Post-Holiday Chores

The LIST of things I should be doing instead of writing this blog:

What to do first?

1. Take down the tree.  This will include keeping three pairs of paws off the tree so that I can neatly organize each sentimentally valuable ornament, wrap the lights in an organized fashion on the nifty little reel that Hubby bought me at the after-holiday sale, and break the tree into a thousand little branches so that it will fit in the Christmas Tree Body Bag we keep in our basement.  How this task will probably go down: I’ll chuck everything in bins and curse myself next December.

2. Play with one of the many, MANY toys our children received from the jolly old elf.  My choices include playing legos, painting pottery shaped like cartoon characters, constructing my very own monster truck, coloring in a coloring book so large that Stevie Wonder could see it from space, pushing buttons that make annoying and/or repetitive sounds, or teaching Batman how to repel off his batcave, (which, at press time, is in Time Out because of a progression of events that included the following: whining, mild stomping, a full-blown temper tantrum, time out, and pulling on curtains with such force that my curtain rod was yanked out of the wall resulting in Mommy losing her sh*t in a very unladylike manner.)

3. Tackle one of the 4 loads of laundry that is literally overflowing from the laundry room.  I finished 4 loads last night, so I’m halfway there!  I feel that the universe is punishing me for having my laundry “sent out” while we were in NYC.  It’s not that I was particularly spoiled – it’s just that we lived in a 3^rd floor walk-up and I had two little boys with me at all times.  When we first moved, I loaded up the double stroller (which city dwellers will tell you they loooooove . . .) with a child in front and a gargantuan bag o’ laundry in the back.  I tried to steer the stroller with one hand and hold Large’s hand with the other all the way to the Laundromat, where I was expected to do enough laundry to keep my family of four clothed for a week.  And I was supposed to do this with my well-behaved and always cooperative toddlers in tow?  Okay, I’m spoiled – but really, Hubby agreeing to pay for us to have our laundry sent out may have just saved our marriage. 

4. Dispose of the two gift bags of cookies Hubby’s administrative assistant gave us.  They’re yummy, but devoid of chocolate.  Who sends cookies (to a family with children, no less) that don’t have chocolate chips, or chocolate drizzle, or chocolate candies, etc.?  Hello, Gift Horse, this is me looking in yer yapper.

5. Write a letter of apology to my uncle and his wife, who had to endure a dinner out with my children.  Grandpa’s idea of a casual meal with my family (sans my hubby, who was having new tires installed on the Divorce-Maker) included eating at an establishment where we had to wait a half hour just to be seated.  When we were finally seated at a booth with a 2-top stuck on the end, baby Small was perched way out in the aisle so that when wait staff raced by with trays precariously balanced with hot meals and heavy drinking glasses, my instinct was to cover his head.  It was like he was going through a little baby gauntlet filled with steak knives and pepper mills.  Medium was no more rambunctious than usual, but my uncle had to witness me gently escorting him outside so we could chat about his ability (or lack thereof) to make good decisions, one of them being NOT having a full-blown temper tantrum in an eating establishment that is clearly not designed for 5-year-olds whose bedtime was 10 minutes ago.  So now my uncle is privy to all of our dinnertime rules: "no feet where we eat" and "get out from under the damn table" being among them.

Adventures at the Gym: Day Two

I did it.  I returned to the gym even though I can’t walk down the stairs without cringing and sitting on the potty requires a freefall of about 12 inches. 

The thing is, I still hate Wes.  I have decided that my Beefcake Boyfriend has no concept of the fact that this body has birthed and nourished three babies, and I have struggled with my weight since 7^th grade.  (Also known as the last time I wore a belt.)  I am not interested in becoming a body builder or even becoming a size 8.  My primary goal is to adopt a healthier lifestyle that includes better eating and better fitness.  I do not need my Beefcake Boyfriend to “motivate” me by talking sh*t, threatening to make me do 300 of whatever torture he’s subjecting upon me, or questioning my level of determination and dedication, because I am not above b*tch-slapping a 6’2” personal trainer. 

It would be a good idea
to locate ALL of these and
then choose the equipment
that's closest.

Because of my experience in the torture chamber the other day, I now walk like I have Parkinson’s Disease.  My legs are like jello.  Jello is for eating; not for leg analogies.  You know that feeling you get when you step off of the people mover at the airport terminal back onto the regular floor?  That’s how my legs feel, except with much more pain and crampiness.  My feet move about as if independent of the rest of my body.  I’m like a marionette. 

Today I decided to take it easy, but I didn’t want to break my momentum.  I really want going to the gym to become a habit.  I decided on the elliptical machine – I could get a decent cardio workout, loosen up my leg muscles a bit, and, as an added bonus, I could learn everything I ever wanted to know about Jennifer Lopez on Behind the Music.  I hopped on and began punching all the necessary info into the machine – the duration I planned to work out, the level, and my weight. 

The default on the weight part is 150.  That would be nice and all, but I really needed to be honest, so I pushed the button in order to adjust the weight.  The sensor moved by one pound.  So I pressed the button again, and again the sensor moved by only one pound.  So I pressed the button and held it, hoping it would continue moving lest I spend my entire 45 minute workout pressing the button in order to get it on the correct weight.  Unfortunately, you have to press the button over and over and over and over and over and over and over in order to adjust it because it only moves by one friggin' pound at a time. 

Thaaaaaat’s charming.  A little beep for every. single. pound.  One after another.  Just beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, etc.

I don’t think I need to tell you that every beep was for a pound by which I needed to increase.  If you thought, even for a split second, that each beep represented a DECREASE in my weight from 150, then

A)   you’ve never seen a photo of me

B)   you don’t actually know me

C)   you are now eligible to be my new BFF

I’m not obese (despite what my Wii Mii says – that little meanie.)  But I am, admittedly, a good hunk o’ woman.

Wait!  I'm cheap . . . NOT free.

I wanted to be honest about my weight because I’m secretly afraid that if I lie, the machine will push me too hard and I will wake up on the floor of the gym with a particular Beefcake yelling, “Clear!” and trying to feel me up with the defibrillator paddles.  Everyone knows that if you want to see “the girls” you have to buy me dinner first. 

That being said, I did the elliptical for 45 minutes, caught up on my Jlo, and avoided having CPR performed upon my lifeless body.  Soooooo . . . success.  Victory is mine! 

Our Kid Broke Himself.

Mommy tries.  Really, she does.

Well, Medium broke his arm.  It was just a matter of time really. 

My goal had always been to NOT have to visit the ER until at least Kindergarten.  With Large, we achieved that goal, but just barely.  He had an anaphylactic episode after eating a particularly nutritious granola bar and I had to take him to the ER about 2 weeks after he started Kindergarten.   So much for trying to ply him with protein - instead I activated a tree-nut allergy.

Medium was only about 18 months old when he came down the hallway saying “yucky!” and pointing to his mouth.  He had swallowed some prescription medication; I had accidentally left the few remaining pills on the counter after I called in the refill.  Yet another fine parenting moment.  He was fine, but as a precaution we took him to the ER to have him monitored.  The nurse told me they see many toddlers who have ingested something they shouldn’t have, but that’s little comfort when you know you’re the one whose carelessness resulted in your child’s ER visit.

(Did you know that Mt. Sinai has a Pediatric Emergency Room?  I did!)

A week ago, we met Daddy at the local mall so that we could do some holiday shopping while Large attended a birthday party in the area.  While I was dropping Large at the party, Medium was playing in the Kids’ Play Area.  According to Medium, he “fell.”  According to Daddy, he “jumped and missed.”  Knowing Medium the way I do, my money is on Daddy's version.  At any rate, he fell on his wrist and broke both bones.  He has a cast up beyond his elbow.

My question is this: how does one prevent a 5-year-old from using his cast as a weapon? Essentially he has a battering ram attached to his body at all times.  And, given that Large broke his collarbone a couple months ago, when exactly can I expect Child Protective Services to show up at my door?  

Adventures at the Gym: Day One

The new gym in our town has finally opened its doors. 

Goody.

Can I take this on the
treadmill with me?

My girlfriend Laura and I decided to go over there together this morning, as both of us were feeling first-day-of-school jitters.  My jitters may have also been a result of excessive coffee consumption.  In fact, Laura made a joke about the juice bar having a Starbucks and I GOT ALL EXCITED!!! until I realized she was making a joke.  We don’t joke about the Starbucks, Laura.

We finished the tour and went our separate ways.  I stayed with our tour guide and my new Beefcake Boyfriend, Wes, who replaces my former Beefcake Boyfriend, Sean (owner of the sassy red leather bag that he claims belongs to the woman with whom he shares a desk.)  Here’s the thing though; I was all witty and charming when I was signing paperwork in order to join.  I am hateful and mean when it comes time to actually work out. 

Wes took me to a torture chamber equipped with floor-to-ceiling mirrors which now have my sweaty handprints streaking down them.  Picture me as a high-healed, adolescent, poor-decision-maker in a slasher film, trying to claw my way out of a precarious situation and leaving bloody handprints on a wall in an effort to save my very life.  It’s the same, except with sweat.  Because he had me do so many squats, it now hurts to pee.  I’m probably going to develop a urinary tract infection because I’ve been “holding it” since 9 am, but it’ll all be worth it if I don’t have to do another squat. 

Working out does not bring out the best in me.  I’m sure that Wes is a very nice young man.  And for his sake, I hope he has high self-esteem, because I am NOT very nice.

BoyMommy!  Are you all right?
Are you all right?

In fact, I told him that I hate him. 

I actually used those words.  “I hate you.”  And I said it more than once.  It was not my finest moment.  I even thought about flicking him off, except I was trying to concentrate on not rolling across the floor courtesy of a certain giant medicine ball.   The other patrons who just happened to be working out in the same torture chamber were staring at me, no doubt wondering if and when Wes would begin performing CPR, given that my face was beet red and my body was so shocked by the threat of physical activity that it was actually refusing to sweat.  That ain’t right. 

Furthermore, I could not speak in complete sentences.  “I’m.  Gonna.  Just.  Go.  Getta.  Sippa.  Water.”  I’m pretty sure that’s an early warning sign for Stroke. 

Laura is in great shape.  It could be – and I’m just throwin’ this out as a possibility – but it could be because she can do arm exercises with weights heavier than my infant.  Or maybe because she doesn’t eat Hershey Kisses for breakfast.  OR MAYBE because she doesn’t leave the gym and drive directly to Starbucks, where she orders a Venti Peppermint Mocha. 

If I have to give up my Starbucks, I may just lose the will to live. 

Impressing the New Babysitter

One day last week we found ourselves in need of a babysitter.  MP has babysat (sat on our babies?) before, but only with the older two, so she was understandably a little apprehensive about keeping the baby too.  Her mama and I decided it would be a good idea if they came over to visit one evening so that she could spend a little time with Small.  Honestly, I wasn’t worried because he’s such an easy baby and my theory on babysitters has always been that, in the grand scheme o’ things, as long as the kids are safe and alive when we get home, it’s been a good night.  Pretty low standards.  Just use some common sense, and it’ll all be okay.  Turns out, I shouldn’t have been worrying about MP as much as she should have been worrying about the dynamic duo made up of Large and Medium.

Where's the Warning Label
on these things?

We made arrangements for MP and her mama to come over one evening before bed time, and I figured I’d let MP give Small his bottle and snuggle with him for a while so that they could get to know one another.  Meanwhile, the older boys were sitting at the table finishing up their homework and then working on thoughtful, hand-made holiday gifts for their teachers.  MP and her mama would be doubly impressed with my well-behaved children and their propensity for giving unto others.  This is a nice family from our church, after all, and I want to perpetuate that MYTH that we are a charming, well-mannered brood of little southern gentlemen.

But then I decided to let them work with beads.

While MP and her mama sat on the couch oohing and aahing over my sweet little angel baby, Large and Medium were mere feet away, silently plotting the demise of THE MYTH.  

They have been working on making lanyards for their teachers’ ID badges.  Medium is my little artiste, so we had gone to the craft store and picked out all the necessary supplies.  I had envisioned complementary colors of the spectrum, but Medium chose bags of black & white, greens & blues, rainbow, and iridescent clear.  Not what I would have chosen, but the gifts are from the kids, so I took a deep breath and purchased the beads that would soon become a glaring eyesore of mismatched colors hanging from his teacher’s neck. 

I carefully opened each bag’s contents onto paper plates so that the boys could choose their colors easily and the beads would stay neatly confined on the kitchen table. 

Hello, my name is Medium.

It’s obvious where I’m going with this, right?  I’ve told enough stories about my Medium that you are now picturing the Tazmanian Devil dressed in a Peyton Manning jersey winding up in my kitchen.  And he’s fast.  In fact, last Sunday at church, in the time it took to sing ONE hymn, he had colored with blue crayon on the pew, the back of the pew in front of us, and the floor in our gorgeous, 200-year-old, historical place o’ worship.  (I scrubbed with a baby wipe while giving Medium the stink-eye and silently hoping that the baby Jesus would be so busy listening to everyone else’s prayers that He wouldn’t be able to hear my less-than-Christian thoughts.) 

Lo and behold, he knocked over one of the paper plates of beads.  Beads.  Everywhere. 

Tiny black and white beads jumped across my hardwood floors for what seemed like 10 minutes, and there was Medium, wide-eyed and sad-faced: “sorry.”  

In the interest of having him take responsibility for his actions, I instructed him to get out the mini-broom and the dust pan while MP’s mama looked nervously from MP to me to the kitchen to MP to the kitchen to me, and repeat, trying to decide where her services could best be offered.  Every time Medium and I tried to sweep beads into the dustpan, however, approximately three beads would make it into the dustpan and 20 would begin another jumping journey across the floor. 

Cue MP and her mama: “oh my, look at the time!”  They offered to help, but I think they sensed the quiet before the storm and recognized that they wouldn’t want to have to testify against me at my trial, so it was really just best to make a gracious exit. 

Finally I broke out the vacuum cleaner and reveled in the sound of the beads (**now sold in packs of 500!**) being sucked into the bag.  Medium “helped” by sweeping wayward beads out of every corner and crevice of the kitchen. 

So if you’re wondering about the contents of our vacuum cleaner bag, they are as follows:

• ornament hooks that I was too lazy to bend over to retrieve and so I vacuumed instead.
• That powdery stuff that is supposed to take the odor out of your carpet when the dog pees on it, (even though he JUST WENT OUT!) but really doesn’t work and is sold to Type-A consumers who are suckers for marketing which promises a clean, non-urine-stained area on which your baby can crawl.
• Black and white beads that are no longer destined to be a part of the sassy lanyard Medium is making by hand.  For his teacher.  Out of beads.

The Light Bulb Fairy and the Joy that IS Homework

I’m supposed to be stuffing the Holiday cards, but I’m inching my way towards a diabetic coma and feeling VERY sleepy.  I just made a batch of Nestle Toll House cookies, mostly so I could eat raw cookie dough for breakfast.  Epic Weight Watchers FAIL.  (And by “bake,” I mean break the pre-made dough, place it gently on a cookie sheet, and patiently stare into the oven for 10 minutes.)

Having just ingested half of the cookies and some of the dough, I realize that blogging about it consequently puts it out there in the universe.  It is possible, (although not probable since my own spouse is NOT a regular reader of the literary brilliance I post,) that Hubby will now know that I just ate cookies for breakfast.  It’s one of those Stay-at-Home Mommy secrets that I should really keep to myself.  Cookies for breakfast is highly classified information, along with how light bulbs get changed in our house.  When I was on bed rest last winter, I had to break it to him that there is no Light Bulb Fairy.  Don’t worry though; I didn’t tell him about Santa.

How many members of the
BoyMommy Family does it take to
change a lightulb?
According to Hubby, ZERO!

I don’t think Hubby has changed a lightbulb in the 11 blissful years we’ve been married.  He either thinks

a)     that the lighbulbs that were installed in the house when it was built are SUPER efficient and long-lasting, or

b)    the Light Bulb Fairy is responsible.  The LBF purchases the correct bulb and has it handy so that when a bulb blows out, it can immediately be replaced, and no one will ever know it was ever without light.

Also, in the throw-my-husband-under-the-bus category, there’s this little gem.  Yesterday I overheard Medium tell Hubby to “acknowledge Large!”  How many five-year-olds have acknowledge in their vocabulary AND know how to use it correctly?  My little sponge has heard me say it to his daddy a few times – usually when I am so tired of hearing “Daddy!  Daddy!  Guess what?  Dad.  Dad!  Guess what?!  Daddy!!” that I finally break and say, “acknowledge your children!”  (To be fair, the boys have little to no concept that Daddy might be doing something important and that not everyone in their sweet little lives is going to devote 100% of his or her attention to THEM at all times.)

He came home from work early last night to help me out, which is MUCH appreciated.  However . . .

I get to sit with my Big Brother
AND I get to do homework?  Woohoo!

He “suggested” that maybe the boys should begin their homework earlier so that we’re not all subjected to Medium’s incessant whining during the witching hour, which is actually the three hours between 5-8 pm.  He has a good point.  Waiting until after dinner but before baths to do homework, especially with a child who is clearly overwhelmed by the magnitude of tasks such as writing his name five times and practicing tying his shoes, is probably not the wisest strategy.  I like to let them play for a while when they first get home though.  I figure they’ve got some pent-up energy that needs to be released.  Plus, at the beginning of the school year I was trying to get Medium excited about his work by having the big boys sit at the table together, and I could strap Small into the Bjorn and make dinner while supervising homework.  Yesterday was not a shining example of this strategy, however.  Instead, it was chaos.  In fact, when Hubby walked in from work, I was yelling at kindly encouraging Medium to focus.  When Hubby went to empty his morning coffee mug into the sink, he could not do so because there was a child in it.  (Another diaper blowout necessitated the Biohazard Bath.)  So the new plan is for Medium to do his homework before Large even gets home from school.

Interesting, though, that Hubby’s “suggestion” came on a Monday night.  Monday is easy; it gets worse as the week progresses and you ain’t seen nothin’ until you’ve seen the chaos of Thursday night homework!  It would be easier to get the Hell's Angels to switch to organic natural fibers than it is to get my kids to do homework without complaint by the end of the week.

Full o' Thanks

After we left Great Wolf Lodge of Ugly Feet, Ill-Placed Tattoos, and Skin Conditions, we headed to Granny and Papa’s. 

Let me begin by saying that I LOVE my Mother-in-Law, and I’m not just saying that because she told me that reading my blogs is one of the best parts of her day.  And I’m not just saying that because she’s so cool she actually told me once, (a la Loretta Lynn,) to tell my husband, HER son, when he came home from a night out, “don’t come home adrinkin’ with lovin’ on yer mind.”  Amen, sister.  Seriously, in the Mother-in-Law department, I hit the jackpot.  I know this because I have had many conversations with my girlfriends about their not-so-jackpot mothers-in-law.  I won’t name names in order to protect the innocent, but you know who you are. 

Okay, so we’ve established that I love my Mother-in-Law.  But good lord is it hot at her house.  When I was pregnant with Medium and we were visiting one winter, I literally went out on the deck for a few minutes to cool down.  At night.  In my pajamas.  In DECEMBER.  Because it was so friggin’ hot in the house.  She says things like, “I don’t know why you’re so hot.  The thermostat says 75.”  Um, we keep our house at 70, and I grew up with parents who froze our a$$es out at 68. 

Armpits.

Persweaty.

 

Mommy.  At midnight.  Except
in cuter pajamas.

Hubby and I have been known to be all stealth-like and crack our window open, turn on the fan, and shut the vents.  Otherwise we are two cranky, fish-out-of-water floppin’ all over the bed, non-sleepers.  Add to that the fact that, during our last visit, all I could hear were strains of Yo Gabba Gabba coming from my brother-in-law’s room.  No one should be subjected to that during the day, and I’m sure I looked like The Joker in Cotton PJ’s as I knocked on his door at midnight with bloodshot eyes and gritted teeth so I could ask him to Please. Make. It. Stop.

Then there’s my Father-in-Law.  

He lives by two rules:

1. All food is better in Abundance.  This is the logic behind preparing 20 crab cakes for three adults and 2.5 children.  The kids eat nuggets, and when is the last time you ate six crab cakes at one sitting? 
2. All that Abundant Food is made even better when accompanied by a stick of butter.  It is good Suthun’ cooking, but my Father-in-Law is not a friend to my Weight Watchers plan.  He is a diet saboteur.  I once requested some plain broccoli without butter.  He returned with a bowl of broccoli and “just a little butter.”  Picture broccoli swimming in a pool of buttery goodness.

So the whole family was there and we Thankfully (full o' thanks) stuffed ourselves with the fruits of my Father-in-Law’s labor.  Afterwards, when the kids were all outside and the grown boys were sitting with their hands in their waistbands while watching football, I noticed that my Sister-in-Law, BooBoo, was nowhere to be found.  She's sneaky, that one.  She had left me in the trenches to fend for myself while she snuck away for a nap.  I tiptoed into the guest room with my special napping blanket and my turkey-eating elastic pants.  (Oh yes, there is a very special blanket for napping. And it travels with me.) 

Because my SIL and I are two of the most mature people I know, we texted this to our husbands who were one room away:

"I'm the outer spoon."

Then we giggled like two fifth graders.  Well, fifth graders with cell phones.

BTW - Small says Happy Thanksgiving:

It's Soup! Made of PEOPLE!!!

We survived Thanksgiving, and we’re still married, in case you were wondering after my last post. 

As you know, My Beloved called from work last Monday to “suggest” that we leave later that same evening so we could get a head start on our Thanksgiving Festivities.  Unfortunately, Hubby has very little patience for travel, especially with the offspring.  Never mind that I flew from New York City to Seattle with a 2-year-old and a 16-month-old BY MYSELF.  But that’s neither here nor there.  (Except that I am awesome for doing so.)

On Tuesday and Wednesday we took the kids to the Great Wolf Lodge.  This proved to be a good idea because they were able to burn lots of boy energy before being cooped up in the house at Granny and Papa’s.  Unfortunately, I allowed my husband to check in while I stayed in the Swagger Wagon with two (and a half) boys who were unbuckled and poised at the doors in anticipation of water park enjoyment.  He came out after having purchased an extra package o’ fun for the boys.  There was so much fun involved, we almost didn’t get to complete the fun-having in our allotted two days.  The fun was SO fun, at one point Large asked if we could save some fun for next time, and also “can’t we just get in bed and watch tv?” 

Water parks, in general, do not bring out the best in me.  I only look cute when I’m dry and lounging, save for the fact that I am a 37-year-old woman who wears two ponytails to the pool.  I am not destined for bathing suit greatness, and water parks force me to acknowledge and embrace this fact.  I have a variety of sassy little cover-ups for the pool.  You will never see me struttin’ my stuff in a standard-issue towel because, in general, they don’t fit all the way around my voluptuousness.  Water parks preclude the use of cover-ups, however, because you’re going to get wet, which means I have to stand in line in nothing but my swimsuit.  This does not make me happy. 

"Man, that lady sure LOVES her kids!"

Ever wonder why I LOVE my children so much at a water park?  It’s because if I’m hugging them and holding their little bodies close to me, I can cover up this-area-right-here.  (The areas to which I am referring are my gut, which makes me look like I’m wearing a fanny pack underneath my clothing, and my flat a$$, which is pretty much an extension of my back straight down into my legs.) 

Furthermore, there is NO graceful way to mount a giant inner tube.  Do I spread my legs wider than God intended and then sit?  Do I position the tube and then flop backwards while praying that the tube has not shifted thereby causing me to fall a$$ forward into the water in front of all those nice people waiting their turns?  Do I sit with my a$$ suctioned into the opening and my boobs literally resting on my knees?  Do I step into the tube and then try to maneuver one leg out at a time, causing potential swimsuit slippage and inadvertent flashing of lady parts? 

And then there’s this - I know I’m being a snob, but here goes:  I have a strict flip-flop policy.  People with ugly feet and/or unkempt toes should not be flashing those puppies around in sandals.  There are a lot of ugly feet at a water park.  In fact, water parks are rife with yellow toenails, ill-placed tattoos, and unsightly skin conditions.  Please, for the love o’ pete, take care of that.  The thought of lounging in the hot tub with some of the worst offenders makes me cringe . . . ALMOST as much as the fact that I actually had to explain to one of my children why we don’t drink the water from the hot tub:  “Think of ALL the people whose bodies have been in this water.  It’s like People Soup.”

a steaming bowl o' People Soup

A Note to Negative Nelly

An open letter to my husband, heretofore known as Negative Nelly. 

1. First and foremost, I know you had a bad day at work.  It sucks.  It sucks that all the responsibility for our fiscal security falls on you.  But seriously, you need to leave ya baggage at the do’.   You’re in your safe place now.

2. I am an anxious woman.  We have been together for 16 *blissful* years.  I suggest you embrace my anxiety as part of my charm and strive to NOT be a contributor to said anxiety.  Step one would be recognizing that when I’m carting our offspring to My Mecca Target in my Swagger Wagon for our annual eye appointments and you call to tell me you’re on your way home and how about I get all that laundry finished up and get packed so we can drive to the in-laws’ TONIGHT, you are making my armpits all persweaty again.

3. It is unwise to harp on me about all the things I forgot to pack when I just packed clothes and bathing suits and baby food and bottle and toys and toothbrushes and shoes and friends and jackets and snacks and ETCETERA for all of our children and myself while you packed a little bag with clean underwear, socks, and necessary toiletries for yourself only. 

"Wha?  There's TRAFFIC?  On 95 South?
At 6 pm?  I did NOT see this coming!"

4. News flash: I do not control the traffic on Interstate 95.  However, I am pretty sure that all of the other drivers are not involved in a vast conspiracy to piss you off.

5. The baby does not enjoy being confined in his car seat for hours at a time, and sometimes he gets fussy regardless of the volume of music, the volume of his brothers, or the fact that I turned the overhead light on so you could put mustard on my burger.    

6.  I apologize for not embracing your theory that nuggets would have been a better choice than a cheeseburger because it would have prevented you from expending the effort it took for mustard  application.

7.  I apologize for liking mustard.

8.  If you used it last, don’t get all pissy when I don’t know where it is.  BTW, I totally know where it is, but I’m not telling you because I’m all mature like that.

That is all.

I adore you.  You are my True Companion.  But if you keep it up, I WILL smother you with a pillow as you slumber.

Love,

Your First Wife

(Y.F.W.)

It Sure is a Good Thing I Have a College Degree!

Reinforcements have arrived!

The voices in my head are singing strains of the Hallelujah Chorus.

Hubby got home Friday evening.  Since then, I have slept, showered, and run errands by myself – it has been a little slice o’ heaven.  I thoroughly enjoyed driving the car that does not have car seats while listening to inappropriate music.  A big shout out to my husband, who spent the weekend “bonding” with our offspring so I could regain my sanity.

A glimpse at last week:

Saturday:  Rock Star Birthday Party.  I felt it necessary to shop for and purchase “rock star” attire, including saucy bandannas, kick a$$ t-shirts, and iron ons, and then to transform each of my children into bada$$es.

Sunday: Church (partly because the boys went to Sunday School and Small went to the nursery, so I got to sit in relative peace and quiet for an hour. Don’t ask me what the sermon was about though.)

Monday:  Doctor’s Appointment.  I have decided to seek out a new doctor.  I tried to be open-minded . . . I really did.  I made an appointment with what I thought was a female doctor I found on our insurance website.  When I showed up for my appointment, however, the doctor was male.  Turns out it was one of those androgynous names, like Shannon.  Since I give my doctors politically incorrect nicknames, (the OB who delivered Medium was The Gaysian,) I have no choice but to refer to him as Dr. Turban.  I realize our cultural differences may be minimal, but I just can’t bring myself to discuss any topics that may or may not require discussion of s.e.x.  He is very pleasant and very professional.  I am not professional; I am immature and, apparently, a bit of a prude.

Monday afternoon: Guarding the Money Pit.  I had to wait for and consult with the sprinkler guy, and later in the week, the HVAC guy, which of course, required me to stick close to home between the hours of 12-6.  Because I'm such an expert at all things sprinkler and HVAC.  I could have used this time wisely and completed any of the following:

Full of Spaghetti Makers and Coffee Mugs.

Laundry Purgatory - a necessary pit stop on the
journey from dryer to folded & sorted.
(Don't worry.  The dog was added afterwards.)

The List.  Items left incomplete magically
appear on next week's list.  Perhaps I
need stricter deadlines.

Seriously, it's still Monday: Trip to School #1.   I took the wee ones to watch Large’s class’s “theatre” production.  Cute, but he's not gonna win any Oscars.  Going to his class meant strapping Small into the Bjorn, swatting the hand of the classmate who cannot seem to keep his hands off my baby, and giving Medium the stink-eye every time he made a peep during the performance, most of which I missed because I was, well,  too busy giving Medium the stink-eye.

Tuesday: Trip to School #2.  This time to work on the PTA bulletin boards.  I get a buzz out of using the Ellison die-cut machine.  I love cutting out the paper and punching out the letters; it makes my heart all aflutter.  I love the giant roll of paper.  And the staples.  And the googly eyes.  And the glue.  Something is wrong with me.

later Tuesday:  Trip to School #3.  Back to school to pick Large up from his after-school sign language class.  Chances are, he's learning how to say "you're not the bossa me!" in sign language.

Wednesday: Weekly playdate.  This week was my turn to host a playdate for Medium, which was actually nice because his friend digs my macaroni-and-cheese makin’ skillz.

Bork, bork, bork da noodleys.

later Wednesday: Cooking - a term I use loosely.  We made dinner for a mommy in our neighborhood who is sick.  The moms in the ‘hood have organized a schedule so that this family doesn’t have to worry about meals.  I don’t cook though, so they got quite the epicurean masterpiece:  Spaghetti, a jar of Ragu, and brownies.  Nevertheless, they were gracious and complimentary.  Why does bad stuff have to happen to people like that? 

Thursday: Weight Watchers.  Time to weigh in so I'll know how many lbs. I put on at Thanksgiving.  I'm looking forward to breaking out my buffet pants at the Thanksgiving table.  In fact, I may just cut out the middle man and saddle up in my pajamas.  This year I am thankful for elastic.

later Thursday: School, again. This time for Medium’s Thanksgiving festivities.  He was a turkey.  Surprise.

Thursday afternoon: Playdate for Large.  Large and his friend played together beautifully, but guess what, Jack Tripper?  TWO’s company.  Three’s a recipe for jealousy and he’s-had-more-playdates-than-me score-keeping. 


And finally, on Friday, my beloved came home.  We are right on schedule to be annoying each other as usual within a few days . . . and all will be right with the world.

Worst. Mommy. Ever.

I am in the midst of one of those Worst Mommy Ever months.  Hubby has been busy with late meetings and travel, so it’s just been me and the boys.  I feel like a Military Wife, and lord knows I was NOT cut out for that.  The Military Wife is a special breed.  I am a Husband Comes Home Every Night kind of wife.  Even though he works late a lot and I end up doing the dinner/homework/bath/bedtime fight (known as the Witching Hour) by myself most nights, it’s nice to know he’s coming home.

For the past three weeks, I have been doing the Single Parent thing.  There are some advantages – I can eat cereal for dinner, there’s 1/5 less laundry to do, and I don’t have to watch any sports.  But that’s about it.  It’s tough to go through the day knowing that reinforcements are not coming.  I feel like I’ve been left behind in the battlefield, bleeding and clinging to life.  Except instead of blood there’s just a lot of bodily secretions, and instead of shrapnel I keep finding soggy cheerios stuck to my shirt.

The worst of it was last Friday.  The boys are generally pretty tired by the time Friday arrives, which means that behavior gets worse and the mood around the house can best be described as tempestuous.  I, however, look forward to Happy Hour with my neighbor, a working mom who calls me on her way home so I can get the mommy juice chilled so we can go to our happy place.  The kids burn some energy outside while we sip a glass of wine on the front step.  The weather was nice and many neighborhood kids were out, so we made our way down the street to socialize. 

Except Medium had other ideas.  All the kids were playing together nicely, and then WE stumbled onto the scene and made our presence known.  Medium is zero to 60, and sometimes if things don’t go his way, he goes straight into tantrum mode with little to no warning.  He lost it.  There was kicking.  There was screaming.  There was talking back.  And somehow I have bruises on my legs from a certain Razor Scooter.  This all happened in front of the neighbors; I was mor-ti-fied. 

When I see other mommies trying to deal with a challenging child, I always think to myself that I know how she feels because girlfriend, I have been there!  But when it happens to me, I feel like I am the worst mommy ever.  I can’t “control” my child and every Judgy McJudgerson is looking down her nose at me.  I realize this probably isn’t the case, but that’s how it FEELS. 

I feel like I mention Medium a lot in my blog because when it comes to discipline and behavior, he is my most challenging child.  I worry that I have created this situation because he is the middle child.  I try so hard not to compare him to Large because they are two very different children and they have very different strengths.  I CAN'T treat them the same way.  I can tell Large something once, and for the most part, he listens.  Medium needs to look me in the eye and repeat back what I’ve asked him to do or else I know it hasn’t registered. 

"Here kids, watch the Electronic Babysitter
while Mommy "cleans the oven."

The funny thing is, after I wrote the blog where I mentioned Alpha Mom, one of my sisters-in-law said that she considers ME to be an Alpha Mom.  It would appear that I, myself, am a Judgy McJudgerson.  My personal feeling is that when one has a child who has peed in the trashcan NEXT to the toilet, presumably for target practice, one is automatically precluded from being an Alpha Mom, but I suppose it’s all about perception.  I think that I am guilty of perpetuating the idea that I have it all together.  (or perhaps NOT.) 

The truth is, EVERY day is a struggle.  I feel like a failure more often than not because my children are not perfect.  They misbehave and throw temper tantrums (on the way to the bus stop at 7 in the morning) and don’t always use their manners.  It is MY responsibility to teach them how to navigate through life and when they aren’t perfect I feel like it’s a reflection of me and my failure as a parent.  Intellectually I know I am not alone in feeling this way, and yet it’s very isolating on an emotional level. 

Being a mother is such a precarious job because so much of it is dependent on how your charges behave.  Exhibit A: On Friday, we already had plans to go to Bingo at school.  Ideally, I could have stayed home with Jack as a consequence of his tantrum and Hubby could have taken Large to Bingo.  With Hubby out of town, I had to decide whether or not I wanted to stay home and punish Large by not taking him to Bingo, even though he hadn’t done anything wrong, or risk "rewarding" Medium's behavior.  I actually overheard Large coaching Medium, who was refusing to go to his room, “Mommy’s really mad.  Now go tell her you’re sorry and go to your room so we can go to Bingo!”  After everyone had calmed down, we had a little chat about Mommy’s expectations.  It should be noted that Medium had a tantrum last year when he didn’t win Bingo because at 4-years-old, he didn’t understand his odds.  Which is why we don’t take him to Vegas. 

So we went to Bingo after I explained that if ANYone had a tantrum, we were sooooo leaving.  My expectations for an evening of family fun were a tad too high, however.  Even though I had prepaid for our Bingo extravaganza, I had forgotten to pay in advance for dinner. I only had $6, and Visa was NOT everywhere I wanted it to be because the PTA does not take credit cards. I could only afford 2 slices of pizza and 2 drinks, which meant that I didn’t get to eat, and that makes for a cranky, hungry Mommy.  The cafeteria was crowded and loud, so it was hard to hear what numbers were being called, and Small was fussy so I had to hold him.  I had hoped that he would sit quietly in his stroller and entertain himself by watching all the people.  (Totally overestimated how fascinating my fellow parents would be to an 8-month-old.)  I was holding the baby while trying to play Bingo and prevent my children from painting themselves with the Bingo daubers, all the while listening to Medium repeat, “do I have it?  Did they call my number?  Mom?  Mom? Mom!  Do I have it?  Mom!” 

There is not enough wine in the world to calm my nerves and stop my armpits from being all persweaty that night.  I hope Hubby forgives me for telling him “I’m hating you right now” when he called home from outside a bar later that night.  When he gets home on Friday, I might just have to escape for a while.  Don’t be surprised if you see me in the Sheetz parking lot, just sitting in my Swagger Wagon enjoying a schnacky-schnack and a Diet Coke . . . and a little peace and quiet.

Three Random Thoughts That Look Fancy Because I Used Roman Numerals.

I.

 

What IS this?

Don’t get me wrong – I let my kids do the little tattoos that you put on with water, but an entire tattoo writer, complete with super-fun tattoo gun?  When WE were little we played school.  (I was the teacher, OF COURSE, and I once tried to convince my “students” that the correct spelling of a particular southern state is Mrs. Ippy.)  We also played restaurant, but I got grounded when I used kitty litter to make my brother a lemonade.  A very special lemonade.  Now the kids get to fight over which one will be Kat Von D when they play My First Tattoo Parlor.  What’s next, Barbie’s Brothel?  G.I. Jonesin' for a Fix?

II.

During a recent foray into refined culture and fine literature, I noticed this in my People Magazine:

"Snack?"
"No thanks.  I had a Nerd for lunch and I don't want
to have to put on my buffet-eatin' pants."

I loves me some Dylan’s Candy Bar, mostly because it was an excellent bribe incentive for getting the boys to eat a good dinner at Patsy’s across the street.  Dylan's used to have a giant bathtub filled with gumballs that they don’t want children to touch.  Don’t ask me how I know this.  I also washed one of my children in the sink there after a particularly messy diaper blowout, the magnitude of which forced me to sheepishly tell a store employee, “you’re gonna need more paper towels.”  

But seriously, would you ever eat HALF a Tootsie Roll Midget? 

“Would you like 10 large jelly beans?  Or perhaps 16 carefully counted pieces of candy corn?”

“Whew!  No thanks!  I was gonna eat five Tootsie Roll Midgets, but I had to stop after that last half!”

In order to eat a half a Midget, one would have to hold it with two hands and gnaw on it like a chipmunk does.  I am more likely to stuff four-and-a-half Midgets in my mouth at one time than I would be to eat them in half-bite servings.  In fact, I may have done this once or twice in my lifetime.

III.

Medium’s homework was to write a sentence, using correct capitalization and punctuation, about his mom.  How sweet, I thought!  Surely he’ll talk about how much he adores his mama.  Or maybe he’ll mention how much I love him.  Or that I take him to fun places, or that I make a mean racetrack, or that I sing crazy songs, or that I read cool books.  

But no:

Originally it was “My mom is tired every day,” but I made him amend it so his teacher won’t have visions of me hiding under the covers and refusing to get out of bed while mumbling something about how I barely have the will to live, let alone get up and make PopTarts.  Not that that would be far from the truth, but still . . .    

I'm, like, a comedian.

See?  Look how cute I look!
But guess what?  CAN'T hit
a golf ball. . . . 

A new gym is opening near our house, so I went to the pre-registration office yesterday to see what kind of deal I could get on a membership.  My sister-in-law, BooBoo, called as I was driving, (but worry not, Oprah; it was hands-free,) so I had to endure her don’t-do-it taunts and the jabs about me not being able to find a workout cardigan, which was followed by a conversation about how she should take up tennis because she looks really cute in those little tennis skirts, and I should take up golf because I can totally rock a little golf skort and a cardigan.  Because I own 18 cardigans.  Yes, I counted.  Don’t judge me. 

As you know, I don’t like to sweat, so even getting to the sales office was an accomplishment.  (It was 60 degrees yesterday and I was wearing the sexiest of  mommy uniforms - a sweatshirt, jeans, and tennis shoes, so I was SWEATING already.  That constitutes a workout, yes?)  I walked in and was greeted by Sean, your run-of-the mill beefcake sales representative.  I noticed a red leather tote next to his desk, so naturally I asked him, “is that your bag?  I like it!  It’s SASSY!”  Turns out he shares a desk with a female employee.  Or so he says. 

I sat down and rifled through my own bag for something with which to entertain Medium.  What I found:

• Diapers/wipes/butt cream
• three pacifiers
• coupons for Starbucks/Kohls/Wegmans/Lands’ End/Children’s Place/the Jesus Bookstore
• my wallet
• the Hooter Hider
• a quarter
• crayons (seven of which are yellow) 
• sunglasses
• a BOB book
• Mommy’s Medicine Pack (Epi-Pen, inhaler, Benadryl, Burts Bees, Dramamine, Neosporin, Band-Aids, two barrettes, and a ponytail holder)
• two watches
• three plastic blocks
• a teether
• a wool hat
• gas medicine (for the BABY, not me) 
• wet naps
• two smooshed chocolate chip cookies
• a mini-version of the Guinness Book of World Records 
• 16 silly bands (the magnum opus of the devil, I swear.)
• last week’s list
• last month’s Costco coupons
• a lipstick case with no lipstick (in fact, it's NEVER held lipstick.  I just carry it around.)
• and a plastic dinosaur 

[Private message: Pipe down, O’Neal, I know what you’re thinking.]

Medium settled on my iphone.  I had to steer him away from the Chris Farley app.  The boys like to listen to Chris Farley say, a la Tommy Boy, “Brothers don’t shake hands!  Brothers gotta hug!”  

While hilarious, it’s not entirely appropriate for Jack to be repeatedly pressing the link that says, “No offense, but if I sent a picture of your mom to some of my buddies at school, she’d definitely be Boner of the Month.”  So instead I let him play Angry Birds so he can catapult our feathered friends at body-less pigs.  And here.  Hold this plastic dinosaur.

Sean-the-Beefcake says, “so tell me what your experience is.  What do you like to do?  What do you not like to do?”

“Well,” I reply, “I don't like to work out.  I like to eat.”  Hehe.

“You’re funny!  Are you, like, a comedian?”  Oh, Sean.  You flatter me.

“No, but I DO have my own blog!”  Wink, click-click, and shooting pistol finger.

Aaaaaannnnnd . . . . scene!

Thank you.  Thank you very much!  I'll be here all week!  Don't forget to tip your waitresses.

A FINE Parenting Moment

I want to share with you the trauma I caused my 5-year-old.

Medium gets off the bus at 11:15. Perhaps I’ve mentioned this before - the fact that Kindergarten is only half-day, which means I barely have time to shower and he’s home. Seriously, I drop them off at the bus, have a cup of coffee and try to watch the Today Show, (just in case someone tries to have an intelligent conversation with me and I want to be up-to-date with my news, not spouting off dated facts about that skank Monica Lewinsky that I gleaned from the last time I actually read a newspaper,) put the baby down for a morning nap so I can shower, and poof! It’s time to get Medium from the bus.

At about 11:10 last Friday, I literally had one shoe on when my doorbell rang. I hobbled to the door to greet my girlfriend. We’ll call her Laura, which is not her real name. Or maybe it is and I’m just trying to throw you off her scent. I’m all crafty like that. Her two-year-old is obsessed with babies, so she was all over Small, I was trying to get my shoe on and fasten the baby into the Bjorn, and Laura was fetching her laundry out of my washer. (It’s a long story, but I find it kinda pathetic that the ONE item I own that my girlfriends covet is my friggin’ washing machine.) I’m on my way out the door, yelling at Laura to just hang on a second and I’ll be right back, when the dog takes off.  I just can't seem to get out of the house!

"Where my mama at?"

The bus driver will not allow a Kindergarten student to get off the bus if no one is there to greet him. I was trying to run up to the bus stop as fast as I could, but I was wearing Small in the Bjorn, and because I’m such a loving, patient, gentle mother, I was trying not to give him Shaken Baby Syndrome via Bjorn Bouncing. That’s when I saw the flash of yellow through the trees – the bus was moving on, and I had missed it. (Well, as “flashy” as a giant motor vehicle that can only reach speeds of 35 mph can be.)

Oops.

I pictured Medium, sad and weepy on the bus because his mama doesn’t care enough to actually be at the bus stop on time. And I have no idea what the protocol is in this situation, but I was also envisioning that judgmental phone call coming from school: “yes, Mrs. BoyMommy, we have a Medium here in the office. Could you please come retrieve your child, if it’s not too much to ask? Would you mind? We’re not judging you, but seriously, how hard is it for you to walk to the bus stop? What the hell else do you have to do?” I’m gonna owe my soul to the PTA just so I can alleviate the guilt and try to dispel the nasty rumor that I can't get my sh*t together.

By this time, Laura had packed up her kids and gotten my dog back into the house, and she was driving up my street. We came up with a game plan. She took off in her SUV: Grocery Getter Edition to try to head off the bus and rescue my son, but we had no idea if the bus driver would allow him to get off the bus with someone who is not his parent. Meanwhile, I ran home. (Okay, I walked at a brisk pace, since I still had Small Bjorned.)  I got him buckled into his car seat and grabbed my cell phone and my wallet, just in case I need ID when Child Protective Services tracks me down. I was on my way out the garage door and planning to drive the opposite way so that Laura and I could trap the bus in our neighborhood, all stealth-like, when in pulls Laura, and she had Medium!  She's my hero.

He was more mad than sad, and I was laying on the apologies pretty thick. One of my finer parenting moments, ladies and gentlemen.

Naturally, since I already had Small buckled in and my car keys in hand, I decided we should go to my Mecca, the glorious mommy magnet known as Target. While feeding Medium a nutritious lunch at Target’s snack bar, I noticed my friend K walk in. In lieu of screaming her name like a lunatic because I am THAT desperate for adult interaction, I contemplate calling her cell phone and telling her "I know where you are and I’m watching you right now."  But I decided that that’s too stalkerish.  Maybe.  A little bit.  Plus, I was afraid she’d look at her phone, see my number, roll her eyes, and put it back in her pocket, and I just can’t take that kind of rejection. After lunch, I was on my quest for coffee creamer and milk, as I had to put Nesquik chocolate milk in my coffee that morning because we were out of both. I spotted K huffing the room deoderizers in aisle 8, and I thought to myself, “this poor woman. She’s more like me than she knows.” I relayed Medium’s bus stop story, all nervous laughter and “silly me!” Except Medium didn’t think it was funny. His future therapist is gonna hear about this, I’m sure.

Gayle? Are you out there?

I’ve recently stated that I need a Gay Husband because I could use some help around the house, some decorating advice, and a date to concerts my husband doesn’t want to see. Following this logic, his dearth of parental responsibilities would enable him to avail himself to my every whim. I wanna get my toes done at 6 pm on a Tuesday because Hubby just happened to get home early? Guess who’s coming along!

Turns out, I need a Gay Wife too.

I was ironing shirts last night and watching Oprah and Gayle on their recent camping trip. (Side note: I was ironing two brand new shirts for my husband. I purchased them last night and came straight home to iron them so he’d have one for today and one for tomorrow – because I dropped the ball with the dry cleaning and didn’t get it dropped off in time and now it won’t be back when he needs it. My punishment? Shopping for men’s dress shirts and then ironing them.) So Oprah and Gayle were road-tripping, singing along to Kenny Rogers - Hello?! Why was I not invited on this trip? – and spending a few days bonding.

“I need a new best friend,” I told Hubby, who was lying in bed watching me iron. I’m sure there’s some sort of sexual fetish going on there, but trust me, watching Oprah in my worn-out pj’s while ironing was not an intentional man-gettin’ activity. I guess it was just my natural sexual prowess. Hehe. “Besides you, of course.”

“Why? You HAD a best friend, but you f***ed it up,” he replied sarcastically.

See, I recently broke up with my BFF. We have known each other since we were 15. I was her child’s godmother. We were in each other’s weddings. The simplest reason I can offer for the demise of our friendship is that she felt I couldn’t offer her the support she needed, and I felt too many conditions were being placed on my friendship. I couldn’t be her Yes Man and still maintain my integrity, and since we’re no longer in high school and we couldn’t seem to agree to disagree, the friendship is effectively over. It makes me sad.

“I need someone I can go on road trips with. Someone to laugh with and have inside jokes with,” I explained.

“But Oprah and Gayle have a lesbian thing going on,” which may or may not be true. Even they alluded to it, jokingly, during their road trip.

“I don’t even have anyone I could be lesbians with!” I cried. “You have a best friend, someone you’ve known since middle school, and a shared history. I don’t have that.”

The truth is, I don’t have a BFF. I have plenty of friends and I have some of the BEST friends a girl could ever need, but I don’t have a BFF. I need a Partner in Crime - that one woman who is honest and hilarious and not afraid to call me on all my sh*t, my soul mate in friend form, like Thelma and Louise or Laverne and Shirley. My mother’s best friend feels like a second mom to me.  I have fond memories of them just being together, and I want that kind of natural friendship. It’s hard to lose your best friend when you’re a little kid, and honestly, it’s hard at 37.

I know things change and people grow apart. I think about some of the really fun friendships I’ve had, and I don’t know why I have never had that ONE long-lasting friendship that you read about in chick-lit. I realize the common denominator here is me. What’s the lesson I’m supposed to be learning?

So now I need a Gay Husband and a Gay Wife.

"Smiling's my favorite!"

The candidates, in no particular order, are:
1. Sassy Gay Friend – because I luuuuurrve him.
2. Bethenny - because b*tch is the new b*tch, B*tch.  And besides that, if Girlfriend has a way for me to get skinny by drinking margaritas, we NEED to be friends.
3. Kate & Lydia from Rants from Mommyland – although they already have each other.
4. Karen and/or Jack from Will & Grace
5. Cam from Modern Family
6. Jen Lancaster, because I love a Preppy B*tch (and her website is called Jennsylvania. WHY didn’t I think of that?)
7. someone who owns a beach house and wants to invite me there often.
8. Buddy the Elf.

This is an amendment to my previous list of people with whom I want to be friends.


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