Why Do I Have to Do Everything Around Here?

In the past week, two of my children have announced, “I have to do EVERYTHING around here!”  I won’t tell you which two, but suffice it to say it was not the child whose only complete sentence is “I wan git out.”

I had asked someone to pick up legos and I had asked someone else to take his shoes upstairs to his room.  Both requests were enough to send my exhausted, overworked children into meltdown mode.  Obviously I’m running some sort of child labor camp out here in the ‘burbs. 

Just for the sake of argument, some of MY responsibilities around here:

• Make lunches (pb for one, jelly for the other.  Because heaven forbid they want the same thing.)
• Laundry – carrying it downstairs, separating it, folding it, putting it away, repeat.
• Oversee homework – this includes actively monitoring the process as I am forced to be a hoverer lest it not get completed . . . which ultimately leads to a very tense Thursday evening.
• Load/unload the dishwasher.
• Wipe the yellow from around the toilet bowl.
• Steam clean the carpet where the dog peed.  Again.
• Wait for the plumber.
• Go Grocery shopping.
• Make sure each bathroom is appropriately stocked with toothpaste, toilet paper, and soap
• Drop off and pick up the dry-cleaning.
• Change light bulbs.  (oops, I forgot: the Lighbulb Fairy does that.)
• Take the dog to the vet.
• Transport patients to various dentist/doctor/allergist appointments.
• Prepare delightful meals that my children won’t eat.
• Keep the family calendar.
• Taxi children to Cub Scouts and various sports practices.
• Attend parent-teacher conferences and field phone calls from the principal.
• Vacuum, since I’m still finding random Christmas ornament hangers embedded in the carpet.
• Make sure we always have an epipen, ibuprofin, children's cough medicine, neosporin, bandaids, and pepto.
• Make sure the Cub Scout uniforms are ready for Wednesday and Friday, the basketball uniform is ready for Monday and Saturday, and the baseball uniform is ready for Sunday.
• Plan spectacular birthday parties that rival the festivities surrounding the Royal Wedding.

And that’s just the BIG stuff.  There are lots of mundane little tasks that I also take care of:

• Turning the Wii on
• Pouring milk
• Reaching the top shelf of the pantry
• Turning the shower on
• Reaching the top drawer
• Cutting the top off the yogurt
• Twisting the top off the Gatorade
• Putting batteries in the remote
• Tying shoes
• Wiping snotty/boogery/crusty noses
• Wiping, um, other things

AND I do all this while trying to maintain a modicum of my former intelligence, any youthful good looks I may have once had, and an enthusiastic parenting attitude, while trying not to hit the sauce until after 5pm.

So yes, children – clearly I owe you an apology for asking you to pitch in a bit.  I’ll do that right after I finish sitting on my @ss while watching my stories.

Again with the Beer Baby . . .

I’m fat.

I get it.

It happened again.  We were at a cocktail party Friday night when someone asked me, “so which number is this for you?” and glanced down at my abs-of-steel region.

Ugh. 

“We have three, and we’re done,” I replied.  

“Not pregnant.  Just fat,” I added, which prompted her to say, “oh, you’re not fat!”

Well then why’d you just insinuate that I was pregnant?  Nobody sees Kate Moss at a cocktail party, (holding a wine glass, by the way,) and comments on her pregnancy.  Poor Hubby hates when this happens, mostly because he has to clean up the emotional mess that accompanies my death spiral of self-esteem. 

I get it.  I am fluffy.  Generally, I’m okay with it.  

An acquaintance (who happens to by gay, so I totally trust him,) told me I just need to own my plus-sizeness.  He’s right.  No one is fooled by what I wear if I try to hide my plumpness.  So I try to dress appropriately; I try to look nice and wear clothes that fit.  I don’t look frumpy (except when I’m wearing my bus-stop sweatpants and my puffy coat.  On a side note, puffy coats are NOT flattering, especially on big girls.  But damn if that coat is not warm.)  Since I carry a lot of weight in the front, I can’t rock a tight dress – I need something with an empire waist, which is more flattering, but which apparently looks like I own stock in Motherhood Maternity.

I carry my weight in my front.  (And hips.  And cheeks, and upper arms, and boobs.  But NOT in the rear.  My badonkadonk is more like just a badonk.)  Just to clarify, again:

Me pregnant:

The back side is F-L-A-T.
The front?
Not so much.

Me, pregnant and bloated with a beer baby:

My point is that I am making efforts to be more healthy.  I’m doing Weight Watchers . . . AGAIN . . . and I go to the gym.  But it’s going to take some time. I am never going to be a size 10, and I am okay with that.  I am fluffy because I prefer beer and pizza to salad and a glass of ice water.  I do not have a thyroid problem nor do I have a genetic propensity for obesity.  My body has borne three children and endured various other emotional/hormonal events, and it has not bounced back.  I OWN it.   

But for the love o’ pete, it hurts my feelings when grown-ups insinuate that I am pregnant.  I struggle with it every day and I don’t blame anyone else but myself.  I try to be a kind person, a good friend, an understanding wife, a loving mother.  I wake up every day and try to be all these things, and I know, intellectually, that these qualities are what matter most.  So when you meet me at a party, let’s talk about religion and politics, but NOT my weight, because that, my friend, is a sensitive topic.

Household Organization

I feel that it's important to have an organized home, and I love it when things are labeled.

I present to you, Ice Tea:

Or perhaps you'd like some Orange Juice:

Prefer ice cubes in your beverage?  No problem; we gotcha covered:

What you have here is a firm example of why Hubby says no one else finds me funny except for ME, and that I'm the only one who laughs at my jokes.  And honestly, I have gotten quite a giggle out of my little project.  Clearly I need to make better use of my time.

Dinosaur S-E-X

We expected to have some follow-up questions regarding the whole Birds and Bees discussion, but I got a question I GUARANTEE none of you, dear readers, have had to face.

Medium is only six years old, but it just didn’t make any sense to explain, um, stuff to Large but not to Medium.  At least we know if WE explain to Medium, he’s getting all the correct information, as opposed to hearing it second hand from his big brother.  Given that his maturity level is at least two years behind his brother's, it’s not really surprising that he may have already forgotten some of what he’s been told.  Furthermore, his little six-year-old logic isn’t necessarily registering all the facts he has received.

Last weekend, he was busy making a mess craft out of paper, scissors, and yarn.  (This is the child who got his very own tape dispenser for his birthday last year, and was excited about it.)  He was making a dinosaur necklace.  Everyone should have one; it’s the fashion accessory of the season.  It was all perfectly innocuous, until . . .

Medium:  Mom, how did dinosaurs have babies?

Me:  Uhhhh . . . (insert nervous laughter here, a la Beavis and Butthead.)

Medium:  Did they go to the doctor to have their babies out?

Me:  Remember what Daddy told you?  They laid eggs from their vaginas.

At least I’m assuming that’s how it happened.  Last time I watched Dinosaur Train, there was no Tiny Visits the Gynecologistosaurus episode.

Medium:  How did the eggs get in their bellies?

Me:  The same way human babies get in their mommies’ bellies.

Medium:  (whispering, with a startled look on his face)  You mean they put their vaginas and wieners together?

Me:  Um.  I guess. I wasn’t there.

Seriously?  Now we’re fielding questions about Dinosaur S-E-X?  I just know he’s going to ask me how they put their naughty parts together, and I’m going to have to show him barnyard porn on the world wide internets.  

The Birds and the Bees: An Update

http://seemikedraw.wordpress.com/

Well, we did it. 

And this time, when I say “we,” I mean Hubby. 

Last weekend, I was in the basement hiding out organizing when I heard insatiable laughter coming from upstairs.  I listened carefully and discovered that Hubby was telling the boys, ages 8 and 6, about the Birds and the Bees.

So I thought, I’ll go upstairs and join the conversation like a mature adult and prove to our offspring that we are a true partnership, husband and wife, co-parents in every sense of the word. 

Hahhahaahahahaa!

Whew, that was funny.  Let me pause and wipe this tear from my eye! 

Um, no.  I thought aw hayl no.  I’m staying down here.

A while later, the boys came downstairs to see what I was doing, and I was sure I was going to be barraged with laughter, snickers, and possibly pointing fingers and hushed whispers.  At the very least, I thought they would look at me in disgust at the inhumanities they had just discovered their mother partakes in.

But no.  Not a peep. 

When I got the lowdown from Hubby, he said he explained it all in an age-appropriate manner -  he discussed how girls and boys are different, things that might be happening with their bodies in a few years, how exactly a male and female do the S-E-X, and all that scientific technical stuff about sperm and eggs and whatnot. 

A few nights later, as I was getting the boys ready for their bath, Large got the giggles.  Reminiscent of that scene from Kindergarten Cop, he said to me “boys have penises and girls have vaginas.”

“I know,” was all I could think of to say. 

Medium chimed in.  “Mom!” he said.  “Lean down.  I need to whisper you something.”

I leaned down and he whispered, “Daddy told us where babies come from.”

“That’s good,” I said, because I’m all good with the words when I’m nervous and/or uncomfortable. 

“Why is that good?” he asked, confused.

“Well, now you know,” was my response.  “And you don’t have to wonder any more.” 

So that was it.  Hubby reminded them that where-babies-come-from is not an appropriate topic of discussion on the bus, at school, at Cub Scouts, at basketball practice, etc.  Just as a courtesy, however, I did send an email to my neighbor whose son plays with Large, just in case they get any questions of the bird and bee variety.  It’s funny though . . . he hasn’t been over to play in a while.

The Birds and the Bees

It’s time.

Our curious boys are starting to ask significant questions about babies and how they get in a mommy’s belly.

I just have a hard time wrapping my head around the need to tell an eight-year-old, who still believes in Santa, the Elf on the Shelf, and the Tooth Fairy, about the Birds and the Bees.

It used to be that they were curious about the differences between boys and girls.  Large once (at a packed movie theatre line in Manhattan, of course) reached up, touched my boob, and asked “why do you have these?”  Hubby told him, “everybody has them.  You have them.”  Large’s response?  “Not as big as Mommy’s!”  We explained that girls have them so that they can feed their babies when the time is right. 

I nursed all our kids, so eventually this all made sense to him.  Naturally, he was a little inquisitive when we brought Small home, but both Large and Medium seemed to accept the idea that Mommy was feeding the baby.  No big deal.

And as far as differences go, we have explained that when they go to a friend’s house for a sleepover and the friend has a sister, we wear pajamas, not just our skivvies, and act appropriately.  Just because we all pee with the door open around here (some of us by choice, and some of us because there is no friggin’ privacy anywhere in this house) doesn’t mean we do so in mixed company. 

Lately, however, the questions have been coming more frequently.  We want to keep those lines of communication open and we have told the boys that they should always ask us if they need an answer instead of discussing it on the bus or on the playground, etc., because Mommy and Daddy are always going to tell them the truth.

I’m afraid the time has come.  To tell them The Truth.

I’m persweaty already.

We fielded a lot of questions when I was pregnant with Small. 

• How did the baby get in your belly?  Well, when Mommy and Daddy love each other and decide they want to have a baby, the Mommy gets pregnant.

•  How come the babysitter doesn’t have a baby in her belly?  She’s not married. 

• Uncle Justin’s not married and he has a baby.  Dammit, Justin!

• How is the baby going to get out of your belly?  When the time is right, Mommy will go to the hospital and the doctor will get the baby out.

But recently we’ve been getting more detailed questions as their little brains process the logic behind all our previous answers.

• Where’s your penis?  Girls and boys are different.  Girls don’t have penises.

• Why do you have hair there?  Because I haven’t had time to get a wax.

• Do Mommy dogs have babies?  Yes

• Then how do their puppies get out of the dog's belly?  Um, they go to the Vet.

• Do you have a baby in your belly?  Nope.  Just fat.  Thanks.

• How come you don’t have a baby in your belly right now?  Our family is complete already.

• How do mommies get babies in their belly?  Remember I told you?  When mommies and daddies love each other . . .

• But don’t you always love Daddy?

Yikes.

We also discovered the other day that Large thinks the doctor gives Mommy a shot and then she gets pregnant.  Learned that one on the bus.

So I think it’s time to offer some clarification. 

Personally, I learned the details from a friend in 4^th grade.  Her parents had sat her down and explained it all and I remember thinking that her parents must have thought she was mature enough to handle it.  I went home and asked my mom, but . . . crickets.

I was in high school before my mom left Ann Landers Talks to Teenagers About Sex on my bed.  Because when you think Sex, you think middle-aged-advice-columnist Ann Landers.  She had checked it out from the library.  I read it from cover to cover in one afternoon and took it back downstairs to my mom, who returned it the next day.  We never spoke of it again.  That was my complete lesson in sex education.  

I don’t want my boys learning from some kid on the bus who doesn’t have all the facts.  And I don’t want them learning from a teacher who is required to use technical terminology deemed appropriate by the public school system.

It is OUR responsibility.  I want to treat the boys with respect and help them realize they can ask us anything.  I’ve got to put my own issues aside.  I’ve told Hubby we either need to do it together or he needs to Man up.  (Because I know if we do Rock, Paper, Scissors I’m SO gonna lose.)

Stay tuned . . . this could get interesting.

Funerals 101: A Public Service Announcement

My college roomie, Polly, recently lost her father.  I emailed her last week and told her I wanted to take her to lunch.  She has taken some time off of work, so she was home alone, and I just knew that she was sitting on her couch, in her sweats, unshowered, and wallowing in her grief. 

And that’s okay. 

I know because I’ve been there.

During our lunch, (which Polly attended under duress when I basically showed up on her doorstep uninvited . . . that’s how I roll,) we started discussing funerals, death, grief, sympathy, and all sorts of *happy* topics. 

“I’m surprised at how disappointed I am in some people,” she confessed.  I knew exactly what she meant.

“People I thought for sure would show up at the viewing didn’t even send a card,” I told her, referring to my own mother’s passing six years ago. 

“You know how on the TODAY show they do that eat-this-not-that segment?  They point out that you might think you’ve been eating the right thing, but all along you’ve been eating crap.  That’s how I feel about some of my friendships.  I guess they weren’t what I thought they were.  Now I feel . . . “

“Betrayed,” I answered.  

Hey, I know that feeling!  I had a girlfriend whom I had known for a long time, (but with whom I had lost touch,) who told me years after my mother’s passing that she had read the obituary in the paper, and yet she had never acknowledged my mom’s death.  I had assumed she simply didn’t know; but she had known all along and hadn’t reached out to me.  We had a shared history of slumber parties and carpooling and general adolescence, and she knew my mom, and yet she ignored this monumental event in my life.

Polly and I decided there needs to be an etiquette lesson for death – kind of like for a wedding or birthday or anniversary, except much, much sadder and with less festive clothing.  

I present to you, on behalf of BoyMommy and her trusty sidekick, Polly:

A Brief Guide: Do’s and Don’ts for That Funeral You Don’t Want to Attend But You’re Gonna Because It’s the Right Thing to Do.

1.  Don’t say "I don’t do funerals."  Nobody does funerals.  Funerals suck.  They’re sad and you make your ugly-cry face, and you realize you forgot your tissues and you have to borrow from the granny sitting next to you who has them stuffed up the cuff of her sweater.  Even if you only speak to the grieving family for a brief moment, or even not at all . . . they will look at the guest book later and know that you were there.  I was so out of it on the day of my mother’s funeral, I couldn’t tell you who was there; but I can sure as hell tell you who wasn’t.

2.  Acknowledge the death.  Send a card.  Send a plant.  Send an email.  Just act like you got the memo that your friend is grieving.  When you find out about a death, unless the person specifies otherwise, tell mutual friends and colleagues.  It’s not a secret, and it’s not gossip.  It’s information that needs to travel quickly.  This removes some of the “burden” from the family and it helps alleviate awkwardness when the grieving person returns to work after an extended absence and colleagues ask how her vacation was.

3.  Don’t worry about saying the right/wrong thing.  Grief is heavy, man.  Words can’t fix it.  So don’t try to come up with some phrase that will make it all better because NOTHING you say can make it better.  Say “I’m sorry you’re hurting.”  Say “I’m thinking about you.”  

I don't own this picture.
Probably shoulda asked first . . . 

On the other hand, please don’t say “she/he’s in a better place.”  F*ck that.  I don’t care right now – I want my loved one here with me because I’m feeling selfish and sad and I’m thinking about how much my whole life just changed.  

[A little personal anecdote: as I was headed to the restroom before my mother’s service, a woman I didn’t know offered her condolences and then added, “it’s too bad she didn’t quit smoking earlier.”  Yes, my mom was a smoker and yes, she died of lung cancer, and maybe it IS too bad she didn’t quit earlier, but she didn’t deserve to get sick.  No one does. ]

4.  Remember that grief doesn’t end after all the funeral festivities are complete.  You may be returning to work and school and your normal life, but your friend is still deep in grief.  Call to check in every once in a while, because she’s sitting there wondering how can people be filling their cars up with gas and buying milk at the grocery store?  Don’t they know my entire world has fallen apart?

5.  Show a little sensitivity.  When she does finally return to work, don’t send an email that begins “Sorry for your loss.  Now I need you to complete task XYZ.”   Separate emails dude.  Separate emails.

6.  Remember that funerals are for the living.  Just because you didn’t know the deceased doesn’t mean you shouldn’t go to the funeral.  Funerals are a time for the grieving family and friends to be embraced by their community, and this community is made up of MANY people: family, friends, colleagues, acquaintances, former classmates, friends of friends, neighbors . . . MANY. 

7.  Share fun memories of the deceased.  People often shy away from telling stories because they worry that it will make the survivor upset.  Guess what?  She’s already upset.  Recalling a positive experience helps her remember the life that was led before sickness arrived. 

8.  Make some sacrifices and set some priorities.  Funerals are never convenient.  They are not generally scheduled around your personal timeline.   SOME things are more important; the rest of your life (with some exceptions, of course) can be rescheduled.  I know you think no one will miss you if you don’t go.  Perhaps not – but it will be significant to the grieving family if you DO go.

Trust me, my peeps.  I know of what I speak.