In a past life, back when my brain functioned correctly, before the only reliable thing about me was having spit up somewhere on my clothing, I was a scientist. My job was to take a gene that encoded a protein, mutate the genetic code so that it encoded a slightly different protein and then do it again. Yes, I was trusted with this task by myself. And it was easy. My work was ordered, organized. Give me the problem and I will create your solution.
Unfortunately my life has shifted to the solving the unsolvable. Like laundry. No matter how much attention I give that sweaty pile of goo there’s always more. Like dinner. No matter how many masterpieces I create in the kitchen, (very few I assure you), my husband never fails to ask, (usually at 8:30am by the way), “What’s for dinner?” Like my favorite two-year-old who is screaming from exhaustion, “no nap!” Like the ‘low tire pressure’ light on my van though I have measured the pressure one hundred times and reside in the safe zone. Like my very happy baby girl by day and wailing Siren by night. The unsolvable problem. We are not friends.
But there is a light at the end of this anally organized scientist’s tunnel and it isn’t another Malaria lab. Three little words: Some Assembly Required. Ahh. Catharsis. For a small fee, I can bring home a flat box holding 63 pieces, various screws and an Alan wrench, and I will be at peace for one hour. Hooray for children’s toys that need to be put together. I love you. Will you marry me? In the last couple days I have created a beautiful 50s play kitchen, a plastic grill complete with hot dog and bun, two adorable children’s chairs, and I am craving more. There is a small bruise in my right palm where my trusty Alan wrench digs in to my flesh when the screw starts fighting back. I love it. I am at peace. Assemblage is my game and IKEA is my Mecca.
I’m sure I am revealing something terrible about my personality. Maybe I’m a control freak who suddenly found a way to control my environment if only for a hiccup of a moment in my day. Maybe I am too anal and organized. Maybe I need to seek help . . .
Maybe you should call me if you need something assembled. I’ll come pick it up, put it together and bring it back to your house. No charge. Crazy or not, that sounds like a deal to me.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Goodnight. Sleep Tight.
My son has an inordinate amount of crap in his bed. It’s a plush toy extravaganza, one barks, one sings, the rest are silent but all are necessary and must be accounted for. So, tonight when we tucked the Kraken in bed, Daddy carried my son and I carried . . . two Bas (his blankets, one blue, one green), Amy the giraffe, Mugong the seal, Scout the singing dog, E.O. (really his name is Otis) the teddy bear, Otis’ Big Brother (yep that’s his name) also a teddy bear, Annie also a dog, Daddy Doggy the newest addition, and a barking doggy puppet who shall remain nameless.
Phew, I’m exhausted.
I kissed my Cherub’s little head and said goodnight. “Momma?” he said. “Have Momma’s Ba too? I might need it.” Sure son, you may also have my blanket. You are right there is way too much extra space in that big boy bed of yours. You might get cold.
If you check on the Kraken throughout the night you would find him totally uncovered and his nighttime pals strew all over the floor. Apparently the thought of being surrounded by friends is great, but in practice the Kraken likes his space.
Phew, I’m exhausted.
I kissed my Cherub’s little head and said goodnight. “Momma?” he said. “Have Momma’s Ba too? I might need it.” Sure son, you may also have my blanket. You are right there is way too much extra space in that big boy bed of yours. You might get cold.
If you check on the Kraken throughout the night you would find him totally uncovered and his nighttime pals strew all over the floor. Apparently the thought of being surrounded by friends is great, but in practice the Kraken likes his space.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Cookies and an Eating Disorder
I make really good chocolate chip cookies. This is a fact and not a feeling. The world goes wild for them. I'm not kidding. And so whenever I have been a little too nasty, I whip up a batch to patch things up with whomever I have offended. This time it was the general. I've been much too snappy with the general. This batch, as always, was splendid and was working remarkably well reminding my husband he does truly love me.
At dinner this evening, our beloved Kraken was very nearly nodding off in his high chair. (I have always admired the pictures of other children falling asleep whilst eating. However, my son has only once been that tired. We forced him to run a marathon a while back and even then he wasn’t tired enough to conk out at the dinner table.) There’s no way we were putting the Kraken to bed at 5:30pm. NO way. He would be rip-roaring ready to go at 4:30am, and I don’t function that early. So being the fantastic parents that we are, we offered him a cookie to pump some life back into his little self, if only for another 45 minutes.
He refused. (He is two and was awfully tired.) Daddy popped the cookie in his mouth and moved on . . . to my cookie which lay innocently half eaten on the counter. The Kraken promptly let out a moan of mourning and sadness, “Ohhhhhhhhhh. Daddy ate momma’s cookie! Poor momma.” What a sweet little thing. Then he added, “No get to eat my cookie either.” No Kraken you didn’t. What a mean daddy.
So I did what any mother would do, I reinforced that momma loves him more and offered him another cookie. The Kraken then wedged himself between my leg and the island and under the overhang of the countertop, a protective cave of sorts. There he stayed until he munched his cookie into crumbs. Happy and satisfied he bounded away to play until his sugar buzz wore off.
I guess the moral of the story is if my son develops a fear of eating in front of others, it is daddy’s fault.
At dinner this evening, our beloved Kraken was very nearly nodding off in his high chair. (I have always admired the pictures of other children falling asleep whilst eating. However, my son has only once been that tired. We forced him to run a marathon a while back and even then he wasn’t tired enough to conk out at the dinner table.) There’s no way we were putting the Kraken to bed at 5:30pm. NO way. He would be rip-roaring ready to go at 4:30am, and I don’t function that early. So being the fantastic parents that we are, we offered him a cookie to pump some life back into his little self, if only for another 45 minutes.
He refused. (He is two and was awfully tired.) Daddy popped the cookie in his mouth and moved on . . . to my cookie which lay innocently half eaten on the counter. The Kraken promptly let out a moan of mourning and sadness, “Ohhhhhhhhhh. Daddy ate momma’s cookie! Poor momma.” What a sweet little thing. Then he added, “No get to eat my cookie either.” No Kraken you didn’t. What a mean daddy.
So I did what any mother would do, I reinforced that momma loves him more and offered him another cookie. The Kraken then wedged himself between my leg and the island and under the overhang of the countertop, a protective cave of sorts. There he stayed until he munched his cookie into crumbs. Happy and satisfied he bounded away to play until his sugar buzz wore off.
I guess the moral of the story is if my son develops a fear of eating in front of others, it is daddy’s fault.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Broken Bed
The box spring of our bed is broken. Now, any normal human would try to replace it post haste. I have to admit that it is a bit annoying. We have to balance the box spring just so on the bed frame or it just, boom, collapses and nearly throws my husband off the bed. At which point he mumbles something under his breath and forces me off the bed so he can once again place the mattress in its precarious home.
So, why not replace it? It’s been broken for many months. Well, for one thing we don’t like this bed. It was a donation to us when we were young and newly married. The thought of sleeping each night with each other was still exciting and frankly, we enjoyed cuddling. We didn’t mind back then that this bed is a double wide. Now, over 7 years later, we are a little bit larger, a little bit older, a little bit grumpier and a little less forgiving of morning breath. We want our space. Sad? Maybe. The truth. Yes.
Second, in case you didn’t notice, we are parents. I’m pretty sure it is more fun to purchase Christmas presents for the rugrats than to have a safe, reliable bed structure. On top of diapers, wipes, clothing, food, blah, blah, blah there isn’t much money left for a beautiful bed. And I’m ok with that.
I guess I could fix it. I own a drill and am one kick butt mother on a mission. However, a quick jaunt to the hardware store with two bouncy baby chicklets doesn’t really tickle my fancy. I can see the Kraken deciding to test a hammer on his sister’s little noggin. Or Rosie may decide a screw would make a fantastic lunch. Frankly, I don’t have time for a hospital visit nor do I have time for drilling a rickety box spring. Now drilling for boogers, that I have time for.
So, for the time being, we will deal with it. And after a VERY long day at work, my hubby will flop down on the bed in sheer exhaustion only to be tossed off like a rodeo clown. At which time he will grumble and force me to get up so he can balance the bed just so once again. Then we will look at each other, laugh and cuddle in the middle because it is the safest bet. And the most pleasant too.
So, why not replace it? It’s been broken for many months. Well, for one thing we don’t like this bed. It was a donation to us when we were young and newly married. The thought of sleeping each night with each other was still exciting and frankly, we enjoyed cuddling. We didn’t mind back then that this bed is a double wide. Now, over 7 years later, we are a little bit larger, a little bit older, a little bit grumpier and a little less forgiving of morning breath. We want our space. Sad? Maybe. The truth. Yes.
Second, in case you didn’t notice, we are parents. I’m pretty sure it is more fun to purchase Christmas presents for the rugrats than to have a safe, reliable bed structure. On top of diapers, wipes, clothing, food, blah, blah, blah there isn’t much money left for a beautiful bed. And I’m ok with that.
I guess I could fix it. I own a drill and am one kick butt mother on a mission. However, a quick jaunt to the hardware store with two bouncy baby chicklets doesn’t really tickle my fancy. I can see the Kraken deciding to test a hammer on his sister’s little noggin. Or Rosie may decide a screw would make a fantastic lunch. Frankly, I don’t have time for a hospital visit nor do I have time for drilling a rickety box spring. Now drilling for boogers, that I have time for.
So, for the time being, we will deal with it. And after a VERY long day at work, my hubby will flop down on the bed in sheer exhaustion only to be tossed off like a rodeo clown. At which time he will grumble and force me to get up so he can balance the bed just so once again. Then we will look at each other, laugh and cuddle in the middle because it is the safest bet. And the most pleasant too.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Sick ick ick
Stomach bugs are yuck. Let me type that again. Yuck. You know it’s going to be crappy, no pun intended, when you awake on day one of stomach bug mayhem to, “Momma, wake up. Yucky diapoo. Hurry!” He wasn’t kidding. He was toting around a super saggy, slightly leaking, bucket of yuck diaper and was none too pleased about it. Poor little Kraken. Poor momma. To add insult to injury, one of the only traits he inherited from his momma was a sensitive skin issue. So, on top of explosive poops, my young spawn developed a yeast infection all over his unknown zone. Poor little Kraken.
After five, “My belly hurts,” which were promptly followed by intestinal distress, I made an executive decision that it must be nap time. The only sign that the Kraken is ill is if he goes like a little angel into his room and snuggles into bed without the slightest protest. He is ill. Two and a half hours later, a record, nay a coma in Kraken time, my little blushing angel emerged from his room only to report, “pooped again mommy. This is crazy!” Yes, my love, this is crazy and stinky and sticky and mommy is over it.
The afternoon passed much the same way, pooping and cleaning and gagging and cleaning and wiping and gagging and yuck. Once the kids were safely tucked in bed, I opted to sleep on the couch so I could tend to the sick babies while my husband got a restful night’s sleep. (It’s true. I can be nice.) At 5 am I ventured into the master bathroom in search of incense sticks I could shove up my nose in preparation of day two, only to find my husband sitting in the shower. Not a good sign. Sure enough, he had been exploding from both ends for nearly six hours. Poor little husband.
So here we are in the middle of poo warfare, and I am the one who is still unscathed. It will hit me I am certain. Maybe during my daily trip to Target, in my favorite jeans. Perhaps at Mom’s Night Out with ten other mothers I don’t yet know very well. But I’m betting my belly will begin to gurgle at this fancy dinner coming up where I will be wearing a dress and tights and heels, which will not allow me to get to the bathroom in a timely fashion. (For the record, I wore tennis shoes on my wedding day for fear of falling on my face when I walked down the aisle. Running in grown up women’s shoes is not looking promising.) Would you offer a man a job if his wife poops herself during dinner? What about if she yaks on the appetizer platter? Just wondering.
After five, “My belly hurts,” which were promptly followed by intestinal distress, I made an executive decision that it must be nap time. The only sign that the Kraken is ill is if he goes like a little angel into his room and snuggles into bed without the slightest protest. He is ill. Two and a half hours later, a record, nay a coma in Kraken time, my little blushing angel emerged from his room only to report, “pooped again mommy. This is crazy!” Yes, my love, this is crazy and stinky and sticky and mommy is over it.
The afternoon passed much the same way, pooping and cleaning and gagging and cleaning and wiping and gagging and yuck. Once the kids were safely tucked in bed, I opted to sleep on the couch so I could tend to the sick babies while my husband got a restful night’s sleep. (It’s true. I can be nice.) At 5 am I ventured into the master bathroom in search of incense sticks I could shove up my nose in preparation of day two, only to find my husband sitting in the shower. Not a good sign. Sure enough, he had been exploding from both ends for nearly six hours. Poor little husband.
So here we are in the middle of poo warfare, and I am the one who is still unscathed. It will hit me I am certain. Maybe during my daily trip to Target, in my favorite jeans. Perhaps at Mom’s Night Out with ten other mothers I don’t yet know very well. But I’m betting my belly will begin to gurgle at this fancy dinner coming up where I will be wearing a dress and tights and heels, which will not allow me to get to the bathroom in a timely fashion. (For the record, I wore tennis shoes on my wedding day for fear of falling on my face when I walked down the aisle. Running in grown up women’s shoes is not looking promising.) Would you offer a man a job if his wife poops herself during dinner? What about if she yaks on the appetizer platter? Just wondering.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Gosh Darn It!
We went through the McDonald's drive thru today and ordered The Kraken chicken nuggets, apples and milk in his Happy meal. We didn't notice until we got home that they had neglected to put the nuggets in the box. So, my husband and the Kraken went back to remedy the situation. Here is the conversation that followed.
"Ok, Let's go inside and get your chicken nuggets."
"GOSH DARN IT, Daddy."
"No, son. Let's be nice to the lady."
"Oh. No GOSH DARN IT? Come on daddy."
"Be nice."
"Ok daddy. Nice to the lady. Good idea."
I guess The Kraken was nice because he returned with chicken nuggets and a second toy. I'm pretty sure he didn't learn the GOSH DARN IT technique from me, the slightly spineless, non-confrontational, quiet, avoidance is key momma. I guess my only question is where did he first see this behavior modeled. Because whoever got the harsh treatment probably needs an apology from me . . . or maybe from the Kraken.
"Ok, Let's go inside and get your chicken nuggets."
"GOSH DARN IT, Daddy."
"No, son. Let's be nice to the lady."
"Oh. No GOSH DARN IT? Come on daddy."
"Be nice."
"Ok daddy. Nice to the lady. Good idea."
I guess The Kraken was nice because he returned with chicken nuggets and a second toy. I'm pretty sure he didn't learn the GOSH DARN IT technique from me, the slightly spineless, non-confrontational, quiet, avoidance is key momma. I guess my only question is where did he first see this behavior modeled. Because whoever got the harsh treatment probably needs an apology from me . . . or maybe from the Kraken.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Mommy Brain Tries to Ruin my Workout
My brain has decided to boycott 8 digit numbers. So when I choose to brave the workout room for a much needed trip on the elliptical, I stood at the keypad attempting my code over and over and over and over. Rejection is never fun even if it comes from a dumb door. To add insult to injury after each failed attempt I was allowed to listen to an annoying ‘beep beep beep’ while the system reset. And if that wasn’t indication enough that I was incorrect there was the red flashing light of doom denying my entry. But I think my favorite part about being reminded that my brain sucks was the woman walking on the treadmill who refused to look in my direction. She saw me. She knew I was there. She has seen me in the gym before. Thanks lady. Just for future reference if I was going to kill you I wouldn’t be wearing my very best zip up hoodie. Enjoy your walk while I put on my angry eyes.
I did eventually remember my code. I entered the inner sanctum triumphant. The lady on the treadmill apologized for not helping me. She has a bum knee and didn’t want to fall flat on her face while running to my rescue. Wow, I’m a judgmental prick. I turned off my angry eyes and enjoyed my workout.
For the record, I was struggling with 4 of the 8 digits in my code. Turns out those 4 digits are the same as my apartment number. Apparently the management decided this would help people remember their codes. Boy are they stupid.
I did eventually remember my code. I entered the inner sanctum triumphant. The lady on the treadmill apologized for not helping me. She has a bum knee and didn’t want to fall flat on her face while running to my rescue. Wow, I’m a judgmental prick. I turned off my angry eyes and enjoyed my workout.
For the record, I was struggling with 4 of the 8 digits in my code. Turns out those 4 digits are the same as my apartment number. Apparently the management decided this would help people remember their codes. Boy are they stupid.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Thirty, Flirty and Thriving
I’m thirty and surprisingly calm about it. I remember calling myself 22 with four years experience then jumping to 26 because I became a momma, but I wasn’t ever confident about much of anything in my twenties. I think in my mind there is pressure to be cool in your twenties, and I am not cool. Never have been. Awkward, sure. Misunderstood, maybe. Cool, not so much. But now I have an excuse. I’m 30. And I’m cool with it.
When I was younger someone told me that your body starts to fall apart around 30. During the past year, this memory made me laugh. Here I was, in spitting distance to my 30th, and I was feeling great. Even after two babies and all the joyous body changes that come with that, I was feeling good. Apparently my body was giving me a stay of execution. Well, then I learned that I was allergic to toilet paper. TOILET PAPER! Not kidding. Not fun. Not kidding. So now, in addition to carrying diapers, wipes, extra clothing, baby food, snacks . . . for the kids, I also have to carry my own hypoallergenic, ridiculously lame toilet paper. Awesome. Thanks body.
Then there’s the volleyball beer league that I joined. (We play then go out for a beer afterward, though I don’t drink so maybe I should call it something else. Now taking suggestions.) I played Division I volleyball in college (not bragging by any means, just stating the facts). And during this time I was forced to jump on boxes, over hurdles, up the stadium stairs, up the arena stairs two at a time . . . but my downfall was an innocent hit at beer league that wrecked my knee. Something I could do in my sleep. I blame 30.
Other than the occasional body glitches, I’m pretty okay with 30. My husband let me sleep in so I awoke rested something that has rarely happened in the last decade and a half (again, not kidding). When I got out of bed I was greeted by the most adorable two and a half year old that God has ever created. He said “Appy Birfday momma” and gave me a big hug. Next, the most beautiful little 8 month old came crawling, commando style, laughing hysterically, just to see her momma. I am blessed and loved. I was given flowers, hugs and a home cooked meal from my husband. I am blessed and loved (and after 12 years as a couple, the fact he still likes me is saying something). It was a great day.
So, I may not be cool. I may be a little squishy around the edges, and I may be a little sappier than normal but that’s okay by me. I’m thirty and never been better.
When I was younger someone told me that your body starts to fall apart around 30. During the past year, this memory made me laugh. Here I was, in spitting distance to my 30th, and I was feeling great. Even after two babies and all the joyous body changes that come with that, I was feeling good. Apparently my body was giving me a stay of execution. Well, then I learned that I was allergic to toilet paper. TOILET PAPER! Not kidding. Not fun. Not kidding. So now, in addition to carrying diapers, wipes, extra clothing, baby food, snacks . . . for the kids, I also have to carry my own hypoallergenic, ridiculously lame toilet paper. Awesome. Thanks body.
Then there’s the volleyball beer league that I joined. (We play then go out for a beer afterward, though I don’t drink so maybe I should call it something else. Now taking suggestions.) I played Division I volleyball in college (not bragging by any means, just stating the facts). And during this time I was forced to jump on boxes, over hurdles, up the stadium stairs, up the arena stairs two at a time . . . but my downfall was an innocent hit at beer league that wrecked my knee. Something I could do in my sleep. I blame 30.
Other than the occasional body glitches, I’m pretty okay with 30. My husband let me sleep in so I awoke rested something that has rarely happened in the last decade and a half (again, not kidding). When I got out of bed I was greeted by the most adorable two and a half year old that God has ever created. He said “Appy Birfday momma” and gave me a big hug. Next, the most beautiful little 8 month old came crawling, commando style, laughing hysterically, just to see her momma. I am blessed and loved. I was given flowers, hugs and a home cooked meal from my husband. I am blessed and loved (and after 12 years as a couple, the fact he still likes me is saying something). It was a great day.
So, I may not be cool. I may be a little squishy around the edges, and I may be a little sappier than normal but that’s okay by me. I’m thirty and never been better.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Because we are Winners
I dragged my husband to a kid's Halloween party recently. The Kraken went dressed as a SWAT officer, which by the way I hope he doesn't choose as a profession (guns and violence and crazy people and busting in doors and . . . I might never sleep again). Rosie donned her cheerleading outfit, again not what I would choose for her (watching men hold my daughter in the air whilst copping a feel and looking up her skirt doesn't exactly make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside). My husband went as a disgruntled husband, and I dressed as an exhausted momma. Our costumes were spot on.
It really was a fun party, and that's saying quite a bit for the social anxiety nut job that I am. We sat with other moms during dinner. I don't think my shaking and sweating was too noticeable. We took a group picture. I didn't crap my pants. I met some new people and their kids. I'm pretty sure I didn't say anything so stupid that I couldn't recover. I walked the Kraken around to "trick or treat." And I didn't run away screaming. Like I said, it was a good party.
Toward the end of the night I began to clean up our dinner mess while my husband watched the kiddos. Suddenly, mid trash run, the baby was shoved into my arms and my husband disappeared. Annoyed, I continued pitching and recycling. A couple minutes later, one of the hostesses of the party presents me with a prize for "Best Boy Costume." I was very surprised by the award though I must admit my little SWAT officer was irresistible. I told my husband about it, and he was "shocked and happy".
Fast forward to the car ride home. "Hey hon," my husband begins. "Turns out I knew about the costume contest. I saw the prizes earlier and was watching the whole night for the judges to gather and decide the winners. I saw them congregated in the corner and did what I had to do to win." What exactly did he do? Once he ditched the baby, he picked up my son and plopped him directly in front of the judges. "That's what we do," he says. "We win."
So I think the real question I am left with is. . . Should I ban him from little league now or wait until he has a public breakdown when my son accidently runs the bases in the wrong direction?
It really was a fun party, and that's saying quite a bit for the social anxiety nut job that I am. We sat with other moms during dinner. I don't think my shaking and sweating was too noticeable. We took a group picture. I didn't crap my pants. I met some new people and their kids. I'm pretty sure I didn't say anything so stupid that I couldn't recover. I walked the Kraken around to "trick or treat." And I didn't run away screaming. Like I said, it was a good party.
Toward the end of the night I began to clean up our dinner mess while my husband watched the kiddos. Suddenly, mid trash run, the baby was shoved into my arms and my husband disappeared. Annoyed, I continued pitching and recycling. A couple minutes later, one of the hostesses of the party presents me with a prize for "Best Boy Costume." I was very surprised by the award though I must admit my little SWAT officer was irresistible. I told my husband about it, and he was "shocked and happy".
Fast forward to the car ride home. "Hey hon," my husband begins. "Turns out I knew about the costume contest. I saw the prizes earlier and was watching the whole night for the judges to gather and decide the winners. I saw them congregated in the corner and did what I had to do to win." What exactly did he do? Once he ditched the baby, he picked up my son and plopped him directly in front of the judges. "That's what we do," he says. "We win."
So I think the real question I am left with is. . . Should I ban him from little league now or wait until he has a public breakdown when my son accidently runs the bases in the wrong direction?
Monday, October 11, 2010
My swagger wagon
I drive a minivan. It's one of those fancy minivans with all the bells and whistles, and, although we bought it used, I still feel a little snooty tooty driving it around. I'm not really sure why. Whenever I pull into the parking lot at a park or playdate there are at least 40 other vans exactly the same as mine: same make, model and color. At some point I may need to purchase a bumper sticker so mine kinda sticks out in the crowd. I was thinking about "Honk if you love Jesus," but I am a bit jumpy and have poor bladder control after two babies so . . . not such a good combination. I also appreciate "I slow for tailgaters." Maybe I should combine the two and have "Jesus loves you, now get off my ass." That might work.
My van also has driver and passenger seat warmers. I wasn't even aware of this feature until one afternoon I kept trying to make the AC colder and colder but couldn't stop sweating like a pig. At first I panicked. Could I be pregnant again? Not sure my husband would be all too thrilled with that announcement. That's when I noticed a tiny little light I never noticed before. AHA! Seat warmer. Whew.
I really enjoy my navigation system. Never really thought one was necessary for me. My husband, who gets lost in a paper bag, yes. Me, who generally has good sense of direction, not so much. But it has proven to be a very handy tool. I especially like the "avoid" feature where I can detour around a certain road or highway. Sometimes I like a little variety when traveling to the same park day after day after day. Maybe I want to take the second star to the right and go straight on til morning, or maybe today I would rather take a left on Cherry Tree Lane and circle around the back way. Gotta keep people guessing. I would modify this feature just slightly though. A couple days ago we were headed to a playdate and were running a bit late. I turned a corner and we came to a complete stop. Stuck in traffic. I went to my super cool "avoid" button, but alas, there wasn't an "avoid homecoming parade" option. I think I would add that. Could have saved me a bit of time.
Being sort of anti-TV, I wasn't thrilled that this van came equipped with a DVD player. However, I'm not going to lie. Sometimes it is nice to take a break from "mommy? mommy? mommy? mommy? mommy? mommy?" And on another positive note, if ever there is a contest for quoting Finding Nemo or UP from start to finish, I will win. Hands down. No contest. Don't even enter.
The best perk of "mommy's new car" has to be the automatic doors. When carrying a car seat complete with 16 pound Rosie, a diaper bag filled with anything and everything a baby and toddler could ever possibly need, holding a toddler's hand and balancing my must have coca cola classic on my head, the last thing I would be able to do is open the car door by myself. Heck, those bad boys will even open from across the parking lot, which helps with the "everyone has the same van as me and I don't have a bumper sticker yet" problem. Hooray for remote entry. Again I say Hooray.
On a sad note, my car doesn't automatically turn the lights on when it gets dark. Sounds really stupid, I know, but my last car did and apparently I became accustomed. So much so that I often forget to turn my lights on now. Yep, I am that girl. Who forgets to turn on their lights at night? Me. So if you see me scooting down the road, feel free to flash your lights at me as a reminder. Please, don't honk however. That will only make me believe that you love Jesus (good for you!) or make me wet myself (not so good for me).
My van also has driver and passenger seat warmers. I wasn't even aware of this feature until one afternoon I kept trying to make the AC colder and colder but couldn't stop sweating like a pig. At first I panicked. Could I be pregnant again? Not sure my husband would be all too thrilled with that announcement. That's when I noticed a tiny little light I never noticed before. AHA! Seat warmer. Whew.
I really enjoy my navigation system. Never really thought one was necessary for me. My husband, who gets lost in a paper bag, yes. Me, who generally has good sense of direction, not so much. But it has proven to be a very handy tool. I especially like the "avoid" feature where I can detour around a certain road or highway. Sometimes I like a little variety when traveling to the same park day after day after day. Maybe I want to take the second star to the right and go straight on til morning, or maybe today I would rather take a left on Cherry Tree Lane and circle around the back way. Gotta keep people guessing. I would modify this feature just slightly though. A couple days ago we were headed to a playdate and were running a bit late. I turned a corner and we came to a complete stop. Stuck in traffic. I went to my super cool "avoid" button, but alas, there wasn't an "avoid homecoming parade" option. I think I would add that. Could have saved me a bit of time.
Being sort of anti-TV, I wasn't thrilled that this van came equipped with a DVD player. However, I'm not going to lie. Sometimes it is nice to take a break from "mommy? mommy? mommy? mommy? mommy? mommy?" And on another positive note, if ever there is a contest for quoting Finding Nemo or UP from start to finish, I will win. Hands down. No contest. Don't even enter.
The best perk of "mommy's new car" has to be the automatic doors. When carrying a car seat complete with 16 pound Rosie, a diaper bag filled with anything and everything a baby and toddler could ever possibly need, holding a toddler's hand and balancing my must have coca cola classic on my head, the last thing I would be able to do is open the car door by myself. Heck, those bad boys will even open from across the parking lot, which helps with the "everyone has the same van as me and I don't have a bumper sticker yet" problem. Hooray for remote entry. Again I say Hooray.
On a sad note, my car doesn't automatically turn the lights on when it gets dark. Sounds really stupid, I know, but my last car did and apparently I became accustomed. So much so that I often forget to turn my lights on now. Yep, I am that girl. Who forgets to turn on their lights at night? Me. So if you see me scooting down the road, feel free to flash your lights at me as a reminder. Please, don't honk however. That will only make me believe that you love Jesus (good for you!) or make me wet myself (not so good for me).
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
A night off
Both babies are asleep and it's only 7:45. That never happens. My husband is working late. That usually happens. So I have the night to myself. I think I shall take a super long bubble bath and retire early to rest up for tomorrow.
On second thought . . .
I will catch up on my favorite shows which will NOT include a puppet, cartoon character or breaks in the action so I may practice my counting or colors. While watching said smut, I shall eat crap (don't judge me, I have the points left for the day, so there!), and I shall finish making my necklace and bracelets (yes, I am crafty, well only sometimes). Next, I shall surf the web and see what has happened in the world whilst mine revolved around diapers and snot and meals and cleaning and laundry and playdates. And last but certainly not least, I will clean my kitchen while singing my favorite songs that may or may not contain a bad word, which upon hearing I will look around guiltily for the little ears that may have heard the obscenity.
And then I shall take a bath and go to bed.
Oh, but first I will repair that book that the Kraken ripped. And then I need to clean my room. And then fold the laundry. And I'm sure there was something else . . .
What a wonderful night off! Let's do it again tomorrow since I have SOOOOO much still to do.
On second thought . . .
I will catch up on my favorite shows which will NOT include a puppet, cartoon character or breaks in the action so I may practice my counting or colors. While watching said smut, I shall eat crap (don't judge me, I have the points left for the day, so there!), and I shall finish making my necklace and bracelets (yes, I am crafty, well only sometimes). Next, I shall surf the web and see what has happened in the world whilst mine revolved around diapers and snot and meals and cleaning and laundry and playdates. And last but certainly not least, I will clean my kitchen while singing my favorite songs that may or may not contain a bad word, which upon hearing I will look around guiltily for the little ears that may have heard the obscenity.
And then I shall take a bath and go to bed.
Oh, but first I will repair that book that the Kraken ripped. And then I need to clean my room. And then fold the laundry. And I'm sure there was something else . . .
What a wonderful night off! Let's do it again tomorrow since I have SOOOOO much still to do.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Brain Fart
I towed my kids to my sister's volleyball game. While there, little Rosie filled her pants with chocolate squish and needed a change. I collected my gear and carried her to the bathroom. Instant annoyance. No changing table. Who doesn't have a changing table these days? A large number of places even have changing tables in the men's restrooms these days. But Noooooooo. Not here.
Before I had the chance to complain to the whole world my brain finally caught up to the real world . . .
I was in a middle school.
Before I had the chance to complain to the whole world my brain finally caught up to the real world . . .
I was in a middle school.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
A Momma and . . . Volume 2
I am a momma and . . .
a bargain shopper - I buy all my kids clothing a year in advance at the end of each season. This means the grand total for all those cute new winter clothes that I'm going to bust out soon comes to a whopping sum of $30.00. Pants, shirts, sweaters, coats, socks, dresses, leggings = $30.00. The grand total of all my winter clothing this year probably also adds up to about $30.00. The only difference, and it's such a small difference, is that my kids will look adorable, and I will look like a ragamuffin. What can I say? I love a bargain.
an efficient showerer - The Kraken finally passed out on the floor mid dance marathon for a quick snooze and Rosie has been napping for 87 minutes, which means I have exactly 3 minutes to shower. Shampoo? Check. Conditioner? Check. Full body scrub? Check. Relaxing steam vapors and back massage? Not on your life.
an all you can eat buffet - My body has been responsible for growing or nursing a baby for the last 37 months straight. That's 2 pregnancies, my son breastfeeding for a year and my daughter nursing for 7 months and counting. Um, no wonder I am always tired. They have literally sucked their life out of me.
a maid - Whine, whine, whine. I know this one goes without saying. Moms clean a lot of stuff. Kitchens, bathrooms, living rooms, laundry, vacuum carpets, dust, dirty faces, stinky feet, sheets, towels, mud off the carpet, urine off the couch, ring around the tub, bug guts off the wall, dirty mouths with soap, fingerprints off windows, spit up, babies, refrigerators, craft time explosions, cheerios from car seats, vomit, the occasional bloody lip, little behinds, little bit larger behinds . . .
a voice of reason - "Yes my love, I know that you are mad, mad, mad. It isn't fair that mommy ran out of eggs, but throwing yourself on the floor will neither summon the egg fairy nor magically materialize a breakfast omelet." Or the ever popular, "Yes, my love, I understand that you really enjoy 'naked time', but it's about 7 degrees outside and I'm pretty sure I will be arrested for taking you outside without any clothes on. And I am positive that your new mommy doesn't want to read Brown Bear, Brown Bear What Do You See? 300 times every night, so believe it or not, you would miss me."
a judge, jury, executioner, and parole officer - You are charged with hitting your sister and have been found guilty by a jury of, well, me, for which you will serve a two minute sentence staring into the corner. Once released, you will be closely monitored for repeat offenses. If witnessed you will surrender your playtime and spend the rest of the afternoon in your room. This will continue until the court decides you are rehabilitated or until Rosie graduates high school, whichever comes first.
a safe place - Perhaps the best perk of motherhood. Be it thunder, a skinned knee or the buzzer at a basketball game, my babies are looking for momma. Not daddy (sorry babe). Not grandma or grandpa (nice try with the cookie bribes). Me. If they need a reassuring nod or an all out cuddle and lullaby, I'm the one. It doesn't get any better than that. Granted I don't especially love the traumatic thing/event that drives them to my arms, but I'm certainly going to love them up and make it better. That's my job. And it's the best in the world.
a bargain shopper - I buy all my kids clothing a year in advance at the end of each season. This means the grand total for all those cute new winter clothes that I'm going to bust out soon comes to a whopping sum of $30.00. Pants, shirts, sweaters, coats, socks, dresses, leggings = $30.00. The grand total of all my winter clothing this year probably also adds up to about $30.00. The only difference, and it's such a small difference, is that my kids will look adorable, and I will look like a ragamuffin. What can I say? I love a bargain.
an efficient showerer - The Kraken finally passed out on the floor mid dance marathon for a quick snooze and Rosie has been napping for 87 minutes, which means I have exactly 3 minutes to shower. Shampoo? Check. Conditioner? Check. Full body scrub? Check. Relaxing steam vapors and back massage? Not on your life.
an all you can eat buffet - My body has been responsible for growing or nursing a baby for the last 37 months straight. That's 2 pregnancies, my son breastfeeding for a year and my daughter nursing for 7 months and counting. Um, no wonder I am always tired. They have literally sucked their life out of me.
a maid - Whine, whine, whine. I know this one goes without saying. Moms clean a lot of stuff. Kitchens, bathrooms, living rooms, laundry, vacuum carpets, dust, dirty faces, stinky feet, sheets, towels, mud off the carpet, urine off the couch, ring around the tub, bug guts off the wall, dirty mouths with soap, fingerprints off windows, spit up, babies, refrigerators, craft time explosions, cheerios from car seats, vomit, the occasional bloody lip, little behinds, little bit larger behinds . . .
a voice of reason - "Yes my love, I know that you are mad, mad, mad. It isn't fair that mommy ran out of eggs, but throwing yourself on the floor will neither summon the egg fairy nor magically materialize a breakfast omelet." Or the ever popular, "Yes, my love, I understand that you really enjoy 'naked time', but it's about 7 degrees outside and I'm pretty sure I will be arrested for taking you outside without any clothes on. And I am positive that your new mommy doesn't want to read Brown Bear, Brown Bear What Do You See? 300 times every night, so believe it or not, you would miss me."
a judge, jury, executioner, and parole officer - You are charged with hitting your sister and have been found guilty by a jury of, well, me, for which you will serve a two minute sentence staring into the corner. Once released, you will be closely monitored for repeat offenses. If witnessed you will surrender your playtime and spend the rest of the afternoon in your room. This will continue until the court decides you are rehabilitated or until Rosie graduates high school, whichever comes first.
a safe place - Perhaps the best perk of motherhood. Be it thunder, a skinned knee or the buzzer at a basketball game, my babies are looking for momma. Not daddy (sorry babe). Not grandma or grandpa (nice try with the cookie bribes). Me. If they need a reassuring nod or an all out cuddle and lullaby, I'm the one. It doesn't get any better than that. Granted I don't especially love the traumatic thing/event that drives them to my arms, but I'm certainly going to love them up and make it better. That's my job. And it's the best in the world.
Friday, September 24, 2010
The Kraken speaks
Some of my favorite speeches from my little man . . .
~With butt thrust high in the air "Momma! Watch me toot."
~I walked into the room where previously an entire sofa was covered with clean, folded and sorted clothing, but now the clothing was all over the room. When I asked my guilty toddler what happened he replied, "Big big big guy in room. Big mess. Ran outside. All gone."
~"Candy bar please. Daddy said ok." Um, daddy was at work.
~I sat down to change him into his pjs and he said "No momma. Space. Need my space."
~"Rosie eat vegetables. Just a little. Good share!" He was trying to get rid Rosie to eat the food he didn't want.
~I was really sad the other day and started crying. The Kraken came over, planted a big kiss on my cheek and said "OK momma. No sad. Everything ok." Then I got a big hug.
~Every night he asks to read "a couple books."
~We were driving around a neighborhood when from the back seat I heard "No look at houses momma. So tired of look at houses. No want new house." Perhaps we do that a little too often : )
I find it rather amazing what a little 2 year old mind can come up with!
~With butt thrust high in the air "Momma! Watch me toot."
~I walked into the room where previously an entire sofa was covered with clean, folded and sorted clothing, but now the clothing was all over the room. When I asked my guilty toddler what happened he replied, "Big big big guy in room. Big mess. Ran outside. All gone."
~"Candy bar please. Daddy said ok." Um, daddy was at work.
~I sat down to change him into his pjs and he said "No momma. Space. Need my space."
~"Rosie eat vegetables. Just a little. Good share!" He was trying to get rid Rosie to eat the food he didn't want.
~I was really sad the other day and started crying. The Kraken came over, planted a big kiss on my cheek and said "OK momma. No sad. Everything ok." Then I got a big hug.
~Every night he asks to read "a couple books."
~We were driving around a neighborhood when from the back seat I heard "No look at houses momma. So tired of look at houses. No want new house." Perhaps we do that a little too often : )
I find it rather amazing what a little 2 year old mind can come up with!
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
N. O. Rosie. NO.
My baby girl doesn't cry. She never has. As a newborn she would grunt like a rhino, but never much crying. (I need to add a small footnote here. Rosie HATES the car. She screams her bloody head off. I always forget about it until someone new rides in the car with us. I seriously block it out. So I stand by my previous claim that my baby girl doesn't cry.) I have become far too accustomed to the fact that she doesn't cry.
In the past three days, my little Rosie has started screaming out in agony complete with crocodile tears. In my slightly rational mommy brain I know that she must be dealing with newly erupting teeth. She is, after all, 7 months old now and is drooling like a fat kid at a dessert buffet. This also isn't my first day at the mommy rodeo. I have done it and seen it all before. This is baby number two. I am a seasoned veteran. Yeah, in theory.
Something physical, mental and psychological snaps in me when my little girl cries out. I start sweating and am convinced that something is really wrong. Then I begin to panic because I don't know what to do to make her stop. How do I soothe a crying infant that never cries? How do I hold it together myself? How will we get through this?
Today when Rosie started screaming for what seemed like no reason my son, The Kraken, came running over, put his face right up against her nose and said "Stop crying Rosie. Right. Now. I am mad mad mad." She stopped and smiled at him. He laughed. I wiped her tears and moved on. But I fully expect to panic the next time she cries. My gift of "calm under pressure" appears to have passed on to my son. Yeah, he's 2.
In the past three days, my little Rosie has started screaming out in agony complete with crocodile tears. In my slightly rational mommy brain I know that she must be dealing with newly erupting teeth. She is, after all, 7 months old now and is drooling like a fat kid at a dessert buffet. This also isn't my first day at the mommy rodeo. I have done it and seen it all before. This is baby number two. I am a seasoned veteran. Yeah, in theory.
Something physical, mental and psychological snaps in me when my little girl cries out. I start sweating and am convinced that something is really wrong. Then I begin to panic because I don't know what to do to make her stop. How do I soothe a crying infant that never cries? How do I hold it together myself? How will we get through this?
Today when Rosie started screaming for what seemed like no reason my son, The Kraken, came running over, put his face right up against her nose and said "Stop crying Rosie. Right. Now. I am mad mad mad." She stopped and smiled at him. He laughed. I wiped her tears and moved on. But I fully expect to panic the next time she cries. My gift of "calm under pressure" appears to have passed on to my son. Yeah, he's 2.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Boys love toots
Boys like toots. And boys like poop. And boys like all manner of yuck. At least my boy does. I promise I didn't push him toward grossness. I didn't call him over to investigate Rosie's first poops. I don't get excited when I audibly fart in the grocery store. His love of ick is a genetic mutation passed on from man to man. There is no other rationale. None.
So when my son wakes me in the morning with "Yuck momma. Big big big poopie." I pray that the poo is still in the diaper.
And when he rushes over and wrestles with my arm to see the bucket of yuck that Miss Rose has created in her diaper, I can only roll my eyes and blame his daddy and his daddy and his daddy and his daddy . . .
And when we smell something terrible, he will laugh hysterically and shriek "momma stinks!" even if he has no idea where the stench is coming from.
And so we I audibly toot in the grocery store, I will laugh and say "Did you toot Mr. Kraken?" and he will say "Uh Huh!" Because boys love toots. And boys are expected to toot in public. And I don't feel the least bit bad for making him take credit for my passing gas. Not even a little.
So when my son wakes me in the morning with "Yuck momma. Big big big poopie." I pray that the poo is still in the diaper.
And when he rushes over and wrestles with my arm to see the bucket of yuck that Miss Rose has created in her diaper, I can only roll my eyes and blame his daddy and his daddy and his daddy and his daddy . . .
And when we smell something terrible, he will laugh hysterically and shriek "momma stinks!" even if he has no idea where the stench is coming from.
And so we I audibly toot in the grocery store, I will laugh and say "Did you toot Mr. Kraken?" and he will say "Uh Huh!" Because boys love toots. And boys are expected to toot in public. And I don't feel the least bit bad for making him take credit for my passing gas. Not even a little.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
I saw that going differently in my mind . . .
I bought an egg timer for my son for time-out purposes. He can get out of the corner when it dings. Problem is my egg timer doesn't ding. I guess I can use it for 'kip ticking torture.'
I made shrimp rangoon and wonton soup for dinner. I couldn't find my usual wrappers at the super market and settled for a new kind. Every single wonton I painstakingly wrapped popped open. So we ate meatball soup with really large square noodles. It was good though.
We told the Kraken he could have ice cream if he pooped in the potty. Problem was he didn't have to poop, but he sure tried hard . . . for an hour.
I will both lose weight and save money by not bringing any regular pop into my house. Last night we went out to dinner, and I got a refillable fountain beverage, which I refilled 12 times.
The upstairs neighbors always get up and 5:20am no matter what day it is and always walk with gusto (or cement shoes on). Usually we all wake up and deal with the consequences (my husband gets ready for work, I replug Rosie and gently put the Kraken back in his bed). This morning I jumped out of bed startled into my favorite karate move. Let's just say I looked prepared to crane kick someone in the face.
My husband and I made a bet as to where a particular store was located. We were both positive we were right that at stake was human servitude. I lost. Awesome.
I made shrimp rangoon and wonton soup for dinner. I couldn't find my usual wrappers at the super market and settled for a new kind. Every single wonton I painstakingly wrapped popped open. So we ate meatball soup with really large square noodles. It was good though.
We told the Kraken he could have ice cream if he pooped in the potty. Problem was he didn't have to poop, but he sure tried hard . . . for an hour.
I will both lose weight and save money by not bringing any regular pop into my house. Last night we went out to dinner, and I got a refillable fountain beverage, which I refilled 12 times.
The upstairs neighbors always get up and 5:20am no matter what day it is and always walk with gusto (or cement shoes on). Usually we all wake up and deal with the consequences (my husband gets ready for work, I replug Rosie and gently put the Kraken back in his bed). This morning I jumped out of bed startled into my favorite karate move. Let's just say I looked prepared to crane kick someone in the face.
My husband and I made a bet as to where a particular store was located. We were both positive we were right that at stake was human servitude. I lost. Awesome.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Don't be alarmed, but I'm going to be in here awhile.
I have decided that I need a new kitchen hobby. Why?
1. I don't spend quite enough time in my kitchen. Three meals for me, 5 meals/snacks for the Kraken, 2 baby food feedings for Rosie and 1 family dinner everyday leaves me craving more quality time with my pots and pans.
2. I have way too much time on my hands. The other day I sat down for literally 5 minutes before I found something to do. Okay, so maybe I just forgot what I was in the middle of doing, but whatever it was couldn't have been that important.
3. Baby food peas are army green in color. I always thought peas where by definition, pea green. I'm not very comfortable giving goo to Rosie that I wouldn't eat myself. Call me crazy.
4. There is nothing sexier than a woman covered in vegetable puree. "Is that poo on your shoulder?"
So, I said to myself, "Self, let's make homemade baby food for Rosie and hide vegetables in desserts for the Kraken." I am going to deceive my kraken and hope it's delicious ala Jessica Seinfeld.
Tonight I paced myself and chose three vegetables: a head of cauliflower, a bag of carrots and a large butternut squash. The cauliflower was dissected first and was deceptively easy. Steam, blend, aliquot (aka split into bags for you non science geeks), store and freeze. Check. Carrots came next. Peel, steam, blend, gag, aliquot, gag, store, gag, freeze, wipe random carrot splatter off face and gag. Something about an enormous pile of liquidish carrots makes my tummy uncomfortable. (And for this very reason I must apologize to my sister who had a gagging/vomit moment during childhood while eating cooked carrots. We never let her live that day down and, let's be honest, no one ever believed her. She was totally trying to get out of the 'no dessert until you eat your carrots' threat. Today I sorta understand. Karma just jumped up and bit me in the butt.)
Lastly came the butternut squash. I don't know anything about squash. Was I supposed to thump it like a cantaloupe before purchasing? Was I supposed to smell it, shake it, hold it up to the light? All I know is that in order to split this gourd down the middle I used three different knives and my meat tenderizing hammer. My husband kept asking if I needed help, but I was bound and determined not to let this damn squash beat me. And it didn't. Take that you stupid squash.
An hour and a half later I was left with 4 bags of cauliflower, 4 bags of butternut squash, and 8 bags of carrots all in 1/2 cup portions. Tomorrow I shall attempt coffee cake with squash and applesauce, scrambled eggs with cauliflower and chicken nuggets with carrots. I will let you know what the Kraken thinks.
1. I don't spend quite enough time in my kitchen. Three meals for me, 5 meals/snacks for the Kraken, 2 baby food feedings for Rosie and 1 family dinner everyday leaves me craving more quality time with my pots and pans.
2. I have way too much time on my hands. The other day I sat down for literally 5 minutes before I found something to do. Okay, so maybe I just forgot what I was in the middle of doing, but whatever it was couldn't have been that important.
3. Baby food peas are army green in color. I always thought peas where by definition, pea green. I'm not very comfortable giving goo to Rosie that I wouldn't eat myself. Call me crazy.
4. There is nothing sexier than a woman covered in vegetable puree. "Is that poo on your shoulder?"
So, I said to myself, "Self, let's make homemade baby food for Rosie and hide vegetables in desserts for the Kraken." I am going to deceive my kraken and hope it's delicious ala Jessica Seinfeld.
Tonight I paced myself and chose three vegetables: a head of cauliflower, a bag of carrots and a large butternut squash. The cauliflower was dissected first and was deceptively easy. Steam, blend, aliquot (aka split into bags for you non science geeks), store and freeze. Check. Carrots came next. Peel, steam, blend, gag, aliquot, gag, store, gag, freeze, wipe random carrot splatter off face and gag. Something about an enormous pile of liquidish carrots makes my tummy uncomfortable. (And for this very reason I must apologize to my sister who had a gagging/vomit moment during childhood while eating cooked carrots. We never let her live that day down and, let's be honest, no one ever believed her. She was totally trying to get out of the 'no dessert until you eat your carrots' threat. Today I sorta understand. Karma just jumped up and bit me in the butt.)
Lastly came the butternut squash. I don't know anything about squash. Was I supposed to thump it like a cantaloupe before purchasing? Was I supposed to smell it, shake it, hold it up to the light? All I know is that in order to split this gourd down the middle I used three different knives and my meat tenderizing hammer. My husband kept asking if I needed help, but I was bound and determined not to let this damn squash beat me. And it didn't. Take that you stupid squash.
An hour and a half later I was left with 4 bags of cauliflower, 4 bags of butternut squash, and 8 bags of carrots all in 1/2 cup portions. Tomorrow I shall attempt coffee cake with squash and applesauce, scrambled eggs with cauliflower and chicken nuggets with carrots. I will let you know what the Kraken thinks.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
You haven't lived until you have milked yourself
I am a breastfeeding momma. My first baby was exclusively breastfed with the exception of maybe 5 bottles for an entire year. That, I assure you, speaks less about my mother of the year credentials, which were ruined when the Kraken stuck an apple chunk up his nose this morning, and more about how often I get out.
Baby number two has taken momma's home cooking for six straight months. But . . . there is a wedding coming up and the possibility for mini weekend getaways for my husband and I and so Rosie is learning that plastic nipples come with some advantages (such as having the undivided attention of daddy or grandpa or grandma, not getting dirty looks from people in public who should mind their own business, and having a little peace from that crazy mother of hers who is such a drag).
This is where my personality splits. Part of me, the terrible mother part, is a bit relieved for the break. I am not one of those women who love to breastfeed. I do it because it is best for my children. I am grateful to God that I had two easy breast feeders. I know that some women struggle and struggle and morn the loss of this bonding experience and for them my heart aches, but I just don't necessarily enjoy the act of breastfeeding. Maybe we should blame my Kraken for this. He is a loud and angry drinker, often feeding on all fours like a puppy, stretching my skin to its limit. (No, not kidding, you can ask Yaya who happened in one morning to witness my torture.)
My other self feels very guilty. Like I said, the breast is best. And being a second child myself, I want as much of Rosie's start in life to be the same as my son's: same first picture moments, same video moments, same time we start solids, same trips. And so on and so forth. I will let you know how that goes. Not so well already I am horrified to report.
All I know, as will any breastfeeding mom, is that missing a feeding is not good for comfort. Hugs are painful and any crying infant or thought of a crying infant releases the flood gates and a puddle ensues. I’m pretty sure “the wet look” was meant for hair dos and not specific areas of my tee shirt. And so we are forced to pump. Pump to save the supply. Pump to stop the leaks. Pump to stop the pain. Oh how I love to pump. Let me just say you haven't truly lived until you have milked yourself. I’m sure hearing that distinctive, rhythmic whirring gets my hubby hot and bothered. It certainly makes me feel sexy. If that wasn’t awkward enough, anyone who comes over and raids the fridge gets to stare at my secret milk stash. It makes me think twice before offering visitors ‘anything you can find in the fridge.’ Yummy.
Baby number two has taken momma's home cooking for six straight months. But . . . there is a wedding coming up and the possibility for mini weekend getaways for my husband and I and so Rosie is learning that plastic nipples come with some advantages (such as having the undivided attention of daddy or grandpa or grandma, not getting dirty looks from people in public who should mind their own business, and having a little peace from that crazy mother of hers who is such a drag).
This is where my personality splits. Part of me, the terrible mother part, is a bit relieved for the break. I am not one of those women who love to breastfeed. I do it because it is best for my children. I am grateful to God that I had two easy breast feeders. I know that some women struggle and struggle and morn the loss of this bonding experience and for them my heart aches, but I just don't necessarily enjoy the act of breastfeeding. Maybe we should blame my Kraken for this. He is a loud and angry drinker, often feeding on all fours like a puppy, stretching my skin to its limit. (No, not kidding, you can ask Yaya who happened in one morning to witness my torture.)
My other self feels very guilty. Like I said, the breast is best. And being a second child myself, I want as much of Rosie's start in life to be the same as my son's: same first picture moments, same video moments, same time we start solids, same trips. And so on and so forth. I will let you know how that goes. Not so well already I am horrified to report.
All I know, as will any breastfeeding mom, is that missing a feeding is not good for comfort. Hugs are painful and any crying infant or thought of a crying infant releases the flood gates and a puddle ensues. I’m pretty sure “the wet look” was meant for hair dos and not specific areas of my tee shirt. And so we are forced to pump. Pump to save the supply. Pump to stop the leaks. Pump to stop the pain. Oh how I love to pump. Let me just say you haven't truly lived until you have milked yourself. I’m sure hearing that distinctive, rhythmic whirring gets my hubby hot and bothered. It certainly makes me feel sexy. If that wasn’t awkward enough, anyone who comes over and raids the fridge gets to stare at my secret milk stash. It makes me think twice before offering visitors ‘anything you can find in the fridge.’ Yummy.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Pee at your own risk
I have an irrational fear of public restrooms. Not the germs per say, though I am a squat and hover. (My mommy brain tells me a little background info is necessary to add at this time. I believe there are three types of women grouped by their approaches to the public restroom. There are the squat and hovers, such as myself, the wipe it, wrap it and sits, and the momma didn’t raise me right sit and deal with the consequences. Now that I have that off my chest, let’s continue.) I am terrified that I am going to be murdered in a public restroom.
Now I admit that my brain is a bit, to steal a term, fantastical, but I didn’t come up with this fear all on my own. I blame Sigourney Weaver. I do. She was in the movie Copycat, which looking back on it now has quite a few good actors involved, where a man or maybe two men attempt to kill her in a public restroom two separate times by going over the side of the stall and hanging her.
Stupid, right? Yes. But anytime the urge hits while out and about or on toll roads where public restrooms are impossible to avoid, I pray and pray and pray that it will be extremely busy. I will wait in line for any length of time because it means I am safe. No one is going to hang me with so many witnesses. If the toilets are empty, and I am all alone, my heart races, my palms sweat and I perform the hurry up squat and hover while craning my neck to look up at the ceiling for the noose that is my doom. (Ladies, this is why you should not just sit down on the pot. I am a kind citizen and will be neat and wipe the seat if I sprinkle when I tinkle, but for crying out loud!)
Once I flush another problem arises. I have given up my location. The killer knows where I am. I take a deep breath and open the door quickly as if to take my murderer by surprise. I have imagined a million different crazies standing on the other side of the door. My heart goes out to the poor woman who happens to sneak in to the restroom while I am doing my business without my knowing. I cannot be held responsible for what I will say or do if someone is in fact standing on the other side of the stall door. Oh, man. That could be really horrible. Really funny, or really horrible.
Um, Hi babe. Could you please come and pick me up at the police station? I terrorized a woman in a public restroom. . .
At least I will have a friend in my support group.
Now I admit that my brain is a bit, to steal a term, fantastical, but I didn’t come up with this fear all on my own. I blame Sigourney Weaver. I do. She was in the movie Copycat, which looking back on it now has quite a few good actors involved, where a man or maybe two men attempt to kill her in a public restroom two separate times by going over the side of the stall and hanging her.
Stupid, right? Yes. But anytime the urge hits while out and about or on toll roads where public restrooms are impossible to avoid, I pray and pray and pray that it will be extremely busy. I will wait in line for any length of time because it means I am safe. No one is going to hang me with so many witnesses. If the toilets are empty, and I am all alone, my heart races, my palms sweat and I perform the hurry up squat and hover while craning my neck to look up at the ceiling for the noose that is my doom. (Ladies, this is why you should not just sit down on the pot. I am a kind citizen and will be neat and wipe the seat if I sprinkle when I tinkle, but for crying out loud!)
Once I flush another problem arises. I have given up my location. The killer knows where I am. I take a deep breath and open the door quickly as if to take my murderer by surprise. I have imagined a million different crazies standing on the other side of the door. My heart goes out to the poor woman who happens to sneak in to the restroom while I am doing my business without my knowing. I cannot be held responsible for what I will say or do if someone is in fact standing on the other side of the stall door. Oh, man. That could be really horrible. Really funny, or really horrible.
Um, Hi babe. Could you please come and pick me up at the police station? I terrorized a woman in a public restroom. . .
At least I will have a friend in my support group.
Monday, August 16, 2010
A momma and a . . . Volume 1
I am a momma and . . .
an activities coordinator - I plan fun, safe activities usually with a splash of learning and a coke machine nearby.
a chef - Mac and Cheese? Please. That was so yesterday. Tonight we are having something delicious, nutritious that doubles as beautiful wall decor when splashed with a plastic spoon just so.
a calf wrangler - Have you ever tried to change a two-year old's diaper mid dance marathon?
a limo driver - Here my darling, let me help you into the car. No, please let me buckle that strap. Don't you lift a pretty little finger. We are here, but please don't move. I will be around shortly to lift you gently into your ride while out of the car.
a filing cabinet of useful and not so useful knowledge- Rosie needs to go to the doctor on the 5th. The Kraken has a play date on the 6th at noon. Daddy needs a new pair of shoes, size 9. Bananas are on sale this week. There is a coupon for half off children's socks at Kohl's in my bag. Rent is due in two days. The cars are about due for oil changes. If I take a left on Main I will get to the park two minutes faster than if I go straight. Sleep deprivation is caused by a lack of sleep. That rash looks more like eczema and less like poison ivy. My mother-in-law's birthday is the first of the month, and her card will be late no matter when I send it. The trash man comes on Wednesday. The mail comes at 2pm unless it is a Thursday because the mail lady hates Thursdays so it's a little later than 2pm. My bra strap is going to snap at any point, but that isn't a priority today. If you add an acid to a base you will get a salt and water. Antifreeze is green. Violets are blue.
an exterminator - I hate bugs. Hate. Loathe entirely. But my son was stung by a hornet on the finger and freaks at the sight of bugs, especially big buzzing ones and runs to momma to fix it. Which I do.
a stuff locator - Your shoes are under the table. The matching sock is in the garage. Your wallet is on the stove. Rosie's blanket is in the microwave. Your blue shirt with the funky orange stain is the third shirt from the top in the left hand stack of the top right hand drawer of your dresser. His sippy cup is in the dishwasher. I'm sure I left my brain in here somewhere. The mail is in the basket.
a hazardous waste handler - refer back to 2 year-old diaper change
a puke bucket - Turns out when my son is sick all he wants is for momma to hold him. This usually occurs just as the puke comes and so lands all over me not in the bucket. Yum. Lunch anyone?
a fool - Dance momma! But we are in the middle of the grocery store. Dance momma! Ok. Fine. Bee Bop Mo Shoo Bop A Whop Bam Boom.
an activities coordinator - I plan fun, safe activities usually with a splash of learning and a coke machine nearby.
a chef - Mac and Cheese? Please. That was so yesterday. Tonight we are having something delicious, nutritious that doubles as beautiful wall decor when splashed with a plastic spoon just so.
a calf wrangler - Have you ever tried to change a two-year old's diaper mid dance marathon?
a limo driver - Here my darling, let me help you into the car. No, please let me buckle that strap. Don't you lift a pretty little finger. We are here, but please don't move. I will be around shortly to lift you gently into your ride while out of the car.
a filing cabinet of useful and not so useful knowledge- Rosie needs to go to the doctor on the 5th. The Kraken has a play date on the 6th at noon. Daddy needs a new pair of shoes, size 9. Bananas are on sale this week. There is a coupon for half off children's socks at Kohl's in my bag. Rent is due in two days. The cars are about due for oil changes. If I take a left on Main I will get to the park two minutes faster than if I go straight. Sleep deprivation is caused by a lack of sleep. That rash looks more like eczema and less like poison ivy. My mother-in-law's birthday is the first of the month, and her card will be late no matter when I send it. The trash man comes on Wednesday. The mail comes at 2pm unless it is a Thursday because the mail lady hates Thursdays so it's a little later than 2pm. My bra strap is going to snap at any point, but that isn't a priority today. If you add an acid to a base you will get a salt and water. Antifreeze is green. Violets are blue.
an exterminator - I hate bugs. Hate. Loathe entirely. But my son was stung by a hornet on the finger and freaks at the sight of bugs, especially big buzzing ones and runs to momma to fix it. Which I do.
a stuff locator - Your shoes are under the table. The matching sock is in the garage. Your wallet is on the stove. Rosie's blanket is in the microwave. Your blue shirt with the funky orange stain is the third shirt from the top in the left hand stack of the top right hand drawer of your dresser. His sippy cup is in the dishwasher. I'm sure I left my brain in here somewhere. The mail is in the basket.
a hazardous waste handler - refer back to 2 year-old diaper change
a puke bucket - Turns out when my son is sick all he wants is for momma to hold him. This usually occurs just as the puke comes and so lands all over me not in the bucket. Yum. Lunch anyone?
a fool - Dance momma! But we are in the middle of the grocery store. Dance momma! Ok. Fine. Bee Bop Mo Shoo Bop A Whop Bam Boom.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
There will be no sleeping tonight
My son is addicted to his paci. He calls it his memaw. At least 4000 times a day he asks for the memaw. It's his symphony, his theme song of life. Unfortunately, sucking on a binky during English 101 is a tell tale sign that he will either be living at home forever or married to one crazy loony toon. So, it is up to the momma to end this addiction before the school bully pounces.
Knowing this task is not going to be pleasant, I sought out help from other moms with experience. Some negotiated release with a toy, some sent the plugs to children less fortunate, some took it away and wore earplugs . . . the suggestions were endless but only one really appealed to me (and my gutless "I don't want him to hate me forever" ways). A friend of mine cut a slit in the paddy mo causing it not to work correctly. Her daughter eventually just got bored with it and let to gather dust in the corner. Aha! I won't be the bad guy.
So that was the plan, but when I was going to carry out the deception was still up in the air . . . but then he dropped the darn thing during a long car ride and proceeding to scream his bloody head off. I was done. Over it. Today was the day.
I tucked my son in for naptime, handed him one sabotaged paci, placed the second one on his headboard and kissed him goodnight. All was quiet for about 30 seconds. Then the Kraken called out "Momma HELP." I walked in expecting tears, screaming and terror. What I got was an outstretched hand holding both ruined plugs as if handing me change from a purchase. Then he calmly said "Memaws broke. Go bye bye. New memaws please."
My heart was broken. What a cold hearted momma. All he wanted was a little comfort, and I broke his memaws.
Knowing this task is not going to be pleasant, I sought out help from other moms with experience. Some negotiated release with a toy, some sent the plugs to children less fortunate, some took it away and wore earplugs . . . the suggestions were endless but only one really appealed to me (and my gutless "I don't want him to hate me forever" ways). A friend of mine cut a slit in the paddy mo causing it not to work correctly. Her daughter eventually just got bored with it and let to gather dust in the corner. Aha! I won't be the bad guy.
So that was the plan, but when I was going to carry out the deception was still up in the air . . . but then he dropped the darn thing during a long car ride and proceeding to scream his bloody head off. I was done. Over it. Today was the day.
I tucked my son in for naptime, handed him one sabotaged paci, placed the second one on his headboard and kissed him goodnight. All was quiet for about 30 seconds. Then the Kraken called out "Momma HELP." I walked in expecting tears, screaming and terror. What I got was an outstretched hand holding both ruined plugs as if handing me change from a purchase. Then he calmly said "Memaws broke. Go bye bye. New memaws please."
My heart was broken. What a cold hearted momma. All he wanted was a little comfort, and I broke his memaws.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Jumping Jacks
Little Rosie is the happiest baby I have ever seen. Super laid back and happy happy happy. She doesn’t need much, just a look and a smile to get her laughing and smiling right back. Even when her big brother smacks her on the head, she will look at him, decide if it really hurt or not, then smile wide and squeal in delight that he is paying attention to her. Silly little princess.
Her favorite activity is jumping jacks. In the pool, on your hip, in the stroller, in her bed: leg popping, arm swinging, jumping jacks. (It seems I make really active children. I mean really active. So active that my dream house has a rubber track running around the fenced in backyard good for timing races on foot, bikes, skates, scooters, unicycles, stilts . . . while momma sits in a very comfy chair with a stopwatch.)
She isn’t the best sleeper just yet and will wake multiple times each night and fuss. As soon as she sees another living thing the smiling and jumping jacks commence. She could be half asleep and go into full on exercise mode. As if to say “Oh, hello momma. What are you doing awake at 2am?” It is hard not to smile right back at her.
I guess my only concern is for her future husband because that could get really annoying and possibly dangerous.
Her favorite activity is jumping jacks. In the pool, on your hip, in the stroller, in her bed: leg popping, arm swinging, jumping jacks. (It seems I make really active children. I mean really active. So active that my dream house has a rubber track running around the fenced in backyard good for timing races on foot, bikes, skates, scooters, unicycles, stilts . . . while momma sits in a very comfy chair with a stopwatch.)
She isn’t the best sleeper just yet and will wake multiple times each night and fuss. As soon as she sees another living thing the smiling and jumping jacks commence. She could be half asleep and go into full on exercise mode. As if to say “Oh, hello momma. What are you doing awake at 2am?” It is hard not to smile right back at her.
I guess my only concern is for her future husband because that could get really annoying and possibly dangerous.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
I don't wanna go and you can't make me. So there. Take that.
I am awake and it’s not a good day. I am extra tired. I am extra grumpy. And I am pretty sure at some point I am going to vomit. So, I’m not going and you can’t make me. And I’m not a bad mother because it is going to rain any second, I can feel it in my bones. And I’m pretty sure the kids will both need naps, and we won’t be able to make it anyway. Ok. I guess I’ll get out of bed now.
Alright. Fine. We’ll go. Let’s load up kids, but if I vomit in the car don’t say I didn’t warn you. And I didn't pack any extra undies so if I am hit by a bout of intestinal distress the day is done. Over. And don’t ever say I didn’t love you Mr. Kraken. Just know this is all for you and your social butterfly ways.
We are on time to the play date at the park, but I take an extra lap around a random neighborhood just so a crowd has gathered and we can sneak in. All the other mothers look nice enough, and yet sweat is dripping down my back. Please don’t puke on anyone. Please don’t puke on anyone. Hopefully no one notices that I am shaking. Please let it rain. Please let this be over. HELP!
The Kraken had a great time! Hooray. Rosie was patient as always. Hooray. I’m still alive. That’s nice. Now get me the heck out of here.
Kip the Dip : Busting through social anxiety one play date at a time since 2008.
Alright. Fine. We’ll go. Let’s load up kids, but if I vomit in the car don’t say I didn’t warn you. And I didn't pack any extra undies so if I am hit by a bout of intestinal distress the day is done. Over. And don’t ever say I didn’t love you Mr. Kraken. Just know this is all for you and your social butterfly ways.
We are on time to the play date at the park, but I take an extra lap around a random neighborhood just so a crowd has gathered and we can sneak in. All the other mothers look nice enough, and yet sweat is dripping down my back. Please don’t puke on anyone. Please don’t puke on anyone. Hopefully no one notices that I am shaking. Please let it rain. Please let this be over. HELP!
The Kraken had a great time! Hooray. Rosie was patient as always. Hooray. I’m still alive. That’s nice. Now get me the heck out of here.
Kip the Dip : Busting through social anxiety one play date at a time since 2008.
Zen Riddle
I eavesdropped as my husband got The Kraken ready for bed. This is what I heard.
Do you want to take a bath?
Yes. No. Yes.
Um, Let’s go take a bath then.
No. No Baby Bath! No.
OK. Let’s put on jambos.
Please daddy. Baby Bath Please.
You want to take a bath? Let’s go.
No. Yes. No.
Do you even know what you want?
No. Yes. No. Yes.
Are you crazy?
Yes.
Well, at least we are on the same page there buddy.
Do you want to take a bath?
Yes. No. Yes.
Um, Let’s go take a bath then.
No. No Baby Bath! No.
OK. Let’s put on jambos.
Please daddy. Baby Bath Please.
You want to take a bath? Let’s go.
No. Yes. No.
Do you even know what you want?
No. Yes. No. Yes.
Are you crazy?
Yes.
Well, at least we are on the same page there buddy.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Who was that moron?
Each day I wake up and decide how I am going to balance a 5 month old who needs consistent naps and trips to the buffet every three hours with a 2 year old who literally gets cabin fever and can't can't can't stop moving. Usually I time naps for Rosie with park adventures for the Kraken. My sweet baby girl sleeps peacefully whilst my son terrorizes some poor unsuspecting public play yard. Unfortunately, little miss diva emerges when her ideal outdoor temperature rises too high. Apparently we have reached maximum sweat allowance.
Today we went to the mall, which doesn't, by the way, have a play ground (who knew such a mall existed) so my son could walk around, socialize, flirt, possibly run and my diva could sleep in air conditioned comfort. Here's how that went . . .
(In order of appearance) -- Young toddler : evil laughter, delight, sprinting toward escalator, smiling, ecstatic. Diva : snoring, bliss, riding in very large double stroller, smiling, clueless. Momma : yelling, panic, pushing very large double stroller, sweating, worried.
I got to the escalator just one step fast enough to prevent disaster, but not before attracting the attention of everyone within a 20 foot radius. Some of whom I am certain decided to converse about my parenting skills.
We went home.
Today we went to the mall, which doesn't, by the way, have a play ground (who knew such a mall existed) so my son could walk around, socialize, flirt, possibly run and my diva could sleep in air conditioned comfort. Here's how that went . . .
(In order of appearance) -- Young toddler : evil laughter, delight, sprinting toward escalator, smiling, ecstatic. Diva : snoring, bliss, riding in very large double stroller, smiling, clueless. Momma : yelling, panic, pushing very large double stroller, sweating, worried.
I got to the escalator just one step fast enough to prevent disaster, but not before attracting the attention of everyone within a 20 foot radius. Some of whom I am certain decided to converse about my parenting skills.
We went home.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Time to Clean
Something about the vacuum brings both delight and fear to my son. Throughout the day, my son will point out specks of dirt and suggest we vacuum by performing an adorable weed whacker imitation complete with motions, followed by a yuck and a nod. Like, hello ma, don’t you think it’s about time we vacuumed this joint. Ok, fine. I have nothing better to do.
He will then rush to the closet in fits of laughter and drag the thing to me. As soon as I plug that sucker in however, life changes drastically. The Kraken becomes a hysterical whining mess as he scampers throughout the room to rescue all things near and dear to his heart from the floor. First the paci and blanket, next his books, then his toys and last but not least (I like to hope anyway) he attempts to rescue his sister, Rosie. Up onto the chair he leaps and mumbles to himself while the cleaning continues.
Clean floor. Vacuum off. The Kraken is back to his normal state of silly and takes the vacuum back to the closet scattering belongings as he goes. Rinse. Repeat. Multiple times a day. Mine are the cleanest floors in all the land. Thanks Mr. Kraken for seeing the dust that superman misses. You are the best.
He will then rush to the closet in fits of laughter and drag the thing to me. As soon as I plug that sucker in however, life changes drastically. The Kraken becomes a hysterical whining mess as he scampers throughout the room to rescue all things near and dear to his heart from the floor. First the paci and blanket, next his books, then his toys and last but not least (I like to hope anyway) he attempts to rescue his sister, Rosie. Up onto the chair he leaps and mumbles to himself while the cleaning continues.
Clean floor. Vacuum off. The Kraken is back to his normal state of silly and takes the vacuum back to the closet scattering belongings as he goes. Rinse. Repeat. Multiple times a day. Mine are the cleanest floors in all the land. Thanks Mr. Kraken for seeing the dust that superman misses. You are the best.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Wanna take a dip?
A relaxing day at the pool a short few years ago is NOT the same day now after two children. Here are a few reasons why. . .
I traded my small yet tasteful bikini for a durable, comfortable albeit slightly unflattering one piece whose biggest draw is its ability to keep my large milk producing breasts from flopping out and scaring innocent children whilst I sprint after a fleeing toddler. (I tested a number of bathing suits by attempting to mimic the motion of sprinting in the dressing room before I forked over any cash.)
I didn’t often purchase sunscreen because I was never able to use the whole thing up before it expired. This summer we are on our 5th bottle of SPF 60 spray (for little bodies) and 2nd bottle of SPF 60 lotion (for little faces).
My packing list went from coke, towel and a good book to multiple cokes, towels, bucket of sunscreen, swimmies, diapers, wipes, changes of clothes, stroller, pop up tent (in case there is no shade for B Rose), snacks, milk, water, cooler for said snacks and drinks, water wings, ball, teething toys, pacifier, sunglasses and sun hats. Whew, I’m tired and I haven’t even gotten to the pool yet.
A very even tan obtained by flipping over every 30 minutes has been replaced by bronze face, shoulders, neck, tops of arms and fronts of legs. The backs of my legs and undersides of my arms look to be stuck back with old man winter and are certainly craving a little face time with mister sunshine, but I just don’t have time for even baking, The Kraken wants to swim.
I could wear my trusty bikini year after year because sunbathing isn’t a contact sport. Its unflattering one piece successor will have to be replaced, possibly midsummer, because swimming with a toddler is a rough and tumble activity. Turns out sitting on the side or bottom of the pool, is not healthy for bathing suit material. I have so many snags on the bum region that sooner or later my behind is just going to come bouncing out. A horrible thought, I know.
I could go whole summers without that helpless sinking feeling coming just after an ambush splash that I had just lost a contact. Ever wonder what it’s like to be blind as a bat? I rediscover this joy every morning I wake and stumble to the bathroom for contacts. Each and every day at the pool with my kids has me panicking as I search for a contact in my eye. Thankfully I haven’t yet actually lost one. Maybe I should add extra contacts to my packing list. Oh, and that ambush splasher is now my son.
My pool and sunbathing life, I admit has totally changed, but watching the joy on that little guy’s face as he jumps with such bravery and trust into the water is way beyond worth all the sagging, dragging, snagging and mooning that comes along with it. I am after all a sap at heart.
I traded my small yet tasteful bikini for a durable, comfortable albeit slightly unflattering one piece whose biggest draw is its ability to keep my large milk producing breasts from flopping out and scaring innocent children whilst I sprint after a fleeing toddler. (I tested a number of bathing suits by attempting to mimic the motion of sprinting in the dressing room before I forked over any cash.)
I didn’t often purchase sunscreen because I was never able to use the whole thing up before it expired. This summer we are on our 5th bottle of SPF 60 spray (for little bodies) and 2nd bottle of SPF 60 lotion (for little faces).
My packing list went from coke, towel and a good book to multiple cokes, towels, bucket of sunscreen, swimmies, diapers, wipes, changes of clothes, stroller, pop up tent (in case there is no shade for B Rose), snacks, milk, water, cooler for said snacks and drinks, water wings, ball, teething toys, pacifier, sunglasses and sun hats. Whew, I’m tired and I haven’t even gotten to the pool yet.
A very even tan obtained by flipping over every 30 minutes has been replaced by bronze face, shoulders, neck, tops of arms and fronts of legs. The backs of my legs and undersides of my arms look to be stuck back with old man winter and are certainly craving a little face time with mister sunshine, but I just don’t have time for even baking, The Kraken wants to swim.
I could wear my trusty bikini year after year because sunbathing isn’t a contact sport. Its unflattering one piece successor will have to be replaced, possibly midsummer, because swimming with a toddler is a rough and tumble activity. Turns out sitting on the side or bottom of the pool, is not healthy for bathing suit material. I have so many snags on the bum region that sooner or later my behind is just going to come bouncing out. A horrible thought, I know.
I could go whole summers without that helpless sinking feeling coming just after an ambush splash that I had just lost a contact. Ever wonder what it’s like to be blind as a bat? I rediscover this joy every morning I wake and stumble to the bathroom for contacts. Each and every day at the pool with my kids has me panicking as I search for a contact in my eye. Thankfully I haven’t yet actually lost one. Maybe I should add extra contacts to my packing list. Oh, and that ambush splasher is now my son.
My pool and sunbathing life, I admit has totally changed, but watching the joy on that little guy’s face as he jumps with such bravery and trust into the water is way beyond worth all the sagging, dragging, snagging and mooning that comes along with it. I am after all a sap at heart.
Friday, July 16, 2010
The General
My husband. My better half. What can I say about the General? For one thing he likes to be entertained at all times. His idea of relaxation is a quick marathon or a day of running errands or a trip to the zoo with two kids or hosting a party for 100 of his closest friends. Mine is a nap.
When I first started talking about writing more consistently, my husband was totally on board and supportive. He is one of the biggest reasons I decided to take the blogging plunge. I guess he just didn’t realize that I wouldn’t be the best conversationalist or activities director while writing.
During a recent car trip, after about 20 minutes and 300 interruptions, I said something to the effect of, “It is impossible for what is left of my brain to write witty stories and talk at the same time.” To which he responded . . .
“Turns out I love you so much I can’t ignore you.” Don't I just feel like a jerk.
Hickey
I hate hickeys. Hate. Loathe entirely. Never given one. Never received one . . . until yesterday. We were at the water park. No I’m not kidding.
Baby B Rose was hungry, so I left my son in the capable hands of my husband to ride slide after slide after slide and retreated to our claimed shaded area. On the way Rosie decided to latch onto my shoulder and suck. I didn’t really thing anything of it. I got everything situated enough that I could feed my daughter and not flash anyone, when I noticed a mark on my right clavicle. My first hickey. Hooray.
And for the record, it is really hard, nay impossible to cover a hickey while wearing a bathing suit.
Baby B Rose was hungry, so I left my son in the capable hands of my husband to ride slide after slide after slide and retreated to our claimed shaded area. On the way Rosie decided to latch onto my shoulder and suck. I didn’t really thing anything of it. I got everything situated enough that I could feed my daughter and not flash anyone, when I noticed a mark on my right clavicle. My first hickey. Hooray.
And for the record, it is really hard, nay impossible to cover a hickey while wearing a bathing suit.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Back Up Back Up Back Up
We call our son, The Kraken. He’s 2. The kind of 2 that doctors write books about telling parents how to deal. The kind of 2 that will send a man to the doctor for a little snip snip if you catch my drift. The kind of 2 that would have made him an only child if little B. Rose wasn’t already here. I’m not here to complain. I love The Kraken, just giving some necessary background info.
Every evening my husband and I flop exhausted onto the sofa and brainstorm ways of sucking energy from our darling son. In all honesty, part of the reason we chose our new apartment was due to the pool. Everyone is tired after a day at the pool, right? We moved in two weeks ago and in those two weeks have been to the chlorine hole at least 12 times. (It has rained twice in 14 days.) My laundry room is more of a bathing suit staging area with suits hanging in various stages of dry. The Kraken loves the pool. He goes to bed asking to “wim” and wakes asking to “wim.”
The first day he was content to sit on the first step and watch the others splash about, but my husband isn’t really a ‘sit and watch’ sort of man. He took my baby into the deep end, dunked his head, threw him into the air and worse, all while my firstborn screamed, said “No tank you daddy,” and occasionally cried. Oh, was I going to wring his neck! That’s my baby.
Then the switch flipped one afternoon while momma and the baby were inside taking a nap. The Kraken started holding his own head underwater, leaping from the edge and telling daddy to ‘back up back up back up’ until daddy was far enough away that my son would go under water first before being pulled up from the depths. Sometimes he would even shout “Dare Devil” as he jumped (no doubt a suggestion from daddy). He would then climb the ladder, turn to the nearest sunbathing beauty, smile, wave and calmly state “Dare Devil” (no doubt something he decided would be beneficial to his future all on his own). My baby, The Kraken, The swimmer, The Flirt.
Every evening my husband and I flop exhausted onto the sofa and brainstorm ways of sucking energy from our darling son. In all honesty, part of the reason we chose our new apartment was due to the pool. Everyone is tired after a day at the pool, right? We moved in two weeks ago and in those two weeks have been to the chlorine hole at least 12 times. (It has rained twice in 14 days.) My laundry room is more of a bathing suit staging area with suits hanging in various stages of dry. The Kraken loves the pool. He goes to bed asking to “wim” and wakes asking to “wim.”
The first day he was content to sit on the first step and watch the others splash about, but my husband isn’t really a ‘sit and watch’ sort of man. He took my baby into the deep end, dunked his head, threw him into the air and worse, all while my firstborn screamed, said “No tank you daddy,” and occasionally cried. Oh, was I going to wring his neck! That’s my baby.
Then the switch flipped one afternoon while momma and the baby were inside taking a nap. The Kraken started holding his own head underwater, leaping from the edge and telling daddy to ‘back up back up back up’ until daddy was far enough away that my son would go under water first before being pulled up from the depths. Sometimes he would even shout “Dare Devil” as he jumped (no doubt a suggestion from daddy). He would then climb the ladder, turn to the nearest sunbathing beauty, smile, wave and calmly state “Dare Devil” (no doubt something he decided would be beneficial to his future all on his own). My baby, The Kraken, The swimmer, The Flirt.
No Jumping on the Bed
I bought my son a blue twin bed at a second hand furniture store. I love it. I don’t however love the idea that my son is big enough to even think about putting him in the bed. But the new baby in the house should at some point be moved from the pack-n-play and into a crib, lest we get to a therapy session in 18 years entitled ‘mom and dad never loved me and here’s why.’ We will get there, I assure you, but I would like to at least screw everything up later rather than sooner. So, when I saw the bed at a price point even I can appreciate (yep, I said it, I’m CHEAP), I snatched it up.
I did at one point see the bed put together. I think I even sat on it. But somewhere between the land of unwanted furniture, the garage where I stored it for 2 months and my new apartment, something happened. And by happened I mean a large chunk of wood was suddenly missing from the ever important screw receiving area. My husband and dad didn’t seem alarmed (my first clue) and continued in the assembly. A short trip to Home Depot (clue number 2) and a bit of drilling later (there's number 3), the bed was up and solid.
I was so excited about the new sheets (dinosaurs in blue, green and orange, ROAR!), I didn’t really think about the supplies still littered on the carpet: screws, drill, dowels, . . . saw, wood glue, metal plates. I looked slowly up at my father who gave me a sheepish grin and said “maybe you should list the bed with the apartment when you choose to move out.” Like I said, solid.
I did at one point see the bed put together. I think I even sat on it. But somewhere between the land of unwanted furniture, the garage where I stored it for 2 months and my new apartment, something happened. And by happened I mean a large chunk of wood was suddenly missing from the ever important screw receiving area. My husband and dad didn’t seem alarmed (my first clue) and continued in the assembly. A short trip to Home Depot (clue number 2) and a bit of drilling later (there's number 3), the bed was up and solid.
I was so excited about the new sheets (dinosaurs in blue, green and orange, ROAR!), I didn’t really think about the supplies still littered on the carpet: screws, drill, dowels, . . . saw, wood glue, metal plates. I looked slowly up at my father who gave me a sheepish grin and said “maybe you should list the bed with the apartment when you choose to move out.” Like I said, solid.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Ouch
Perhaps I am a glutton for punishment. Perhaps I just want to please people. Perhaps my two-year-old gets so bored in stagnant surroundings that I will try anything once if it gets us out of the house. Whatever the reason, I decided to take my son and my 3 month old daughter to an amusement park for the day, with much help from my father, stepmom and sister. (I may be a glutton, but I am not suicidal.)
I couldn’t help but hum random bits of Beach Boy songs as we entered the water park and situated ourselves in front of the toddler wading pool. I immediately sent out a huge hallelujah as we found vacant chairs in the shade. Still, slathering sunscreen on all visible parts and a few hidden parts of my two-year-old seemed like the best course of action. Nothing screams “Horrible Momma” like a crispy fried toddler on the day after. Finally, after many protests and odd squirming he slipped from my greasy clutches to go swim with grandpa. My daughter was next, and even though she wasn’t even going to sniff the sun if I had my way, she too got a super-sonic coating of SPF.
For the next 3 hours I alternated between happy go lucky water frolicker and anal retentive sunscreen applier. My efforts appeared to pay off as my babies had fun without any visible evidence that their skin had seen the light. This thrilled me as I am bound and determined that they keep that baby soft, unblemished deliciousness until they graduate high school and make their own choices. I am nothing if not delusional.
After a much too expensive lunch from a much too long line of starving slightly sun burnt people, we ventured over to the amusement part of the amusement park and began to ride rides. Armed with hats and more applications of sunscreen, my son and daughter squealed with delight on the merry-go-round, trucks, planes, helicopters and something called ‘Sally’s seaplane,’ which my son refused to ride with anyone but grandpa (who incidentally gets a little seasick on anything that goes in circles).
Another three hours of delight and it was time to call it a day. Momma was exhausted. The B Man was getting ornery (a sure sign of fatigue), and my sunscreen bottle was dangerously low on fuel. I trekked out to the car, loaded the kids and all their crap, said goodbye to the rest of my family and slid into the driver’s seat. An odd and unpleasant feeling struck both my back and my brain. . .
Surely during all the sunscreen applications to my children I had remembered to apply some to myself, right? Apparently not. Three days later and I still can’t carry my diaper bag, or lay on my back or comfortably wear a bra (much to the chagrin of my mother and step-father who we are temporarily living with). My back is a fire engine tomato red that only 6 hours in the sun can create. A firm believer in sun protection receives a terrible burn. Who does that? Me. I do that.
I couldn’t help but hum random bits of Beach Boy songs as we entered the water park and situated ourselves in front of the toddler wading pool. I immediately sent out a huge hallelujah as we found vacant chairs in the shade. Still, slathering sunscreen on all visible parts and a few hidden parts of my two-year-old seemed like the best course of action. Nothing screams “Horrible Momma” like a crispy fried toddler on the day after. Finally, after many protests and odd squirming he slipped from my greasy clutches to go swim with grandpa. My daughter was next, and even though she wasn’t even going to sniff the sun if I had my way, she too got a super-sonic coating of SPF.
For the next 3 hours I alternated between happy go lucky water frolicker and anal retentive sunscreen applier. My efforts appeared to pay off as my babies had fun without any visible evidence that their skin had seen the light. This thrilled me as I am bound and determined that they keep that baby soft, unblemished deliciousness until they graduate high school and make their own choices. I am nothing if not delusional.
After a much too expensive lunch from a much too long line of starving slightly sun burnt people, we ventured over to the amusement part of the amusement park and began to ride rides. Armed with hats and more applications of sunscreen, my son and daughter squealed with delight on the merry-go-round, trucks, planes, helicopters and something called ‘Sally’s seaplane,’ which my son refused to ride with anyone but grandpa (who incidentally gets a little seasick on anything that goes in circles).
Another three hours of delight and it was time to call it a day. Momma was exhausted. The B Man was getting ornery (a sure sign of fatigue), and my sunscreen bottle was dangerously low on fuel. I trekked out to the car, loaded the kids and all their crap, said goodbye to the rest of my family and slid into the driver’s seat. An odd and unpleasant feeling struck both my back and my brain. . .
Surely during all the sunscreen applications to my children I had remembered to apply some to myself, right? Apparently not. Three days later and I still can’t carry my diaper bag, or lay on my back or comfortably wear a bra (much to the chagrin of my mother and step-father who we are temporarily living with). My back is a fire engine tomato red that only 6 hours in the sun can create. A firm believer in sun protection receives a terrible burn. Who does that? Me. I do that.
Bad Bad Bad
My son has a very dramatic way of explaining the world through a series of signs (taught to him by his aunt), motions, dance moves and a limited verbal vocabulary. One evening he was very adamant about telling momma a story. Here’s what I got . . .
“YaYa, me,” marching with high knees from garage door to coffee table, spin in circle, “No diapu,” points to botton, jump, squat, jump, squat, bicep curls, raises hand as if being sworn in, “Bad, Bad, Bad,” points down to carpet, preforms sign for potty.
I guess that explains the puddle.
“YaYa, me,” marching with high knees from garage door to coffee table, spin in circle, “No diapu,” points to botton, jump, squat, jump, squat, bicep curls, raises hand as if being sworn in, “Bad, Bad, Bad,” points down to carpet, preforms sign for potty.
I guess that explains the puddle.
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