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!

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 . . .

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!

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!

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.

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.

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.

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!