will never have a golfing date night. In my opinion, that just proves the sun, earth and general rules of planetary gravitational pull are all on my side.)
Finally at the table and over the golfing breakdown the couple decides on two entrees to share and fill the time once again with conversation. The kids certainly come up and so does the husband’s other love, cars. Somewhere amidst the lingo of brembo brakes, upgraded suspension systems, laguna seca, 0 to 60 in 4 seconds, 5 liters, 302, Boss, naturally aspirated and small block, the wife’s eyes glaze over. Naturally the man doesn’t notice and continues, blue with white trim, or maybe gray with dark gray trim, or white with some sort of golf club trim. Please waitress, bring this lady some food before she stabs out her own eye.
Rule Number Two: Keep car chatter to a minimum before the breadsticks arrive, for your own safety and the world around you. In return I will keep scrapbooking raves to a minimum before the wine arrives. I think that is fair.
Disclaimer: This blog makes my husband appear to be a “dickhead” which I assure you he is not. I daresay his version of our date would be more humorous, but alas he doesn’t have a blog.
Imagine if you will a crowded restaurant on a Friday night. One very tired but very excited couple is sitting at the bar waiting for a table. They are sans children for the first time in months. The conversation revolves around a home purchase the couple is currently into knee deep. The banter is light and hopeful. But then the club comes out. The wife rolls her eyes and quickly becomes sour. All eyes in room turn to the husband who is practicing his golf swing with his imaginary golf club.
Rule Number One: no golf on a date unless we are in fact golfing, which I assure you, will never be a date night activity. (My husband, who doesn’t understand the personal space bubble rule and likes to read over my shoulder, has ever so helpfully added that you can’t golf at night and therefore agrees that we will never have a golfing date night. In my opinion, that just proves the sun, earth and general rules of planetary gravitational pull are all on my side.)
Finally at the table and over the golfing breakdown the couple decides on two entrees to share and fill the time once again with conversation. The kids certainly come up and so does the husband’s other love, cars. Somewhere amidst the lingo of brembo brakes, upgraded suspension systems, laguna seca, 0 to 60 in 4 seconds, 5 liters, 302, Boss, naturally aspirated and small block, the wife’s eyes glaze over. Naturally the man doesn’t notice and continues, blue with white trim, or maybe gray with dark gray trim, or white with some sort of golf club trim. Please waitress, bring this lady some food before she stabs out her own eye.
Rule Number Two: Keep car chatter to a minimum before the breadsticks arrive, for your own safety and the world around you. In return I will keep scrapbooking raves to a minimum before the wine arrives. I think that is fair.
Disclaimer: This blog makes my husband appear to be a “dickhead” which I assure you he is not. I daresay his version of our date would be more humorous, but alas he doesn’t have a blog.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Not What Lance had in Mind
You know those rubber bracelets people wear, generally in support of a charity, made famous by Lance Armstrong with his yellow ‘livestrong’ organization? Well, the Kraken has found an interesting new use for them.
Amy, a stuffed giraffe, has been my son’s favorite stuffed animal recently. She generally wears a diaper that momma has to change every morning. Diapers are expensive, and I am cheap. I decided it was high time to potty train. Hooray. It went well. Amy was wearing big boy underwear in no time. The only problem is I actually have to take Amy to the potty and pretend she goes. Like I have time for that.
Well, maybe not the only problem. The Kraken realized his little Siren sister is lacking a penis. My explanation of ‘boys have a penis and girls do not’ seemed to make sense to him, until Amy started using the toilet. Despite the name, my son has determined Amy is a boy and is therefore missing something. Being a resourceful boy, the Kraken easily remedied the missing situation.
Amy now stuffs her tighty whiteys with a yellow livestrong bracelet. Makes sense to me.
Amy, a stuffed giraffe, has been my son’s favorite stuffed animal recently. She generally wears a diaper that momma has to change every morning. Diapers are expensive, and I am cheap. I decided it was high time to potty train. Hooray. It went well. Amy was wearing big boy underwear in no time. The only problem is I actually have to take Amy to the potty and pretend she goes. Like I have time for that.
Well, maybe not the only problem. The Kraken realized his little Siren sister is lacking a penis. My explanation of ‘boys have a penis and girls do not’ seemed to make sense to him, until Amy started using the toilet. Despite the name, my son has determined Amy is a boy and is therefore missing something. Being a resourceful boy, the Kraken easily remedied the missing situation.
Amy now stuffs her tighty whiteys with a yellow livestrong bracelet. Makes sense to me.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Point and Shoot
My son is potty trained. I don’t mean to brag nor jinx anything, but it was easier than any of us were prepared for. Sure we've had one random accident while at the library, but even that was small and he stopped himself from making any kind of mess on the floor. Hey, that’s what the emergency pants are for.
So, when I picked The Kraken up from the toddler room at church on Sunday it took me a moment to find him. His handsome little-self went in wearing khaki cargo pants and a red plaid button-down. He came out wearing a yellow tee shirt and olive green sweat pants complete with tapered leg and elastic hem. Interesting. The volunteer at the gate handed me a couple Ziploc baggies and tried to explain what had taken place, which must have included how my son landed a starring role in an 80s exercise video. I heard what she was saying, but it didn’t quite sink in as I was a little preoccupied with Shovey McShoverson, another parent who apparently needs to hear a sermon on patience.
Fast forward a couple hours and imagine me standing in front of the washing machine holding not one, but two pair of borrowed undies and slightly worn sweat pants. My first thought was the volunteer had given me some other kids pee and dirty clothes. Gag me with a spoon! But then my mind wandered back to our conversation . . .
“He did really well. He told us each time he had to pee.” Okay. So why am I holding two sets of backup bottoms?
“The first time he peed on the wall and sorta just splashed everything.” Oh. So, they attempted to have him aim at the urinal. That makes sense. There is no way in heck a two year old boy would pass up an opportunity to pee standing up at a urinal simply to explain to a stranger that he pees sitting down at home. (Don’t judge me people. I know a real man stands up when he pees. We will get there.) Synopsis: Poor aim during attempt number one led to splashed clothing and church backup outfit number one.
“The second time he told us he had to go,” (And yes, my son would milk every opportunity to pee standing up even if he had to drink 18 Dixie cups of watered down apple juice.) “he peed on the volunteer.” WHAT! How did I miss that? He peed on the volunteer. I wish I would have caught this at the time because it leaves me with only one question . . .
If he peed on the volunteer why did he need the olive green pants?
So, when I picked The Kraken up from the toddler room at church on Sunday it took me a moment to find him. His handsome little-self went in wearing khaki cargo pants and a red plaid button-down. He came out wearing a yellow tee shirt and olive green sweat pants complete with tapered leg and elastic hem. Interesting. The volunteer at the gate handed me a couple Ziploc baggies and tried to explain what had taken place, which must have included how my son landed a starring role in an 80s exercise video. I heard what she was saying, but it didn’t quite sink in as I was a little preoccupied with Shovey McShoverson, another parent who apparently needs to hear a sermon on patience.
Fast forward a couple hours and imagine me standing in front of the washing machine holding not one, but two pair of borrowed undies and slightly worn sweat pants. My first thought was the volunteer had given me some other kids pee and dirty clothes. Gag me with a spoon! But then my mind wandered back to our conversation . . .
“He did really well. He told us each time he had to pee.” Okay. So why am I holding two sets of backup bottoms?
“The first time he peed on the wall and sorta just splashed everything.” Oh. So, they attempted to have him aim at the urinal. That makes sense. There is no way in heck a two year old boy would pass up an opportunity to pee standing up at a urinal simply to explain to a stranger that he pees sitting down at home. (Don’t judge me people. I know a real man stands up when he pees. We will get there.) Synopsis: Poor aim during attempt number one led to splashed clothing and church backup outfit number one.
“The second time he told us he had to go,” (And yes, my son would milk every opportunity to pee standing up even if he had to drink 18 Dixie cups of watered down apple juice.) “he peed on the volunteer.” WHAT! How did I miss that? He peed on the volunteer. I wish I would have caught this at the time because it leaves me with only one question . . .
If he peed on the volunteer why did he need the olive green pants?
Saturday, February 5, 2011
There's a Snake in my Boot
At what point do I decide we watch WAY too much Toy Story?
- The Kraken alerted me to a change in nicknames, “Momma, I no call Rosie, Rosie B. anymore. Call Rosie, Stinky Pete.” And he does. I really hope that one doesn’t stick. My poor little girl.
- Toys are separated daily into a ‘donate’ pile and an ‘attic’ pile with a large percentage of Rosie’s toys being sent to Sunnyside.
- When very excited but can’t quite find quite the right words, my son yells, “To infinity, and beyond.”
- When I ask what movie we should watch, the response is in terms of Toy Story villains: Sid, Stinky Pete or Lotso Huggin’ Bear.
- My son can quote a great many lines, including some uttered by Spanish Buzz.
- If I call my son’s name while he is wearing a hat he asks, “Do you see the hat? I am Mrs. Nesbit.” Oh, sorry.
- He will randomly begin calling me, Wheezy and his daddy, Ken. I’m not sure who should be more worried: me because he thinks I resemble a chubby penguin with a smoker’s cough or my husband because Ken . . . well, need I say more?
- I always find a Toy Story 3 boxed figurine set in the bottom of our shopping cart in the checkout line at Target. Once removed the Kraken concedes, “Wait for it to go on sale? Good idea momma.”
Looks like we are having a Toy Story themed, 3rd birthday party in a couple months. I wonder how difficult it would be to make a rocket ship cake. Maybe I should start working on that with my nonexistent cake decorating tools. It can’t be that hard (says the woman with nary an artistic bone in her body). Maybe I should have a back-up plan on the rocket ship cake.
- The Kraken alerted me to a change in nicknames, “Momma, I no call Rosie, Rosie B. anymore. Call Rosie, Stinky Pete.” And he does. I really hope that one doesn’t stick. My poor little girl.
- Toys are separated daily into a ‘donate’ pile and an ‘attic’ pile with a large percentage of Rosie’s toys being sent to Sunnyside.
- When very excited but can’t quite find quite the right words, my son yells, “To infinity, and beyond.”
- When I ask what movie we should watch, the response is in terms of Toy Story villains: Sid, Stinky Pete or Lotso Huggin’ Bear.
- My son can quote a great many lines, including some uttered by Spanish Buzz.
- If I call my son’s name while he is wearing a hat he asks, “Do you see the hat? I am Mrs. Nesbit.” Oh, sorry.
- He will randomly begin calling me, Wheezy and his daddy, Ken. I’m not sure who should be more worried: me because he thinks I resemble a chubby penguin with a smoker’s cough or my husband because Ken . . . well, need I say more?
- I always find a Toy Story 3 boxed figurine set in the bottom of our shopping cart in the checkout line at Target. Once removed the Kraken concedes, “Wait for it to go on sale? Good idea momma.”
Looks like we are having a Toy Story themed, 3rd birthday party in a couple months. I wonder how difficult it would be to make a rocket ship cake. Maybe I should start working on that with my nonexistent cake decorating tools. It can’t be that hard (says the woman with nary an artistic bone in her body). Maybe I should have a back-up plan on the rocket ship cake.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Amen
The smoke detectors in our apartment are on the fritz. They are powered electrically but also have a back-up battery. The one in my son’s room decides every night around 3am that it needs a new battery and starts that crazy annoying beep every 26 seconds. (I can’t sleep, ever, and thought perhaps counting seconds would help me sleep. After FOUR HOURS of counting, I found the average time to be 26 seconds. Don’t you envy me now?) The Kraken thankfully has the ability to sleep through most of the beeping. Momma however is annoyed and therefore something must be done. And by ‘something must be done’ I mean my husband better fix it now.
My husband loves me or just wants to keep my inner nag kept hidden away and so promptly climbed upon a rickety bar stool to replace the angry battery. The Kraken decided to help by circling the stool stating over and over, “Keep your balance, daddy. Keep your balance.”
The ceilings in our apartment are quite tall, which is advantageous if you don’t want to feel like you live in a cave as many apartments can feel, but not so wonderful when messing with a smoke detector. After a few minutes of standing fully outstretched, my husband began to get a bit grumpy about the height of the stool. My son, always a helpful lad pointed out, “That’s only option. No have taller stool bench.” Huh. You are right son, we don't have anything taller. When did you take inventory of our furniture? And where did you learn the word option?
By this point, with all the beeping and testing of the detector, my little Rosie is wailing. At first I didn’t really notice. (Yeah, I know. What an awesome mommy. Her nighttime screaming is nothing new. She is, after all, The Siren.) The Kraken however, is quite sensitive to his baby sister’s pleas. He thus decided his role of helper needed a bit of a boost. He skipped into the living room, where I had retreated, folded his hands and said, “Dear Jesus, please help daddy no fall off stool bench. Please stop Rosie crying.” Then he looked at me with that precious dimpled grin, “That’s all momma.” I told him the best way to end a prayer was to simpy say, Amen. Delighted he replied, “Oh! Okay. That’s a good idea. Amen.”
Rosie did eventually stop crying and daddy didn’t fall of the stool, but now two more smoke detectors are beeping. It’s a darn good thing I can’t sleep anyway or I would be thoroughly peeved. At least I can lay awake remembering that little Cherub face praying to Jesus for his sister and daddy. Thank you, Jesus for the Kraken. Amen.
My husband loves me or just wants to keep my inner nag kept hidden away and so promptly climbed upon a rickety bar stool to replace the angry battery. The Kraken decided to help by circling the stool stating over and over, “Keep your balance, daddy. Keep your balance.”
The ceilings in our apartment are quite tall, which is advantageous if you don’t want to feel like you live in a cave as many apartments can feel, but not so wonderful when messing with a smoke detector. After a few minutes of standing fully outstretched, my husband began to get a bit grumpy about the height of the stool. My son, always a helpful lad pointed out, “That’s only option. No have taller stool bench.” Huh. You are right son, we don't have anything taller. When did you take inventory of our furniture? And where did you learn the word option?
By this point, with all the beeping and testing of the detector, my little Rosie is wailing. At first I didn’t really notice. (Yeah, I know. What an awesome mommy. Her nighttime screaming is nothing new. She is, after all, The Siren.) The Kraken however, is quite sensitive to his baby sister’s pleas. He thus decided his role of helper needed a bit of a boost. He skipped into the living room, where I had retreated, folded his hands and said, “Dear Jesus, please help daddy no fall off stool bench. Please stop Rosie crying.” Then he looked at me with that precious dimpled grin, “That’s all momma.” I told him the best way to end a prayer was to simpy say, Amen. Delighted he replied, “Oh! Okay. That’s a good idea. Amen.”
Rosie did eventually stop crying and daddy didn’t fall of the stool, but now two more smoke detectors are beeping. It’s a darn good thing I can’t sleep anyway or I would be thoroughly peeved. At least I can lay awake remembering that little Cherub face praying to Jesus for his sister and daddy. Thank you, Jesus for the Kraken. Amen.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Don't look now, but I may have made some friends.
I’ve been avoiding this blog. I’m not sure why, well actually I do know why. Whatever. Here we go.
People terrify me. To the point of ridiculous amounts of sweat, intestinal distress, headaches, a poorly timed gag reflux and a barrier between the intelligent things I want to say and the senseless crap that comes out of my mouth. Generally, for the good of all mankind, I am medicated. However, the drugs that keep this loon under wraps are not good for pregnancy or a breast feeding mother, and thus I abstain.
So, when I signed up for a mom’s weekend away, I did so in a moment of pure insanity. I admit I never really thought I would actually go. I fully intended on flaking out. But my husband is really mean and supportive and forced me to live up to my word. What a jerk.
One of the ladies suggested that we carpool with someone. I prayed that no one would want to leave late so I could travel solo, but alas another mom had to work and graciously offered to pick me up on her way to the cabin. I had never met my chauffeur so when an unfamiliar SUV drove by my apartment, I waved, the driver waved back and I got in the car. I suppose I could have been murdered that evening since I was a bit more concerned about getting into the car without vomiting then I was to actually look at my new friend. Good thing Jesus loves me. I don’t remember much of the 2.5 hour car ride, which is a good sign. I must not have said anything too stupid because our conversation felt easy and natural. I do know that I sweat right through my shirt, and I am thankful I took some Pepto before leaving because there weren’t many places for emergency explosions.
Once at the cabin, I attempted my best to just blend in. For crying out loud, I certainly have some things in common with these girls. Right? Alcohol and I however do not blend well. I seem to do and say really silly things under the influence of half a glass of wine. On a mom’s weekend out though, it is really hard to ‘be one of the girls’ and not partake. So I had a glass of chocolate wine while playing a rowdy game of Pictionary. Anyone else with social anxiety is barfing at the thought of Pictionary with strangers, and I think if everyone had stopped talking for just a few seconds the entire table would have heard my heart beating. I sweat through yet another shirt, but I think night number 1 was a success.
The next day and afternoon, other than being a bit silly due to lack of sleep, was going fine. I was determined to keep a good attitude and try to make some friends. But then my first friend, formerly known as my chauffeur pulled out a game called Quelf. In my opinion this game should be called ‘How to cause panic and terrify anxiety ridden people.’ Case in point, the first card I drew required me to snort every time I laughed, FOR THE REST OF THE GAME. My husband would be proud because I got through it and even had fun. Thank goodness I only had to leave my chair once for a terribly embarrassing action card. Otherwise I may not have made it.
But I made it. I had fun. Actually, I had a great time. No medication required. So, thanks to Sara, Jen, Fawn, Rae, Stephanie and Mandy, for disregarding the sweat stains and awkward moments and accepting me as I come. Or maybe for at least talking about me behind my back!
People terrify me. To the point of ridiculous amounts of sweat, intestinal distress, headaches, a poorly timed gag reflux and a barrier between the intelligent things I want to say and the senseless crap that comes out of my mouth. Generally, for the good of all mankind, I am medicated. However, the drugs that keep this loon under wraps are not good for pregnancy or a breast feeding mother, and thus I abstain.
So, when I signed up for a mom’s weekend away, I did so in a moment of pure insanity. I admit I never really thought I would actually go. I fully intended on flaking out. But my husband is really mean and supportive and forced me to live up to my word. What a jerk.
One of the ladies suggested that we carpool with someone. I prayed that no one would want to leave late so I could travel solo, but alas another mom had to work and graciously offered to pick me up on her way to the cabin. I had never met my chauffeur so when an unfamiliar SUV drove by my apartment, I waved, the driver waved back and I got in the car. I suppose I could have been murdered that evening since I was a bit more concerned about getting into the car without vomiting then I was to actually look at my new friend. Good thing Jesus loves me. I don’t remember much of the 2.5 hour car ride, which is a good sign. I must not have said anything too stupid because our conversation felt easy and natural. I do know that I sweat right through my shirt, and I am thankful I took some Pepto before leaving because there weren’t many places for emergency explosions.
Once at the cabin, I attempted my best to just blend in. For crying out loud, I certainly have some things in common with these girls. Right? Alcohol and I however do not blend well. I seem to do and say really silly things under the influence of half a glass of wine. On a mom’s weekend out though, it is really hard to ‘be one of the girls’ and not partake. So I had a glass of chocolate wine while playing a rowdy game of Pictionary. Anyone else with social anxiety is barfing at the thought of Pictionary with strangers, and I think if everyone had stopped talking for just a few seconds the entire table would have heard my heart beating. I sweat through yet another shirt, but I think night number 1 was a success.
The next day and afternoon, other than being a bit silly due to lack of sleep, was going fine. I was determined to keep a good attitude and try to make some friends. But then my first friend, formerly known as my chauffeur pulled out a game called Quelf. In my opinion this game should be called ‘How to cause panic and terrify anxiety ridden people.’ Case in point, the first card I drew required me to snort every time I laughed, FOR THE REST OF THE GAME. My husband would be proud because I got through it and even had fun. Thank goodness I only had to leave my chair once for a terribly embarrassing action card. Otherwise I may not have made it.
But I made it. I had fun. Actually, I had a great time. No medication required. So, thanks to Sara, Jen, Fawn, Rae, Stephanie and Mandy, for disregarding the sweat stains and awkward moments and accepting me as I come. Or maybe for at least talking about me behind my back!
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
My Sweet Little Siren
I don’t like to be touched. I’m not kidding. My personal space bubble isn’t huge but it’s mine. Stay out of it. And don’t try to cure me by hugging me when you see me. Not going to work. You may get a black eye out of the deal, but I’m not going to suddenly enjoy human closeness. It’s not my fault. I was born this way. Ask my momma. Even as a baby, don’t cuddle me, don’t rock me, don’t try to hug me, just put me in bed and walk out the door. I almost carried a stun gun around when I was pregnant since the whole world believes they are supposed to touch the pregnant woman’s stomach. Not this knocked up lady. Step away from my belly!
For the record, this fear of human contact does not extend out to my children. I have spent the better part of 2.5 years trying to convince the Kraken to stop moving long enough to give me a snuggle. It’s not going well. That may be the only trait that boy inherited from his momma. What a crappy gene to pass along. At least now I can claim his as mine and people believe me.
So when my beautiful little girl suddenly became a cuddle bug I had to remind myself that she was indeed my daughter. (It wasn’t hard; I was there the day she slid into this world.) At least ten times a day, my little Siren will waddle over, grab my leg and look at me with those eyes that can only be saying ‘hold me momma.’ As soon as she is up in my arms she will bury her head and snuggle. It’s probably the best thing ever. It also makes the wailing at 1am, 2am, 3am, 5am and 8am less irritating because at least I’m going to get a cuddle out of the deal. In fact, my husband jumps up and tries to beat me to her room. It’s funny because all this time I thought he could sleep right through her crying . . .
For the record, this fear of human contact does not extend out to my children. I have spent the better part of 2.5 years trying to convince the Kraken to stop moving long enough to give me a snuggle. It’s not going well. That may be the only trait that boy inherited from his momma. What a crappy gene to pass along. At least now I can claim his as mine and people believe me.
So when my beautiful little girl suddenly became a cuddle bug I had to remind myself that she was indeed my daughter. (It wasn’t hard; I was there the day she slid into this world.) At least ten times a day, my little Siren will waddle over, grab my leg and look at me with those eyes that can only be saying ‘hold me momma.’ As soon as she is up in my arms she will bury her head and snuggle. It’s probably the best thing ever. It also makes the wailing at 1am, 2am, 3am, 5am and 8am less irritating because at least I’m going to get a cuddle out of the deal. In fact, my husband jumps up and tries to beat me to her room. It’s funny because all this time I thought he could sleep right through her crying . . .
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Bring on the Open Houses
Last week I took the kids to visit a family member. The Kraken was in a very talkative mood as usual and was chatting away as I turned onto the street of our destination. “For Heaven sake!” the Kraken exclaimed. “What’s the matter, Kraken?” I even turned around to look at him. We have been in the midst of potty training boot camp so my first thought was that I needed to bust out the emergency pants. “Oh, momma, these houses are beautiful!” Well, he was correct. We had just driven into quite a stunning neighborhood. I’m just not sure where he learned the phrase ‘for Heaven sake.’
After saying our ‘hellos’ and playing for about a half hour, the Kraken announced he needed to pee. Off we went to a newly remodeled bathroom. “Oh, momma, this bathroom is nice, nice, nice!” Once again, my son, you are correct. I just never knew you really cared much about bathroom decor. Potty time was successful. Let’s go play.
The Kraken mentioned how much he appreciated the work that was done in the bathroom, which led to a tour of the rest of the house’s new renovations, mostly in the master bedroom/bathroom. About every 10 feet my little guy would gush, “Gorgeous! This is gorgeous.” No, I’m not making this up. My 2.5 year old son likes granite counter tops and walk-in closets and spa tubs and double sinks. They are gorgeous. Hilarious!
What does this mean? . . . Looks like I found my house shopping buddy!
After saying our ‘hellos’ and playing for about a half hour, the Kraken announced he needed to pee. Off we went to a newly remodeled bathroom. “Oh, momma, this bathroom is nice, nice, nice!” Once again, my son, you are correct. I just never knew you really cared much about bathroom decor. Potty time was successful. Let’s go play.
The Kraken mentioned how much he appreciated the work that was done in the bathroom, which led to a tour of the rest of the house’s new renovations, mostly in the master bedroom/bathroom. About every 10 feet my little guy would gush, “Gorgeous! This is gorgeous.” No, I’m not making this up. My 2.5 year old son likes granite counter tops and walk-in closets and spa tubs and double sinks. They are gorgeous. Hilarious!
What does this mean? . . . Looks like I found my house shopping buddy!
What's for Dinner?
The key to my husband’s heart is food. (Um, yeah right. The real key as everyone knows is sex, but my parents read my blog and well, gross. I’m sticking with food.) After a long day at work all my husband wants is a nice home cooked meal. Not in a keep the women in the kitchen sort of way, but a haven’t had a chance to eat anything since 5am kind of way. They say opposites attract and in this instance it’s true; I have a different restaurant craving for each and every emotion that a woman can stir up in a 24 hour period. So, let’s just say I’m not the best Betty Crocker impersonator. Well, I love my husband and this year at work so far has been rough, to say the least. So, I am working on perking up my eternal optimist through food.
After over 7 years of marriage, the same old recipes from my head have become stale and lame. I figured he would have some favorite recipes from growing up that maybe I could try. It became apparent quite quickly we grew up in two different worlds. His favorites growing up included: Veal Parmesan, Prime Rib, Pork Chops, Corned Beef, Roast Beef . . . Are we sensing a pattern here? My mother, God bless her, had a slightly smaller budget and thus cooked a lot of casseroles. So, I’ve never met a casserole I didn’t like and my husband never met a casserole, period.
Marriage is about give and take, and I’m giving up my addiction to eating out. So, each Sunday I sit down and sift through all my cookbooks looking for new things to try and old favorites to recreate. I’ve even on occasion slapped a big old hunk a meat on a plate and called in dinner. I think I may be speaking my husband’s love language because he is turning back into his normal happy self despite working ridiculous hours. There may be hope for my ‘domestic goddess of the year’ bid after all. Watch you back Betty Crocker!
After over 7 years of marriage, the same old recipes from my head have become stale and lame. I figured he would have some favorite recipes from growing up that maybe I could try. It became apparent quite quickly we grew up in two different worlds. His favorites growing up included: Veal Parmesan, Prime Rib, Pork Chops, Corned Beef, Roast Beef . . . Are we sensing a pattern here? My mother, God bless her, had a slightly smaller budget and thus cooked a lot of casseroles. So, I’ve never met a casserole I didn’t like and my husband never met a casserole, period.
Marriage is about give and take, and I’m giving up my addiction to eating out. So, each Sunday I sit down and sift through all my cookbooks looking for new things to try and old favorites to recreate. I’ve even on occasion slapped a big old hunk a meat on a plate and called in dinner. I think I may be speaking my husband’s love language because he is turning back into his normal happy self despite working ridiculous hours. There may be hope for my ‘domestic goddess of the year’ bid after all. Watch you back Betty Crocker!
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Super Power
At some point in time, whether at a lame ‘get to know your fellow co-workers’ office party or just after drooling through a spiderman movie (that's sarcasm folks), everyone is asked, “If you could have one super power, what would it be.” Some reply flying because it saves money on travel. Others say the power to heal themselves so they can live forever. Maybe super strength or ex-ray vision, super speed or pausing time, all seem pretty handy to me. I never could choose . . . until today.
If I had a super power I would want to be able to shock someone with my mind. Nothing like the electric chair shock or anything. More like a slightly souped up version of shuffling your feet through carpet then touching something metallic. This could prove very useful to my everyday existence. Take, for example, the college partyers in my apartment complex, 20 miles from the nearest college, who dwell across the sidewalk and up three floors from my bedroom window. Think how handy my shock could be at 3am when the perps decide screaming out on the veranda is a totally rad idea. Shock.
Or maybe the rude people in grocery store checkout lines that feel they need to rip into the cashier for ringing up the wrong price on pickles even though the computer decides the price. Shock. Is saving 21 cents worth ruining someone’s day? Shock you again. And what about the morons who curse in front of my children just because they are too into themselves to realize dropping the F-bomb in front of the Kraken isn’t ok. Shock. Like I said, a handy tool to have.
Perhaps I should befriend a healer though. Shocking a college partyer right off the balcony isn’t going to teach any lessons. I’m not trying to kill anyone after all. Just make them slightly uncomfortable for being stupid. Shock.
If I had a super power I would want to be able to shock someone with my mind. Nothing like the electric chair shock or anything. More like a slightly souped up version of shuffling your feet through carpet then touching something metallic. This could prove very useful to my everyday existence. Take, for example, the college partyers in my apartment complex, 20 miles from the nearest college, who dwell across the sidewalk and up three floors from my bedroom window. Think how handy my shock could be at 3am when the perps decide screaming out on the veranda is a totally rad idea. Shock.
Or maybe the rude people in grocery store checkout lines that feel they need to rip into the cashier for ringing up the wrong price on pickles even though the computer decides the price. Shock. Is saving 21 cents worth ruining someone’s day? Shock you again. And what about the morons who curse in front of my children just because they are too into themselves to realize dropping the F-bomb in front of the Kraken isn’t ok. Shock. Like I said, a handy tool to have.
Perhaps I should befriend a healer though. Shocking a college partyer right off the balcony isn’t going to teach any lessons. I’m not trying to kill anyone after all. Just make them slightly uncomfortable for being stupid. Shock.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Tomorrow is Another Day
It was ‘one of those days.’ OK, so maybe it was one of those nights followed by one of those days. And the crappy night was, dare I say, my fault. I stayed up way too late watching a hockey game that didn’t turn out so well. I was hoping my children would arise from their night slumbers the perfect angels that I see when I look at them. Instead, the Kraken woke up as a two year old amidst the stress only potty training can produce. My sweet little Siren was a big ball of grouch today. Totally uncharacteristic and extremely worrisome if she weren’t cutting four teeth. Four. I’d be pissed off too. So, needless to say I was tired. The kids weren’t accommodating, which left me yearning for a ‘reset’ button. Maybe if we could start this day over it would all be better.
To make matters worse ‘white death’ was upon us. Now I have total confidence in my driving abilities in the snow (or so I tell myself), but I’m not about to take my children out with the crazies that can’t handle the pressure. No play date for us. Lunch came crawling by and momma decided nap time would be enforced for all today. The Kraken threw a fit as usual. “No quiet time. No like quiet time. Have to pee. Have to poop. My brain hurts (while grabbing his ankle). My jammies are dirty. No have my Ba. My doggie is too loud.” And on and on and on and on. Then suddenly SILENCE. Ahh.
One hour later . . . “Momma? Let me out?” Then the Kraken’s sweet cherub face peeks around the corner. “Thanks momma. Quiet time is fun. Kraken played and played. Rosie no take my toys. Take a nap. Kraken feels better.” How sweet, right? Right.
Well, the sweetness lasted for about three more minutes. The two year old irrational emotional beast reemerged and my sweet baby girl woke up as sour as never before. Funny thing is I love my ‘job’ and those babies. I’ll take ‘one of those days’ anytime . . . except maybe tomorrow.
To make matters worse ‘white death’ was upon us. Now I have total confidence in my driving abilities in the snow (or so I tell myself), but I’m not about to take my children out with the crazies that can’t handle the pressure. No play date for us. Lunch came crawling by and momma decided nap time would be enforced for all today. The Kraken threw a fit as usual. “No quiet time. No like quiet time. Have to pee. Have to poop. My brain hurts (while grabbing his ankle). My jammies are dirty. No have my Ba. My doggie is too loud.” And on and on and on and on. Then suddenly SILENCE. Ahh.
One hour later . . . “Momma? Let me out?” Then the Kraken’s sweet cherub face peeks around the corner. “Thanks momma. Quiet time is fun. Kraken played and played. Rosie no take my toys. Take a nap. Kraken feels better.” How sweet, right? Right.
Well, the sweetness lasted for about three more minutes. The two year old irrational emotional beast reemerged and my sweet baby girl woke up as sour as never before. Funny thing is I love my ‘job’ and those babies. I’ll take ‘one of those days’ anytime . . . except maybe tomorrow.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Yorch
My son has a four-spot favorite stuffed animal rotation. Each morning he picks his favorite, feeds the chosen one breakfast, changes its diaper and finally sets him up in front of the TV to watch Mickey Mouse. Amy, a giraffe, has been the golden child as of late, but Mugong, a seal, Scout, his singing dog, and E.O., a Christmas teddy bear, all get their days in the sun.
Well, the balance of power has shifted. The Kraken received a stuffed horse for Christmas and promptly agreed to name him George, or if you are 2 and a half, ‘Yorch’. Each day my son picks his favorite and then allows Yorch to tag along.
Yorch seems to fit in well with this family. For one, he doesn’t sleep. After George's first night in a new house, I was informed “Yorch no sleep at all momma. Kept me up all night. He potty everywhere. Wet wet wet.” After a short laugh I suggested we must potty train Yorch. To which the Kraken responded, “Yeah. Humphf. That’s good idea.”
Apparently my son wasn’t patient enough to wait for Yorch to be toilet trained. The next morning I asked if George had slept any better. “I don’t know,” he replied frankly. “Made Yorch sleep in living room. No want be up all night again. Need my rest momma.” Very true, Kraken. Very true.
At this point I sorta wanted to mention something about how momma needs rest since he and his little Siren sister have kept me up most nights for the better part of two years, or three if you want to count pregnancy crap, which I do. But then I realized he’s 2 and a half. The point would probably be lost on him. That or he would force himself to sleep in the living room. I’ve slept on that couch, not very comfy.
Well, the balance of power has shifted. The Kraken received a stuffed horse for Christmas and promptly agreed to name him George, or if you are 2 and a half, ‘Yorch’. Each day my son picks his favorite and then allows Yorch to tag along.
Yorch seems to fit in well with this family. For one, he doesn’t sleep. After George's first night in a new house, I was informed “Yorch no sleep at all momma. Kept me up all night. He potty everywhere. Wet wet wet.” After a short laugh I suggested we must potty train Yorch. To which the Kraken responded, “Yeah. Humphf. That’s good idea.”
Apparently my son wasn’t patient enough to wait for Yorch to be toilet trained. The next morning I asked if George had slept any better. “I don’t know,” he replied frankly. “Made Yorch sleep in living room. No want be up all night again. Need my rest momma.” Very true, Kraken. Very true.
At this point I sorta wanted to mention something about how momma needs rest since he and his little Siren sister have kept me up most nights for the better part of two years, or three if you want to count pregnancy crap, which I do. But then I realized he’s 2 and a half. The point would probably be lost on him. That or he would force himself to sleep in the living room. I’ve slept on that couch, not very comfy.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
The Battle of Wits has Begun
The Kraken and his daddy often get in fights. I’m gonna go out on a limb here and suggest they argue because they are in fact the same person born 28 years apart. Today I began a ‘scavenger hunt’ activity with my son where he had to find the items I named from a group of pictures. Our game was interrupted by my pesky villain ‘dinner preparation.’ Not my favorite time of day, but alas both the men in my life being to melt if their bellies start rumbling, and so I go. Play time over. Needless to say, The Kraken wasn’t quite done so daddy took over picking items for hunting. Minutes later I heard . . .
“Momma said yes!”
“No, that isn’t a snowman.”
“YES daddy. Momma said YES! AHHHHHH.”
“Kraken, that isn’t a snowman. It’s a mouse.”
“Momma said yes, that IS snowman.”
“Honey, come here. Is this a snowman?”
Over I came, a little irritated but a little intrigued. My little Kraken is a crafty little thing. He doesn’t often push so hard unless he is right. The picture tile in question was that of a cartoon mouse. However, in the background there lives a very small snowman. The Kraken wins. “See daddy. Momma says yes. That IS snowman.” Huge smile.
I’m going to start keeping a tally of how often The Kraken wins these battles of wit. If only for my own amusement. Or maybe for my pocketbook. Now taking bets!
“Momma said yes!”
“No, that isn’t a snowman.”
“YES daddy. Momma said YES! AHHHHHH.”
“Kraken, that isn’t a snowman. It’s a mouse.”
“Momma said yes, that IS snowman.”
“Honey, come here. Is this a snowman?”
Over I came, a little irritated but a little intrigued. My little Kraken is a crafty little thing. He doesn’t often push so hard unless he is right. The picture tile in question was that of a cartoon mouse. However, in the background there lives a very small snowman. The Kraken wins. “See daddy. Momma says yes. That IS snowman.” Huge smile.
I’m going to start keeping a tally of how often The Kraken wins these battles of wit. If only for my own amusement. Or maybe for my pocketbook. Now taking bets!
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