I have social anxiety disorder which I leave untreated due to a very uncomfortable dependency on the drugs that are supposed to balance out my crazy in public situations. All this really means to you is all the shaking, stammering, blushing, gagging awkwardness you see before you is my normal. It doesn’t matter how long I have known you nor how often we get together, I would rather be hiding behind a curtain somewhere. I would do nearly anything to keep my children from inheriting this bucket of lame. Therefore, like a good mother and perhaps a glutton for punishment, I refuse to allow my kids to miss out on any opportunities simply because I would rather not handle social interaction. I figure all parents embarrass their children at one point or another; I just started from birth.
An opportunity arose to see Santa at a nearby shop, and I jumped at the chance. What kid doesn’t want to meet Old St. Nick? After all, The Kraken had drawn him a picture and was hoping to give him his wish list. Long story short, he was thrilled with his encounter. I was thankful the only stranger I was forced to speak to was an old man in a ridiculous red outfit. The Siren however was not impressed. Like a good sport she sat near Santa so I could at least capture the moment on my camera. She seemed more reluctant than scared, so I had the delusion she would warm up with a second visit with the jolly man, which was comforting since I had already signed us up for pancakes with Santa and Mrs. Claus the following Saturday.
When I broke the news to my brood, The Siren began to wail. It seems I didn’t quite catch the hint: my baby girl is in fact terrified of Santa. It’s really hard to force my kid to do things that I myself struggle through, but we had already paid and her brother was so excited. Besides, people say the best way to conquer your fear is to face it. And though it has not been at all true for me, it could work for her, right? As it turns out The Siren had other plans than facing her phobia of synthetic facial hair. Rather than choke down a couple pancakes, stand in a line, sit on Santa’s lap and smile for a picture, she decided instead to bash her lip on the footboard of our bed minutes before departure requiring an emergency room visit and two stiches. Well played, Siren. Well played. And I don’t blame her one little bit.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
The Princess and the Potty
I very much dislike three things. Okay, sure there are many more than that but for right now while I am potty training my daughter, these three are really pissing me off: public restrooms, restrictive clothing and fancy dresses.
The first is obvious, public restrooms are generally dirty, soaking wet, a great place to be killed and not so kid friendly. But of course being a mom of two kids with tiny bladders, we are always in need of a potty stop and therefore a public restroom. Taking my son isn’t such a hassle really. Boys have it easy, point and shoot. If he misses he is just adding to the general splendor and aroma. No real harm done. However, there aren’t enough disinfecting wipes in this universe to make me feel warm and fuzzy about sitting my sweet innocent baby girl on a public toilet seat. Seriously, yuck. I cannot wait for the day she is tall enough to learn the hover method of public restroom safety, until then I am always packing Lysol spray and disinfecting wipes.
Secondly, I hate restrictive clothing. If you know me at all, you know that I live in my sweats. Now for the sake of my dignity and overall comfort of those around me, I generally get dressed when I leave the house, most of the time. (You can thank me later.). Either this condition is genetic or my beloved Kraken has learned well from his momma as he fights tooth and nail every morning for “soft pants.” And although there is nothing cuter than my baby in khakis, I cannot disagree in the comfort soft pants provide. They are also amazing during the potty training process. Creating a puddle just in front of the toilet because one of my babies couldn’t get the snap or zipper undone in time is not fun for anyone. Knowing she has to potty, communicating the need, reaching a toilet, cleaning said toilet and undoing her clothing in time is whole lot to ask of such a little girl.
Last but certainly not least, I hate dresses. I probably own three now, two I bought for weddings and one little black dress I was told every girl should own, which I admit is handy for my husband’s fancy work parties (though I often wonder how many times I can get away with wearing it). I always feel ridiculous, awkward and conspicuous in a dress, my least favorite feelings if I am honest. Either this condition is not genetic or my beloved Siren has not learned anything from her momma. My Siren is always fancy. She has 6 full length princess gowns which she cycles through each day. When I get dressed up it means I put on my dark jeans. The Siren however isn’t fully dressed without lace and toile and broaches. If I didn’t have the stretch marks to prove otherwise I would say the milkman dropped her off. Really it is quite adorable, except when she needs to use the facilities.
Can’t you just see us in the public restroom, me holding disinfectant spray and wipes, keeping my daughter steady on the toilet while attempting to keep her precious princess gown dry? And where is The Kraken? Gross.
The first is obvious, public restrooms are generally dirty, soaking wet, a great place to be killed and not so kid friendly. But of course being a mom of two kids with tiny bladders, we are always in need of a potty stop and therefore a public restroom. Taking my son isn’t such a hassle really. Boys have it easy, point and shoot. If he misses he is just adding to the general splendor and aroma. No real harm done. However, there aren’t enough disinfecting wipes in this universe to make me feel warm and fuzzy about sitting my sweet innocent baby girl on a public toilet seat. Seriously, yuck. I cannot wait for the day she is tall enough to learn the hover method of public restroom safety, until then I am always packing Lysol spray and disinfecting wipes.
Secondly, I hate restrictive clothing. If you know me at all, you know that I live in my sweats. Now for the sake of my dignity and overall comfort of those around me, I generally get dressed when I leave the house, most of the time. (You can thank me later.). Either this condition is genetic or my beloved Kraken has learned well from his momma as he fights tooth and nail every morning for “soft pants.” And although there is nothing cuter than my baby in khakis, I cannot disagree in the comfort soft pants provide. They are also amazing during the potty training process. Creating a puddle just in front of the toilet because one of my babies couldn’t get the snap or zipper undone in time is not fun for anyone. Knowing she has to potty, communicating the need, reaching a toilet, cleaning said toilet and undoing her clothing in time is whole lot to ask of such a little girl.
Last but certainly not least, I hate dresses. I probably own three now, two I bought for weddings and one little black dress I was told every girl should own, which I admit is handy for my husband’s fancy work parties (though I often wonder how many times I can get away with wearing it). I always feel ridiculous, awkward and conspicuous in a dress, my least favorite feelings if I am honest. Either this condition is not genetic or my beloved Siren has not learned anything from her momma. My Siren is always fancy. She has 6 full length princess gowns which she cycles through each day. When I get dressed up it means I put on my dark jeans. The Siren however isn’t fully dressed without lace and toile and broaches. If I didn’t have the stretch marks to prove otherwise I would say the milkman dropped her off. Really it is quite adorable, except when she needs to use the facilities.
Can’t you just see us in the public restroom, me holding disinfectant spray and wipes, keeping my daughter steady on the toilet while attempting to keep her precious princess gown dry? And where is The Kraken? Gross.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
Swim or Die
I can’t handle my kids. They are faster than me, sneakier than me and have made a pact never to stay together when attempting to escape the wrath of momma. This isn’t a shock. I haven’t ever in his whole life been able to handle The Kraken, and ever since The Siren went mobile more than 2 years ago chaos reins at my home, local grocery store, van, backyard, neighbor’s house, church . . . basically wherever we haven’t yet been forcibly removed and banned. The list of places we may spend our day grows continuously shorter.
Due to a lack of venues we were allowed to enter, in a moment of rare brilliance, I decided to try taking my kids swimming. Instantly the speed factor was tipped in my favor. I may not be able to outrun The Kraken, but I can certainly out doggie paddle him! As it turns out, swimming is the perfect activity for this family. Certainly I cannot be outrun but there also isn’t much the kids can destroy in a swimming pool, splashing is expected and if I need to shout at my kids no one knows as the sound is drown out by this cool but loud waterfall feature. And so we swim at least twice a week, every week. And we have been doing so for about two years.
Needless to say, the kids are pretty decent swimmers. The Siren, for example, was evicted from her age range of swim classes a year ago because she had already “mastered the material.” She only has to wait one more month before she can try again as a 3 year old. The Kraken would be a level ahead of his age range if he would just stop throwing huge, earth shattering, running, screaming, tantrums during swim lessons. This was a new development this past summer. It was four weeks of super awesome and perhaps proof that I will never truly control anything. Whatever the case, the kid can swim. I don’t mean to brag. The poor monsters really didn’t have a choice. Honestly once I learned I could wear them out and keep them mostly in check, they had to swim or sit still to watch mommy swim. They both chose to swim.
My favorite morning activity is picking on lifeguards who have not yet had the privilege of watching my babies at work. Maybe it’s mean, but I take a small sort of pleasure in tossing my two year old princess into the deep end and watching the new lifeguard jump to his or her feet, whistle in mouth, blow-horn in hand, poised to rescue, only to realize I am perhaps not the worst mother ever to walk the planet. The Siren calmly swims to the side, laughs in delight and shouts “again momma!” The lifeguard usually gives me a look of confused displeasure before sitting down, not quite sure if it is yet safe to put down the blow-horn. In my defense, I’m not the only one who likes to pick on the rookies. The other lifeguards who know us very well, step out of the office to watch. I like to think I am providing a great service: we bring laughter to some while making sure the new guards are actually paying attention. Nothing wrong with that!
As for Miss Barb, the swim instructor The Kraken terrorized for a month last summer, we see her a couple times a week, and he believes she is a “wonderful teacher.” So will I be signing him up for lessons anytime soon . . . Nope! I can’t risk the tantrums because I choose to live under the delusion I have it all together and under control. At least for those two or three mornings a week in which we go to the pool.
Due to a lack of venues we were allowed to enter, in a moment of rare brilliance, I decided to try taking my kids swimming. Instantly the speed factor was tipped in my favor. I may not be able to outrun The Kraken, but I can certainly out doggie paddle him! As it turns out, swimming is the perfect activity for this family. Certainly I cannot be outrun but there also isn’t much the kids can destroy in a swimming pool, splashing is expected and if I need to shout at my kids no one knows as the sound is drown out by this cool but loud waterfall feature. And so we swim at least twice a week, every week. And we have been doing so for about two years.
Needless to say, the kids are pretty decent swimmers. The Siren, for example, was evicted from her age range of swim classes a year ago because she had already “mastered the material.” She only has to wait one more month before she can try again as a 3 year old. The Kraken would be a level ahead of his age range if he would just stop throwing huge, earth shattering, running, screaming, tantrums during swim lessons. This was a new development this past summer. It was four weeks of super awesome and perhaps proof that I will never truly control anything. Whatever the case, the kid can swim. I don’t mean to brag. The poor monsters really didn’t have a choice. Honestly once I learned I could wear them out and keep them mostly in check, they had to swim or sit still to watch mommy swim. They both chose to swim.
My favorite morning activity is picking on lifeguards who have not yet had the privilege of watching my babies at work. Maybe it’s mean, but I take a small sort of pleasure in tossing my two year old princess into the deep end and watching the new lifeguard jump to his or her feet, whistle in mouth, blow-horn in hand, poised to rescue, only to realize I am perhaps not the worst mother ever to walk the planet. The Siren calmly swims to the side, laughs in delight and shouts “again momma!” The lifeguard usually gives me a look of confused displeasure before sitting down, not quite sure if it is yet safe to put down the blow-horn. In my defense, I’m not the only one who likes to pick on the rookies. The other lifeguards who know us very well, step out of the office to watch. I like to think I am providing a great service: we bring laughter to some while making sure the new guards are actually paying attention. Nothing wrong with that!
As for Miss Barb, the swim instructor The Kraken terrorized for a month last summer, we see her a couple times a week, and he believes she is a “wonderful teacher.” So will I be signing him up for lessons anytime soon . . . Nope! I can’t risk the tantrums because I choose to live under the delusion I have it all together and under control. At least for those two or three mornings a week in which we go to the pool.
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