My Mom Thought I was Cute. Strangers, Not so Much.

I have been recording all the wonderful shenanigans of my mythological creatures in their respective baby books. I like to leave out the various bits of drama and craziness and only keep a record of the amazing, advanced and perfect things that they have done: walking at 9 months, swimming underwater way too early, jumping off diving boards and usage of vocabulary words far beyond their years. My kids are special, and I won’t let them forget it! I used to believe this was a normal practice; remembering the extraordinary while glossing over the not so fun aspects of growing up. Every parent thinks their kid is the gifted right?

In an attempt to downsize and organize my momma began giving my siblings and I all of our treasures growing up, including our baby books. There’s nothing like diving into your own baby book to see all the fantastic reasons why your momma thought you were the best baby in the whole wide world. My mom didn’t disappoint. Even though most second children get the shaft, she did her best to write down my achievements and dreams. One entry however was less than ideal and a bit sad: “6 months – You are covered from head to toe in eczema.” My fantastically awkward skin adventure began early and cropped up often. Apparently I can’t help the daily scabbiness and puffy redness of my daily life. I was born this way. Yea.

Finally after 30 some odd years, 42 different dermatologists and more steroid treatments than I can remember, I have to try something else. I wish this included soaking in mud from Peru, eating a rare flower from Madagascar or taking a dip in the Dead Sea, however insurance is a tricky business and traveling with children doesn’t always add up to a fantastic voyage. So I have decided to seek the advice of an allergist to calm a portion of my woes in hopes of doing one on one combat with my eczema at some point in the future. Baby steps.

My first foray at the allergist started wonderfully. After handing the receptionist my insurance card she looked at me and asked if I knew my father’s birthdate or social security number. It’s not every day that I am mistaken for a girl in my late teens/early twenties. It was looking like a good day. Thirty scratch tests, 28 reactions and 15 minutes later, I began to wonder if it’s the policy of my allergist to flatter every new comer in the hopes of keeping us calm during this itching nightmare. To make matters worse, just after the scratch tests were applied the nurse promised to be back in twenty to check the results and then slather a “miracle” crème on my back to end the torture. She then placed the bottle of miracle soother BACK ON THE COUNTER, told me to try not to scratch and left the room. Jerk.

The ultimate diagnosis is . . . I am allergic, to quite a bit. The only hope for me is to give up a Saturday in exchange for nine months’ worth of allergy shots. In preparation, I am supposed to pick up an Epi-Pen. That makes me only slightly concerned. I will let you know how it goes . . . if I survive.

No Shame in my Game

Among the millions of other things I haul around in my car to keep the children safe, happy and subdued, I always have the emergency potty at arm’s reach. Young children and bladder control never seems to coincide with easily accessible bathrooms. Perhaps more often the bathrooms that are nearby aren’t suitable for my nonexistent dog let alone my beloved Kraken. Not to mention the disgusting things my Siren can get into while waiting for her brother to finish. Yuck. Sometimes it is best for all involved just to pull over and let him relieve himself in the privacy of our own van. The emergency potty has saved us from quite a few disasters, and when I say us, I’m not kidding.

The drive to Oppa’s farm is quite pleasant, mostly highway followed by a bit of farmland in the middle of nowhere. Pop a movie in for the kids and the drive can be very peaceful. On one particular drive home however, life was much less than enjoyable. We had eaten Mexican for lunch, and I started home hoping the kids would nap along the way. Shortly after leaving small town civilization and just far enough away from the highway, my belly began to gurgle. I kept driving, hoping for the intestinal distress to subside, hoping for a random bathroom in the middle of a cornfield, hoping for anything other than what transpired. After a couple minutes, I knew I could hold it no longer. I pulled off the road, grabbed the emergency potty, sat in between my little cherubs who were not sleeping and honestly looked a bit dumbfounded. What the heck was momma doing on the emergency potty?

I am grateful for quite a few things that day. Number one, I had the emergency potty. That is after all what it is for. Number two, my adult size bum fit on the emergency potty and so too did the contents of my intestines. I don’t even want to imagine the mess if this hadn’t been the case. That would have severely hurt the trade in value. And number three, my children were hopefully too young to remember the day momma decided to poop in the middle seat of the van right under their noses.

Not Your Normal Wake Up Call

The master bedroom is downstairs and this sincerely may be the only reason I don’t weigh much more than I do. Ingesting 14 cookies just before bed should deposit copious amounts of fat right on my rump, but The Siren is really good at wailing after midnight. Maybe I should just move upstairs and sleep in the guest room so I don’t have to climb the stairs twenty times, but then I would have to buy new and much larger pants. Oh, and I love my bedroom, painted one shade lighter than a cave: cozy, calm and safe. So each night I lie in bed and pray I will sleep, climb the stairs to subdue The Siren, return to bed and pray I will sleep. Rinse and repeat. If you were jealous of me in any way, now is a good time to cut that out.

(For those wishing to give expert advice in sleep habits of children, The Siren does not stop crying. Once in full out scream mode, she will not stop. I can’t sleep through her screaming and neither, it seems can The Kraken. Once up, The Kraken is going going going. Since I’m not sleeping anyway, I choose to comfort my daughter, avoid my son’s relentless energy for a few more hours and steal a few extra snuggles. Those will run out way too soon anyway.)

For whatever reason I am a champion sleeper from 6:30am until about 10am. Because The Kraken wakes much earlier, this is usually a nonissue. My little cherub is fighting a cold that caused his little body to oversleep right into my dead to the world sleep window. I didn’t hear the thump as he jumped out of bed. I didn’t hear the pitter patter of his feet on the stairs or through the kitchen. In fact, I felt him long before I heard him. I awoke to a little hand rubbing my head and brushing the hair from my face. Then I heard him, “Oh, there’s my sweetheart. There’s my sweetheart.” I hugged him and told him good morning. He replied, “I’m not The Kraken, I am Anakin. There’s my sweetheart, Princess Leia.” No matter how strange it may sound, that is really quite a nice way to wake up. Or perhaps I am just a kinder more pleasant person after 7am. I did what I normally do in the morning, I sent him away to check on his sister so I could pee in peace.

Over the monitor I heard, “Oh, Padme, there’s my little sweetheart.” The Siren, aka Padme, didn’t scream or slap him, which must mean she is a kinder more pleasant person after 7am as well. She simply laughed and said, “Anakin, get me outta here!”

Only a Jedi Could Pull That Off

My children and I enjoy Yo Gabba Gabba. The offspring get sucked into the psychedelic colors and odd songs just long enough for me to create a delightful taste explosion for dinner. One of the very few things I actually understand during this acid trip of a child’s program, occurs as a child introduces themselves followed by, “I like to dance!” This has made a great impression on my daughter. I simply say “My name is The Siren!” and she replies from anywhere in the house, “I like to dance!” Cute and quite a convenient way to locate her, I must admit.

The Kraken has decided, as is his way, to up the ante. When asked his name he will shout, “My name is The Kraken! I like to dance and . . . dress up!” We don’t yet have a very extensive dress up box, mostly used Halloween costumes: A couple superheroes, a bumblebee, a police officer and a red riding hood cloak. The latter was knitted by my talented sister for The Siren’s first birthday and comes complete with ruffle trimmed hood. The Kraken now considers this item to be the most special as it aides in morphing him into his newly chosen persona. This little red riding hood has found new life as Anakin Skywalker’s sweater cape, and it very rarely ever leaves my son’s back. I am a firm believer in picking your battles and being sure as hell to win the ones you choose. Therefore, he goes cloak less to school (so it doesn’t get ruined or peed on) and swimming lessons (so he doesn’t drown). Other than that the cape is fair game. I have limits and can only engage in epic warfare a couple times a day.

Imagine if you will a small face encircled in blond curls peeking from beneath a red hood. Now imagine this small face belongs to a little boy in the Star Wars toy aisle explaining all the characters and weapons to a woman he will only refer to as Princess Leia. He is totally oblivious to the many little snickers and stares from passerby. He is more than comfortable in his own skin and quite confident that he is a young man in the Jedi Order. Frankly, I envy his comfy and delightful world. Our little social experiment immediately exposes those with children over 5 (the ones laughing or giving me a knowing nod) and those without children (the ones giving me a ‘shame on you’ glare). What kind of mother allows her little boy to dress like a girl in public?

I think the better question is: How could I, as a mother, stifle the curiosity, creativity and spirit of a three year old? I most emphatically reply that I cannot and never shall!

Oh, and I also secretly enjoy being called Princess Leia! Why ruin that?

The Bible Tells Me So

My little Siren just turned two and my goodness does she have a whole lot to say. Not to brag or anything, but she already counts to ten, recites the ABCs and sings all the words to many songs. I know this isn’t all that exciting to other mothers with daughters, but I had The Kraken first who struggled to say much of anything by age two. I guess he was just too busy climbing and running and skipping and running and climbing and running to work on his language skills. I’m still trying to decide if I prefer listening to endless blabber or sprinting through the mall after a rouge toddler. Ahh, the difference between boys and girls.

My little chatterbox also has the uncanny ability to know the very moment when she is pushing a button with her brother or walking right along the line of good behavior and not so good behavior. Again, a skill many a-toddler has picked up along the way, but amusing none the less. For example, to instantly piss off her brother, The Siren will simply call The Kraken “Luke Skywalker.” The Kraken has recently decided that he is Anikan Skywalker. That small dig will begin a back and forth war that can last for hours. Luke! No Anikan! Luke! No Anikan! Uggg. I think I hate Star Wars.

Her most recent trick is to melt momma’s heart with a beautiful rendition of, “Jesus loves me this I know.” At some point she realized momma really enjoyed hearing her sing about Jesus. Here is the new version: “Jesus loves me this I know, For the Bible tells me POOP!” Cue insane laughter from both babies. I don’t think this delightful change in the lyrics is going away anytime soon, but hey, at least the kids are getting along!

I can’t wait to be pull aside by the nursery worker at church to explain this one . . .

Star Wars (Part 1)

My son is really into Star Wars. He and my husband bond a couple evenings a week over this epic battle of good versus evil. And even though I’m not sure the movie content is the best for a three year old brain to comprehend, I am very thankful my boys are spending quality man time together. (For the record, they don’t watch Anikan burn to a crisp in the lave pits then be rebuilt as Darth Vader as Padme goes through a very painful birth of twins then dies. That is one boundary I can draw. I am such a good momma!)

That being said, I never was prepared for the onslaught of questions that would assault me daily: Who is Count Dooku? What color is his light saber? Why was Anikan Skywalker a good guy then a bad guy with new name Darth Vader then back to good guy? Do Ewoks live on our moon? Can we visit the Degoba system? Will Darth Vader change his name back to Anikan? What do Yoda’s feet look like? Where did The Emperor get his powers? Do Ewoks bite? Does Yoda know he talks to Darth Sidious? If Yoda and Jar Jar Binks have a baby, what would it look like? By the time 7pm rolls around I hardly remember my own name let alone the planet on which I reside. I am so thankful there are only 5 movies from which he can pull his questions from. Whew. I’m exhausted.

The best question by far was witnessed by my brother, who I happened to be calling when The Kraken’s handsome little face looked at me and said, “Who is more powerful, God or Emperor Palpatine?” My brother answered the phone just in time to hear me so wittily answer, “Well, since God created Emperor Palpatine, God is more powerful.” That seemed to appease the beast for about 35 seconds. Just enough time to finish my phone call.

When in doubt, blame a cartoon princess

My son, my Kraken, enjoys the occasional movie. This is a new and exciting development. In the very recent past, getting The Kraken to sit still for longer than 25 seconds was a no go. Since exiting my womb this child hasn’t stopped moving. Frankly, I am mostly thankful he doesn’t turn into a tv zombie anytime it is turned on, but I do occasionally wish for just a couple minutes to cook dinner, do a load a laundry, make a phone call or sneak a cookie in the closet. Now, suddenly he will sit for small spurts of time to bond with one imaginary character or another. Hooray! Now if I could The Siren on the plan, I could pee in peace.

There are a few not so exciting things that come with watching cartoons. Let’s start with, “I’ll kill you, boy!” uttered in Aladdin, “Shut up you idiot!” shouted in Toy Story, “You’re a fool,” from some rendition of Cars and other choice words that aren’t really horrible but also aren’t all that awesome either. It can be slightly embarrassing when my beloved cherubs are going back and forth calling each other idiots while sitting in the shopping cart. The ever present judgment police do not approve of such filthy language. They may let you know or they may just shoot you with their dagger eyes. And even though neither of my babies really has any idea what they are saying, my bid for mother of the year is once again just a very silly dream.

A couple days ago my son, in the presence of his father, told me to “Buzz off!” My husband was understandably irate. I quickly jumped in and blamed the most recent Disney adventure we had watched. After a short discussion of why this isn’t the best way to speak to your mother, my husband let the issue drop. I was holding my breath most of the lecture hoping The Kraken wouldn’t decide to be a tattle tale. As it turns out, Rapunzel didn’t tell her adopted mother/ kidnapper to get lost. It seems my little boy’s momma has the potty mouth. We were having a tickle war, and I was totally joking. At any rate, I may owe a very dainty blond with a 100 foot long ponytail an apology.

Don't speak to me like that!

By Sunday morning I had slept about 45 minutes in a three day span. Please don’t panic. This has been a normal occurrence in my life since high school. My husband was fresh off a 24 hour shift without sleep. I think added together the two of us had the brain power of a three year old. We were saying nonsensical things, laughing at farts, looking through the cabinet for cookies for breakfast, and I had a major meltdown when my favorite shoes went missing. What better place to visit in this mental state then church.

As usual The Siren began to wail as soon as we walked in the building. The nursery workers are very kind and reassure me this is all very normal and some day she will stop crying (perhaps I should tell them her nickname). At any rate, they tell me to keep bringing her back. And I do. The Kraken had to be bribed to enter his class not because he is scared but because he knows that mommy and daddy enjoy this hour of childfree time together and will offer almost anything for a smooth transition in front of the other moms and dads. The bribing probably speaks volumes about my parenting skills or perhaps the power of curly hair and a dimple, but frankly I am doing the best I can.

The sermon, which, I’m not going to lie, my mind wandered into and out of, was about identifying and resisting the devil’s attempts to sneak into our lives. As for the resisting part it was suggested we simply tell the devil to SHUTUP! That seems simple enough. When he pops into my head and tells me I am a bad mother or fat or incompetent, I yell SHUTUP! to the liar and move on. I can handle that.

The pastor, who really isn’t as looney as perhaps I am making him sound, made the point that when the devil infiltrates areas of our lives it can be very subtle. For example, worrying about the mundane everyday tasks of what we will eat or what we will wear or where we will go can, for some, take over the whole day, leaving no room to see what Christ is showing us each day. As a mother, I can attest that sometimes I am too overwhelmed by keeping to our schedule and moving from one activity to another, that I forget to look around and enjoy the day He has made for me and my children to explore together.

By this point in the sermon however, I was getting really antsy. Exhaustion had finally taken over and I just couldn’t process anything more. And being told not to worry about what I will eat got me, well, worrying about what I will eat. Every Sunday after church we go out to lunch as a family. It is one of the favorite parts of my week. (I don’t have to come up with it, cook it or clean up after it.) I leaned over to my wonderful husband and asked what he would like for lunch today.

To which he replied, “I think I am supposed to tell you to SHUTUP!”

Someone, somewhere is missing their books.

When it comes to the internet, I am a big fan. I can stalk, I mean, keep in touch with old friends, shop without my two amazing children displaying their lung power in a public arena and perhaps best of all I can unleash the inner-workings of my quirky brain onto my unsuspecting blog reading public. But let’s be honest, the internet isn’t all rainbows and kittens.

My mother loves books. And she loves to share her favorite books with those she loves. It’s pretty handy really as I don’t have much free time to read. She screens them and sends the helpful ones my way. I am currently reading about how to draw boundaries in my life, which has been very eye opening even if I am as of now, still incapable of saying no. When she stumbled upon a great internet deal involving a discount and a credit card, she did some research, signed up and ordered her books. This morning they arrived in two boxes!

The first box contained a few devotionals and various assundry writings about how to save the world by showing Christ’s love to one person at a time (my mother is a saint in the making). The second box, well, it housed something quite different. She picked up the first sealed book and just assumed from the title that it was about cats. The second selection had a picture on the cover with the title, Cats Cats Cats Galore. (Okay so that’s my own edited title because frankly the idea of a purple bra makes me blush. I cannot type that word!) Needless to say, the picture on the cover was not that of a cat.

Tomorrow my mom will be making a whole bunch of calls to her credit card company hoping to get an actual living breathing human being on the line to make sure she wasn’t charged for the pornographic material. Then she will be burning a couple books.