Mommy Needs a Time Out

Image by un point c'est tout ! (Les chicos) via FlickrAny parent with a shred of honesty will admit that sometimes their kids drive them street-rat-bat-shit-round-the-damn-bend crazy.
If they don't, they're either liars or highly medicated.

My son has no off button. He's not a lap-baby.  He doesn't sit and watch TV.  He's in constant motion.  He even bounces around while playing video games.

And so are his lips.  He never stops talking, and to his ears, "Be quiet." means speak louder. If he's not actually talking, he's making noise; motorboat, gun blasts, raspberries, machine gun fire...

And when he wants something he comes at you like a cattle auctioneer until you give in just to get some peace even though that's poor parenting and my daughter would never have gotten away with that.

I still smoked pot so it was easier to tune out was stronger then.

I know this about him. I'm not new. At this point in his life, it is who he is and how he behaves.

He's adorable and everything I could want in a son: hard-headed, strong, smart, full of curiosity and energy, and has moments of pure sweetness that melt your heart.

Today, the cuteness is not enough.

I want to play Bejeweled Blitz without having machine gun rat-a-tat-tat's shouted in my ears while he hangs on my mouse hand.

I want to read my homework assignment without rapid-fire requests for milk and mac-n-cheese.

I want him to stop doing something, anything, without having to be yelled at before he cops a clue that I'm actually addressing HIM even though I said his name each of the five times I made the request before I turned into Psycho Sally.

I want him to not use my computer chair to reach things on top of the fridge the second I leave the room to use the toilet.

I want to take something away from him without him picking it up the second I lay it down like he has every right in the world to do so.

I want him to not play with his cars directly behind me on the kitchen floor while I'm at the stove, because I have told him he's not allowed in the kitchen while I'm cooking more than I have said my own name... in my entire lifetime.

I want to not have to play the antagonist in a game of keep-away to get the TV remote from him when I finally sit down to watch a show and he's had Qubo on all day for a few hours and doesn't want to share cause Miss BG is on.

Maybe I can convince Hubby that I've been really, really, really bad and need a long time-out to think about my behavior... or just have a single uninterrupted thought today.

All. By. Myself.

Wish me luck.

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Battles in Pottydom

Image via WikipediaSo, we've finally gone all commando on the potty-training.

And I mean that literally.





My son is WAAAYYY late potty-training.  Turns out, he's just super lazy... or we are... whatever.


He knows how to use the toilet.  He's good at it.  When he does not have a butt-cover on; if he does, he's not using that toilet to save his life or hit the lotto.  


To be fair, he has no concept of death or money yet.  Well, aside from 'killing' everyone with any makeshift toy gun he can find, and when he plays McDonalds drive-thru with his father.  Jas charges hubby $1000 for two McDoubles, a small fry, and two large Diet Cokes; all of which are on the value menu, btw.


We have a budding Republican, obviously.


So the kid has been running around the house without any type of butt-cover... and using the toilet.


However, he has decided that if he doesn't get to wear a diaper or pull-up, he's not wearing ANYTHING

 ... and he likes to follow us outside.


If I put Diet Coke in his sippy cup, he'd be textbook Redneck Child.


So then we try to dress him before coming outside or bedtime rolls around, and we try to put a pull-up on him and he gets really, REALLY offended about it.

As if we forced nakedness upon him and now clothes of any type are a crime against nature and his incredibly evolved sensibilities.


Great, so now he's a toilet-using, nudist, budding-Republican.


I'm never getting that Mother of the Year award.



 

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It's A Very Serious Condition; Possibly Fatal, So It's Nothing Short Of A Miracle That I'm Posting Instead Of Hooked To An IV In A Hospital Somewhere

First of all, before I get started, I'd like to take a moment and wish my Aunt Sherry a Very Happy (number undisclosed) Birthday on Thursday, August 6th. I hope it's wonderful!!! I Wish I could be there to help you blow out the candles, but I'm missing my tiara and magic wand... which is cool if they wind up at your house, gift-wrapped by the universe as birthday presents. Otherwise, just have a piece of cake and send me the calories. I'm happy to take them for you. And just so I say it all public-like, thank you so much for being super-extra-awesome-and-wonderful to Jos during her visit. You were always such a blessing to me, thank you for paying it forward to my girl. You're awesome, and I love you!

*pause for authentic slight tear-up*

OK, now...

This week, I'm playing along with Mama Kat at Mama's Losin' It. Her weekly feature Your Assignment, Should You Choose To Accept It had a prompt that caught me this week: What's ailing you? Diagnose yourself with a syndrome. (inspired by Kimberly from Kamp KK) My mother, being a retired RN (that's registered nurse to y'all) I thought this would be fun...

Turns out, I'm one sick puppy... aside from mentally (I could hear every single person I ever met in my entire life my sister laughing-so-hard-she-snorted in my head as soon as I typed that and had to clarify!!) ...and I'm about to get a whole lot sicker, because...

I'm back here typing out my five-minute title to this post and I hear a blue streak that rivals one of mine. So my ears prick up (yes, Beavis, I said prick) cause it's gotten all quiet-like again except for what sounds like wires and such being moved. Then hubby comes flying in here like a man on a mission, grabs some things off of his mechanic's carts and swoops back out, nearly running over the munchkin (just call me shadow, Daddy) without so much as a backwards glance. So I get up to see who's life he's saving on our kitchen table because as far as I'm concerned, the only reason to mow down a toddler involves carotid arteries shooting blood all over my kitchen with the chief of police in the driveway, savvy?

So I whip out of the back room to see a pathetic black box with wires strung out from the AV system and a look of grave misgivings on hubby's face as he sits down to operate on his patient.

Uh-Huh. *eyeroll*

This is the emergency.

Shallow breathing and non-responsive pupils from the Playstation.

The Playstation that the toddler has taken to operating (properly, including game changes, might I add) without our help or supervision. Yes, y'all as of last Thursday, it is not my adorable bright-eyed-redhead slapping my arm saying, "MomMY! GeH UP!" but the soundtrack to MX vs. ATV games playing at Daddy-Loud-levels that wakes me up. Oh goodie, another gamer in the house. I'm so proud. fucking liar

And, now I understand completely. It's like when your best friend gets kinda soused at your BBQ and then runs over your beloved pet Sparky with the John Deere. You still love 'em, but you kind of can't look at 'em right now and you're trying to reserve your outburst cause you're not sure if Sparky is gonna live yet... it's like that with Hubby and the munchkin hunched over a black box on my kitchen table cause Boo still doesn't realize that Daddy thinks he's the reason Sparky the Playstation is in critical condition.

I say nothing, because I have a strong sense of survival like that and go back to my computer before he asks for my help, because let's face it, I hate Sparky. And while I'm not exactly reveling in the pain of it's possible death, I'm also not going to get roped into trying to help revive that time-sucking pain-in-my-ass either.

I know it's gotten really bad when he comes back into the computer room for a crash cart in the guise of an air compressor. Now, mind you, he's got the case off the game, and I can't, for all the tea in China, figure out what in the hell he needs the air compressor for, but again, I'm still wishing myself invisible during this *ahem* tragedy as he zips past me to perform CPR.

This is where I should have copped a fucking clue, but I totally sold my brain on eBay for gas money, so it didn't occur to me that he was going to do the compressor procedure outside, even though I couldn't hear it being used, so DUH, as in Homer Simpson and Peter Griffin's love child, Dumbass Griffson.

Cause next thing I know, here comes munchkin, holding his hand out to me. Not crying or whining or fussing. Just holding his hand out to me. I look down and his pointer finger is bleeding right in the center of the pad of his finger. He sees that I see the blood, and then he puts his thumb against it (spreading the bloodiness around for good measure) and starts saying, "Owwwww" as a few tears start and build up as I inspect the damage to now, a full blown cry. Aaaand now, as if on cue, here comes the blood for real. So I scoop up little bleeding man and off to the bathroom we head...

I'm one step into the living room, heading for the bathroom when, for some unknown mama-instinct reason, I look over and see the cause of the blood... Hubby's motherfuckingsharpassboxcuttingknife wide open. The one that he was so concerned about Sparky that he left in easy reaching distance on the kitchen table and neglected to specifically tell my dumb ass that he was going outside despite how obvious it was to anyone with two brain cells to rub together. Now, SPARKY MUST DIE AND HUBBY MIGHT NEED TO GO WITH IT. So I kick open the back door and spout some super-loud fuck you's parenting tips at hubby so that he could hear them over the compressor on my way into the bathroom with our much-more-important-than-a-fucking-video-game bleeding son... not that I'm wigging out now that I know what he damaged himself on... Nah, not at all.

I rinse and peroxide (which starts a whole new round of I'm-Dying-Mommy tears) and inspect the wound in between putting pressure on the finger with a towel ~ which, for you childless people, is way more difficult than it sounds. Picture trying to catch and hold an overfilled water balloon one handed and covered in Crisco. That kind of comes sort of close. Maybe.

I ascertain that he's basically tapped his finger against the sharp-pointy tip which, although I can't tell how deep the cut goes, is better than, say running his finger down the blade. Thankfully, despite the immediate disturbing mental picture of how bad it could have been, I can not see bone, nor is there blood coming from anywhere else. *sweatdrippingdownforehead* Disaster less massive than was possible... *deep breaths*

In my Mommy-insta-nurse-just-add-blood superhero costume I decide to put a band-aid on it. Except, have you ever tried to put a regular sized band-aid on a two-year-old finger? It's like using an ace-bandage for a sprained finger... you know it's gonna be waaaay too big from the second you start, but if you angle it like you're trying to do origami or some shit and stand on your head during a full moon, it might just work for a while until you can tell if it's a minor cut or if you're going for that wonderful thrill-ride of emergency room visit complete with explanation that won't get you arrested for child abuse on the spot.

OK, band-aid on. Munchkin bending finger to assure me that I didn't cut off circulation entirely to his finger with my creative bandaging. Tip of finger is not turning blue. We're good. Ten minutes later, munchkin can still waggle finger, tip is still not blue, and putting tip of finger to my lip, tip of finger is still not cold, ie: circulation still happening. Also, band-aid is not bled-through. Which is a good sign, but not good enough for me to stop rehearsing my emergency room recount of how munchkin came to be damaged in full view of two completely competent, loving parents. that's my story and I'm sticking to it

Half an hour later, the kid is fine, the finger is forgotten, and he's pulling out Harry Potter movies so he can decide between the Boo-version of Citizen Cane that is Sorcerer's Stone and Prisoner of Azkaban which is his Godfather Part Two... And, Yes, Virgina, there is a Santa Claus, cause Sparky. Is. Dead. *RenfieldLaughAsITwirlMySnidelyWhiplashMustache*

Except, now I have to deal with a hubby who is in Playstation withdrawals. I fully expect him to go to bed tonight at 7:12 pm. And by tomorrow, he'll be furiously hitting buttons on the game controller and making fake shooting noises at Dr. Phil and Oprah... but that's not the worst of it.

I've told y'all before that he's been cramping my computer-time-style... Yeah. I have a feeling that by Friday, I'll only be able to get on the computer from 4-6 am and only with prior written permission from a parent or guardian and possibly the Pope, or maybe the cheerleader from Heroes cause she's totally in his five so he might listen to her... and I need to consider sending Megan Fox an ape-load of tweets pleading my case so maybe she can get me some computer time too... in case the Pope and the cheerleader are busy...

Oh yeah, and that self-diagnosed disease of mine? It's Dumbass Griffson Sparky Mortality Gateway Inacessability Disease exacerbated by Spousal Pre-pubescence coinciding with the arrival of Florence.

So, as you can see, it's a very serious condition, although, to be honest, the IV I mentioned may contain Lithium and Valium.

Svengali

Sometimes we think we know what we want. Especially as parents.

First you want your munchkin to start walking... then they do and you wish you'd invested in roller-skates. And all you want is to recapture the beautiful bygone days of laying them on a blanket and being secure in the knowledge that they couldn't go very far.

Then you want them to start talking... then they do and they talk you deaf. And you long for the days when they'd smile at you quietly and point to what they wanted. Baby, those days are long gone.

The kid has found his (or her) voice and WOW! The world as we knew it is over.

My son is a jabber-jaws like I've never seen before in my life. And, he's an egomaniac.

If he talks and no one seems to be paying attention, he gets louder, and Louder, and LOUDER until he is heard, damnit! What he has to say is IMPORTANT and how dare we not stop dead in our tracks and listen to the little king as he two-year-old-speaks his super-important monologue into our joyously-waiting ears! I know it's important not only from the increasing noise level, but because he keeps repeating the same unintelligible phrase over and over until our ears bleed.

We are the Rupert to his Stewie (that's a Family Guy reference for those of you that don't watch it). He undoubtedly loves us, but we are totally his servants, and we better tow the line.

And he gets away with it, not only because he's cute and smarter than the average munchkin (my biased mama opinion!) but because at two years old, this boy has mac. You heard me, I meant what I said... the kid's got mac... a gift for the persuasive... he could get a date with Angelina and or Julia any day of the week... skillz.

When he starts to get scolded for something, he turns his 1000 watt smile upon the scolder and his eyes light up with intelligent intensity and he stops what he's doing and comes over to you and pats you on the leg or the head as if to say, "Oh, silly grown-up, it will be alright. Don't worry so much. Now let me get back to what I was doing." He does this while maintaining full eye contact the entire time. And you can hear him saying these things to you in your head.

And when he's really messing up, he replaces the pat on the head with a drooley-two-year-old kiss and looks at you while mind speaking, "You aren't really upset by that, are you? I mean, c'mon, I am the one and only Boo. I'm adorable, you love me and you need to remember that. Now, I know I'm not in trouble, and by the way, I forgive you for stopping me."

This is when your heart melts and the corners of your mouth turn up into an unplanned smile, you set them down and thank the heavens above that this little person is in your life despite the missing CDs and label-less DVD cases and the cellphones and remotes floating in the toilet and the roll of duct tape that he's just thrown at you, and that he keeps grabbing the screwdrivers and playing with the vacuum cleaner and yelling at you like you were an errant slave back in the 1700's; because in that moment, during his eye-contact-assault, you are parental-lovingly-blind.

Svengali.

Rasputin.

Screwed.

All Hail Elmo, Friendo

For those of you that didn't see No Country for Old Men, that title may not make any sense. However for those of you that have; this is what I'm now calling my Totally Terrible Two-year-old. Friendo. OMG!

Yes, only two months into the terrible two's, y'all we are SO Screwed I am (we are) nearly ready to end his days with a compressed air canister and the flip of a coin... luckily for him, he keeps winning the toss.

My son is revisiting one of his old joys: the beloved "toilet toss" and adding some new tricks to his repertoire. I know that I've mentioned in an earlier post that electronics and toilet water don't mix... Wanted to let y'all know that it hasn't changed. Water still destroys electronics.

Especially when your two year old washes his father's cell phone in the toilet and then turns around and washes it some more in the sink... so that Daddy has to order a new one to the tune of $80 after $150 in 'discounts' even though we totally can't afford it cause we're trying to survive on unemployment you mini-minion!!! Later that night, an entire brand-new-jumbo-roll of toilet paper got tossed in for fun. And on Mother's Day the munchkin had to wear his old shoes because the new ones got tossed in and then a couple of towels got thrown in on top of that and then some toys to round off potty mountain... so, I was already wheeling out the compressed air canister when...

Two nights ago he decided to 'what-the-bleepin-bleep-did-you-do?!?' to the disc drawer on the regular DVD player and it was stuck half in, half out. At that point Daddy did the coin toss and lucky for the kid, the kid won. We dismantled the DVD player from the system, and then dismantled it in and of itself. We managed to fix it (otherwise another coin toss would have ensued, and this time hubby would have used a double sided coin) and reassemble the unit itself and then put the whole system back together. Eye-frickin-Roll! But seriously, I'm nearly afraid to imagine what the hell this kid's going to come up with next...

He already turns on my computer every time the door to that room is left open even a crack, and if it's already on... let's just say that no file is safe (a note here to my faithful readers; if I stop posting without notice, it's because he managed to destroy my computer and I am totally going to be on the 6 o'clock news, so keep an eye out, I'll wave to y'all *manic smile*).

And I feel bad for hubby cause this is his first full-time-hands-on parenting gig. He's 45, and before me he lived alone for 5 years... the man is Absolutely NOT Prepared for this. He is just now having the real reason for, "buy the cheap one" dawn on him. It's not because I'm cheap. It's because even if it's built like a Sherman Tank, a two-year-old can, and will, destroy it.

A two-year-old has a direct, private line straight into Hell itself. A two-year-old knows exactly what to play with and or break, that will make his parents ponder crossing over to the dark side. A two-year-old knows exactly what it will take to get his or her parents to start calling them "Friendo".

Kids are cute in self-defense, and that coupled with scenes from CSI flashing through our skulls at opportune moments, somehow dissuade parents from popping them in the forehead, therefore, these children are still alive today. But it's a coin toss nearly every day. Once in a while God has mercy on us and the child mellows out for a day (or like 12.2 minutes when he's sleeping), but it's few and far between all the *sarcasm*WOHNDERFUL*sarcasm* things these kids come up with to torture us. And my son is a friggin' master in that department. He's becoming the Rembrandt of parental water-boarding.

At this point, I'm just thankful that he's not in daycare, because I can imagine it now. With him being this adept at *ahem* mischief without outside help or influence from other two-year-olds. If he was socializing with other munchkins daily, he'd become their revered leader and they'd take over the world, one cell-phone-in-the-poo-water at a time. Luckily for me (and you), I know how to usurp this world domination plot (aside from containing it within my own walls)...

Elmo.

When Elmo speaks, two-year-olds listen.

All hail Elmo.

That squeaky-voiced-Muppet will save us all.

A Strike At Bullying *UPDATED*

** UPDATED** Please forgive me for needing to update my numbers, when I stopped ranting long enough to check my dates I was off by one decade, it is now correct... so again, please forgive me now, cause you might not after you read this... and remember, all things in moderation...

So I'm just trying to escape the pit that is my house cause I went on strike today. I'm not washing dishes or doing laundry or making the bed or cooking a damn thing. See, hubby thinks that he's on vacation. He thinks that I am the maid. He thinks that he can continue making a total disaster area out of places that I've just cleaned and eating all the brownies I made yesterday leaving me nothing but a dirty pan in the sink. I've had enough. Now that we're all home all of the time, we are all equally responsible for the day to day mess, and I'm not doing ALL of the cleanup alone any*bleepinbleepedybleepin*more.

I made my point clear to hubby, and so he's not speaking to me. With this in mind, I retreated to my hot & muggy, but safe (as in clean) haven ~ the computer room, to do some 'work'. I start dropping my EC's and I come across a new-to-me site called Ziggy's Blog where the latest post sparked me off and now I'm gonna sound off to you, my poor, poor readers...

The latest post is called Teen Trends - Bullying. We're all familiar with the subject. We've been hearing about it for a while, but this is the first time I've publicly sounded off on the subject... First of all, this topic pisses me off like crazy, but I also know that my view on the subject will piss people off as well. I don't care. You're getting my take on modern day bullying... and child rearing in general.

The article is excellent, and this is my exact comment that I left:

I remember the good ole days when official bullying went out by the time you hit high school... now it seems to wait till high school to start and it is WAY meaner and more harmful than what we went through. Also, may I say, that most teens these days are total hot-house-flowers from all the EVERYONE gets an award for participation and that kind of feel good over-kill. Bottom line, kids these days aren't used to rejection cause they didn't get it as youngsters so they can't handle being on the receiving end, but also, they don't understand how harmful they're being on the giving end cause they never endured it. Maybe if we go back to people NOT making the team. And only the best ones getting awards, kids would get a healthy dose of rejection while they're young and not want to propagate the negativity with behaviors like bullying... and the resulting suicides would stop too cause the kids are used to a little mild rejection & won't take this shit to heart. OK, so now I have to copy and paste this to my blog cause I've got a lot more to say.... BUT to be fair, I'm totally gonna linkback to you cause you sparked me off... Great day to you Ziggy!

And I do have a lot more to say. I am so so so sick of the general parenting mentality of those with children born in the 90's through today that I have canceled my subscriptions to every parenting magazine that I started getting when my son was born. I'm sick of us as a general populace of parents. We've turned out a generation of self-absorbed pussies.

You heard me. Whining, undisciplined, rude, keyboard obsessed heathens, and then those of us born prior to 1990 are left wondering why so much ugly has exploded within the world of the young. Cruelty, school shootings, cutting themselves, bullying and cyber bullying, and so on.

Parents, we have done this to ourselves by taking our own whining about our upbringings to extremes and making laws to stop the things we didn't like enduring as children. We've upset the natural order and now we're paying for it.

Maybe if we didn't give an award to everyone for just showing up, they would strive to do more than that. Maybe if we singled out those that really are good at whatever they're doing, others would respect their gifts. Maybe if kids were actually exposed to "normal" rejection as young children they wouldn't be so sensitive to abuse at the hands of their peers later, because they have experienced some before. They'd know that being rejected doesn't make them worthless enough to kill themselves. It's just the natural order. Some people are good at some things and others are good at other things. You didn't make the team. Get over it.

I think ability to reject others is a natural instinct that these bully-ers are trying to cultivate because they missed doing it as children. However, now they're older and more hormonal and meaner and they've seen Saw and Mean Girls and they're striving to be the best bully they can be. And some of them are getting brilliant at it. But honestly, as parents, is this what we want our kids to be great at; making others feel so lousy about themselves that they'd rather die than become better at something? It's bullshit, and we've done it to ourselves (those of us born between 1960-1989, I'm speaking to you. Even those of you without kids, I'm speaking to you. Just cause you don't have kids doesn't mean that you didn't just accept like lemmings the direction that modern day parenting has gone in just because you didn't propagate the species. Let me remind you, these horrible kids are the ones that will be in charge when we retire, and the way it's going, we're fucked.)

Same with hitting our kids. Honestly. Since when did giving your child a well deserved swat on the rump turn you into a parenting parriah? Probably since Lisa Steinberg was beaten to death in the 80's by her mom and step-dad. Now kids have no idea about pain and cause and effect. Time out's don't hurt. And no one's allowed to fall off the swings anymore. We've created a homogenized pain-free environment for our children. They have no idea that being kicked in the shins hurts cause they've NEVER EVER been kicked in the shins. So why not do it to someone else?

Again, it's bullshit. Most of us spent our childhoods getting our butt's beat for cutting school, or cussing, or talking back to our mothers or any number of things. And ya know what? You survived. And, you have a healthy respect for authority. And you probably think twice before you tear off an entire branch of a lilac bush so you can have the best smelling riding-stick-horse in the neighborhood... OK, maybe that one's just me, but c'mon. I'm not talking about child abuse with broken bones and burns. I'm talking about fucking up and getting a swat and an hour in your room sitting on your bed without the phone, and TV (and other gadgets like computers or cell phones or ipods) privileges; cause that's what they are ~ privileges!!!

Getting my butt beat sucked at the time, but I'll tell you what, I was never so disassociated from humanity and feelings and cause and effect that I would go all Columbine, or off myself. No matter how many kids ridiculed me, or teams I didn't make, or bad grades I got on my homework. I would also know that shooting someone would be wrong AND that they would not just pop back up because I hit the reset button. I would not get a higher score for head shots and I would be mortified if I left a trail of destruction in my wake. I may even know all this from an incident in grade school where I got kicked in the shins (which is ILLEGAL now and can get your 5 year old suspended from Kindegarten ~ I can not be the only one who finds this ridiculously over-protective and a product of pussified parenting.)

Alright, so now that I've alienated ALL of my Readers... have a nice day, and remember to give your kid a memorable swat on the butt for playing with the burners on the stove and smoking cigarettes in grade school. And, hey, if they suck at soccer, don't make them part of the team. Find out what they ARE good at and get them involved in that. Spend some time with your kid and act like a decent human being when you do it. It takes more time, your full attention and a tougher mindset to parent this way, but honestly, your kids, and society will thank you for it.

This is NOT a Post Post

This is not a real post ~ this is a mini-post telling you why I won't be posting until Friday, March 13th... I thank you in advance for your understanding.

Today was the munchkin's 2 year-old checkup (he's healthy, he's 35" tall and he didn't cry when he got his shot or blood work done.) Then we girls had to go shopping, which ate up the morning (very pleasantly, might I add!) This afternoon, I'm going to spend with the kids ~ we're going to eat our body weight in popcorn and watch movies that will make us laugh till soda shoots out our noses...

Tomorrow is hubby's birthday, and even though he has to work, my girl and I are going to cook him a special dinner after we've spent the day having tickle fights, chasing the munchkin (and having him chase us) all over the house to peals of squealing laughter.

Wednesday we're going to pack and wash and clean up to make sure my girl doesn't forget anything. All the while trying to not bust into tears because she's going home and God only knows when we'll see each other in person again.

Wednesday night she'll get on the plane in a flash of blond hair and I'll break down completely, prompting airport employees to attempt to offer assistance, only to be waived off until the plane gets into the air. Then I'll blindly sob myself with wracking breaths all the way back to the car... and will continue for the rest of the two-plus-hour drive home from North Houston...

Thursday, I'll be having my ImissmygirlGodithurtssomuchjustkillmenow day of grieving. If you're not calling to tell me I hit the lotto jackpot the night before, you won't get through. I'll be huddled in a ball on the bed squeezing the blanket that my girl slept with while she was here. I'll be Linus with that blanket on Thursday. It will be disgustingly wet and sticky by noon cause my nose runs like a faucet when I cry; won't matter. A few times throughout the day I'll get up for the bathroom & remember to change and feed the munchkin. Laundry will not get washed, dishes will not get done, hubby will be lucky to come home to dinner and a non-diaper-stink-house.

So, I just wanted to let y'all know that I wouldn't be posting till Friday...

Kiddie Crack

I have found the one and only way to keep my son from staging a playpen-jailbreak.

Enchanted.

He has a toddler crush or something. I mean, I know Disney is just street code for 'kiddie-crack'. And as many times as I've seen Cars or Aladdin, I have never seen anything like this. I don't usually let him watch movies in the morning. In the morning, it's PBS Kids and all things educational. It isn't until 5pm that PBS gives way to the news, so that's when a Boo-Boo movie gets played, so mommy can make dinner uninterrupted, and it's over (or really close to it) when daddy gets home.

Today, Boo dove out of his pen so that he could get to the DVD shelf, get Enchanted and bring it to me. So, brilliant mommy that I am, I deduced that he wanted to watch it, and asked him if he wanted to see Giselle, because that's what I do with Disney flicks, I call them by their character names...

He goes running from me, down the hall and over to the DVD player saying, "yahyahyah" all the way. I catch up, and he's already trying to mash the open button to insert the movie, but aside from that, he's standing there, ever so slightly hunch-shouldered, like he's so excited he's peeing his pants ~ he's still in diapers, for all I know, he really was.

I bend over to set up the movie, which puts me eye-level with Boo, who is saying, "Aihn-ded" as I get it going. Normally, at this point, he tries to get the movie box back from me, and I decline since we have several movies that now have only black-sharpie-hand-written-movie-titles on their spine... some still have the plastic cover, some do not. But he had an entirely different look on his face today when he reached up for the box, and it was this look that made me let him have it...

It was reverence. Angels-descending-all-around-hallelujah-chorus reverence. He looked at the box lovingly as I allowed him to relieve me of it. He didn't even fuss when I returned him to the playpen. He sat right down with his treasure-Enchanted-box and proceeded to watch the all the previews.

After a request for more milk, he is once again sitting entranced by Enchanted. And call me a sap, but you remember when Mopey came to visit earlier in the month? Yeah, well a viewing or two of Enchanted, and that jerkface went running from the building like his hair was on fire. And not to bust Hubby's manhood-bubble, but he doesn't turn it off when he comes in and finds it on ~ he sits down and watches whatever is left of the movie's run with us.

The damn thing is infectious... waaaaayyyy too easy to watch ~ and even just to listen to from the other room. It's almost scary, the spell it has weaved over my entire household. And the happy-pop goddess-baseline beat of "That's How You Know" (DVD chapter 10, so you can find it quickly ~ in the event of an emergency) sticks in your head more than any other Disney song ~ ever... OK, maybe not EVER ~ "Supercalifragilistic" is pretty hard to top... but it's right up there. Now I've got that damned song running through my skull... Oh, whew, it'll be OK, "Happy Working Song" (DVD chapter 6) just started... I have to hurry up and finish this post so I can go watch it with him; even though I'm sure it won't be the only showing of the day...

Disney (crack), Disney (crack)... want some Disney (crack)

Happy Birthday! Love, Mama

Ten years ago, today, I was in labor getting ready to give birth to my girl. I was a week past due and so ready to not be a blimp anymore. Even more ready to have the swelling in my feet go down enough to wear socks again. I was anxious with anticipation to see my girl sleeping in her beautifully put-together room with the Puffalumps I had searched for high and low until I got her all four. What I wasn't ready for, was a surprise full-anesthesia C-Section and being in so much pain in the recovery room that I could barely focus on her little face. We were both a little bleary eyed when we met. My girl from her arrival into the harsh world of lights when she had decided that she was simply not ready to leave her warm squishy place just yet; and I from loads of pain meds thanks to one of the doctors passing through the recovery room and assuring the nurses, "Yes, this patient can definitely handle more morphine."

She was a blessing before she even arrived--and completely my girl. I knew she was a girl before the amnio confirmed it. She came to me in a dream, and together we picked out her name. She would have the girls version of my grandfather's name, and her middle name would be the same as my mother's. It flowed beautifully together, and from the moment I woke up from that dream, I knew that my girl WAS Josephine (Josie) Rose. It fit her completely, and no matter how people tried to get me to change my mind, I wouldn't budge. 10 years ago, nobody named their daughter Josephine! It was old fashioned. And as my father put it, "the name of old ladies dressed in black waiting to die". I didn't care. She was (and is) Josie to me. And once she arrived, the visual image that they had previously attached to the name was forever changed to a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, light-filled little girl.

In the hospital, they had to bring her in to sleep in my room because she would cry with such loudness and intensity that she woke up every other infant in the nursery. With me, she hushed right up and cooed. My girl from the first. She wasn't like other children anyway. She could hold her head up the very first day. She slept through the night from the first night she was home, and every night thereafter. She didn't smile early, but she did give me her first hug at 6 weeks old when she wound her little arms around my neck and squeezed. It is one of the most precious Mama-Moments I have, that hug.

She went through all the first-born-mama-has-no-idea-how-to-be-a-mama-yet growing pains with me. Like the awkward first few times out of the house for anything, when you haven't figured out how to cart and balance and schedule everything that is required with an infant. She went through two years of un-diagnosed post-partum depression with me and would give me hugs whenever she saw Mommy crying which, in retrospect, saved my life more than once. She taught me how to think about another person first. She broke my heart only so she could expand it and knit it back together so that it would grow big enough to hold all the love I would feel for her.

She was a happy, laughing child who very rarely fussed or cried. She almost never got sick and she was smart and strong and amazing. As she got older she talked early, walked early and climbed absolutely everything. She was also a biter and would teethe on every window sill in the house. She would crack us up repeating "WaaaaZuuuuupppp" from the Budweiser commercials. And she would shout "TONY" every time the Soprano's came on, and then she would tell us how Tony used bad language. She could turn on every piece in the AV system and play herself a movie before she was 2.

It wasn't all miracles and cuteness though. For those of you who have read my prior posts about parenting, some of which included stories of Vaseline Stalactites, and turning into a stunt-person to avoid tripping over them, and the fatality of remote controls during the flushing process... Yes, all of these things I learned about while parenting my girl Josie. My amazing girl who loved to dress up like a princess and then wanted to go play soccer in her princess dress--daily. She taught me about not leaving scissors within reach when cleaning up from a home-haircut. I learned quickly how to re-start my heart. This is useful for times when I would come in the room to find (water) tea being poured clumsily from her new tea set... directly in front of the TV... while the TV is on. Or when I would walk in the room to find her using the Sit-n-Spin toy as a step-ladder to climb up the outside of her crib like a mini-Spiderman-girl.

She also reignited my imagination and is a consummate sales-person. She could get her father and I to sit in the backyard while she would re-marry us simply so she could throw rose petals all over us and the yard. She was the reason that we would have blanket tents up for three days in the dining room and she could get every family member in attendance to not only play in there, but sleep on the floor in the tent for at least one night. She named her all-black-stuffed-dog Spot, because when the dog was on the beige carpet he looked like a big spot on the floor. What 3 year old comes up with that kind of reasoning?


I spent 5 years as a full-time student of
Mamadom at the University of Josephine. She was the best teacher ever. Thank you Josie for being patient with me and teaching me more than I ever knew I could learn. I love you more than words can possibly describe and I am so proud of the amazing person that you are. You are beautiful from the inside out. I'm still not sure, after 10 years, what exactly I did to deserve you, but it must have been fantastic!

Happy 10th Birthday!
Love, Mama.

Universal Levelers and Wonder Moms

I have never, in all my nearly 10 years of parenting have I ever considered myself a good mom. Oh, I have my moments of brilliance, but on a general basis, I'm average at best. I simply got lucky with the kids I was entrusted with by the universe. That and I know about universal levelers.

And to clarify, I don't count pregnancy as parenting time because that is the easy part. Yes, you pre-children people, the part where your body is a kiddie-condo and you have to watch every morsel and molecule that enters your ever expanding body as you blow up mercilessly with water-retention. The part where mini-you makes your hormones go apeshit, creating food cravings which come on at all hours of the day and night, and makes your normally normal-sized body not give one whit that it's gaining weight and girth exponentially because you want that peanut-butter-tuna sandwich and the grapefruit-guava smoothie to wash it down with, and you want it N.O.W. damn it!!! These hormone-fueled cravings are so strong that you want whatever you are craving with the same intensity that the Underground Railroad escapees wanted freedom. And figuring out how to navigate the world with a medicine ball in your shorts is no easy task--it takes practice just to not tip over. And yet, I don't count this as parenting, because this is the easy part. Hmmm that could be a mini-blurb for a birth control site just on it's own, and I haven't even begun to mention labor and delivery...

Thing is, while you're pregnant, you comfort yourself through all the myriads of discomfort with visions of cover-model-pink-cheeked-brilliant-eyed-cherubs. You know about diapers, and you've heard that babies wake up at all hours of the night. There are so many things that being a parent entails, that no one tells you about--and even if someone, by the grace of God, tells you; you simply won't get it until you experience it for yourself. I thought, because I had baby-sat for almost every teen year of my life, and had a younger sister that I knew what I was in for, right? Oh, you naive woman, you have no idea.

And, this has been said to the point of cliche, but honestly, it IS true. Parenthood changes you. But it's in ways that you couldn't begin to conceive of in a pre-parent or pregnancy state. Kind of like my move to Texas. I thought I knew, but I SOOOO didn't know, ya know? Reality has a way of smiling as it comes up on you, and then in it's final approach, it will reach out a hand and slap you with a huge 8-day-old-500-pound-swordfish. And then it will smile at you again, just to show there are no hard feelings.

No one can explain to you the feeling that you will get when go in to watch your child sleep, and how that feeling will be better than any summer-blockbuster or sex or wine or drug you ever experienced. And in those moments, when they really do resemble the pink-cheeked-cherub from your prego delusion, you will tear up because your heart is so full of wonder and love and potential that you simply cannot contain yourself. At those times, you forget all the grueling nights-in-a-row when you fed them at 3 am, and were so sleep deprived that you would nod off and almost drop them off your lap. You also forget the stretch of time where you were someone who was once fastidious to the point of being neurotic about their appearance and fashion choices, and yet, as a parent, now will go two days without a shower and don't even flinch when you get baby-puked-on for the third time that day. The adorable-child-of-mine-sleep-watch is something that every single parent does, it's a universal leveler, but no one can adequately describe it to you before you become a parent nor can you describe it's awesome power. It is this power which ensures that most children survive to school-age. This is because God in his (or her) infinite wisdom, made kids cute to their parents for their own self-defense; another universal leveler.

There are no levelers for the types of parents there are, however. The human race being as varied as it is, there are all types of parents; good, average, bad, and then there are the Wonder Moms. They are the moms that volunteer at school every week, and drop their kids off with their hair done, full make up, and non-pajama clothing on every day. They are the ones that go to the park after school and on weekends with regularity and look happy to be there. They don't shriek at their children about forgetting their backpacks, and they always sign and return the permission slips on time AND will be a chaperon for every class trip. It's a guarantee that some time during their child's academic career, they will be the president of the PTA and a den mother to at least one scout group. They make it to church every week, again with the kicker, on time and are part of the ladies group. Despite tough economic times, they plan, save for, and actually manage to take the family to Disneyland at least once a year. They are a topic of discussion (and the secret envy) of all non-Wonder Moms.

But, there is something else that every single parent on the planet goes through, even Wonder Mom. There will come a point when you say to yourself that you coulda, shoulda, woulda done or said 'XYZ' better, and you will feel guilty. Guilt is one of the universal levelers for parents from every era, everywhere. We all have it sooner or later. At least once in your parenting life, you will be gripped with this guilt to such a crushing-suffocating degree that you will Will WILL cry. It's as much of a given as the diaper thing. But this is one of the most hidden of hidden parenting secrets. This is something they don't talk about with other parents, never mind before you become one.

The knowledge of universal levelers may not help you get peanut butter off the dog, or bubble-gum-all-the-way-to-the-scalp out of your child's hair, but it does make it a little easier to smile at Wonder Mom at the bake-sale (that she organized and baked 300 cupcakes and two bundt cakes for so that the school can keep the music program) when she gives you that movie-star-white-Donna-Reed smile as you pay for your kid's one cupcake and the three more you bought to eat on your no-makeup-sweat-pant-and-ripped-T-shirt-wearing ride home. In the field of parenting, on a few subjects, for a brief, moment you and Wonder Mom are equals... Oh hell, that might even deserve another cupcake!

Stay At Home Parenting

I have been blessed to be able to stay at home and parent both of my children in their earliest stages of development. With each of my two children and in each of my two marriages, I was afforded this luxury. And as wonderful as this sounds, there is so much more that goes into it, that both your working partner and other non-stay-at-home parents cannot possibly understand. Let me shed some light.

First of all, it is not all beer and Skittles. We do not sit on the couch eating bon-bons and watching a litany of soap operas and talk shows. While our job looks easy to those who brave the traffic and office politics to put a roof over our heads and food on our tables, you are sadly mistaken. We have our own unique set of problems and stresses, some of which you worker-types couldn't handle for three times your annual salary.

Choose your favorite co-worker--past or present. Someone that you enjoyed working with or for, no matter the reason, and given the chance, would work with that person every work day. OK, now try this... You work with that person seven days a week, 24 hours a day, in the same setting. A little bit of cabin fever over time, right? Not even close...

You are responsible for feeding them and clothing them. Everything that you do and say and every single tone of voice and emotion you display is being burned into that little person's memory with all the permanence of a branding iron or a really bad tattoo. In turn, it is creating their behavior in conjunction with their own personality. They will repeat things that you didn't even know that they heard, at the most embarrassing possible time and place. Think that would be stressful? Check this out...

For a while, every single time you turn around, you will have to grab out to counters, walls, chairs, tables and anything else in reaching distance-- mid-freefall -- to keep from completely tripping over them and hurting yourself or them to the point where a visit to the hospital would be a very good idea. Even if you manage to perfect your stunt-person moves and avoid being the source of their (or your) physical damage, eventually, there will be blood. There will be bruises. There will be tears. There will be nightmares from TV shows they shouldn't have seen or bedding that has to be changed at 3 am. Both of which have the possibility of lasting for an extended run of an undetermined number of nights in a row.

There will be blankets and entire rolls of toilet paper in the toilet because you were viewed using the potty, putting in a small amount of said toilet paper and making the hugest mistake of all--flushing. This will create a fascination that will last months and very rarely be pretty, and can in fact, be fatal to small pets, some stuffed animals and almost all TV remotes and cell phones.

There will be soaked-to-the-skin-even-though-you're-not-the-one-in-the-tub bath times that will make you check your homeowners policy concerning flood damage. Those times will inevitably and inexplicably change one day to footraces throughout the house that are not punctuated by the cheering of fans, but the shrill make-you-deaf screams of, "I don't want to take a tubby!!!" Not to mention the full body work out that comes from wrangling an unwilling child. You will also get that several times a day early on when you wrestle a writhing-jumping-bean of a child to clean them of the foulest-melt-paint smelling diapers or a clothing change once they've learned to walk. On that note, let me say now, buy stock in Advil and Tylenol and for goodness sakes, don't forget Excedrin.

You will find spills, stains and things that you cannot identify on furniture, floors, clothes, in cars, in hair, on hands and without fail, in your kitchen and or bathroom sink. And you get to be the one to clean it -- whatever it is. I promise you, even if you took Home-EC as a professional course at Harvard, they did not ever cover some of these situations and how to clean them up. I know they did not teach Vaseline-stalagmite removal with broken glass and full-body-greased-child (and I mean FULL body greased, standing in the bowl of the sink along with the shards of broken glass that used to contain toothbrushes all because you decided to take a 5 minute--egg timered it, FIVE MINUTE shower...). Yeah, that's one of those learn as you go kind of things. Then again, that's parenting. Joy. Rapture.

You also have to spend time educating them no matter how fast you have to duck as they throw their Tonka trucks at your head, or pull your hair out of your scalp, or refuse to repeat after you, despite how many times and in how many different voices you sing the ABC song. And while their little brains are expanding, yours is shrinking with the repetitious atrophy that only someone who has heard Aladdin 300 times can attest to. Then our partners come home and we're expected to be able to maintain adult conversation and have physical relations even when we can hear Sebastian singing "Under The Sea" in our heads... Over and over and over and over...

Somewhere in between all of this we are expected to put the home in some sort of order akin to cleanliness, keep all necessities stocked, feed all residents and visitors (on a meager budget cause there is only one income), wash, swap to dryer, fold and put away clothes (and any tissues that find their way into the laundry basket). We also have to manage to not go to pot and maintain our own personal maintenance as well as get our bodies back into pre-child shape so our partner doesn't puke when they see us naked.

The stay-at-home parents do all this and more. It's stressful, repetitious, and has the possibility of being dangerous to their physical and mental well being. Is it any wonder why, when we get the chance to go grocery shopping alone we behave as though we're running screaming from the building with our hair on fire--squealing tires down the driveway and all the way up the street...?

We don't get paid, we don't get thanked. What we do almost always goes without any notice at all, unless we're doing it poorly or we have a total psychotic break. And yet we're supposed to always, always, always be thankful for the opportunity to stay home while our hard-working partner provides for us instead of allowing us to be human and realizing that stay-at-home parents need down time too.

My ex-husband constantly had that mentality even when I broke it down to him, much like I just did for you. Then again, my ex has prime real estate on Asshole Avenue.

Parenting Craziness

I believe, that no matter what you do, parenting makes you crazy. Not insane, like my last post... you can hide insane and be functional in the world. I mean crazy like pull your hair out, scream like a banshee, call the ambulance & tell them to bring a straitjacket: Crazy.

It starts in pregnancy: all the do's & don'ts of taking care of your body and setting up the space for the baby and how all of this will effect your relationship, add the hormone hell a woman goes through... excited, but crazy.

Then you have the child and it comes home; bigger do's and don'ts and how-do-I's. Add the well-wishing guests that drop by without calling and say and do things to make you want to kick them all the way out the door and down the driveway mainly because of the new round of hormone hell you are in and the severe to the point that Navy Seals are dropping like flies exhaustion...excited but tired and crazier.

Then they become toddlers: more expansive do's and don'ts, the kind that involve poison control numbers, electrocution, and emergency trips to the er & doctor's office. They need bigger badder gadgets that take Mensa membership to assemble. They start watching educational television, which is very good for them and yet, melts your brain like soft butter on a full open burner. They walk and get into everything including, but not limited to; the cat food & litter box, the kitchen cabinets, dvd & cd collection, bathroom cabinets, the toilet and anything else that is 3 1/2 feet high or less. Unless you've got a climber, and then the cut off height and the level of panic goes up exponentially...excited, tired, brain-dead and crazier.

Then they start school. Now the do's & don'ts are less common sense and more personal-style invasive. You are angry with their classmates for not being nicer to your child on the playground and frustrated that the teacher doesn't get to paddle children that don't share the blue crayon with your child. They can't wait to start loosing their precious baby teeth like the big kids, and you can barely remember how they got from newborn to school-aged so fast. You run around every morning like a chicken with it's head cut off to get everyone out the door on time...excited, tired, half brain-dead, hyper-protective and crazier.

Next thing you know, they're in 5th grade. They fight over doing homework, want money for lunches instead of taking one cause it's cooler, and have multiple permission forms that need to be signed and returned or you're child will sit in the Principal's office with a book cause their parent didn't remember to put the slip into the backpack that weighs 37 lbs. Instead, their parent handed it to them and expected them to put it in their own backpack. They start talking back in a tone that makes you want to knock the rest of their baby teeth down their throat. You have become an embarrassment overnight and they get away from you with the speed of a roller-derby queen on meth to go to any other aisle to pick out their own movies at the video store. They will try every time to get at least one R-rated movie past you. You are chauffeuring them to so many non-school activities that you have a calendar on the fridge to keep everything straight & heaven forbid you forget to make 75 cupcakes for the underwater-basket-weaving team which you didn't know until last night that you were responsible for bringing...enthused, forgetful, trying to keep up and be hip so they will still throw you a hug from time to time as long as it's not in front of anyone, and crazier.

Before you've blinked twice, it's senior year. You're arguing about college applications. You're wondering if you can get college funding, but first you're wondering if you can get senior picture, yearbook, cap & gown and prom funding. You see more of the back of your child's friends' heads in your refrigerator than you see your own child, in fact it's been so long since you've seen your child that you wonder if their friends ate them for their X-Box and just haven't left yet. You pass your child's room and see a circle of friends around the computer chair, and you hope your child is in there and is not cyber-bullying anyone or being cyber-bullied by anyone or looking at anyone naked. Then you remember that you actually saw them two days ago mumbling something about needing $40 dollars as they were scrounging in your wallet. As it has been two days, you know you will see your child today for more money from the Parental Unit Bank & Trust... where they trust that the parental units will always be their endless supply of cash to supplement their income as they bust their butts at work -- all 12 hours a week at minimum wage. You thank your lucky stars they can afford their own gas and manage to find their shoes. Every night they come home sober you fall to your knees and thank God for keeping your child safe and then immediately worry that they weren't sober earlier, they were just smart enough to come home sober. You take a deep breath and try to be thankful that at least they're that smart and at the same time worry what they're up to that you haven't caught on to yet or heard about being done by kids their age on the 'Panic Now News'. You're interested, have old-timer's disease, are trying to stay out of the way so you don't get run over while also figuring out how to pay for it all, and crazier.

Then one day, you get the call... that they are going to be a parent, and you smile to yourself as you hang up the phone. First, you know about all the beautiful wonderful memories and the way that having a child will change you and your life and your world forever and you are thankful that they'll get to experience the wonder of it all. And then you smile even bigger as a chuckle escapes your throat, because the mother's curse always works ("I hope one day you grow up to have a child that acts just like you!"), it always comes with interest, and now they get to be crazy too.