This week, overall, has been a complete train wreck. I've gotten so stressed and exhausted trying to schedule a car tune up that I threw the French doors closed and stood, shaking, in the dining room as two little possessed kids tried to nudge/hack/shimmy their way into my personal space while screaming at the top of their lungs. I literally had to call the man at "Al's" back twice because I couldn't understand a word. All I could focus on was that I had two kids about to shatter forty panes of glass just to get close to me and all I wanted was to be alone. Was something wrong with me?
When the urban youth stopped by to sell $43 cleaner "scented lavender for all the Queens - like you" I bought one. I opened the door, listened, and bought one. I just didn't have the heart to say no to his spiel on a ninety-nine degree day in Iowa. He had on jeans, long sleeves, and was sweating out of control. Not only did I buy his product, I also ended up giving him a Gatorade and a pep talk... while my kids ram sacked his backpack, jumped off the porch onto my hostas, and he looked at me like "you poor thing!" instead of gratitude. Was something wrong with me?
Xanders favorite way to snack is to lay on a blanket, picnic-style, on our great room floor. He and Zoe started out okay on the same red blanket with bears. Now Zoe has to have her Ducky blanket at a forty-seven degree angle from the TV, certain throw pillow she used a Sharpie to decorate a few weeks ago, and a sippy cup she hasn't used since she was in Pampers. It used to be fun and a great way for momma to get in twenty minutes of space. Now it has turned into a complete disaster in which if Xander's big toe is within one inch of Zoe's blanket, she steamrolls an unsuspecting baby and squishes him until he cries. In return, Xander grabs fistfuls of toe head hair on top of him and pulls, yanks, and tugs until each fist takes away a nice souvenir. I watch, disgusted with them, pull them apart and scream. What is wrong with me?
Xander has a handful of words he uses. Maybe less than a handful... unless they are in eighteen-point font. At his age, Zoe was a walking storybook, telling tales of every adventure she could think of that entailed a horse, stop sign, and gas station - the things she remembered on her last trip to the store with her mom. We would laugh and create enchanted lands with our words and have conversations that could rival some adults. Xander grunts, points, and breaks down with a scream, downward facing dog, and head bang instead of sign "Milk" most days. What is wrong with X?
At swim lessons, which should be a thirty minute break, Zoe played tug of war with another little girl over the green turtle kick board. They shouted, tugged, and splashed one another, both ladies showing a fierce attitude that could rival Naomi Campbell's, until an instructor pointed out that all six kick boards were, in fact, identical green turtles. Instead of calmly reaching for another, both girls locked their grip on The One and waited. The instructor, exasperated, handed each of them a new kick board and threw the sought-after one in the deep end. I pretended not to see the ordeal. What is wrong with Zoe?
When Mr. comes home from work and after an hour has sighed fourteen times and broken up six sibling arguments, instead of feeling kinship, I usually snap, "Don't look for sympathy from me, Bud. I've done this ALL. DAY." and go back to escaping in a hot sink of Dawn and a scrub brush. What is wrong with us?
I. AM. EXHAUSTED. If someone handed me a ticket anywhere from here for the weekend, I would walk out the door, pick up some chick lit at the airport, and step on the plane. I'd sleep in-between pretzel and Sprite breaks and enjoy being cramped in an itty-bitty seat without an infant puking on me while a toddler kicks the seat in front of her every forty seconds (which is enough time for the passenger in front to get comfortable again, settle in, and then "BOOM!"). When I hit my destination I'd call my man and make sure he and the kids were alive, hang up, and sleep. Read. Eat. Repeat. I'm sure I'd miss them within twenty-four hours, but I know that first day I wouldn't think twice about neglecting my mommy duties. What is wrong with me?
Sometimes I want to shake so hard the kids vibrate off of me, almost like little tops, and spin away. Not too far, but just far enough that I can move without tripping over one of them or their toys that are always everywhere. I find the premise to Toy Story non-fiction. Those toys, which were put away and organized when I left the room, always manage to party their way onto the stairs, into the middle of the floor, and under my feet the second I return to the room holding two loads of laundry with Xander perched like a cherry on top. Zoe is no where in sight, typically roving through her closet in search of the one item she cannot reach, piling up pillows and Pottery Barn chairs, and climbing the stack to reach her elusive tutu, only to lose her balance, catch a hanger, snap it in half, and carve a bloody tunnel out of her cheek, all while I don't have my eyes on her for a minute. This has happened more than once. What is wrong with us?
I know there will be bright moments in my day today that I wouldn't trade for the world, but all in all, I would love to escape. Just for a day or two and get back my mojo... or until nap time.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Friday, July 9, 2010
Flashdance
Couldn't tell you what started it. Maybe that I said an emphatic NO! to Kudo bar #8 for the day, only pushed them on the swings for 43 consecutive minutes in 90 degree weather in direct sunlight, or turned off the sprinkler when a flash flood erupted in the middle of our backyard? Perhaps it was my offering of mandarin oranges, watermelon, celery with peanut butter, cheese and crackers, grilled cheese, hot dogs (no buns, cut in little pieces with cheese on top and pretzel sticks as toothpicks), chicken noodle soup, and macaroni and cheese for lunch, as opposed to the chocolate chip cookie dough the four fat hands clung to quickly as they snatched it out of the open fridge? Whatever it was, it pissed some kids off.
Xander can go from all smiles to screaming dervish in a matter of seconds. It's an amazing transformation to watch his gorgeous tanned cheeks to turn into pink and finally, with the proper scream, cherry tomato red. He flops around as if he is dying from a lack of oxygen, and does maneuvers with his back that would make an inch worm proud. While doing this little routine, he swats away his momma's comforting hands, but will scream and escalate if his momma is more than twelve inches from his side watching every move.
X-man was knee deep in a Tantrum and Zoe and I just watched. It was so interestingly orchestrated that Zoe gave up her screaming, throwing, and kicking to be a spectator to the master. Hey, he's learned from the best.
All I can think is that if I just knew where our Flip was, I could get this on tape, post it on Facebook, and my friends could have easy access to free birth control via a minute video of a seventeen-month-old in action. I think it would be better than Sex Ed and really promote abstinence. I mean, if you had an image of Xander acting like this when you were about to get it on, it may just curb the desire into a little healthy fear of a baby. Worth a shot, Sarah Palin.
In the tone of a video shoot, I started thinking about the soundtrack I'd play. And it hit me. FLASHDANCE! Someone give this kid a chair and a leotard! That's a tough dance and I have a prodigy on my hands - he did it with ease and precision.
Xander needs a college fund? Check. Here we come, Little Miss Perfect. I have a male entrant who has a talent that comes out with one snatch of a block, lack of nap, and nothing in his system besides granola bars and oyster crackers.
Take that, three year old girl in more make up than a MAC counter can offer, a fake tan, and four hair pieces who can sing God Bless America backwards while standing on her head. I have an all-natural beauty with a set of lungs who isn't afraid to use them.
Xander can go from all smiles to screaming dervish in a matter of seconds. It's an amazing transformation to watch his gorgeous tanned cheeks to turn into pink and finally, with the proper scream, cherry tomato red. He flops around as if he is dying from a lack of oxygen, and does maneuvers with his back that would make an inch worm proud. While doing this little routine, he swats away his momma's comforting hands, but will scream and escalate if his momma is more than twelve inches from his side watching every move.
X-man was knee deep in a Tantrum and Zoe and I just watched. It was so interestingly orchestrated that Zoe gave up her screaming, throwing, and kicking to be a spectator to the master. Hey, he's learned from the best.
All I can think is that if I just knew where our Flip was, I could get this on tape, post it on Facebook, and my friends could have easy access to free birth control via a minute video of a seventeen-month-old in action. I think it would be better than Sex Ed and really promote abstinence. I mean, if you had an image of Xander acting like this when you were about to get it on, it may just curb the desire into a little healthy fear of a baby. Worth a shot, Sarah Palin.
In the tone of a video shoot, I started thinking about the soundtrack I'd play. And it hit me. FLASHDANCE! Someone give this kid a chair and a leotard! That's a tough dance and I have a prodigy on my hands - he did it with ease and precision.
Xander needs a college fund? Check. Here we come, Little Miss Perfect. I have a male entrant who has a talent that comes out with one snatch of a block, lack of nap, and nothing in his system besides granola bars and oyster crackers.
Take that, three year old girl in more make up than a MAC counter can offer, a fake tan, and four hair pieces who can sing God Bless America backwards while standing on her head. I have an all-natural beauty with a set of lungs who isn't afraid to use them.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Cow Patties
Twenty-four miles northwest of Des Moines, Iowa really doesn't sound like it would be too far away from civilization, I thought as I plugged in the White Fence Dairy Farm's address. Our mom's group was meeting at 10:00 and we thought we'd take the mini-van for a spin on some gravel roads and pet a cow or two. Hey, what else did we have planned?
I copied the directions and when I got to number fourteen or so it got vague. The "Turn Right on Route 43/S. Main Street (14.2 miles)" turned into "If you make it this far, throw a stone and go the direction it lands. You are in the middle of nowhere. Why would you go to Woodward, Iowa?" and so on. I was on my own with a cell phone saying "No Service" and two kids pumped for some fresh dairy and good ol' fun in the manure.
We were flying down a very rural highway, feeling the speedometer hit 70 and the blacktop under Michelin's finest when all of a sudden a country, gravel road sprung up out of nowhere. We threw out a plume of dust and bumped, grinded, and gave our shocks a good test of durability. In Iowa, rural roads are not marked with 50 miles an hour signs. They aren't marked with "Beware, Deliverance Country" signage, either. They just pop up and scare the shit out of a "city girl" like me.
After we took the appropriate turns, ramps, and unmarked roads, I realized that I may be raising my children in the middle of a soybean or cornfield until my cell could find service. It gave me nightmares about my own Children of the Corn as I prayed Verizon could just let me get out one "Can you hear me now?" to 888-555-COWS. Seriously, that was the number. Verizon didn't let me down, we made a thirty-second call and talked to a very chipper Jo Jo who used directionals like, "Herb's barn. Can't miss it, roof is caved in. Turn there." and "When you see all the feral cats in a field, go another mile and then turn by the llamas" which made me do a little chair dance when we actually saw the White Fence Dairy Farm sign.
"Look, Zo! A cow!" I exclaimed excitedly as the kid's doors opened and I got the stroller out.
"Yech. It reeks! What is that smell?" came from my cherub.
"Cows. Country. Iowa."
"Nope. Poop. I know the smell of poop, Mom." Well, you got me there, Zoe.
Xander didn't do his usual go-boneless-and-scream when put into the stroller and we started up the rocky drive to a tiny barn surrounded by blue skies and white puffy clouds.
Jo Jo greeted our group of forty, threw her hands on her knees and smiled a lot, and talked waaaay over our kids heads about her bovine brood. We learned a heffer is a young female yet to give birth (and not a fat fat cow as I assumed) and the difference in stature, make, and color of beef vs. dairy cows. The mom's tried to pay attention as the kids entertained themselves by throwing rocks at the fence (and therefore, the cows).
ZAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAP!
Shrieks and cries erupted from a young mom as she tore her preschooler from the electric fence the pudgy fingers were gripping as a shock ran through her hands.
"Oops! I should have told you all that this fence does have electric currents running through it! Great to contain cows, not great for the kids!" as she skipped off to the calf barn. Over her shoulder Jo Jo threw out, "Keep little hands off it! It'll give your ticker a jump start!"
Twenty wide-eyed petrified kids hung back as the mom's coerced them with "there's ice cream" and "wanna see a baby cow" concepts as we made our way in Jo Jo's direction.
Another interesting fact we learned is that young male calfs can get, and hold, an erection when surrounded by a group of young, curious children.
We also learned that it wasn't mud, but cow feces, that covered the wet, murky path to the cattle barn and therefore, flip flops, Crocs, and sandals are not the best choice in dairy farm touring footwear.
The kids perked up as they walked the length of the barn and could get a quick tug of an ear, nudge of a nose, and gutteral sound from the cows that couldn't care less that we were inches from their lunch. It was cool to see Zoe grab that hay in one hand, still gripping an old granola bar in the other, and try to feed the cow. When she was more interested in the bar, Zoe gladly let the cow try a nibble and then decided to finish it off herself. I had to read my Purell bottle closely to see if I could use it on her mouth, lips, and tongue. No such luck.
Xander was a little overwhelmed and was thrilled to ride in his stroller and let his sister get nibbled by the Jersey Girls. We showered off our feet, calves, knees, and strollers and went into the barn to ask any questions. When one woman asked what happens to a heffer who cannot get pregnant Jo Jo replied, "She gives us beef!" with a smile.
Then, the closing line of Jo Jo's presentation, said with gusto and passion, "A dairy cow is a magnificent, giving creature. From her first pregnancy to the rest of her life, she will spend it making and giving her milk to us. Then, in a final act of selflessness, she will give us herself in the form of beef!" Jo Jo's eyes shined with excitement, and I almost felt like I should applaud, or hand her a kerchief. Instead, I thought, "let's get the cow's side of this story, sister!" and kept my mouth shut. I also thought of how many nursing momma's were in our group and how many of them would like to be pumped twice a day for the rest of their life so some other species could make sugary treats from her mammary glands. Not many, I'd guess.
We got to taste some amazing chocolate milk - honestly, it was like chilled liquid gold - and ice cream that was so delicious it made me rethink the "no bowls of ice cream before breakfast" rule in our house.
On our way back to the car, I looked down and had two kids with brown mustaches, sticky hands, and a wayward cow poop smear here or there, and smiled. Sometimes, it's nice to live in Iowa.
Sometimes.
I copied the directions and when I got to number fourteen or so it got vague. The "Turn Right on Route 43/S. Main Street (14.2 miles)" turned into "If you make it this far, throw a stone and go the direction it lands. You are in the middle of nowhere. Why would you go to Woodward, Iowa?" and so on. I was on my own with a cell phone saying "No Service" and two kids pumped for some fresh dairy and good ol' fun in the manure.
We were flying down a very rural highway, feeling the speedometer hit 70 and the blacktop under Michelin's finest when all of a sudden a country, gravel road sprung up out of nowhere. We threw out a plume of dust and bumped, grinded, and gave our shocks a good test of durability. In Iowa, rural roads are not marked with 50 miles an hour signs. They aren't marked with "Beware, Deliverance Country" signage, either. They just pop up and scare the shit out of a "city girl" like me.
After we took the appropriate turns, ramps, and unmarked roads, I realized that I may be raising my children in the middle of a soybean or cornfield until my cell could find service. It gave me nightmares about my own Children of the Corn as I prayed Verizon could just let me get out one "Can you hear me now?" to 888-555-COWS. Seriously, that was the number. Verizon didn't let me down, we made a thirty-second call and talked to a very chipper Jo Jo who used directionals like, "Herb's barn. Can't miss it, roof is caved in. Turn there." and "When you see all the feral cats in a field, go another mile and then turn by the llamas" which made me do a little chair dance when we actually saw the White Fence Dairy Farm sign.
"Look, Zo! A cow!" I exclaimed excitedly as the kid's doors opened and I got the stroller out.
"Yech. It reeks! What is that smell?" came from my cherub.
"Cows. Country. Iowa."
"Nope. Poop. I know the smell of poop, Mom." Well, you got me there, Zoe.
Xander didn't do his usual go-boneless-and-scream when put into the stroller and we started up the rocky drive to a tiny barn surrounded by blue skies and white puffy clouds.
Jo Jo greeted our group of forty, threw her hands on her knees and smiled a lot, and talked waaaay over our kids heads about her bovine brood. We learned a heffer is a young female yet to give birth (and not a fat fat cow as I assumed) and the difference in stature, make, and color of beef vs. dairy cows. The mom's tried to pay attention as the kids entertained themselves by throwing rocks at the fence (and therefore, the cows).
ZAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAP!
Shrieks and cries erupted from a young mom as she tore her preschooler from the electric fence the pudgy fingers were gripping as a shock ran through her hands.
"Oops! I should have told you all that this fence does have electric currents running through it! Great to contain cows, not great for the kids!" as she skipped off to the calf barn. Over her shoulder Jo Jo threw out, "Keep little hands off it! It'll give your ticker a jump start!"
Twenty wide-eyed petrified kids hung back as the mom's coerced them with "there's ice cream" and "wanna see a baby cow" concepts as we made our way in Jo Jo's direction.
Another interesting fact we learned is that young male calfs can get, and hold, an erection when surrounded by a group of young, curious children.
We also learned that it wasn't mud, but cow feces, that covered the wet, murky path to the cattle barn and therefore, flip flops, Crocs, and sandals are not the best choice in dairy farm touring footwear.
The kids perked up as they walked the length of the barn and could get a quick tug of an ear, nudge of a nose, and gutteral sound from the cows that couldn't care less that we were inches from their lunch. It was cool to see Zoe grab that hay in one hand, still gripping an old granola bar in the other, and try to feed the cow. When she was more interested in the bar, Zoe gladly let the cow try a nibble and then decided to finish it off herself. I had to read my Purell bottle closely to see if I could use it on her mouth, lips, and tongue. No such luck.
Xander was a little overwhelmed and was thrilled to ride in his stroller and let his sister get nibbled by the Jersey Girls. We showered off our feet, calves, knees, and strollers and went into the barn to ask any questions. When one woman asked what happens to a heffer who cannot get pregnant Jo Jo replied, "She gives us beef!" with a smile.
Then, the closing line of Jo Jo's presentation, said with gusto and passion, "A dairy cow is a magnificent, giving creature. From her first pregnancy to the rest of her life, she will spend it making and giving her milk to us. Then, in a final act of selflessness, she will give us herself in the form of beef!" Jo Jo's eyes shined with excitement, and I almost felt like I should applaud, or hand her a kerchief. Instead, I thought, "let's get the cow's side of this story, sister!" and kept my mouth shut. I also thought of how many nursing momma's were in our group and how many of them would like to be pumped twice a day for the rest of their life so some other species could make sugary treats from her mammary glands. Not many, I'd guess.
We got to taste some amazing chocolate milk - honestly, it was like chilled liquid gold - and ice cream that was so delicious it made me rethink the "no bowls of ice cream before breakfast" rule in our house.
On our way back to the car, I looked down and had two kids with brown mustaches, sticky hands, and a wayward cow poop smear here or there, and smiled. Sometimes, it's nice to live in Iowa.
Sometimes.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
In the still of the night
I got to give Xander his bottle tonight. Yes, he is sixteen months old. No, we haven't weaned him. When Zoe was ten months old we started the process of weaning so we'd be right on traek for her first birthday. Just say no to bottles! all the books say after their first taste of cake. Our Ped, at Xander's first year appointment, threw out, "So, you've weaned him from bottles?" in a half-question, more of a statement. She knew how I felt about bending the Rules.
"Um, we are working on it," I stated shamefully. "Hopefully we'll be on track, meaning off bottles, next month... at least it's whole milk. No more formula!"
"What's the hold up?" she asked, putting down her stethescope.
"Not sure," I replied as I stroked his silky semi-bald head.
"Is it because he's your last one?" as she settled onto her swivel stool Zoe, moments before, had been Hell-bent on twirling til she puked.
"Maybe?" I truly didn't have an answer. I knew that with my first, Zoe, the Rules seemed to be the only Rules I could go by - I mean, doctors, mother's of multiples, and therapists all agreed. I couldn't go against the grain. Could I?
Four months later I've put off his fifteen month appointment because our Ped is on maternity leave and because I'm not ready to admit that her generous fifteen-month mark has flown by and we still have 8 ounces of icy cold Vitamin D nightcaps in this house. Every night. And sometimes right before his nap.
Does Xander need a bottle to sleep? No. On nights we've tried to go sans liquid gold, he cries for fifteen minutes and then nods off to dreamland on his own (he does a similar routine with a bottle, but he only cries for three or four minutes those nights). We never let him fall asleep on us or take his bottle in his crib. We don't break those Rules. We rock him in his glider, lean him against our chest, and sing, talk, or just take in the still of the night. It's never quiet here. It's never the right time to spend twenty minutes doing nothing with him. Zoe always needs our attention, trash needs to go out, email needs to be checked, laundry folded, you know how it goes. Never ever is it just time for Xander to get quality loving from his mom or dad. Bottle time is. One of us goes in to read Zoe three (or seven) books in her bed and one of us goes in to rock X. It's a great time of peace and love in our house in both rooms, but that bottle session is the one time of day you really feel connected to the little man.
Once upon a time I found out I was pregnant with my second baby. We had just celebrated Zoe's first birthday and it was the first time, in a long time, that I saw the light at the end of the post-partum depression tunnel. As much as I adored my baby girl, she was a baby and she was a lot of work. She wasn't a lifestyle change - she was a totally new lifestyle we had to adapt to quickly in order to survive. She rocked our world, for the good, the bad, and the ugly --- and I was smart enough to know Zoe was a great baby. She slept. She rarely cried. She preferred her Boppy Newborn Lounger to being held all day. She was awesome. But she had recently gotten her groove on and was moving and shaking all over the place. Watch out world, here comes Round 2 of Life Change. Kid on the Move and Not Taking No for an Answer!
I sat in a mother's group meeting and opened up about how I really didn't want another baby right now. I was okay with Zoe being an only child. I liked being over the newborn-first-year-yech that we were shaking off our boots. The idea of going through the first year all over again - with a toddler to boot - was horrifying and scary. Do I love kids? Yes. Do I love mine? Yes. Can I do this? Yes. Do I want to do this? NO.
Life has a way of shaking things up. Just when you get comfortable you are tossed into a Yatzee sphere and spit out in a new position, new board, and new rules. This is where we were in late September of 2008 when I woke up and thought I peed my pants. It was the middle of the night. I was in my fourth month of pregnancy and couldn't believe the bladder control issues already started. Well, the heartburn was in full effect, as were my cankles, so maybe Round 2 everything comes really early?
Zoe was crying in her crib, so I got out of bed, threw off my undies, and stumbled, belly first, into her nursery to get her out before she started howling. It took a lot to get her going, but once she did, it was hard to put out the fire.
She was all warm, covered in sleepy sweat, and jumping in her crib yelling, "Momma! Tum get me!" like she did every morning. I laughed and hauled her over the crib. And I peed again. It was a lot of pee!
Zoe was coughing hard, like she had all night, and I couldn't think about my bladder control issues. I had to call the Ped and get her in. That cough sounded really bad.
All day I wondered why I was peeing anytime I stood up. They popped my amniotic sac when I was in labor with Zoe, so I never thought anything about water breaking. I was only four months along! It couldn't be anything serious.
As the Ped requested some chest X-Rays for Zoe's lungs, and told me it was pneumonia, I peed again. It was enough to call the OB/Gyn and ask for super strength prescription pads or something. Immediately her nurse took my call and instructed me to go to the ER.
Zoe was in the middle of her exam, she felt like crap, and needed her mommy. But the Ped heard the conversation and urged me to go get examined.
We called Mr. on the way downtown and I told him to meet me at the entrance, switch cars, and I'd be home in an hour.
Life changed in that hour.
My water had broken, my cells were ferning, and our baby wouldn't be saved for a month because he was too small to save. We would stay at the hospital and deliver the baby. Chances were 90% I'd deliver him within 48 hours and there was nothing anyone could do.
When we made it - on miserable bedrest - to 22 weeks, attitudes started changing. We saw OB's, perinatologists, and anyone else who had anything to add to how we could get this baby out of me safely. No one could believe it had been weeks - almost a full month - with a broken amniotic sac and a healthy baby. Not only was he hanging in there, but he was growing quickly, looking healthy, and he was big!
Every appointment - which was daily - was negative. It was about how we would have a sick, unhealthy child who would need constant medical attention and support. I cried to my baby hourly. I knew in my heart that my not wanting a baby at this exact time was what drove this to happen. Rational? Maybe not? Mother's Guilt? Oh yeah.
My mom dropped her life in California and left her husband, friends, and house to winter in Iowa. Once a month she'd go home and my father-in-law would give her some respite. Zoe was still a wild-child one year old ready to take on the world, whether her momma was allowed to get out of bed or not. Mr. was our only breadwinner and insurance carrier, so he was on job duty. Family pitched in and we made it work.
Then, one week a little too close to the beginning of my final trimester, something awful happened. My body developed severe atypical pre-eclampsia, again, and the only way to keep the baby and I alive was to deliver. Now. Early.
When Xander came out he was a peanut. He didn't scream, he just took the bright lights, masked people, and cold in with a big glance around. He took to his little oxygen mask quickly and met his daddy before his momma. My arms were still pinned to the operating table, but I got to touch his cheek and see his blue eyes, wide from the excitement.
Mr. was whisked off with the little man and my OB started the soul sickening task of tying my tubes. We had decided, as a medical/personal/emotional team that my body was not cut out to bring babies in the world, no matter how cute or perfect they are. So, she showed me the tubes and in my haze I fought back tears.
Xander was a rock star in the NICU. Those nurses have angel wings and halo's hidden under their scrubs for all the miracles they performed for our miracle man.
Going home without him was the most intense, surreal experience of my life. Leaving the hospital with some blue flowers, balloons, and a carton of extra pads and pills, but no baby was heart-shattering. Even seeing Zoe again couldn't get me over the fact that my baby, who faced adversity and perservered was in the NICU, fighting for each breath while I ordered pizza and watched Million Dollar Baby on Pay Per View. It just didn't make sense.
And then, all was right. Everything made sense. Our little man came home, met his sister, and took his place in our family as our Miracle. Zoe was our Wonder Girl, Xander was our Miracle Man.
So, sixteen months later I'm hesitant to give up the bottle. I remember countless hours trying to get his sweet pink lips to wrap around a bottle's nipple and take down 10, 15 cc's... and watched him get most of his nutrients from a "nose hose" as one rude nurse (the only rude nurse we encountered) put it. It took him weeks to learn to feed on his own. That time in the NICU with an Enfamil premade bottle pressed to his cheek, holding him like a football at a 90 degree angle, and massaging his chin to take one more mil, still comes back to me like a fury in the middle of the night.
Xander doesn't need the bottle anymore. His mommy does. He is my last baby I can hold and cuddle. The time he spent in my body was educational to me - he made me realize I wanted another baby more than I wanted my next breathe. And now, as he runs instead of walks, babbles instead of cries, and shows me how big he is with new delights every day, I realize he is my last baby who will need me to feed them. He is the last one who will need me for 100% of his or her daily care. All the needs. After X, it's over.
I could use an icy cold nightcap myself.
"Um, we are working on it," I stated shamefully. "Hopefully we'll be on track, meaning off bottles, next month... at least it's whole milk. No more formula!"
"What's the hold up?" she asked, putting down her stethescope.
"Not sure," I replied as I stroked his silky semi-bald head.
"Is it because he's your last one?" as she settled onto her swivel stool Zoe, moments before, had been Hell-bent on twirling til she puked.
"Maybe?" I truly didn't have an answer. I knew that with my first, Zoe, the Rules seemed to be the only Rules I could go by - I mean, doctors, mother's of multiples, and therapists all agreed. I couldn't go against the grain. Could I?
Four months later I've put off his fifteen month appointment because our Ped is on maternity leave and because I'm not ready to admit that her generous fifteen-month mark has flown by and we still have 8 ounces of icy cold Vitamin D nightcaps in this house. Every night. And sometimes right before his nap.
Does Xander need a bottle to sleep? No. On nights we've tried to go sans liquid gold, he cries for fifteen minutes and then nods off to dreamland on his own (he does a similar routine with a bottle, but he only cries for three or four minutes those nights). We never let him fall asleep on us or take his bottle in his crib. We don't break those Rules. We rock him in his glider, lean him against our chest, and sing, talk, or just take in the still of the night. It's never quiet here. It's never the right time to spend twenty minutes doing nothing with him. Zoe always needs our attention, trash needs to go out, email needs to be checked, laundry folded, you know how it goes. Never ever is it just time for Xander to get quality loving from his mom or dad. Bottle time is. One of us goes in to read Zoe three (or seven) books in her bed and one of us goes in to rock X. It's a great time of peace and love in our house in both rooms, but that bottle session is the one time of day you really feel connected to the little man.
Once upon a time I found out I was pregnant with my second baby. We had just celebrated Zoe's first birthday and it was the first time, in a long time, that I saw the light at the end of the post-partum depression tunnel. As much as I adored my baby girl, she was a baby and she was a lot of work. She wasn't a lifestyle change - she was a totally new lifestyle we had to adapt to quickly in order to survive. She rocked our world, for the good, the bad, and the ugly --- and I was smart enough to know Zoe was a great baby. She slept. She rarely cried. She preferred her Boppy Newborn Lounger to being held all day. She was awesome. But she had recently gotten her groove on and was moving and shaking all over the place. Watch out world, here comes Round 2 of Life Change. Kid on the Move and Not Taking No for an Answer!
I sat in a mother's group meeting and opened up about how I really didn't want another baby right now. I was okay with Zoe being an only child. I liked being over the newborn-first-year-yech that we were shaking off our boots. The idea of going through the first year all over again - with a toddler to boot - was horrifying and scary. Do I love kids? Yes. Do I love mine? Yes. Can I do this? Yes. Do I want to do this? NO.
Life has a way of shaking things up. Just when you get comfortable you are tossed into a Yatzee sphere and spit out in a new position, new board, and new rules. This is where we were in late September of 2008 when I woke up and thought I peed my pants. It was the middle of the night. I was in my fourth month of pregnancy and couldn't believe the bladder control issues already started. Well, the heartburn was in full effect, as were my cankles, so maybe Round 2 everything comes really early?
Zoe was crying in her crib, so I got out of bed, threw off my undies, and stumbled, belly first, into her nursery to get her out before she started howling. It took a lot to get her going, but once she did, it was hard to put out the fire.
She was all warm, covered in sleepy sweat, and jumping in her crib yelling, "Momma! Tum get me!" like she did every morning. I laughed and hauled her over the crib. And I peed again. It was a lot of pee!
Zoe was coughing hard, like she had all night, and I couldn't think about my bladder control issues. I had to call the Ped and get her in. That cough sounded really bad.
All day I wondered why I was peeing anytime I stood up. They popped my amniotic sac when I was in labor with Zoe, so I never thought anything about water breaking. I was only four months along! It couldn't be anything serious.
As the Ped requested some chest X-Rays for Zoe's lungs, and told me it was pneumonia, I peed again. It was enough to call the OB/Gyn and ask for super strength prescription pads or something. Immediately her nurse took my call and instructed me to go to the ER.
Zoe was in the middle of her exam, she felt like crap, and needed her mommy. But the Ped heard the conversation and urged me to go get examined.
We called Mr. on the way downtown and I told him to meet me at the entrance, switch cars, and I'd be home in an hour.
Life changed in that hour.
My water had broken, my cells were ferning, and our baby wouldn't be saved for a month because he was too small to save. We would stay at the hospital and deliver the baby. Chances were 90% I'd deliver him within 48 hours and there was nothing anyone could do.
When we made it - on miserable bedrest - to 22 weeks, attitudes started changing. We saw OB's, perinatologists, and anyone else who had anything to add to how we could get this baby out of me safely. No one could believe it had been weeks - almost a full month - with a broken amniotic sac and a healthy baby. Not only was he hanging in there, but he was growing quickly, looking healthy, and he was big!
Every appointment - which was daily - was negative. It was about how we would have a sick, unhealthy child who would need constant medical attention and support. I cried to my baby hourly. I knew in my heart that my not wanting a baby at this exact time was what drove this to happen. Rational? Maybe not? Mother's Guilt? Oh yeah.
My mom dropped her life in California and left her husband, friends, and house to winter in Iowa. Once a month she'd go home and my father-in-law would give her some respite. Zoe was still a wild-child one year old ready to take on the world, whether her momma was allowed to get out of bed or not. Mr. was our only breadwinner and insurance carrier, so he was on job duty. Family pitched in and we made it work.
Then, one week a little too close to the beginning of my final trimester, something awful happened. My body developed severe atypical pre-eclampsia, again, and the only way to keep the baby and I alive was to deliver. Now. Early.
When Xander came out he was a peanut. He didn't scream, he just took the bright lights, masked people, and cold in with a big glance around. He took to his little oxygen mask quickly and met his daddy before his momma. My arms were still pinned to the operating table, but I got to touch his cheek and see his blue eyes, wide from the excitement.
Mr. was whisked off with the little man and my OB started the soul sickening task of tying my tubes. We had decided, as a medical/personal/emotional team that my body was not cut out to bring babies in the world, no matter how cute or perfect they are. So, she showed me the tubes and in my haze I fought back tears.
Xander was a rock star in the NICU. Those nurses have angel wings and halo's hidden under their scrubs for all the miracles they performed for our miracle man.
Going home without him was the most intense, surreal experience of my life. Leaving the hospital with some blue flowers, balloons, and a carton of extra pads and pills, but no baby was heart-shattering. Even seeing Zoe again couldn't get me over the fact that my baby, who faced adversity and perservered was in the NICU, fighting for each breath while I ordered pizza and watched Million Dollar Baby on Pay Per View. It just didn't make sense.
And then, all was right. Everything made sense. Our little man came home, met his sister, and took his place in our family as our Miracle. Zoe was our Wonder Girl, Xander was our Miracle Man.
So, sixteen months later I'm hesitant to give up the bottle. I remember countless hours trying to get his sweet pink lips to wrap around a bottle's nipple and take down 10, 15 cc's... and watched him get most of his nutrients from a "nose hose" as one rude nurse (the only rude nurse we encountered) put it. It took him weeks to learn to feed on his own. That time in the NICU with an Enfamil premade bottle pressed to his cheek, holding him like a football at a 90 degree angle, and massaging his chin to take one more mil, still comes back to me like a fury in the middle of the night.
Xander doesn't need the bottle anymore. His mommy does. He is my last baby I can hold and cuddle. The time he spent in my body was educational to me - he made me realize I wanted another baby more than I wanted my next breathe. And now, as he runs instead of walks, babbles instead of cries, and shows me how big he is with new delights every day, I realize he is my last baby who will need me to feed them. He is the last one who will need me for 100% of his or her daily care. All the needs. After X, it's over.
I could use an icy cold nightcap myself.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Nap?
Mornings start off with a bang around here. You would think that after three years as a mom I'd have learned a long time ago that just because the kids are not up this instant, and you cannot hear a noise in the house, that you can close your eyes for "just one more minute". That minute is a bitch, she waits until you are about to go completely under and then orchestrates an elaborate symphony of baby waking, baby jumping in his crib, toddler screaming for a lost Lovey, toddler ripping off her Pull-Up, hubby dropping the soap in the shower, the cat purring between your ankles, and the dog licking her crotch two inches from your pillow. Good Morning, Beautiful.
Does anyone remember when the morning meant turning on the Today show, catching up with Matt, Meredith, and Ann while marveling at Al Roker's size - or lack of - for an hour as you dozed in and out? Maybe you threw back the clean down comforter, sprinted to the bathroom for a quick pee, sprinted back in, and cuddled for twenty minutes? When did spooning start involving diapered butts and furry animals who sneak into your bed in the wee hours?
I love my kids. I love their sweaty morning scent that takes my breath away the first time we meet each morning. Xander in his crib, jumping like a Mexican jumping bean on crack, who reaches up and nuzzles his warm head under your chin, into your neck, in a way that makes you pause and Thank God each and every morning for the most wonderful creation on Earth. And Zoe, who is now old enough to hop out of bed, tear off her Pull Up (Oh, she is totally potty trained but I have no problem saving myself nightly sheet changes "just in case" with the simplicity of pulling on some "special panties" at night.), sprint into our room with her wild mane sticking up all around her, jump into our bed in one flying leap, and boot Mr. right out of his spot, all the while sticking two sock-clad feet into my ribs, sides, and belly, while I smile and Thank God for this magnificent creature I call mine.
When the X-man is tired of jumping, he starts wailing and then it's game time. Never in her life has Zoe allowed me to get the little guy on my own. She has to lead the way, open the door, and get up close to his crib and whisper "Hey Buddy! Your girls are here now!" in a way that makes me laugh and tear up at the same time. She will also caress his sweet cheeks while I open the blinds and get out a diaper. She loves her little brother and in the early morning sunlight, she shows it. And then Xander gets ahold of her Lovey, pulls it into his crib, and sits on it with a grunt and two big blue eyes peering back at her.
Game On.
The sweet reverie of the morning is broken with a shriek. I'm sure the neighbors sat up in bed, looked at each other in horror, and asked, "Tornado Siren?", looked at the clock, and said, "Nope. Xander took Zoe's Lovey again. Just like clockwork," and laid back down until it was a more reasonable hour to get out of bed.
Once Lovey is back to his rightful owner and Xander has completely melted my heart with his head tuck into my neck, we head downstairs to shouts of "I want to make the waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-fles" today! and "Are we still out of OJ? Seriously, Mom! Put it on the list!" and other things, and always a "Have you seen my keys/blackberry/computer/wallet/gym bag?" we have Eggo's in the toaster oven, sippy's filled with cold drinks, and a mom ready to 1) brush her teeth and 2) put on a pair of pants.
And then, one in a high chair, one sucking down blackberries and trying to see if they float in ice water, they look at each other, start making raspberries, and smile. And mommy knows this will last for thirty seconds, tops, but for those thirty seconds, all is right in the world.
Does anyone remember when the morning meant turning on the Today show, catching up with Matt, Meredith, and Ann while marveling at Al Roker's size - or lack of - for an hour as you dozed in and out? Maybe you threw back the clean down comforter, sprinted to the bathroom for a quick pee, sprinted back in, and cuddled for twenty minutes? When did spooning start involving diapered butts and furry animals who sneak into your bed in the wee hours?
I love my kids. I love their sweaty morning scent that takes my breath away the first time we meet each morning. Xander in his crib, jumping like a Mexican jumping bean on crack, who reaches up and nuzzles his warm head under your chin, into your neck, in a way that makes you pause and Thank God each and every morning for the most wonderful creation on Earth. And Zoe, who is now old enough to hop out of bed, tear off her Pull Up (Oh, she is totally potty trained but I have no problem saving myself nightly sheet changes "just in case" with the simplicity of pulling on some "special panties" at night.), sprint into our room with her wild mane sticking up all around her, jump into our bed in one flying leap, and boot Mr. right out of his spot, all the while sticking two sock-clad feet into my ribs, sides, and belly, while I smile and Thank God for this magnificent creature I call mine.
When the X-man is tired of jumping, he starts wailing and then it's game time. Never in her life has Zoe allowed me to get the little guy on my own. She has to lead the way, open the door, and get up close to his crib and whisper "Hey Buddy! Your girls are here now!" in a way that makes me laugh and tear up at the same time. She will also caress his sweet cheeks while I open the blinds and get out a diaper. She loves her little brother and in the early morning sunlight, she shows it. And then Xander gets ahold of her Lovey, pulls it into his crib, and sits on it with a grunt and two big blue eyes peering back at her.
Game On.
The sweet reverie of the morning is broken with a shriek. I'm sure the neighbors sat up in bed, looked at each other in horror, and asked, "Tornado Siren?", looked at the clock, and said, "Nope. Xander took Zoe's Lovey again. Just like clockwork," and laid back down until it was a more reasonable hour to get out of bed.
Once Lovey is back to his rightful owner and Xander has completely melted my heart with his head tuck into my neck, we head downstairs to shouts of "I want to make the waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-fles" today! and "Are we still out of OJ? Seriously, Mom! Put it on the list!" and other things, and always a "Have you seen my keys/blackberry/computer/wallet/gym bag?" we have Eggo's in the toaster oven, sippy's filled with cold drinks, and a mom ready to 1) brush her teeth and 2) put on a pair of pants.
And then, one in a high chair, one sucking down blackberries and trying to see if they float in ice water, they look at each other, start making raspberries, and smile. And mommy knows this will last for thirty seconds, tops, but for those thirty seconds, all is right in the world.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Parents
You know you are parents when...
- You both pretend it's an hour later than it is just to get the kids down before Survivor starts.
- When on a date, the topics that will inevitably come up will include the lack of parenting on Max & Ruby, how much sugar is in yogurt, and how regular your children's bowels are... even if you swear kids are off limits for the evening.
- You swore off "the Family Bed" technique until you have a toddler in a big kid bed. It's easier to throw them in with you than walk them back in their bed ten times a night.
- You have had very heated, passionate debate on Huggies vs. Pampers on a moments notice.
- When you walk out of a parent/teacher conference you have wondered, together, if they are talking about YOUR child.
- You secretly hope your preschooler asks for you to read her stories at bedtime... and then feel bad for the other one for missing out on such a sweet moment.
- You both pretend it's an hour later than it is just to get the kids down before Survivor starts.
- When on a date, the topics that will inevitably come up will include the lack of parenting on Max & Ruby, how much sugar is in yogurt, and how regular your children's bowels are... even if you swear kids are off limits for the evening.
- You swore off "the Family Bed" technique until you have a toddler in a big kid bed. It's easier to throw them in with you than walk them back in their bed ten times a night.
- You have had very heated, passionate debate on Huggies vs. Pampers on a moments notice.
- When you walk out of a parent/teacher conference you have wondered, together, if they are talking about YOUR child.
- You secretly hope your preschooler asks for you to read her stories at bedtime... and then feel bad for the other one for missing out on such a sweet moment.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Drop and give me 20
Today I flew into the McD's parking lot like a bat out of hell. I remember that song "Mind on my money and money on my mind" and you could replace money with McMuffin. I purposely didn't nibble on a stray (cold) Eggo from Xander's tray or a few blackberries (they the squisheded ones, mom!) from Zoe's plastic pirate plate with the full intention of my last meal being savored and enjoyed.
"What'll it be?" squawked the speaker.
"One McMuffin, no meat."
"Meat?"
"No bacon, please."
"Bacon? We don't serve bacon."
"Sorry. The #1 says 'Canadian Bacon'. I don't want that."
"You don't want the McMuffin? Huh?"
After three or four more minutes of this brain cell murder, we pulled forward with $2.77 in hand, ready for the best taste bud sensation in the world... The Egg McMuffin.
Honestly, I didn't even taste it. I just knew it was awesome and heavenly and divine. I threw back an ice water to stop myself from swallowing it whole, and we took off down University to The Healthy Living Center. The HLC is a cool new Y concept - it is a medical plaza with the swankiest Y ever in the middle. The concept is definitely a winner. Except, where I was going was within 10 steps of the cafe, which I really think is just mean.
The Center is full of people like me who have made excuses for why they eat, given reason to why it's okay to buy a larger pair of paints - again - because they must have shrunk, and who think a snack is 1/3 a package of Oreo's. Sadly, I am right where I belong in the middle of these misfits and have to do a major 180 in my lifestyle. The Center is my beacon. My beacon of hope that I can truly change from within while I change from the outside.
Zoe did her best to make sure I felt extremely guilty for placing her in the Child Watch area, after the fifteenth, "I'll Just Go With You!" I almost replied with a "Sure. Sounds awesome. Maybe this time you can clothesline yourself by sledding on the waxed floor on the doctor's stool, the blood pressure cuff, and a not-totally-pushed-in stirrup just in time for the doctor to walk in to see the whole show, in full tongue-depressor-in-each-nostril glory again!" I bit my tongue, kissed two sweet kids good bye, shielded my eyes from the Kit Kat on the top shelf of the free standing candy bin exactly 90 degrees and four feet to my right - and walked into the Center.
I still had a little McMuffin in my molar as I signed in, feeling guilty, and looked around to see a lot of tired eyes. Eyes that have been on 900 calorie diets for weeks, months, eyes questioning the one question I've been asking myself since we forked over $4000 for this insane life boot camp... Why did I make myself have to come to this?
After the panic-inducing weigh in I went back to the lobby to hear other's tales of horror and triumph. One guy was so hungry he chewed a dog biscuit because he didn't think it had any calories, as there wasn't a nutrition guide on the Milkbone box. Not good. Most of the people sat their with diet pops in their hands and I just wanted to say, "Just because you CAN have it, doesn't mean you SHOULD have it all the time!" but as a rookie, I knew it was best to keep my mouth closed.
And, as I learned in my first group meeting, learning to keep my mouth shut is exactly what I'll accomplish over the next 18 weeks.
"What'll it be?" squawked the speaker.
"One McMuffin, no meat."
"Meat?"
"No bacon, please."
"Bacon? We don't serve bacon."
"Sorry. The #1 says 'Canadian Bacon'. I don't want that."
"You don't want the McMuffin? Huh?"
After three or four more minutes of this brain cell murder, we pulled forward with $2.77 in hand, ready for the best taste bud sensation in the world... The Egg McMuffin.
Honestly, I didn't even taste it. I just knew it was awesome and heavenly and divine. I threw back an ice water to stop myself from swallowing it whole, and we took off down University to The Healthy Living Center. The HLC is a cool new Y concept - it is a medical plaza with the swankiest Y ever in the middle. The concept is definitely a winner. Except, where I was going was within 10 steps of the cafe, which I really think is just mean.
The Center is full of people like me who have made excuses for why they eat, given reason to why it's okay to buy a larger pair of paints - again - because they must have shrunk, and who think a snack is 1/3 a package of Oreo's. Sadly, I am right where I belong in the middle of these misfits and have to do a major 180 in my lifestyle. The Center is my beacon. My beacon of hope that I can truly change from within while I change from the outside.
Zoe did her best to make sure I felt extremely guilty for placing her in the Child Watch area, after the fifteenth, "I'll Just Go With You!" I almost replied with a "Sure. Sounds awesome. Maybe this time you can clothesline yourself by sledding on the waxed floor on the doctor's stool, the blood pressure cuff, and a not-totally-pushed-in stirrup just in time for the doctor to walk in to see the whole show, in full tongue-depressor-in-each-nostril glory again!" I bit my tongue, kissed two sweet kids good bye, shielded my eyes from the Kit Kat on the top shelf of the free standing candy bin exactly 90 degrees and four feet to my right - and walked into the Center.
I still had a little McMuffin in my molar as I signed in, feeling guilty, and looked around to see a lot of tired eyes. Eyes that have been on 900 calorie diets for weeks, months, eyes questioning the one question I've been asking myself since we forked over $4000 for this insane life boot camp... Why did I make myself have to come to this?
After the panic-inducing weigh in I went back to the lobby to hear other's tales of horror and triumph. One guy was so hungry he chewed a dog biscuit because he didn't think it had any calories, as there wasn't a nutrition guide on the Milkbone box. Not good. Most of the people sat their with diet pops in their hands and I just wanted to say, "Just because you CAN have it, doesn't mean you SHOULD have it all the time!" but as a rookie, I knew it was best to keep my mouth closed.
And, as I learned in my first group meeting, learning to keep my mouth shut is exactly what I'll accomplish over the next 18 weeks.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Water Park
Things I learned over a weekend at an indoor water park...
- Any three year old who jogs around a lazy river a few dozen times (in one hour) will sleep very well.
- If I am ever the parent who allows the "life guards" to guard my child's life as I sip drinks in the Wet Rooster bar, please send in the firing squad. I have failed as a parent.
- When a life guard has a bigger tire around their middle than I do they WILL NOT move quickly and efficiently when trying to get out of the way of a 200 gallon bucket of water splashing. As much as you do not want to laugh, you might. A few times.
- A one year old who cries and begs to play pool basketball, dunk, and hang on the rim will draw an adoring audience.
- "Balmy 84 degrees" is simply false advertising. Try "Goose Bump-inducing" and you've got it!
- When a life guard throws on a pair of goggles and a snorkel - yes, a snorkel - to fix a drain at the bottle of a 3 foot kids pool, you might stare and then laugh. Again.
- $8.99 personal Pizza Hut pizza's just taste better with a little chorine.
- When your three year old smiles from ear to ear for six hours straight, you'll already be looking for the next weekend you can head back!
Monday, May 10, 2010
Chicken
"STOP!" I screamed for the fifteenth time today, and millionth this month (and it isn't even the tenth yet).
Zoe seemed destined to end up as a hood ornament on a neighbor's minivan or SUV, as she truly seems drawn to the street. She will sit in a cute little dress, pigtails with matching bows fluttering in the breeze, and then dart like a rabid gazelle into the black top of horror, our street.
Yes, we live on a cul-de-sac. In a small town. In a sleepy state. BUT IT IS STILL THE STREET. The street where every so often you turn on CNN to see a too-somber reporter preening at a children's hospital where another negligent mom turned her back - for 1/100th of a second (how dare she?) - to let this poor waif run into the street to meet her destiny with a UPS truck. They never show the other side of the story, the one where the mom has been thisclose to using duct tape, string, and a staple gun to keep said waif on the safer side of the sidewalk, as pleads/lessons/scoldings/spanks/and sheer frustration do nothing to keep kids (like ours) from chasing butterflies/bubbles/bumble bees/breezes into dangerous territory.
I do not want to be a statistic. I want my daughter to remain bipedal with use of her arms, brain, and all five senses. I watch the Discovery Channel. I know what can happen.
When Zoe did this in California while visiting TT & Bobsa my mom didn't hesitate to swallow her words about the horrific kid-leashes and try to wrangle my monkey into a leash with a monkey attached to her back once she played dodge-the-Lexus a few too many times. Zoe relaxed, pulled us around, and then acted like it was vaccination time at the pediatricians office as she hopped, hollered, and kicked herself away from our gentle lead. Even a (quick) jerk of the tail didn't stop her, just jerked her chain. It didn't go so well and after a quick trial run, we had one pissed monkey and one tailless monkey.
Plan B?
Scare the living poop out of her. Tell her what cars can do to little kids.
"I gonna be a pancake, mom? With syrup? I only wanna be a pancake with syrup AND butter. I hate pancakes without butter. Mom, do you like pancakes? How do cars make kids into pancakes? Do they use eggs? Can I crack them, Mom? Can I?"
Plan C?
Take away things she likes each time she misbehaves and runs into the street.
Once I had a pink metal collection of trikes, bikes, baby strollers, and a nice array of sand toys and a child who thinks dodge-the-mini is an awesome way to wither away an afternoon, I resorted to a spank.
Just as the Iowa "breeze" picked her up, my hand hit her butt and she looked like she would catapult into the prairie wind without a second to lose.
"OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWE!" she yelled, fake crying and flailing about.
"Zoe, mommy hates to spank you but you may not EVER go into the street."
The tears abruptly stopped.
"What about when I help pull in the trash can? Or hold your hand to go to Regan's house? Or when Grant and Chase let me play ball with them? Or when I get the mail?"
"You need to be holding an adult's hand to go into the street."
"Ok!"
"Ok? You understand?"
"Got it."
A smile came upon my face as I knew my little prodigy got the concept and would abide by my rules.
Hours later we pulled out of the driveway, on our way to Costco, and I hear a clicking - nope, make that tisking, sound from the back seat.
"Mommy is in trouble! Mommy is in trouble!"
"Slowing the mini, I turned around and said, "Why am I in trouble, Z?"
"We are in the street and you didn't hold my hand!"
Sure enough, we were stopped in the middle of the cul-de-sac, the street, if you will, and my safely strapped in child was gloating in the fact that I, somehow, broke my own rules of "always hold hands in the street".
Just as I sat back in my seat wondering how to explain the difference to the Queen of Why's, she said, "Don't worry, Mom! I still love you. And if you were a pancake, I'd love you even more!"
Zoe seemed destined to end up as a hood ornament on a neighbor's minivan or SUV, as she truly seems drawn to the street. She will sit in a cute little dress, pigtails with matching bows fluttering in the breeze, and then dart like a rabid gazelle into the black top of horror, our street.
Yes, we live on a cul-de-sac. In a small town. In a sleepy state. BUT IT IS STILL THE STREET. The street where every so often you turn on CNN to see a too-somber reporter preening at a children's hospital where another negligent mom turned her back - for 1/100th of a second (how dare she?) - to let this poor waif run into the street to meet her destiny with a UPS truck. They never show the other side of the story, the one where the mom has been thisclose to using duct tape, string, and a staple gun to keep said waif on the safer side of the sidewalk, as pleads/lessons/scoldings/spanks/and sheer frustration do nothing to keep kids (like ours) from chasing butterflies/bubbles/bumble bees/breezes into dangerous territory.
I do not want to be a statistic. I want my daughter to remain bipedal with use of her arms, brain, and all five senses. I watch the Discovery Channel. I know what can happen.
When Zoe did this in California while visiting TT & Bobsa my mom didn't hesitate to swallow her words about the horrific kid-leashes and try to wrangle my monkey into a leash with a monkey attached to her back once she played dodge-the-Lexus a few too many times. Zoe relaxed, pulled us around, and then acted like it was vaccination time at the pediatricians office as she hopped, hollered, and kicked herself away from our gentle lead. Even a (quick) jerk of the tail didn't stop her, just jerked her chain. It didn't go so well and after a quick trial run, we had one pissed monkey and one tailless monkey.
Plan B?
Scare the living poop out of her. Tell her what cars can do to little kids.
"I gonna be a pancake, mom? With syrup? I only wanna be a pancake with syrup AND butter. I hate pancakes without butter. Mom, do you like pancakes? How do cars make kids into pancakes? Do they use eggs? Can I crack them, Mom? Can I?"
Plan C?
Take away things she likes each time she misbehaves and runs into the street.
Once I had a pink metal collection of trikes, bikes, baby strollers, and a nice array of sand toys and a child who thinks dodge-the-mini is an awesome way to wither away an afternoon, I resorted to a spank.
Just as the Iowa "breeze" picked her up, my hand hit her butt and she looked like she would catapult into the prairie wind without a second to lose.
"OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWE!" she yelled, fake crying and flailing about.
"Zoe, mommy hates to spank you but you may not EVER go into the street."
The tears abruptly stopped.
"What about when I help pull in the trash can? Or hold your hand to go to Regan's house? Or when Grant and Chase let me play ball with them? Or when I get the mail?"
"You need to be holding an adult's hand to go into the street."
"Ok!"
"Ok? You understand?"
"Got it."
A smile came upon my face as I knew my little prodigy got the concept and would abide by my rules.
Hours later we pulled out of the driveway, on our way to Costco, and I hear a clicking - nope, make that tisking, sound from the back seat.
"Mommy is in trouble! Mommy is in trouble!"
"Slowing the mini, I turned around and said, "Why am I in trouble, Z?"
"We are in the street and you didn't hold my hand!"
Sure enough, we were stopped in the middle of the cul-de-sac, the street, if you will, and my safely strapped in child was gloating in the fact that I, somehow, broke my own rules of "always hold hands in the street".
Just as I sat back in my seat wondering how to explain the difference to the Queen of Why's, she said, "Don't worry, Mom! I still love you. And if you were a pancake, I'd love you even more!"
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Gumby
Chest high in freezing cold water at 5:25 am is when you see how many jumping jacks, scissor kicks, and cross country lunges you can muster before your toes and fingertips fall off. Surprisingly, I can do quite a few. I can also make new friends easily.
Rebecca and I are settling into our new routine of unGodly hour exercise and to be honest, we are enjoying it. We've also gotten more comfortable in the water and do more with our mouths than take in chlorine - we talk to the assortment of other aqua-sizers a bit too big for the bathing suit they squeezed into while their partner snored loudly in the warm bed they crawled out of exactly 8 minutes earlier (cause who gets up and moving a second before they have to before the sun comes up AND kids are sleeping?).
So, we did the usual, "WOW! This water is cold! Was it this could yesterday?" routine and once our shoulders drop from our ears and we get used to the "heated pool" (yes, it is heated compared to a pond in northern Michigan in, say, January) and kick around in the shallow end.
Some women immediately grab their water weights, just in case the usual 12 are bombarded by 24 more geriatric and/or obese class go-ers and they cannot have the exact weights. Newbies are hard to come by - I think the collection of white, sparse haired ladies, blubber-covered young ones, and overall splashing like Shamu coming from the pool is enough to make the Speedo-clad run and take cover in the two open lanes.
We were all telling stories of things we did in our youth. Most were stories of when we acted like a chump. As I told mine I failed to mention that this happened yesterday, not a decade and eighty pounds ago. "I just wanted to see if I COULD bite my toenail. I saw a thing on You Tube with these chicks who don't use clippers and just throw their leg in the air and chomp the nails away! So, I thought today was as good as any to`try!" smiling as no one seemed to catch that I was either obese AND flexible or was skinny when You Tube debuted. Bless their (slowing down) tickers! "So, I threw my right leg up to my chest, bent my knee, and fell completely backwards. Once I couldn't get up again I knew I'd pulled some sort of abdominal muscle - wasn't too too bad until my husband asked me why I couldn't let the dog out before bed and I had to show him my arsenal of heating pad/ice/pillow that were under the covers with me on the couch!"
A giggle or two from the audience as class started. Rebecca scooted next to me and said, "I kind of did that once. In bowling shoes. To prove I could still put my feet behind my head!"
I didn't want to ask why she needed to prove this, and who cared, but I assumed a few beers were involved and she was winning a bet. My eyebrows must have spoken for me, as she went on to talk about how the bowling shoe got caught behind her head - or was it ear - and the lip of the shoe wouldn't budge. "So, I had to tell them, NO REALLY. I NEED HELP!" but no one came to this damsel in distress' aid - just laughter, and a little finger pointing as Rebecca became a legend at Woody's Lanes that night.
Rebecca isn't so much of a story teller. She listens a lot, laughs, and occasionally shares a story, but this one threw me off. I could just picture the always Merona dressed lady with a leg behind her head smug and ready to make a point until a blush appeared on her cheeks when she realized that leg wasn't going anywhere except the ER if she didn't get it unwrapped fast. But then, the bowling shoe was caught on what - her hair? head? ear? and she had to ask for help all the while hunched over, legs spread, and what? sitting in the middle of a bowling alley?
Just as I laughed out loud as I type this story, I started laughing so hard and powerfully that I got the attention of the entire group (and also took in water from the nostrils, right ear, and mouth - tricky, really) and kept going under from the weight of the water and not-so-sure footing on the rough pool floor. So, this clown drowning act had twelve exercisers stop to listen. At this point, Rebecca clammed up until she retold it to the ears perked crew. EVERYONE laughed and laughed. Even when we calmed down and started the usual underwater bicycle routine you'd catch someone look at Bec and then laugh again.
In a bowling alley? She wins!
Rebecca and I are settling into our new routine of unGodly hour exercise and to be honest, we are enjoying it. We've also gotten more comfortable in the water and do more with our mouths than take in chlorine - we talk to the assortment of other aqua-sizers a bit too big for the bathing suit they squeezed into while their partner snored loudly in the warm bed they crawled out of exactly 8 minutes earlier (cause who gets up and moving a second before they have to before the sun comes up AND kids are sleeping?).
So, we did the usual, "WOW! This water is cold! Was it this could yesterday?" routine and once our shoulders drop from our ears and we get used to the "heated pool" (yes, it is heated compared to a pond in northern Michigan in, say, January) and kick around in the shallow end.
Some women immediately grab their water weights, just in case the usual 12 are bombarded by 24 more geriatric and/or obese class go-ers and they cannot have the exact weights. Newbies are hard to come by - I think the collection of white, sparse haired ladies, blubber-covered young ones, and overall splashing like Shamu coming from the pool is enough to make the Speedo-clad run and take cover in the two open lanes.
We were all telling stories of things we did in our youth. Most were stories of when we acted like a chump. As I told mine I failed to mention that this happened yesterday, not a decade and eighty pounds ago. "I just wanted to see if I COULD bite my toenail. I saw a thing on You Tube with these chicks who don't use clippers and just throw their leg in the air and chomp the nails away! So, I thought today was as good as any to`try!" smiling as no one seemed to catch that I was either obese AND flexible or was skinny when You Tube debuted. Bless their (slowing down) tickers! "So, I threw my right leg up to my chest, bent my knee, and fell completely backwards. Once I couldn't get up again I knew I'd pulled some sort of abdominal muscle - wasn't too too bad until my husband asked me why I couldn't let the dog out before bed and I had to show him my arsenal of heating pad/ice/pillow that were under the covers with me on the couch!"
A giggle or two from the audience as class started. Rebecca scooted next to me and said, "I kind of did that once. In bowling shoes. To prove I could still put my feet behind my head!"
I didn't want to ask why she needed to prove this, and who cared, but I assumed a few beers were involved and she was winning a bet. My eyebrows must have spoken for me, as she went on to talk about how the bowling shoe got caught behind her head - or was it ear - and the lip of the shoe wouldn't budge. "So, I had to tell them, NO REALLY. I NEED HELP!" but no one came to this damsel in distress' aid - just laughter, and a little finger pointing as Rebecca became a legend at Woody's Lanes that night.
Rebecca isn't so much of a story teller. She listens a lot, laughs, and occasionally shares a story, but this one threw me off. I could just picture the always Merona dressed lady with a leg behind her head smug and ready to make a point until a blush appeared on her cheeks when she realized that leg wasn't going anywhere except the ER if she didn't get it unwrapped fast. But then, the bowling shoe was caught on what - her hair? head? ear? and she had to ask for help all the while hunched over, legs spread, and what? sitting in the middle of a bowling alley?
Just as I laughed out loud as I type this story, I started laughing so hard and powerfully that I got the attention of the entire group (and also took in water from the nostrils, right ear, and mouth - tricky, really) and kept going under from the weight of the water and not-so-sure footing on the rough pool floor. So, this clown drowning act had twelve exercisers stop to listen. At this point, Rebecca clammed up until she retold it to the ears perked crew. EVERYONE laughed and laughed. Even when we calmed down and started the usual underwater bicycle routine you'd catch someone look at Bec and then laugh again.
In a bowling alley? She wins!
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Cozy
We have a new lunch spot in our tiny town called the Cozy Cafe. Mr. and I ate there three times in four days the first week it was open. Lunch Saturday, Brunch Sunday, and two more lunches. It's cute, clean, and has to-die-for chicken salad. I'm talking about the perfect mayo to chicken to grapes to walnuts to celery ratio. They've got it down to a science.
My girlfriend, who is also named the same outrageous name as I am, and I have taken the kids here for lunch a few times and crawled to the front corner booth and enjoyed some conversation while the kids played hockey on the table with the abundance of jelly packs in a plastic container a'la Perkins. The kids can climb over one another and no one really notices and we can actually eat our food - as supposed to shove it down in one bite - and enjoy at least half an iced tea.
Today was not such a day.
We met up with our Mom's group at a local park for Spring Art Fest. A former kindergarten teacher, in all her glory, created an art scene any preschooler would pee their potty trained self upon arrival. There were stations to paint in with fingers/pudding/shaving cream and places to glue noodles/fabric/leaves/boogers (Check the orange paper with Z's name on it. You'll see it.) and all kinds of nifty art stations.
It was like the art classroom you never had in elementary school that came to life in movies. Except, it was alive and kicking in real life. Really alive and kicking. The prairie winds had recently sent us into a Wind Advisory. This is saying something in Iowa, as I feel like everyday we could call the breeze tornado-like winds. However, not sure what made these prairie winds advisable, but they were in full gear, dancing the paint bottles across picnic tables, paint brushes flew like shot put spears into the bushes, and nearly every carefully dyed noodle ended up glued to children's smocks as they squirted some Elmers just as Prairie Wind thrust her power and sent the trail of glue onto little chests, just before the macaroni's danced a jig and ended up tangoing themselves onto the glue.
Even some masking tape and creative thinking couldn't keep the artwork from swan diving off the picnic tables and into a race against each other in the wind. Moms started cleaning up and kids started shivering and climbing the long, narrow steps of the ladder to the slide of death. It may have only been a super tall twisty slide, but I was sure Zoe's Gymboree bows would use her swirling pigtails as wings and take off, spilling her 30lbs of cuteness into the two stories of open air below while her sweatshirt ballooned out, creating a sail, and the next time I'd see her would be when I could catch up to her in Chicago, or some other Eastern city where the wind dies down. Yeah, Chicago's only the Windy City because people actually go there for fun and experience the wind. Lose the skyscrapers and people and you've got yourself a real Windy City.
Anyways, we were tortured and bruised and I looked over to see Zoe bare-crotched and squatting in the wind, pee whipping around the grass in a steady flow. We made eye contact and she did a little shrug, pulled on her clothes, and gave new meaning to drip and dry, ladies.
Mrs. 2 and I decided to take the kids to the Cozy Cafe to have some warm food, coffee drinks of choice, and 20 minuets of quiet before the afternoon Nap. Ah, Nap.
We were welcomed with a "Hey! Nice to see you!" from our usual server just as Zoe lurched onto the floor, clutching her stomach, and squealing.
"I know you are hungry! Let's find a table!" I said cheerily, praying no one else we knew was in the place. A group of four elderly women pushed past us and took our table booth. Three of them. Six of us. The rest of the place was four or two top tables.
"I HAVE TO GO POOP!" shouted Zoe as she rolled, summersaulted, and tumbled on the floor.
"Get. Up. NOW!" I hissed, trying to keep a tight grip on the little monkey on my hip who really wanted a piece of the action as I leaned down to the psychotic dwarf writhing at my feet.
Holding both of them, we ran as Zoe made it known as to what we were heading to the bathroom to accomplish.
Xander took it upon himself to try to lick every surface in the bathroom at least once as I also tried to help Zoe balance on the king of all potty seats. One sneeze and she was going in.
We made it out with six jolts of automatic soap, one landing on X's head, and sixteen paper towels, to see Mrs. 2, Camile, and Cole were trying to squeeze themselves on one side of a tiny booth. We did the same, just in time to have Zoe & Camile have a jelly slurping contest - something apparently Cole created in which you pull back the tiniest bit of the jelly film, cover it back up, and see who can slurp the jelly out the fastest. They were also throwing back sugar packets like it was Spring Break in Candy Land and we also had Escape-A-Xander on our hands.
"Are we ready to order?" got an emphatic and resounding "YES!" from two tired mommas.
Zoe tried her best to use her head as a wedge between the wall and a pretty piece of artwork. She failed, but not until the owner came over to gently place his hand on the knock off and ask Zoe to knock it off. If we hadn't already ordered, we would be back in the car with me threatening no more treats/Diego/bubbles, in that order, but we had ordered and our food should be here "any minute".
Seventeen minutes later we had cleared out the booths around us and had Xander on the hip of a waitress getting a tour of the kitchen. I don't even think I tasted my chicken salad. I did, however, taste the ketchup that somehow got squeezed at the perfect angle to miss any food items, but directly hit the side of my shirt, shoulder, mouth and nose. Good thing I was wearing white!
Xander decided to try going boneless, and succeeded, and we scarfed our food and paid our checks (what is 40% of $12? You know, let's make it 50% so we are allowed to come back).
Zoe and Camile dashed into traffic as we both screamed NO! and Cole managed to smuggle out a piece of cake from the dessert counter on our way out. I could hear Mrs. 2 about to lose it as I strapped my two monkeys into their seats.
As she pulled out we made eye contact. At that exact time we both raised our right hands and pretended to shoot ourselves in the side of our heads.
My girlfriend, who is also named the same outrageous name as I am, and I have taken the kids here for lunch a few times and crawled to the front corner booth and enjoyed some conversation while the kids played hockey on the table with the abundance of jelly packs in a plastic container a'la Perkins. The kids can climb over one another and no one really notices and we can actually eat our food - as supposed to shove it down in one bite - and enjoy at least half an iced tea.
Today was not such a day.
We met up with our Mom's group at a local park for Spring Art Fest. A former kindergarten teacher, in all her glory, created an art scene any preschooler would pee their potty trained self upon arrival. There were stations to paint in with fingers/pudding/shaving cream and places to glue noodles/fabric/leaves/boogers (Check the orange paper with Z's name on it. You'll see it.) and all kinds of nifty art stations.
It was like the art classroom you never had in elementary school that came to life in movies. Except, it was alive and kicking in real life. Really alive and kicking. The prairie winds had recently sent us into a Wind Advisory. This is saying something in Iowa, as I feel like everyday we could call the breeze tornado-like winds. However, not sure what made these prairie winds advisable, but they were in full gear, dancing the paint bottles across picnic tables, paint brushes flew like shot put spears into the bushes, and nearly every carefully dyed noodle ended up glued to children's smocks as they squirted some Elmers just as Prairie Wind thrust her power and sent the trail of glue onto little chests, just before the macaroni's danced a jig and ended up tangoing themselves onto the glue.
Even some masking tape and creative thinking couldn't keep the artwork from swan diving off the picnic tables and into a race against each other in the wind. Moms started cleaning up and kids started shivering and climbing the long, narrow steps of the ladder to the slide of death. It may have only been a super tall twisty slide, but I was sure Zoe's Gymboree bows would use her swirling pigtails as wings and take off, spilling her 30lbs of cuteness into the two stories of open air below while her sweatshirt ballooned out, creating a sail, and the next time I'd see her would be when I could catch up to her in Chicago, or some other Eastern city where the wind dies down. Yeah, Chicago's only the Windy City because people actually go there for fun and experience the wind. Lose the skyscrapers and people and you've got yourself a real Windy City.
Anyways, we were tortured and bruised and I looked over to see Zoe bare-crotched and squatting in the wind, pee whipping around the grass in a steady flow. We made eye contact and she did a little shrug, pulled on her clothes, and gave new meaning to drip and dry, ladies.
Mrs. 2 and I decided to take the kids to the Cozy Cafe to have some warm food, coffee drinks of choice, and 20 minuets of quiet before the afternoon Nap. Ah, Nap.
We were welcomed with a "Hey! Nice to see you!" from our usual server just as Zoe lurched onto the floor, clutching her stomach, and squealing.
"I know you are hungry! Let's find a table!" I said cheerily, praying no one else we knew was in the place. A group of four elderly women pushed past us and took our table booth. Three of them. Six of us. The rest of the place was four or two top tables.
"I HAVE TO GO POOP!" shouted Zoe as she rolled, summersaulted, and tumbled on the floor.
"Get. Up. NOW!" I hissed, trying to keep a tight grip on the little monkey on my hip who really wanted a piece of the action as I leaned down to the psychotic dwarf writhing at my feet.
Holding both of them, we ran as Zoe made it known as to what we were heading to the bathroom to accomplish.
Xander took it upon himself to try to lick every surface in the bathroom at least once as I also tried to help Zoe balance on the king of all potty seats. One sneeze and she was going in.
We made it out with six jolts of automatic soap, one landing on X's head, and sixteen paper towels, to see Mrs. 2, Camile, and Cole were trying to squeeze themselves on one side of a tiny booth. We did the same, just in time to have Zoe & Camile have a jelly slurping contest - something apparently Cole created in which you pull back the tiniest bit of the jelly film, cover it back up, and see who can slurp the jelly out the fastest. They were also throwing back sugar packets like it was Spring Break in Candy Land and we also had Escape-A-Xander on our hands.
"Are we ready to order?" got an emphatic and resounding "YES!" from two tired mommas.
Zoe tried her best to use her head as a wedge between the wall and a pretty piece of artwork. She failed, but not until the owner came over to gently place his hand on the knock off and ask Zoe to knock it off. If we hadn't already ordered, we would be back in the car with me threatening no more treats/Diego/bubbles, in that order, but we had ordered and our food should be here "any minute".
Seventeen minutes later we had cleared out the booths around us and had Xander on the hip of a waitress getting a tour of the kitchen. I don't even think I tasted my chicken salad. I did, however, taste the ketchup that somehow got squeezed at the perfect angle to miss any food items, but directly hit the side of my shirt, shoulder, mouth and nose. Good thing I was wearing white!
Xander decided to try going boneless, and succeeded, and we scarfed our food and paid our checks (what is 40% of $12? You know, let's make it 50% so we are allowed to come back).
Zoe and Camile dashed into traffic as we both screamed NO! and Cole managed to smuggle out a piece of cake from the dessert counter on our way out. I could hear Mrs. 2 about to lose it as I strapped my two monkeys into their seats.
As she pulled out we made eye contact. At that exact time we both raised our right hands and pretended to shoot ourselves in the side of our heads.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Fantastic!
A long time ago, a monkey was kept in an awful cage down by the Little Miami River. It was an old biker bar on the river and they taught the monkey/ape/chimp to smoke, drink beer, and do unmentionables with his private parts. When we walked the gorgeous bike trail near the river, I'd beg to go see Sam the Monkey. One time we caught him still in the mood after his one man show, smoking a cigarette, and that was the end of my time spent with Sam. A few years later animal control finally came to get him. I've always hoped he ended up in some gorgeous rainforest or other wonderful habitat, and not just in a cage in a lab somewhere. I need to think that he is free and happy - making goofy faces to make others laugh, swinging all over, and off and running where no one can catch him.
Speaking of free and happy, it's 1:00 and the preschool is about to explode with sugar-induced chaos. The kids sit on their yellow chairs eating something from all five food groups, drinking from non-sippy cups, and giggle, laugh, and finish their veggies. Then, even the wild-child from the birthday party you attended weeks ago is sitting "criss cross applesauce" and listening to another wild Clifford adventure.
Today was Teacher Appreciation Day so each family took the reminder email from the director to heart and brought in trinkets of love. These teachers could have had Sam the Monkey curtsy-ing and saying, "Pass the Grey Poupon" if given a week and some time to work their magic. The three of them handle the ten kids with grace, respect, and not a single bribe/beg/threat. It's like they are magical. One thing, we all know, is that if it is anything out of the ordinary, kids respond with a temporary psychosis. It just throws them off. So, trinkets, confections, and mommy's arriving was enough to send these PB&J covered beings into a tither.
As soon as that old wood door opened, it was a stampede of waist-high preschoolers and moms, younger siblings, and teachers all trying to talk, gather up sweaters (it was a little chilly this morning), lunch boxes (except for Zoe. She'd much rather have a brown paper sack than her $37 Pottery Barn Kids personalized lunch bag), and back packs (once again, nix the $50 pink one with chocolate brown piping and a scrolled "ZOE" across the top pocket, the SHAMU SHAMU in gaudy primary colors from our trip to Sea World knocked that pink one with a Shamu Splash so fast we didn't see that tail coming), and all art projects/worksheets/notes/birthday party invitations that you couldn't imagine one child creating/doing/writing/knowing.
"She had a fantastic day!" was all I heard as my mind did a smug little told you so! to my worry center. Zoe doesn't do well with change and bringing in presents and gifts was just enough to set her off. Rebecca and I started comparing notes on The Zoe's and soon I realized Xander was still on my hip (and my arm was still asleep from his weight) and Zoe wasn't anywhere to be seen.
'ZOEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" I yelled down the hall. In a church. Twice. My mind starts playing some mean tricks on me since that Stalker Man entered our lives. "ZOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-" I was interrupted by giggles at the water fountain. Zoe was slurping up the water from the bottom of the fountain (ie: the drips from a little boy slopping up the fountain water and all over himself, the wall, and my daughter's pony tail). "WHAT ARE YOU DOING? GET UP!" as I tried to set down a water colored picture, very sleepy 15-month-old, Shamu's ugliest apparel, a treat cup from her prayer friend, and two sweaters (we always forget that one sweater...) to snag her off the floor. Even Carson, the dog, would just walk away from this mess. Zoe was covered in second-hand water drippings and was making her own drippings on the floor. Just then Bestie Zoe came zooming around the corner and the Zoe's were off in a blond cloud.
Picking up the 15 items meant to go to our house, I could hear the children's ministry director begging some unruly kids to slow down, stop, and take a break.
Shit.
There was a tagging "You're It!" cloud of blond girl as the Zoe's tagged, wrestled, and bobbed throughout the chaos of dismissal time. However, all the mobs of people were apparently invincible, as the girls just didn't see anyone they rammed, bumped, passed through, or summersaulted under in the packed church. The always kind Director stepped out and used her Teacher voice, but mommy's were here and they'd been good for four hours. Now it was time to put on a show.
When I finally caught her skinny little arm in the two free fingers I had, I started to hiss something about a bare-butt spank and realized we were in God's house. Just wait, little lady, until you are in Momma's House.
And then, someone or something caught my attention, a skinny arm slid through my two-fingered grasp, and off she went, through the double doors after Zoe.
STOP! at least ten different mothers yelled as the Zoe's ran to the edge of the sidewalk, that leads to mini-vans and SUV's heading off to nap time in a hurry. Bestie Zoe's curls lunged forward as her thin frame stopped at the edge. Rebecca breathed a sigh of relief before screaming another STOP! at my Zoe, who was apparently unaware of the golden rule of childhood - NEVER EVER GO INTO THE STREET!
Not only did my Zoe go into the parking lot without a glance back, but she did a two footed hop off the edge and threw her arms out as if she were practicing landings for Team USA.
Bela Karoli I am not.
Shaking and furious, I didn't know what to do with my little perfect 10 landing, so I made her sit on the curb and watch the cars. I mentioned she could have been squashed - to the disbelief of some waif of a mom in her tennis skirt opening up her Mercedes and a dirty look in my direction.
What? Play it cool? Act like it's okay, now that she is in my grip? Pretend she could have been a pancake faster than you can scream STOOOOOOOOOOOOOP to a tired momma with naptime on her mind leaving school? I don't think so. She broke the cardinal rule and would be dealt with.
Once she slurped out a Sorry (in a mumbled garble that could only be done by a mad Zoe as she tried to stop crying boogers and tears down her face) we got into the van. Said tennis mom stayed in her car, with the windows rolled down, staring at Zoe, Xander and I until I drove away. Was she afraid I was going to run over Z's foot, just to make a point?
So I did the meanest, cruelest thing I could do to Zoe.
I buckled her into her seat and showed her her treat. Her capri sun and popsicle she'd begged for since dinner the night before that was to be her treat. And I threw them away.
She may have preferred a bare butt spank, but a slap on her little butt cheek doesn't deter Zoe. Losing her rewards, awards, and treats deters Zoe. So, she lost both treats she had her heart set on and cried all the way home.
Sometimes, I still think about Sam the Monkey. I hope he is swinging high in the branches, feeling wind in his fur, and doing whatever makes him happy. But I also hope his momma is close. Because, these little monkeys like to be wild and free, but ultimately, keeping them close isn't such a bad thing, either.
Speaking of free and happy, it's 1:00 and the preschool is about to explode with sugar-induced chaos. The kids sit on their yellow chairs eating something from all five food groups, drinking from non-sippy cups, and giggle, laugh, and finish their veggies. Then, even the wild-child from the birthday party you attended weeks ago is sitting "criss cross applesauce" and listening to another wild Clifford adventure.
Today was Teacher Appreciation Day so each family took the reminder email from the director to heart and brought in trinkets of love. These teachers could have had Sam the Monkey curtsy-ing and saying, "Pass the Grey Poupon" if given a week and some time to work their magic. The three of them handle the ten kids with grace, respect, and not a single bribe/beg/threat. It's like they are magical. One thing, we all know, is that if it is anything out of the ordinary, kids respond with a temporary psychosis. It just throws them off. So, trinkets, confections, and mommy's arriving was enough to send these PB&J covered beings into a tither.
As soon as that old wood door opened, it was a stampede of waist-high preschoolers and moms, younger siblings, and teachers all trying to talk, gather up sweaters (it was a little chilly this morning), lunch boxes (except for Zoe. She'd much rather have a brown paper sack than her $37 Pottery Barn Kids personalized lunch bag), and back packs (once again, nix the $50 pink one with chocolate brown piping and a scrolled "ZOE" across the top pocket, the SHAMU SHAMU in gaudy primary colors from our trip to Sea World knocked that pink one with a Shamu Splash so fast we didn't see that tail coming), and all art projects/worksheets/notes/birthday party invitations that you couldn't imagine one child creating/doing/writing/knowing.
"She had a fantastic day!" was all I heard as my mind did a smug little told you so! to my worry center. Zoe doesn't do well with change and bringing in presents and gifts was just enough to set her off. Rebecca and I started comparing notes on The Zoe's and soon I realized Xander was still on my hip (and my arm was still asleep from his weight) and Zoe wasn't anywhere to be seen.
'ZOEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" I yelled down the hall. In a church. Twice. My mind starts playing some mean tricks on me since that Stalker Man entered our lives. "ZOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-" I was interrupted by giggles at the water fountain. Zoe was slurping up the water from the bottom of the fountain (ie: the drips from a little boy slopping up the fountain water and all over himself, the wall, and my daughter's pony tail). "WHAT ARE YOU DOING? GET UP!" as I tried to set down a water colored picture, very sleepy 15-month-old, Shamu's ugliest apparel, a treat cup from her prayer friend, and two sweaters (we always forget that one sweater...) to snag her off the floor. Even Carson, the dog, would just walk away from this mess. Zoe was covered in second-hand water drippings and was making her own drippings on the floor. Just then Bestie Zoe came zooming around the corner and the Zoe's were off in a blond cloud.
Picking up the 15 items meant to go to our house, I could hear the children's ministry director begging some unruly kids to slow down, stop, and take a break.
Shit.
There was a tagging "You're It!" cloud of blond girl as the Zoe's tagged, wrestled, and bobbed throughout the chaos of dismissal time. However, all the mobs of people were apparently invincible, as the girls just didn't see anyone they rammed, bumped, passed through, or summersaulted under in the packed church. The always kind Director stepped out and used her Teacher voice, but mommy's were here and they'd been good for four hours. Now it was time to put on a show.
When I finally caught her skinny little arm in the two free fingers I had, I started to hiss something about a bare-butt spank and realized we were in God's house. Just wait, little lady, until you are in Momma's House.
And then, someone or something caught my attention, a skinny arm slid through my two-fingered grasp, and off she went, through the double doors after Zoe.
STOP! at least ten different mothers yelled as the Zoe's ran to the edge of the sidewalk, that leads to mini-vans and SUV's heading off to nap time in a hurry. Bestie Zoe's curls lunged forward as her thin frame stopped at the edge. Rebecca breathed a sigh of relief before screaming another STOP! at my Zoe, who was apparently unaware of the golden rule of childhood - NEVER EVER GO INTO THE STREET!
Not only did my Zoe go into the parking lot without a glance back, but she did a two footed hop off the edge and threw her arms out as if she were practicing landings for Team USA.
Bela Karoli I am not.
Shaking and furious, I didn't know what to do with my little perfect 10 landing, so I made her sit on the curb and watch the cars. I mentioned she could have been squashed - to the disbelief of some waif of a mom in her tennis skirt opening up her Mercedes and a dirty look in my direction.
What? Play it cool? Act like it's okay, now that she is in my grip? Pretend she could have been a pancake faster than you can scream STOOOOOOOOOOOOOP to a tired momma with naptime on her mind leaving school? I don't think so. She broke the cardinal rule and would be dealt with.
Once she slurped out a Sorry (in a mumbled garble that could only be done by a mad Zoe as she tried to stop crying boogers and tears down her face) we got into the van. Said tennis mom stayed in her car, with the windows rolled down, staring at Zoe, Xander and I until I drove away. Was she afraid I was going to run over Z's foot, just to make a point?
So I did the meanest, cruelest thing I could do to Zoe.
I buckled her into her seat and showed her her treat. Her capri sun and popsicle she'd begged for since dinner the night before that was to be her treat. And I threw them away.
She may have preferred a bare butt spank, but a slap on her little butt cheek doesn't deter Zoe. Losing her rewards, awards, and treats deters Zoe. So, she lost both treats she had her heart set on and cried all the way home.
Sometimes, I still think about Sam the Monkey. I hope he is swinging high in the branches, feeling wind in his fur, and doing whatever makes him happy. But I also hope his momma is close. Because, these little monkeys like to be wild and free, but ultimately, keeping them close isn't such a bad thing, either.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Things I love about 3 year olds
- You can never have enough glue on your project.
- When choosing your outfit, it matters if you LIKE each piece, not if they go together, match, or are even in season. Why not throw on a Buckeye jersey, turtleneck, tutu, leggings, and one tennis shoe and one croc?
- Going poop is still reason to celebrate with a high five and a piece of chocolate.
- Kicking your brother's legs out from under him, if an Olympic sport, would earn you some gold.
- Plastic heels are perfect for every occasion.
- Time stands still when you look at a butterfly.
- A new set of bubbles and a wand will not only make your day, but will make your day awesome.
- Life really is as simple as listening, smiling, and going with the flow. (If you are in the mood to listen, smile, or not rule the roost.)
- If someone is able to walk, communicate, and smile, you are instantly friends for the duration of the play date. They get kudos if they have an extra set of fairy wings.
- Without a doubt, you know you are the prettiest, smartest, funniest, nicest, and best kid in the world.
- When choosing your outfit, it matters if you LIKE each piece, not if they go together, match, or are even in season. Why not throw on a Buckeye jersey, turtleneck, tutu, leggings, and one tennis shoe and one croc?
- Going poop is still reason to celebrate with a high five and a piece of chocolate.
- Kicking your brother's legs out from under him, if an Olympic sport, would earn you some gold.
- Plastic heels are perfect for every occasion.
- Time stands still when you look at a butterfly.
- A new set of bubbles and a wand will not only make your day, but will make your day awesome.
- Life really is as simple as listening, smiling, and going with the flow. (If you are in the mood to listen, smile, or not rule the roost.)
- If someone is able to walk, communicate, and smile, you are instantly friends for the duration of the play date. They get kudos if they have an extra set of fairy wings.
- Without a doubt, you know you are the prettiest, smartest, funniest, nicest, and best kid in the world.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Shoe Man
I was taught, at a very young age, that good, solid shoes needed to fit correctly (one thumb from the tip of the shoe) and constantly be in excellent condition and if they should ever break down, wear out, rip, etc. it will, in fact, change your entire spinal alignment and those shoes should be donated (to some poor sap who wonder's why the Goodwill sneakers she relies on give her a bad back) immediately. Seriously. You can't make this stuff up.
My father has always been in the shoe business, at least as long as I've known him. He is funny, smart, caring, and generous to a fault. In fact, our best man's speech at our wedding talked about when he met my parents, my dad opened the door and said, "What size are you?" while shaking his hand.
Best Man had no idea my dad was a shoe man and didn't know wether to punch him or rattle off his neck/sleeve numbers, inseam, waist, and anything else important, as this was the Father of the Bride and maybe if you gave him your size he would pay for the tux? Mr. (at that point, Fiance) explained my dad was known to give away shoes to anyone and everyone he meets (ask our cleaning lady, my sorority sisters, dry cleaners, and our wedding planner if you don't believe me) and within minutes my dad was on his ottoman-turn-shoe store fitting seat and was fitting Best Man into a few comfy pairs of trainers, runners, and boots.
This was normal in my house and until Mr. came along I never knew this didn't happen in most homes. It never dawned on me that Stephen's dad, who owned a local tennis club wasn't having you try out different rackets each time we were over, or a family friend who was a big wig at Victoria's Secret didn't have fitting rooms and a way to measure cup sizes in his foyer, but it just seemed normal that everyone was this generous and giving to the people around them.
My dad is endearing and everyone speaks highly of him, without a single pause, and loves his advice.
So, when it came time to get Zoe new shoes, it always falls on Bobsa and TT to fit and purchase very expensive shoes that will grow with the child, not mold or impression young bones, and make the child a genius (read the box). This would be easier if they lived within 1000 miles of Des Moines, but they are beach front on the West Coast loving the So Cal sun. So, TT came to town and noticed Zoe was in need of new shoes. So, they got four new pairs.
Zoe still had her heart set on a pair of glittery, gaudy train wrecks that she HAD TO HAVE. The kind of shoes that make momma's cringe and little girls cry over. TT offered to pay the $75 at Von Maur for them, but I begged her not to spend more than $20 on "disposable" shoes. Trust me, at the first rip, tear, or scuff they will be deemed unusable by momma and have to go to the poor kids, as Z calls Goodwill.
My mom shuddered and let out an animal-like sound as we walked into PayLess. This had happened one other time in my life, when I was in a small town desperate for black heels for a good friend's funeral. The blisters scarred my tender toes and I've since tried to erase it from my memory. Anyways, PayLess had a pair of silver glitter horrors that would make Dorothy's ruby reds look dull. So, we braved the cheap pleather-filled aisles and found The Shoes.
And Zoe did a little dance, twinkle in her eye, and fell in love.
I swear I heard her utter, "Hello, Lover!"
Seeing as she had them on faster than she has ever gotten a shoe on in her life - and on the appropriate feet - we knew we were hosed.
She threw her foot out so fast she tripped a little and said, "Check 'em out! Sparkly shoes!"
TT opened up her phone, dialed Bobsa, and said, "We have a problem" while explaining the situation. Bobsa urged us to trek back up the mall, past the play land, and the pretzel store, which ultimately, is like asking a soldier to race back through a mine field just for shits and giggles, with a few "$75 for correct spinal alignment is nothing!"s and we were dismayed. Then Zoe grabbed the phone.
"Bobsa! Bobsa! I got sparkly shoes! Real real ones! Dey are GORGEOUS!" and after she dropped the phone with a kiss on the mouthpiece, TT asked, "What do I do?"
And Bobsa said...
"Get them in every color!"
And that was how we knew, without a doubt, that the shoe man had yet another lady love in his life.
My father has always been in the shoe business, at least as long as I've known him. He is funny, smart, caring, and generous to a fault. In fact, our best man's speech at our wedding talked about when he met my parents, my dad opened the door and said, "What size are you?" while shaking his hand.
Best Man had no idea my dad was a shoe man and didn't know wether to punch him or rattle off his neck/sleeve numbers, inseam, waist, and anything else important, as this was the Father of the Bride and maybe if you gave him your size he would pay for the tux? Mr. (at that point, Fiance) explained my dad was known to give away shoes to anyone and everyone he meets (ask our cleaning lady, my sorority sisters, dry cleaners, and our wedding planner if you don't believe me) and within minutes my dad was on his ottoman-turn-shoe store fitting seat and was fitting Best Man into a few comfy pairs of trainers, runners, and boots.
This was normal in my house and until Mr. came along I never knew this didn't happen in most homes. It never dawned on me that Stephen's dad, who owned a local tennis club wasn't having you try out different rackets each time we were over, or a family friend who was a big wig at Victoria's Secret didn't have fitting rooms and a way to measure cup sizes in his foyer, but it just seemed normal that everyone was this generous and giving to the people around them.
My dad is endearing and everyone speaks highly of him, without a single pause, and loves his advice.
So, when it came time to get Zoe new shoes, it always falls on Bobsa and TT to fit and purchase very expensive shoes that will grow with the child, not mold or impression young bones, and make the child a genius (read the box). This would be easier if they lived within 1000 miles of Des Moines, but they are beach front on the West Coast loving the So Cal sun. So, TT came to town and noticed Zoe was in need of new shoes. So, they got four new pairs.
Zoe still had her heart set on a pair of glittery, gaudy train wrecks that she HAD TO HAVE. The kind of shoes that make momma's cringe and little girls cry over. TT offered to pay the $75 at Von Maur for them, but I begged her not to spend more than $20 on "disposable" shoes. Trust me, at the first rip, tear, or scuff they will be deemed unusable by momma and have to go to the poor kids, as Z calls Goodwill.
My mom shuddered and let out an animal-like sound as we walked into PayLess. This had happened one other time in my life, when I was in a small town desperate for black heels for a good friend's funeral. The blisters scarred my tender toes and I've since tried to erase it from my memory. Anyways, PayLess had a pair of silver glitter horrors that would make Dorothy's ruby reds look dull. So, we braved the cheap pleather-filled aisles and found The Shoes.
And Zoe did a little dance, twinkle in her eye, and fell in love.
I swear I heard her utter, "Hello, Lover!"
Seeing as she had them on faster than she has ever gotten a shoe on in her life - and on the appropriate feet - we knew we were hosed.
She threw her foot out so fast she tripped a little and said, "Check 'em out! Sparkly shoes!"
TT opened up her phone, dialed Bobsa, and said, "We have a problem" while explaining the situation. Bobsa urged us to trek back up the mall, past the play land, and the pretzel store, which ultimately, is like asking a soldier to race back through a mine field just for shits and giggles, with a few "$75 for correct spinal alignment is nothing!"s and we were dismayed. Then Zoe grabbed the phone.
"Bobsa! Bobsa! I got sparkly shoes! Real real ones! Dey are GORGEOUS!" and after she dropped the phone with a kiss on the mouthpiece, TT asked, "What do I do?"
And Bobsa said...
"Get them in every color!"
And that was how we knew, without a doubt, that the shoe man had yet another lady love in his life.
Wave Makers
This morning I got my butt out of bed after Mr. kicked my shin - again - and told me I couldn't let Rebecca down.
"Sure I can!" I mumbled in his direction as I stumbled to our bathroom, refused to turn on the lights to pee and brushed my teeth in hot water because I turned on the wrong faucet. Does it make your mouth double clean to kill the germs with toothpaste and hot hot water? I'll have to look into this. Anyways, I pulled on the old swim suit that best suited a geriatric fat grandma than a twenty-something (I have three weeks) girl. Too bad it fit. Snugly. Too snug? Noooooooo.
Pitch black cold air shocked my eyes open as I hauled myself into Mr.'s Envoy. He left it in the driveway for me so I wouldn't wake the kids up when I left at the unGodly hour of 5-something to go shock my body that we were moving just to move, not to chase diapered butts or energetic preschoolers.
The Y was buzzing with activity, skinny people drinking stainless steel bottles of water with sweaty ponytails that looked better than my hair why I style. So, I stepped back out and waited for Rebecca on the sidewalk. As she walked up with some serious bed head and jammies -- I love her -- and did a little "Yay Us!" cheer that pumped us both us and made our round bellies roll as Svelte Momma held open the door for us and then ruined the kind gesture with a roll of her eyes. We entered the Y with a little bit of nervousness that happens when you see someone naked for the first time. When you can fit into clothes at Lane Bryant, trust me, a swimsuit is the equivalent of naked.
We giggled as we undressed in the locker room and literally ran and jumped in the pool, maintaining complete eye contact. Come to think of it I still couldn't tell you what her suit looked like from below the shoulder straps.
We made waves. Just our waves happened to be in a different direction, style, and tempo than anyone else in the class. More eye rolls ensued, some from ladies old enough to be my mom's mom. Apparently, the instructor thought "pendulum swing! One two!" was enough direction when all you could see was her neck and head bobbing in the cold pool to get you doing her exact moves. So, we tried and laughed and laughed and tried.
We were moving! And having fun. Although, I must have had a better work out than Rebecca because she had to use one arm on anything that made her DD's try to float out of her suit, which happened to be most circuits. We plan on going back twice a week, on mornings that our men aren't at the Y. I just hope the Moth Ball Lady who gleefully cheered "this rough pool bottom is like a pumice stone" just as I accidentally swallowed a bit of pool - and then choked it back out - and the incontinent lady who I'm pretty sure had a few bursts of yellow under her as we did some hard core jumping jacks using the bar weights. One time Moth Ball Lady called me out and asked why I was drowning, while my body weight should have been supported by my wrists. I called out FIBROMYALGIA, you old Coot! and shut her up. In my head.
All in all, it was a really nice way to start the day, even if I did ingest a little urine and sloughed dead skin from some geriatric toes.
"Sure I can!" I mumbled in his direction as I stumbled to our bathroom, refused to turn on the lights to pee and brushed my teeth in hot water because I turned on the wrong faucet. Does it make your mouth double clean to kill the germs with toothpaste and hot hot water? I'll have to look into this. Anyways, I pulled on the old swim suit that best suited a geriatric fat grandma than a twenty-something (I have three weeks) girl. Too bad it fit. Snugly. Too snug? Noooooooo.
Pitch black cold air shocked my eyes open as I hauled myself into Mr.'s Envoy. He left it in the driveway for me so I wouldn't wake the kids up when I left at the unGodly hour of 5-something to go shock my body that we were moving just to move, not to chase diapered butts or energetic preschoolers.
The Y was buzzing with activity, skinny people drinking stainless steel bottles of water with sweaty ponytails that looked better than my hair why I style. So, I stepped back out and waited for Rebecca on the sidewalk. As she walked up with some serious bed head and jammies -- I love her -- and did a little "Yay Us!" cheer that pumped us both us and made our round bellies roll as Svelte Momma held open the door for us and then ruined the kind gesture with a roll of her eyes. We entered the Y with a little bit of nervousness that happens when you see someone naked for the first time. When you can fit into clothes at Lane Bryant, trust me, a swimsuit is the equivalent of naked.
We giggled as we undressed in the locker room and literally ran and jumped in the pool, maintaining complete eye contact. Come to think of it I still couldn't tell you what her suit looked like from below the shoulder straps.
We made waves. Just our waves happened to be in a different direction, style, and tempo than anyone else in the class. More eye rolls ensued, some from ladies old enough to be my mom's mom. Apparently, the instructor thought "pendulum swing! One two!" was enough direction when all you could see was her neck and head bobbing in the cold pool to get you doing her exact moves. So, we tried and laughed and laughed and tried.
We were moving! And having fun. Although, I must have had a better work out than Rebecca because she had to use one arm on anything that made her DD's try to float out of her suit, which happened to be most circuits. We plan on going back twice a week, on mornings that our men aren't at the Y. I just hope the Moth Ball Lady who gleefully cheered "this rough pool bottom is like a pumice stone" just as I accidentally swallowed a bit of pool - and then choked it back out - and the incontinent lady who I'm pretty sure had a few bursts of yellow under her as we did some hard core jumping jacks using the bar weights. One time Moth Ball Lady called me out and asked why I was drowning, while my body weight should have been supported by my wrists. I called out FIBROMYALGIA, you old Coot! and shut her up. In my head.
All in all, it was a really nice way to start the day, even if I did ingest a little urine and sloughed dead skin from some geriatric toes.
"All You Care to Eat"
Since when did restaurants start tooting "All You Care to Eat" instead of "ALL YOU CAN EAT!" in neon signs? When did this happen? I think it's been fairly gradual and I think it's really funny. Is this some way to combat obesity in America? Did someone really think changing the vernacular, not the meaning, of something will also change behaviors?
We went to a local supermarkets "All You Care to Eat" kids night. Mr. was out of town, kids were driving me crazy, and at some point someone had told me on Tuesday nights it was kid's night and they 1) Ate free 2) had crafts 3) supplied free nannies. Well, two out of three isn't bad.
So, I printed a flyer for the $5 All You Care to Eat event and packed Zoe & Xander and off we went in hopes of a plethora of dining choices to satisfy some growling stomachs.
What we walked into would make Weight Watchers shudder. It looked like a cattle drive for the most robust, rotund, and shoe-tying impaired Iowans. I was thrown off at the girth of most diners, sad to say I fit right in. We got in line (if you've ever wrestled two kids into five-point harnesses and then out of them, you know you are staying at the said location and NOT moving locales) and when we got in the store, realized it was a Chinese All You Care to Eat spread.
This was a greasy mess of rice and various friend meats that were every bit as sneezed and picked over like any ol' Sizzler or Ponderosa BUFFET my parents never let me step foot in.
Vernacular shift or not, these people were shoveling in all they cared to... and could.
We didn't partake in the buffet that bestowing China's name to may cause WWIII and stepped over to the deli to do sandwiches and a side of Ambrosia Salad - really, who can resist pink marshmallow's called salad? And we watched.
Zoe asked if three men were pregnant "cause they must have BIG babies in their bellies!" and if the one couple shoveling in fried rice knew they offered silverware AND napkins, and I lost my appetite.
So, dinner and a show.
We went to a local supermarkets "All You Care to Eat" kids night. Mr. was out of town, kids were driving me crazy, and at some point someone had told me on Tuesday nights it was kid's night and they 1) Ate free 2) had crafts 3) supplied free nannies. Well, two out of three isn't bad.
So, I printed a flyer for the $5 All You Care to Eat event and packed Zoe & Xander and off we went in hopes of a plethora of dining choices to satisfy some growling stomachs.
What we walked into would make Weight Watchers shudder. It looked like a cattle drive for the most robust, rotund, and shoe-tying impaired Iowans. I was thrown off at the girth of most diners, sad to say I fit right in. We got in line (if you've ever wrestled two kids into five-point harnesses and then out of them, you know you are staying at the said location and NOT moving locales) and when we got in the store, realized it was a Chinese All You Care to Eat spread.
This was a greasy mess of rice and various friend meats that were every bit as sneezed and picked over like any ol' Sizzler or Ponderosa BUFFET my parents never let me step foot in.
Vernacular shift or not, these people were shoveling in all they cared to... and could.
We didn't partake in the buffet that bestowing China's name to may cause WWIII and stepped over to the deli to do sandwiches and a side of Ambrosia Salad - really, who can resist pink marshmallow's called salad? And we watched.
Zoe asked if three men were pregnant "cause they must have BIG babies in their bellies!" and if the one couple shoveling in fried rice knew they offered silverware AND napkins, and I lost my appetite.
So, dinner and a show.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
San Diego is Spanish for...
I made a huge mistake when we were visiting my parents in California. Everytime we were on the 5 and I'd see a sign for San Diego (which is all time time, as they are 45 minutes north) I'd say, in my best Ron Burgundy voice, "San Diego is Spanish for Whale's Vagina" and my dad would laugh and my mom would give me a dirty look. I guess we know who has seen Anchor Man and who has been deprived.
This went on for the 10 days we were out there last. Six weeks ago.
So, this morning I took of Zoe's nighttime diaper - I'm sure she is potty trained enough not to wear one at night, but who wants to wake up and clean sheets at 4am when you have another one who really isn't too pumped about sleeping all night yet? - and she threw her legs back and yellled, "SAN DIEGO! FINNISH FOR DOLPHIN'S BUTT!"
I laughed so hard my stomach ached and I ripped off the elastic tab of the diaper I was holding.
Finnish for Dolphin's butt? Really?
This went on for the 10 days we were out there last. Six weeks ago.
So, this morning I took of Zoe's nighttime diaper - I'm sure she is potty trained enough not to wear one at night, but who wants to wake up and clean sheets at 4am when you have another one who really isn't too pumped about sleeping all night yet? - and she threw her legs back and yellled, "SAN DIEGO! FINNISH FOR DOLPHIN'S BUTT!"
I laughed so hard my stomach ached and I ripped off the elastic tab of the diaper I was holding.
Finnish for Dolphin's butt? Really?
La La La
This, from my napping first-born:
"My cat is Mooooooooooooooo-cha chip and I love him so much. He has fur, whiskers, and 1-2-3-4-5-6- FOUR paws, and likes when I do this! OUCH! My cat is Mooooooooooooooo-cha chip and I love him so much. He has fur, whiskers, and 1-2-3-4-5-6- FOUR paws, and likes when I do this! OUCH! My cat is Mooooooooooooooo-cha chip and I love him so much. He has fur, whiskers, and 1-2-3-4-5-6- FOUR paws, and likes when I do this! Come back here, Mocha!"
"My cat is Mooooooooooooooo-cha chip and I love him so much. He has fur, whiskers, and 1-2-3-4-5-6- FOUR paws, and likes when I do this! OUCH! My cat is Mooooooooooooooo-cha chip and I love him so much. He has fur, whiskers, and 1-2-3-4-5-6- FOUR paws, and likes when I do this! OUCH! My cat is Mooooooooooooooo-cha chip and I love him so much. He has fur, whiskers, and 1-2-3-4-5-6- FOUR paws, and likes when I do this! Come back here, Mocha!"
At 6 am
At 6 am this morning Zoe ran into our room, Lovey on her head, and jumped on me.
"Morning, Mama!"
"Morning, Z!"
"Is Daddy at work?"
"No. He's in the shower, I think."
"Good. Girl talk time," Now, when I hear her say this I smile and get nervous. It's cute, but it always means bargaining of some kind. And sadly, she can out argue me in a circle until I give up like the best litigator you could hire. I just didn't need to have a mental beat down from a preschooler at 6 am, you know? "Here's the deal. We can go play outside and make brownies. Two deals. One is go outside. The other is make brownies. Deal?"
"No! We are going to lay here until the sun comes up and then clean the house before we go to Backyard Adventures for play date."
"Nope. I gave you two deals. Pick one."
"Z, I think you are confusing deals with options. When I give you two options (like stop throwing your blocks at your brothers head OR go to your room without a snack) you must pick one. A deal is when I bribe you in public, (like Stop screaming for Cheeto's in the middle of the aisle and flopping around like a dying fish and I'll let you eat the blackberries before we pay for them while you sit quietly in the cart). Neither of these are deals."
"Yep. It's a deal. Pick one."
The doorbell rang in the middle of this conversation to nowhere and I looked for a bra (didn't find one) and threw on a sweatshirt (better than a bra, even on 80 degree mornings).
We were outside (Deal 1) and she was in the sandbox for I even had a chance to shout for her to get inside and at the very least find her jammie bottoms, walked through the rest of the landscape job, and then I realized we had a play date we scheduled - meaning I needed to bring snacks for 18 kids.
I looked in the walk-in pantry of temptation and realized unless the kids wanted spaghetti, something with diced green chilis and salsa, or a Pringle's can of stale chips, we'd make a quick batch of brownies.
Licking the spoon, I called Zoe in from the backyard. It was 7:00 by then and she needed to eat an Eggo or something. She sprinted forth, smiling.
"Come on in, baby!"
"Yeah! You picked both deals!" with a high five into the house.
Huh?
"I played outside AND you made me brownies!" she smiled, hugged me, kissed my cheek and rubbed my back. Worked for me. Mom of the Year, folks.
I just smiled and rubbed her back when she plucked the brownie spoon from my hands, licked it, and winked as she walked away.
"Morning, Mama!"
"Morning, Z!"
"Is Daddy at work?"
"No. He's in the shower, I think."
"Good. Girl talk time," Now, when I hear her say this I smile and get nervous. It's cute, but it always means bargaining of some kind. And sadly, she can out argue me in a circle until I give up like the best litigator you could hire. I just didn't need to have a mental beat down from a preschooler at 6 am, you know? "Here's the deal. We can go play outside and make brownies. Two deals. One is go outside. The other is make brownies. Deal?"
"No! We are going to lay here until the sun comes up and then clean the house before we go to Backyard Adventures for play date."
"Nope. I gave you two deals. Pick one."
"Z, I think you are confusing deals with options. When I give you two options (like stop throwing your blocks at your brothers head OR go to your room without a snack) you must pick one. A deal is when I bribe you in public, (like Stop screaming for Cheeto's in the middle of the aisle and flopping around like a dying fish and I'll let you eat the blackberries before we pay for them while you sit quietly in the cart). Neither of these are deals."
"Yep. It's a deal. Pick one."
The doorbell rang in the middle of this conversation to nowhere and I looked for a bra (didn't find one) and threw on a sweatshirt (better than a bra, even on 80 degree mornings).
We were outside (Deal 1) and she was in the sandbox for I even had a chance to shout for her to get inside and at the very least find her jammie bottoms, walked through the rest of the landscape job, and then I realized we had a play date we scheduled - meaning I needed to bring snacks for 18 kids.
I looked in the walk-in pantry of temptation and realized unless the kids wanted spaghetti, something with diced green chilis and salsa, or a Pringle's can of stale chips, we'd make a quick batch of brownies.
Licking the spoon, I called Zoe in from the backyard. It was 7:00 by then and she needed to eat an Eggo or something. She sprinted forth, smiling.
"Come on in, baby!"
"Yeah! You picked both deals!" with a high five into the house.
Huh?
"I played outside AND you made me brownies!" she smiled, hugged me, kissed my cheek and rubbed my back. Worked for me. Mom of the Year, folks.
I just smiled and rubbed her back when she plucked the brownie spoon from my hands, licked it, and winked as she walked away.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
3 Things Zoe has done lately to make me crack up
3. Does the Stanky Leg dance each and every time she gets in the bathtub.
2. Screams "I. WILL. DO. IT!!!" ten times, then, after I give up, she screams, "HELP MEEEEEEEEE!"
1. Sings "All the Stinky Piggies" to the tune of "All the Single Ladies" and wiggle her feet in Xander's face.
2. Screams "I. WILL. DO. IT!!!" ten times, then, after I give up, she screams, "HELP MEEEEEEEEE!"
1. Sings "All the Stinky Piggies" to the tune of "All the Single Ladies" and wiggle her feet in Xander's face.
Don't Blink
It was a quick trip into the mega-chain bookstore. Grab the baby, our stroller, and run in, up the escalator, and into the kid's section to find some new books for the almost-three year old's birthday gifts. Should have been a quick trip, actually.
Snapping Xander into his new, cheap-o stoller (I've given up on Chicco's, Graco's, and Combi's - if you've ever gate checked one on a plane somehow they get mangled into scrap metal with bits of colorful fabric by the time they get it back to you while deplaning) I pinched my *$(%&$%)#%*&$)*^& finger again. It's just deep enough to squirt blood from your sensitive finger than never gets used unless you are attaching a five-point harness on a 15-month-old with legs he wants to use, not a diapered butt he wants to sit on.
Cursing like a sailor I tucked Xander's hands by his sides as I wrestled this beast of a harness on his meaty frame. His eyes got big and he said, "Uh Oh!" Yep.
We made it into the store and when I handed the customer service employee who knows more about American Literature than I do (with my degree to teach it) a $50 gift card. He scans it and says, "$1.72, ma'am!"
Ok, two major issues here.
1. I thought this was the $50 I won from the local paper. Check it again with your nifty gadget. CHECK IT.
2. MA'AM? I may be overweight and can't pull off a bandana as a shirt anymore, but seriously, MA'AM? When did this happen?
"How old are you," I asked, checking his name tag, "Christopher?"
"Pardon me?"
"How old are you?"
"23."
"I am in my twenties, too!" for another month. Four weeks from Sunday, actually.
"Nice."
"Yes. So why is it that you called me ma'am?"
"To be polite?" he replied with a question ringing out. At this point Xander was fussing so I popped a forbidden non-Safe-T-Pop in his little mouth and gave Christopher a stink eye. "Did you need anything else?" as he started plucking away at the computer in front of me. I knew he was updating his Facebook status to say, "is stuck helping a Fat Middle Aged Woman realize she's a long way and 75 pounds from Miss."
"Please check the gift card again. I know it's for $50. Like it says," I say smugly, thrusting the card back at him.
Swipe.
"Nope, sorry, ma'am. Still $1.72."
"So, 23-year-old-Christopher-born-in-the-same-decade-as-me-but-still-feels-the-need-to-call-me-ma'am, how do I go about getting the full amount of the gift card that should be on it?"
Christopher was now printing something and reaching for it.
"How about you go home and find Curious George Goes to the Museum {Zoe's pick}, Clifford takes a Walk {a new board book for Xander), Of Mice and Men {when I thought I should start rereading a classic a week to keep my brain active}, Sex & The City: The Series {when I realized I can only read on the toilet and in the downtime I have, I want to watch Carrie before the next one comes out, not cry over a special brother duo}, and the Sesame Street Golden Book Set {yep, blew through it about three months ago}, your receipt, and bring them back. Once returned, you will have the full $50 back on your gift card balance."You know, he said this really smug.
As I slowly turned the stroller and a very sticky Xander around Christopher made sure to say a polite "Thank you, Ma'am!"
We then tackled the escalator, made it to the kids area, and managed to only clear off three displays, four shelves, and the train table before I grabbed the first five books I saw around us, put Sticky Man back in his stroller, pinched another finger, and found the elevator to go down, detoured to the Clearance, I mean "Bargain Books" area, and then as Xander tried his best to go boneless, clear a few more shelves and shoplift a few Lindt truffles, I pulled out my wallet.
Beads of sweat trickled down my face as the line of people grew behind us. Chill out, people. Unless you have a stroller with you, chances are you don't need to get out of here in lightening speed. I mean, you are chilling in a bookstore at 10am on a Tuesday, ya know?
Where is my Visa? Visa, where are you? I called into the depths of the diaper bag, as it was apparent by the 12 expired gift cards, stale mints, used tissues, a rattle, three dollar bills, 37-cents and Iowa license strewn on the counter that it wasn't in my Coach purse. I name-drop at this point because it is the only thing on me most days that would prove we are not homeless. I dress like this because it fits and will be stained within the hour, not because I have no other choice.
My face went white as I looked up to the teller and who is it? Jack-of-all-trades Christopher is standing before me, skinny arms crossed, impatient look on his pasty face. "Ma'am, do you have means to pay?"
"Nope."
I wheeled Xander out of the store in a hurry, realized the contents of my purse were still scattered about the store, picked them up, left the stale mints and a tissue for Christopher, and was almost in tears as I realized Zoe was playing Costco last night and kept talking about her silver Costco card. I bet it also moonlights as Momma's Visa.
As I did my best to disappear an older woman stopped in front of me, out of her place in line. She was dressed very well, had on expensive pumps, and wore a gorgeous set of ivory pearls around her aging neckline.
"Don't blink, honey."
I was a little thrown off and embarrassed so I did a half-smile and tried to walk past her.
"One day he'll be off and running and you'd kill to have him so close to you again."
"My baby girl will be three this week and it's so hard to imagine that three years have happened already - I barely remember her at this age and it wasn't even a year and a half ago!"
Xander did a zerbert and the lady laughed. He then squealed, threw his sippy at her, pulled over a "Best Sellers" cardboard sign, and puked up the last of the non-Safe-T-Pop.
"Doesn't mean your days aren't tougher than shit, but it does go by too quick!" she said with a laugh and stepped into the line.
I will have to remind myself not to blink because some days I'd rather just hit the snooze button and sleep through them.
Snapping Xander into his new, cheap-o stoller (I've given up on Chicco's, Graco's, and Combi's - if you've ever gate checked one on a plane somehow they get mangled into scrap metal with bits of colorful fabric by the time they get it back to you while deplaning) I pinched my *$(%&$%)#%*&$)*^& finger again. It's just deep enough to squirt blood from your sensitive finger than never gets used unless you are attaching a five-point harness on a 15-month-old with legs he wants to use, not a diapered butt he wants to sit on.
Cursing like a sailor I tucked Xander's hands by his sides as I wrestled this beast of a harness on his meaty frame. His eyes got big and he said, "Uh Oh!" Yep.
We made it into the store and when I handed the customer service employee who knows more about American Literature than I do (with my degree to teach it) a $50 gift card. He scans it and says, "$1.72, ma'am!"
Ok, two major issues here.
1. I thought this was the $50 I won from the local paper. Check it again with your nifty gadget. CHECK IT.
2. MA'AM? I may be overweight and can't pull off a bandana as a shirt anymore, but seriously, MA'AM? When did this happen?
"How old are you," I asked, checking his name tag, "Christopher?"
"Pardon me?"
"How old are you?"
"23."
"I am in my twenties, too!" for another month. Four weeks from Sunday, actually.
"Nice."
"Yes. So why is it that you called me ma'am?"
"To be polite?" he replied with a question ringing out. At this point Xander was fussing so I popped a forbidden non-Safe-T-Pop in his little mouth and gave Christopher a stink eye. "Did you need anything else?" as he started plucking away at the computer in front of me. I knew he was updating his Facebook status to say, "is stuck helping a Fat Middle Aged Woman realize she's a long way and 75 pounds from Miss."
"Please check the gift card again. I know it's for $50. Like it says," I say smugly, thrusting the card back at him.
Swipe.
"Nope, sorry, ma'am. Still $1.72."
"So, 23-year-old-Christopher-born-in-the-same-decade-as-me-but-still-feels-the-need-to-call-me-ma'am, how do I go about getting the full amount of the gift card that should be on it?"
Christopher was now printing something and reaching for it.
"How about you go home and find Curious George Goes to the Museum {Zoe's pick}, Clifford takes a Walk {a new board book for Xander), Of Mice and Men {when I thought I should start rereading a classic a week to keep my brain active}, Sex & The City: The Series {when I realized I can only read on the toilet and in the downtime I have, I want to watch Carrie before the next one comes out, not cry over a special brother duo}, and the Sesame Street Golden Book Set {yep, blew through it about three months ago}, your receipt, and bring them back. Once returned, you will have the full $50 back on your gift card balance."You know, he said this really smug.
As I slowly turned the stroller and a very sticky Xander around Christopher made sure to say a polite "Thank you, Ma'am!"
We then tackled the escalator, made it to the kids area, and managed to only clear off three displays, four shelves, and the train table before I grabbed the first five books I saw around us, put Sticky Man back in his stroller, pinched another finger, and found the elevator to go down, detoured to the Clearance, I mean "Bargain Books" area, and then as Xander tried his best to go boneless, clear a few more shelves and shoplift a few Lindt truffles, I pulled out my wallet.
Beads of sweat trickled down my face as the line of people grew behind us. Chill out, people. Unless you have a stroller with you, chances are you don't need to get out of here in lightening speed. I mean, you are chilling in a bookstore at 10am on a Tuesday, ya know?
Where is my Visa? Visa, where are you? I called into the depths of the diaper bag, as it was apparent by the 12 expired gift cards, stale mints, used tissues, a rattle, three dollar bills, 37-cents and Iowa license strewn on the counter that it wasn't in my Coach purse. I name-drop at this point because it is the only thing on me most days that would prove we are not homeless. I dress like this because it fits and will be stained within the hour, not because I have no other choice.
My face went white as I looked up to the teller and who is it? Jack-of-all-trades Christopher is standing before me, skinny arms crossed, impatient look on his pasty face. "Ma'am, do you have means to pay?"
"Nope."
I wheeled Xander out of the store in a hurry, realized the contents of my purse were still scattered about the store, picked them up, left the stale mints and a tissue for Christopher, and was almost in tears as I realized Zoe was playing Costco last night and kept talking about her silver Costco card. I bet it also moonlights as Momma's Visa.
As I did my best to disappear an older woman stopped in front of me, out of her place in line. She was dressed very well, had on expensive pumps, and wore a gorgeous set of ivory pearls around her aging neckline.
"Don't blink, honey."
I was a little thrown off and embarrassed so I did a half-smile and tried to walk past her.
"One day he'll be off and running and you'd kill to have him so close to you again."
"My baby girl will be three this week and it's so hard to imagine that three years have happened already - I barely remember her at this age and it wasn't even a year and a half ago!"
Xander did a zerbert and the lady laughed. He then squealed, threw his sippy at her, pulled over a "Best Sellers" cardboard sign, and puked up the last of the non-Safe-T-Pop.
"Doesn't mean your days aren't tougher than shit, but it does go by too quick!" she said with a laugh and stepped into the line.
I will have to remind myself not to blink because some days I'd rather just hit the snooze button and sleep through them.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Kitty Cat!
Such a sweet morning around here. Both kids laying on our bed, footie jams on, heads propped on their favorite pillows. Zoe had Chip in a headlock and Xander's chubby hands tapped the top of the cat's head a bit too rough. In an effort to break free, Chip was sideways as Zoe pointed out his eyes, nose, whiskers ("for fat cats to be safe, X!"), and then on his back, arms askew, and starting to hiss.
"Dose are his nipples. Dose are his feet. Dose are his cute cute furry ball sacks!"
She didn't get any further as I yanked the cat away just before a little hand got to the cute furry ball sacks and she said, "Hey! We still 'splorin him, Mom!"
Nope. We are good for the day!
"Dose are his nipples. Dose are his feet. Dose are his cute cute furry ball sacks!"
She didn't get any further as I yanked the cat away just before a little hand got to the cute furry ball sacks and she said, "Hey! We still 'splorin him, Mom!"
Nope. We are good for the day!
5 Favorite things from Zoe's mouth lately
5. "Of course!" This is her new response to requests.
4. "Now, mom, does Peter in my class have a peanut or bagina? How do you know?" while peeing while Peter and his mom are in the next stall.
3. "Mom, why are you vacuuming? We having a play date here?" while I started cleaning for the first time since the snow melted.
2. "Maybe we should both calm down and talk about this later? Deal?" as she is being sent to her room. Again.
1. "That girl is a mess!" to a screaming toddler in Target. Dirty looks ensued, FYI.
4. "Now, mom, does Peter in my class have a peanut or bagina? How do you know?" while peeing while Peter and his mom are in the next stall.
3. "Mom, why are you vacuuming? We having a play date here?" while I started cleaning for the first time since the snow melted.
2. "Maybe we should both calm down and talk about this later? Deal?" as she is being sent to her room. Again.
1. "That girl is a mess!" to a screaming toddler in Target. Dirty looks ensued, FYI.
Our Doodle
In her first few days of being in our lives, at four months old, she learned to literally climb a baby gate to make her escape into the wild of the whole house when we'd depart. Soon, Mr. started putting double gates up - one on one in the doorway of our laundry room. Every day she would be out, waiting at the front door when we'd come home from work.
One day, curious how this nine-pound pup could escape over the two-story gates, Mr. came home from work and placed her in the laundry room, locking her in as usual. And then he stepped aside. A whimper, a whine, and a little energy came from the baby dog. She jumped straight up, caught her paws in the middle of the gates, grunted as she pulled her back legs up to the gate, pushed off, and threw her body over the top gate and whizzed through the air until she slid across the hardwood in the kitchen, stood up, and shook it off. Tail wagging, paws-too-big for her body shaking, she hopped up and jumped - literally - into his arms.
Mr. jimmy-rigged quite a few contraptions, but even with the best duct tape, string, tennis balls, and glue our junk drawer offered, it couldn't contain this sweet apricot-colored beast. In time, she taught us that she ruled the roost and she was a free spirit who should never be contained.
Then, one day, it happened. This sweet, smart beast started talking.
And she had a lisp. And maybe a tongue thrust?
"Frow it! Frow the damn ball!" she would scream in our faces as soon as we were within a twenty-foot radius of her prized, filthy, slobbery tennis ball.
"Sheriously, Dad. Shtop blaming me!" each and every time a miserable smell would permeate the room.
In her four years on earth her vocabulary is startling similar to the first time she started speaking in front of her human slaves. Occasionally we'll get a new curse word or two (like when we pluck her from the tub when the kids are getting their baths and she really wants in on the action) or when we refuse to put her desires for a butt-scratching above our need to use both hands when we eat, but for the most part she just screams "FROW IT!" when we are near a ball, frisbee, or water bottle.
Doodle hates to be tied down. So, leashes are out. She eats her leashes as snacks and likes to get the leash down to one string, stay close, and then at the worst possible time - like entering the groomers or when a pack of beagles go down the street - she moves forth and with a snap of her head, she's running free and you have another $20 "Life is Good" leash dangling from your hand, minus a dog. Trust me, it may say Life is Good, but a dog on the run is not what makes life good! Especially in a neighborhood with rules about dogs and leashes. Oops. Dogs on leashes.
My dog isn't afraid to bite a humping dog's penis in retaliation for his unwanted advances, which I may say is definitely the equivilent of a rape whistle for dogs. She uses it well, and sometimes a bit prematurely, but it gets the message across.
When we were robbed a few months ago she led the burglar like Sacajewa leading Lewis & Clark West, leading them to my grandmother's black pearls, diamonds, and emerald ring with one slice of lunch meat and a wag. When stalker man entered our home she was sunning herself on the deck, all four feet suspended in mid-air as she dreamed about a 16 ounce filet. She is a gentle soul. Unless a beagle crosses into our sidewalk. Then it's game on. If people can be racist on the basis of skin alone, then dogs can be breedist based on breed alone. Word to the wise: if you are a beagle, do not, repeat, do not walk on the sidewalk on either side of our house. You will be growled, howled, and barked at until you quiver under her ferocious presence. Then Doodle will go find a ball, nudge it in my direction, and curse at me until it's thrown.
I have learned a lot of great lessons from this pooch and her vocabulary, but when it comes down to it, she has taught my kids how to love and respect a life, even if it is cursing from it's snout to FROW IT!
One day, curious how this nine-pound pup could escape over the two-story gates, Mr. came home from work and placed her in the laundry room, locking her in as usual. And then he stepped aside. A whimper, a whine, and a little energy came from the baby dog. She jumped straight up, caught her paws in the middle of the gates, grunted as she pulled her back legs up to the gate, pushed off, and threw her body over the top gate and whizzed through the air until she slid across the hardwood in the kitchen, stood up, and shook it off. Tail wagging, paws-too-big for her body shaking, she hopped up and jumped - literally - into his arms.
Mr. jimmy-rigged quite a few contraptions, but even with the best duct tape, string, tennis balls, and glue our junk drawer offered, it couldn't contain this sweet apricot-colored beast. In time, she taught us that she ruled the roost and she was a free spirit who should never be contained.
Then, one day, it happened. This sweet, smart beast started talking.
And she had a lisp. And maybe a tongue thrust?
"Frow it! Frow the damn ball!" she would scream in our faces as soon as we were within a twenty-foot radius of her prized, filthy, slobbery tennis ball.
"Sheriously, Dad. Shtop blaming me!" each and every time a miserable smell would permeate the room.
In her four years on earth her vocabulary is startling similar to the first time she started speaking in front of her human slaves. Occasionally we'll get a new curse word or two (like when we pluck her from the tub when the kids are getting their baths and she really wants in on the action) or when we refuse to put her desires for a butt-scratching above our need to use both hands when we eat, but for the most part she just screams "FROW IT!" when we are near a ball, frisbee, or water bottle.
Doodle hates to be tied down. So, leashes are out. She eats her leashes as snacks and likes to get the leash down to one string, stay close, and then at the worst possible time - like entering the groomers or when a pack of beagles go down the street - she moves forth and with a snap of her head, she's running free and you have another $20 "Life is Good" leash dangling from your hand, minus a dog. Trust me, it may say Life is Good, but a dog on the run is not what makes life good! Especially in a neighborhood with rules about dogs and leashes. Oops. Dogs on leashes.
My dog isn't afraid to bite a humping dog's penis in retaliation for his unwanted advances, which I may say is definitely the equivilent of a rape whistle for dogs. She uses it well, and sometimes a bit prematurely, but it gets the message across.
When we were robbed a few months ago she led the burglar like Sacajewa leading Lewis & Clark West, leading them to my grandmother's black pearls, diamonds, and emerald ring with one slice of lunch meat and a wag. When stalker man entered our home she was sunning herself on the deck, all four feet suspended in mid-air as she dreamed about a 16 ounce filet. She is a gentle soul. Unless a beagle crosses into our sidewalk. Then it's game on. If people can be racist on the basis of skin alone, then dogs can be breedist based on breed alone. Word to the wise: if you are a beagle, do not, repeat, do not walk on the sidewalk on either side of our house. You will be growled, howled, and barked at until you quiver under her ferocious presence. Then Doodle will go find a ball, nudge it in my direction, and curse at me until it's thrown.
I have learned a lot of great lessons from this pooch and her vocabulary, but when it comes down to it, she has taught my kids how to love and respect a life, even if it is cursing from it's snout to FROW IT!
Wiggle when I Giggle
When I put my phone on vibrate, I wondered how much it vibrates? Cause, I don't need anything vibrating in my pocket that makes my belly wiggle that triggers my boobs to dance and me to say, "Helllooooooooooooooo!" as I answer. I just need it to vibrate and not sing "All the Single Ladies!" when my best friend calls or something equally embarrassing. Like the 50+ Momma in Target the other day who's phone started screaming out "Muskrat Sally" a little louder than my kids were roaring... and roar they were, as we couldn't find anyone in the free cookie area of the bakery. You should see how fast Mama shops when it's a non-free cookie day at Target. Game On. I will break a sweat to get us through the aisles with everything we need, $20 in things we definitely don't need, and a bunch of items my kids have grabbed off the shelves or from another cart when we are in a tough squeeze in a busy aisle.
Phone on vibrate, kids in bed, and cold glass of water on the end table. CHECK. Mac powered up and ready for some Facebook, Yahoo, and Blogger time? CHECK.
Quiet time countdown is on.
As I got knee deep into a great new article, I heard a "Mooooom!" that could only be whined by Zoe for that long. That girl has a set of lungs on her.
"ZOE! Shhhhh! Xander is sleeping!" I stage-whispered up to her as she sat outside Xander's door and shouted down to me.
"Come get me," comes from the girl who has apparently climbed down from her tall bed, gotten into my make up stash, and was playing with the remote control in my room while she was supposed to be sleeping. Yep, I think she can handle coming down the stairs on her own. I tell her so and the arguement I knew would ensues.
Finally, she gives up and starts down the stairs, one by one. I turn on Diego and make a bed for her on the couch, and get back to mommy's time.
"This house is a train wreck!" comes from the makeshift bed.
"Wreck. Not train wreck."
"Nope, pretty sure it's a train wreck."
"Zo, just watch Diego. Mama needs a few minutes, okay?"
"Okay."
Seven seconds later, "Let's blow bubbles!"
"NO! You can go up and nap or you can watch a Diego. Either way, Mom needs a break."
"It hurts to break your leg. Nick told me."
"I'm sure it does."
The conversation continued until I closed the laptop, chugged my water - because God help us all if I leave a non-sippy-lidded cup out - and went into the kitchen.
"Let's make brownies! Or chocolate chip cookies!" shouted my not-at-all-sleepy side kick.
"Zo! I am just putting my cup away. We aren't baking today."
And then I looked at her. Her little eyes lost her spark and shoulders sagged just a little.
"Okay, come on. Let's get out the Play Doh!" came out of my mouth before I remembered that Play Doh means absolute chaos and my mind completely on the task at hand. No multi-tasking when Play Doh is out and all over the kitchen.
She then started in on doing the Stanky Leg dance in her t-shirt and undies from her nap. I laughed and she then said, "Your belly just shook like a bowl full of jelly! Like Santa!"
Yep, baby, my figure is in vibrate mode for now.
Phone on vibrate, kids in bed, and cold glass of water on the end table. CHECK. Mac powered up and ready for some Facebook, Yahoo, and Blogger time? CHECK.
Quiet time countdown is on.
As I got knee deep into a great new article, I heard a "Mooooom!" that could only be whined by Zoe for that long. That girl has a set of lungs on her.
"ZOE! Shhhhh! Xander is sleeping!" I stage-whispered up to her as she sat outside Xander's door and shouted down to me.
"Come get me," comes from the girl who has apparently climbed down from her tall bed, gotten into my make up stash, and was playing with the remote control in my room while she was supposed to be sleeping. Yep, I think she can handle coming down the stairs on her own. I tell her so and the arguement I knew would ensues.
Finally, she gives up and starts down the stairs, one by one. I turn on Diego and make a bed for her on the couch, and get back to mommy's time.
"This house is a train wreck!" comes from the makeshift bed.
"Wreck. Not train wreck."
"Nope, pretty sure it's a train wreck."
"Zo, just watch Diego. Mama needs a few minutes, okay?"
"Okay."
Seven seconds later, "Let's blow bubbles!"
"NO! You can go up and nap or you can watch a Diego. Either way, Mom needs a break."
"It hurts to break your leg. Nick told me."
"I'm sure it does."
The conversation continued until I closed the laptop, chugged my water - because God help us all if I leave a non-sippy-lidded cup out - and went into the kitchen.
"Let's make brownies! Or chocolate chip cookies!" shouted my not-at-all-sleepy side kick.
"Zo! I am just putting my cup away. We aren't baking today."
And then I looked at her. Her little eyes lost her spark and shoulders sagged just a little.
"Okay, come on. Let's get out the Play Doh!" came out of my mouth before I remembered that Play Doh means absolute chaos and my mind completely on the task at hand. No multi-tasking when Play Doh is out and all over the kitchen.
She then started in on doing the Stanky Leg dance in her t-shirt and undies from her nap. I laughed and she then said, "Your belly just shook like a bowl full of jelly! Like Santa!"
Yep, baby, my figure is in vibrate mode for now.
Inside Jokes
Sitting in church when everyone is praying, I do a really bad thing. I bow my head and do a fake close of the eyes. Then my eyelids spring open wide and I do a crowd intake. Sort of like a census - how many people are here, do I know them, and how my kids are behaving compared to theirs. I pray sometimes, but most of the time I save my prayers for when I am alone and can focus on them. I've never been able to pray in public - it doesn't feel right to me. The idea of it is cool, but the actual praying part is a bit daunting. What if someone here CAN hear my thoughts? No thanks, I'd rather take a pass and speak to the big man in private.
For the most part, I feel a kinship with the kids in the pews. Some do the fake bow down, too, but most are oblivious and go on lifting their skirt, mom pulling it down one-handed and head bent, skirt up, mom pulls it down over and over, while the little one picks her nose and silently tap dances. It happens every time and it's always a someone else's child. A few times I've started to laugh out loud and had to muffle it when a person looks up, kinda like Jesus and I are participating in the best inside joke. But, the kids and I, we have a hard time absorbing all this information thrown at us in one hour. We haven't been schooled enough to know what they are talking about, so we pick up the main points, sing really loud when it's a good song, and sometimes need to shake our legs and move when it gets a little stuffy in there.
This week Pastor Timm spoke at length about being luke warm - the people who went to church, were raised in church, and then turned their backs on it. The people who believe they are spiritual but do not believe they need to go to church. I felt like he was looking directly at me and wondering why I was sitting there pretending to pray, clapping with the music, and rubbing my daughter's back (after threatening her to "throw a rice crispie in church one more time". I am who he was talking about - the luke warm. The non-believing believer. Although, I wasn't raised in church.
My dad grew up with two of the most devout Catholics you would ever meet. My MomMom once told me a story about being audited for six consecutive years because no one really donated, and claimed to donate, that much of their income to charity and church when they made so little income to start. But they did. They went to church faithfully and were the picture perfect members of the clergy - you could set your watch and calendars by their Lord's Prayers and service attendance. They lost a young son in the Vietnam war, although ironically, he died in Germany, and I know their faith was the only thing that kept them moving, while their three kids and plethora of grandkids eventually kept them living.
Nana and Papa were of different faiths - both Christian, but just different enough to make the nuns ill thinking the White kids were raised with two religions and not just Catholic. My mom remembers being slapped on the knuckles in parochial school for defending her dad to the nuns, as they promised he'd roast in hell. By the time she was in middle school she was skipping CCD to meet some friends at the ice cream shop with her donation money. She knew where she wasn't wanted and never got the warm hug and glow from the Lord. Not in that church.
Maybe it was losing his brother when his parents spent their life as servants to the one who could have granted their biggest prayer, or maybe it was knowing my mom wasn't comfortable in church, or maybe my dad really felt lukewarm, too, but they made a conscience decision not to take me to church, temple, or mosk. Sundays were days to spend together, do what we loved, and become closer as a family. Sundays were about having everyone to our house for a big dinner and a poker game or two after the dishes were done - from the kids to the grandparents, everyone had a spot around the table and a trick up their sleeve. I look back on Sundays with the fondness and appreciation I look back to my first love or kiss. Sweet and perfect.
I went to a YMCA residence camp - Camp Kern - and fell in love with "church music". I'd go home after a week away singing all the songs I'd learned and slowly by fall would remember Princess Pat and Alice the Camel over any of the others, summer after summer. Finally, I found heaven. During the summer of 1999 I was a camp counselor - real deal, not junior counselor - at Camp Cheerio in Roaring Gap, North Carolina. I fell in L-O-V-E with residence camp, wilderness, and CHURCH MUSIC!
Every night at Vespers we'd gather around a gorgeous campfire deep in the Appalachians and sing beautiful music. During devotions we'd sing and all day we'd sing. Some silly, some slow, some fast, but all gorgeous. I heard almost every Mercy Me song for the first time at least a hundred times and loved Steven Curtis Chapman and all his lyrics. At nineteen, I learned I was a very very spiritual person.
I love church music. Contemporary church music. I don't love a lot of the "Good Christian People" I meet all the time who can sing every line of the songs. You know, the type of person who someone who regularly attends church and thinks highly of who they will be called a "good Christian person". What does that mean? It's somehow supposed to be the highest honor you can bestow upon someone, but I think the mere whisper of that is degrading to my Jewish cousins or Muslim neighbors. Instead of "they are a good person" it's "good CHRISTIAN person", so other religions cannot even compare to how good this person is in daily life.
I love the idea of using the Bible as a piece of literature to grow and love by - but all the hate that is spewed forth from Bible worshipers is sickening. I'm not even close to inferring all Bible worshipers are hateful - in fact, it seems to be a small percentage - but those people make the others look bad. The people I'm talking about spew forth about God loving everyone, God makes no mistakes, etc... but are the first people to hate on someone of a different race, sexual orientation, or creed.
I know so many people who 99.9% of other Christians would have no problem labeling "Good Christian People". However, these GCP are the ones who immediately turn up their noses when they learn someone's child "turned gay". Huh? Where is God's love? The GCP is sometimes the one who will raise your eyebrows as you talk by your mailbox with a nod to the new neighbors and say, eyebrows raised, "You know, they are from The South Side AND have a bi-racial grandchild!" expecting you to gasp, faint, and quiver on the front lawn. They are the same people who feel threatened in their marriage and the sanctity of their vows when another loving couple wants to make it official, too. Who happen to be of the same gender - how does that hurt your marriage? How does it make you more Godly to deny good people the rights you have as a heterosexual? What good will come of that?
As I sat there listening to Pastor Timm, who I adore, I must say, I realized I am lukewarm. Very lukewarm. I believe in 90% of what I'm told when I sit in his church. He's a very very kind man, wonderful role model for my children, and believes with a passion what he preaches. He speaks with so much energy and enthusiasm, and never puts himself on a higher level than who he preaches to - his kids sit in the second row, behaving, but also acting their age occasionally and his wife is pretty, nice, and sometimes wears jeans. They are great people. I haven't read the Bible. I haven't done a Bible study, or small group, or really learned a lot more than what I've learned in a plethora of services over the years. I should, so I can make my own decisions and decide once and for all where I sit on this spectrum we call faith.
What I do know is that my mom made a comment to me one time that I was as good as a GCP can get. I asked her what she meant and she said that I will help anyone and everyone, give and never expect to get, and help charities and needy people without a blink of an eye. She said it's acceptance and a willingness to understand everyone, selflessness and an understanding of the world while feeling the spirit of God all around you, all the time, that makes you a GCP, not fervently attending Sunday mass and donating 10% of your income, that make you a GCP.
Perhaps. Thanks, Mom.
Or perhaps it is something greater, like the desire to be God's Child again, like Pastor Luke challenged us to want to become that makes us a GCP. You know, not to be a better version of yourself, but to become a child of God and new again. I just don't know.
I'd love to know Pastor Timm's thoughts, because after his service Sunday, it's all I can think about.
For the most part, I feel a kinship with the kids in the pews. Some do the fake bow down, too, but most are oblivious and go on lifting their skirt, mom pulling it down one-handed and head bent, skirt up, mom pulls it down over and over, while the little one picks her nose and silently tap dances. It happens every time and it's always a someone else's child. A few times I've started to laugh out loud and had to muffle it when a person looks up, kinda like Jesus and I are participating in the best inside joke. But, the kids and I, we have a hard time absorbing all this information thrown at us in one hour. We haven't been schooled enough to know what they are talking about, so we pick up the main points, sing really loud when it's a good song, and sometimes need to shake our legs and move when it gets a little stuffy in there.
This week Pastor Timm spoke at length about being luke warm - the people who went to church, were raised in church, and then turned their backs on it. The people who believe they are spiritual but do not believe they need to go to church. I felt like he was looking directly at me and wondering why I was sitting there pretending to pray, clapping with the music, and rubbing my daughter's back (after threatening her to "throw a rice crispie in church one more time". I am who he was talking about - the luke warm. The non-believing believer. Although, I wasn't raised in church.
My dad grew up with two of the most devout Catholics you would ever meet. My MomMom once told me a story about being audited for six consecutive years because no one really donated, and claimed to donate, that much of their income to charity and church when they made so little income to start. But they did. They went to church faithfully and were the picture perfect members of the clergy - you could set your watch and calendars by their Lord's Prayers and service attendance. They lost a young son in the Vietnam war, although ironically, he died in Germany, and I know their faith was the only thing that kept them moving, while their three kids and plethora of grandkids eventually kept them living.
Nana and Papa were of different faiths - both Christian, but just different enough to make the nuns ill thinking the White kids were raised with two religions and not just Catholic. My mom remembers being slapped on the knuckles in parochial school for defending her dad to the nuns, as they promised he'd roast in hell. By the time she was in middle school she was skipping CCD to meet some friends at the ice cream shop with her donation money. She knew where she wasn't wanted and never got the warm hug and glow from the Lord. Not in that church.
Maybe it was losing his brother when his parents spent their life as servants to the one who could have granted their biggest prayer, or maybe it was knowing my mom wasn't comfortable in church, or maybe my dad really felt lukewarm, too, but they made a conscience decision not to take me to church, temple, or mosk. Sundays were days to spend together, do what we loved, and become closer as a family. Sundays were about having everyone to our house for a big dinner and a poker game or two after the dishes were done - from the kids to the grandparents, everyone had a spot around the table and a trick up their sleeve. I look back on Sundays with the fondness and appreciation I look back to my first love or kiss. Sweet and perfect.
I went to a YMCA residence camp - Camp Kern - and fell in love with "church music". I'd go home after a week away singing all the songs I'd learned and slowly by fall would remember Princess Pat and Alice the Camel over any of the others, summer after summer. Finally, I found heaven. During the summer of 1999 I was a camp counselor - real deal, not junior counselor - at Camp Cheerio in Roaring Gap, North Carolina. I fell in L-O-V-E with residence camp, wilderness, and CHURCH MUSIC!
Every night at Vespers we'd gather around a gorgeous campfire deep in the Appalachians and sing beautiful music. During devotions we'd sing and all day we'd sing. Some silly, some slow, some fast, but all gorgeous. I heard almost every Mercy Me song for the first time at least a hundred times and loved Steven Curtis Chapman and all his lyrics. At nineteen, I learned I was a very very spiritual person.
I love church music. Contemporary church music. I don't love a lot of the "Good Christian People" I meet all the time who can sing every line of the songs. You know, the type of person who someone who regularly attends church and thinks highly of who they will be called a "good Christian person". What does that mean? It's somehow supposed to be the highest honor you can bestow upon someone, but I think the mere whisper of that is degrading to my Jewish cousins or Muslim neighbors. Instead of "they are a good person" it's "good CHRISTIAN person", so other religions cannot even compare to how good this person is in daily life.
I love the idea of using the Bible as a piece of literature to grow and love by - but all the hate that is spewed forth from Bible worshipers is sickening. I'm not even close to inferring all Bible worshipers are hateful - in fact, it seems to be a small percentage - but those people make the others look bad. The people I'm talking about spew forth about God loving everyone, God makes no mistakes, etc... but are the first people to hate on someone of a different race, sexual orientation, or creed.
I know so many people who 99.9% of other Christians would have no problem labeling "Good Christian People". However, these GCP are the ones who immediately turn up their noses when they learn someone's child "turned gay". Huh? Where is God's love? The GCP is sometimes the one who will raise your eyebrows as you talk by your mailbox with a nod to the new neighbors and say, eyebrows raised, "You know, they are from The South Side AND have a bi-racial grandchild!" expecting you to gasp, faint, and quiver on the front lawn. They are the same people who feel threatened in their marriage and the sanctity of their vows when another loving couple wants to make it official, too. Who happen to be of the same gender - how does that hurt your marriage? How does it make you more Godly to deny good people the rights you have as a heterosexual? What good will come of that?
As I sat there listening to Pastor Timm, who I adore, I must say, I realized I am lukewarm. Very lukewarm. I believe in 90% of what I'm told when I sit in his church. He's a very very kind man, wonderful role model for my children, and believes with a passion what he preaches. He speaks with so much energy and enthusiasm, and never puts himself on a higher level than who he preaches to - his kids sit in the second row, behaving, but also acting their age occasionally and his wife is pretty, nice, and sometimes wears jeans. They are great people. I haven't read the Bible. I haven't done a Bible study, or small group, or really learned a lot more than what I've learned in a plethora of services over the years. I should, so I can make my own decisions and decide once and for all where I sit on this spectrum we call faith.
What I do know is that my mom made a comment to me one time that I was as good as a GCP can get. I asked her what she meant and she said that I will help anyone and everyone, give and never expect to get, and help charities and needy people without a blink of an eye. She said it's acceptance and a willingness to understand everyone, selflessness and an understanding of the world while feeling the spirit of God all around you, all the time, that makes you a GCP, not fervently attending Sunday mass and donating 10% of your income, that make you a GCP.
Perhaps. Thanks, Mom.
Or perhaps it is something greater, like the desire to be God's Child again, like Pastor Luke challenged us to want to become that makes us a GCP. You know, not to be a better version of yourself, but to become a child of God and new again. I just don't know.
I'd love to know Pastor Timm's thoughts, because after his service Sunday, it's all I can think about.
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