A trip to the Des Moines zoo isn't a trip, really. It's more like an hour or less of your time on a few acres that house the animals Green Peace forgot. It's tragic, really, the one snow leopard who I'm almost 100% sure is really stuffed and they had a taxidermist hang a real tail from the top of the highest tree. Like a "Where's Waldo" of large cats game, or something. You can hear a canned roar from the one lion and trust me, she is tamer than our house cat.
The pride and joy of the Des Moines Blank Park Zoo is a tiny playground in a tiny barn-like area with a dozen goats, handful of llamas, and a token donkey. I'm pretty sure they aren't fed anything but the little brown spheres you pay $1 for 10 for all over the area. And, who can ever satisfy their child with one serving of food to feed the animals? If you can, give me your advice, because I am always working my way up to a Benjamin by the time we leave there.
Today I was smarter. I brought a plastic container filled with our dog food. It is the exact same size, shape, and color (tiny, dark brown spheres) and when I read up on the food goats eat, it was the same ingredients as our cheap-ass dog food. Win win, really.
Xander was content eating his toes in the stroller while Zo rushed from goat to kid to kid to goat, all in the name of filling their bellies. I took the prerequisite pics and then settled on an open bench to close my eyes and feel some sun on my face. Seriously, I was not neglecting my child. When is the last time you heard on the news, "This just in! Plastic surgeons reattached a little girl's hand she lost while feeding docile, if not drugged, goats at the petting zoo"?
Lost in my own day dream about Vinnie from Entourage sweeping me off this log-bench in the middle of a stinky barnyard, I felt little eyes burning into my skin. Opening my eyes I had two huge-longest-lashes-you've-seen-on-a-two-year-old eyes lit up in excitement.
"MOM! Coolest thing ever! EVER!" pierced my ears as we skipped over the corral.
"Did a baby goat drink it's mommy's milk?" I asked, hoping she understood what a beautiful moment that was to experience.
An are you on drugs look came over her face as she pointed out a goat "doing his business".
"Watch, mom!" she said as she grabbed the last of the goat/dog food from her container and fed it to the flatulent goat.
"Hmmm! He likes the food! Nice!" I said half-heartedly, searching for Purell.
"No, mom. He likes it so much that as he eats, he pops it out there," (pointing to the still-coming poop shower from his nether regions) and then, "you can pick it back up like this and he eats it again!"
Where is that Purell?
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Wally World
It may not be the best socially-conscious place to shop, but when I have a list that includes diapers, seven rubbermaid containers in various sizes, toothpaste, Captain Morgan, 72 Easter Eggs and candy/trinkets to fill them, and dryer sheets, it's off we go to Wally World, or Wal-mart, as Zoe calls it.
I do like the fact that I do not get evil glares and hits put out on me simply because I do not have reusable bags with me. The concept is smart, cool, and I'm totally game. But I usually have one child wriggling (like a Slinky) stuffed under one pit and a toddler playing chicken with the oncoming traffic in the parking lot. Don't forget the diaper bag that could actually be a sling for Xander it's so big, my keys in my mouth, and a sanitary wipe to make sure the cart handles/seat get a good disinfecting. However, some of the other grocers in Des Moines make you feel like you aren't welcome without your green bags and that you are as close to gassing down a gaggle of ducklings as you are to being Enemy #1 with our Earth, walking in without reusable bags. The nerve!
Anyways, I've learned quickly to let them pick out ANY treat in the store - anything as soon as we walk in. Then they can hold it, squish it, play with it, or dream about it becoming theirs the entire trip through the aisles and I get an extra 15 minutes to shop without constant, I am so so sorry's!
Zo grabbed a Dove chocolate bar (that's my girl) and Xander wanted to play with the rake we picked up. More power to them. We went into the Garden Center and I was congratulating myself on making it through the first ten minutes without a single tantrum or threat. We went around a corner and all hell broke lose.
But not from our cart.
A father had one little girl sitting in the basket on top of a jumbo pack of Charmin eating a XXL sucker and one older child going having what appeared to be a psychotic breakdown. She was throwing anything she could get her hands on, pounding the cart, and projectile vomiting while her head spun. Well, not really, but it was likely they'd be calling the family priest to get exorcism rates if she did this for longer than a quick spell. Of course, this psychotic scene was causing quite the traffic jam with the elderly and toothless alike, and our cart was smack dab in the center ring of this miserable circus. There wasn't anything I could do but try to get my kids interested in the roach and termite pesticide display.
They weren't about to tear their eyes away from this drama unfolding at their feet. They were soaking up every fist pump, scream, and projectile as if this was Dora and Diego live and in concert. So, I leaned back, knocked over a few pesticides, and took a breather. Hell, this was the first time in a long time I wasn't the mom getting the stink eye from other shoppers for my kid's behaviors. Soak it up, people, soak it up!
"That hmpfhskljdf!" said Zo.
"What? I can't hear you!" I replied above the roar of the Exorcist and her furious father.
"That girl is jkahsjkhgfdbg!" she said, significantly louder.
"Say it one more time, ok?" I whispered, close to her ear.
The good news? Some threat Daddy made worked because there was silence and in that split second, "THAT GIRL IS A TRAIN WRECK!" came out of my daughter's mouth.
As fire came from Daddy's nostrils and Exorcist threw a can of tomatoes at our cart, one of the elderly or toothless (or, really, both) applauded and everyone went on their way.
Yet another great observation, Zoe.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Pooper Scooper
Six Target bags looped on my waist and an old newspaper wrapper tied on one end and tucked into the top of my sleeve at my shoulder, I was either ready to deliver a cow get me some dog poo.
Pooper Scooper Momma was in full effect. Zoe had full-reign of her play set for the first time since September and Xander had his full arsenal of all things that move, light up, or giggle when touched around him on a blanket. I was ready.
FOUR FULL Target bags later I still had at least a third of the yard to do. And that was when Zoe thought it would be fun to terrorize her little brother by pulling him off his blanket and onto the grass. Xander lifted both legs and threw out his arms, so all that was balancing on the grass was his diapered and covered butt.
After a few empty "help your brother or else's" slipped through my lips, I continued the thrilling scavenger hunt. Lost in a "did I check this section? Is that poop or a mouse? Yech. Half eaten mouse" conversation with myself, and no screams/cries/blood coming from the kids, I finished the backyard as Mr. walked out of the house fresh from work.
"What's up with the kids?" Mr. asked as he made his way back to them.
"Huh?" was all I could mutter, as I realized I had not one, but two half masticated mice in various stages of decomposition in my hands.
"What are you guys up to? Did Mommy tell you to do that?"
I turned, dropped a bag of poop, both mice, and my frustration to see both kids balancing with legs lifted, arms out, only tailbones balancing on the grass.
"Xander started a new game!" Zoe cried as Mr. joined in on the action. Soon all four of us were in his position and learned that my little man has a six pack under that milk-made keg!
That was one tough game.
Pooper Scooper Momma was in full effect. Zoe had full-reign of her play set for the first time since September and Xander had his full arsenal of all things that move, light up, or giggle when touched around him on a blanket. I was ready.
FOUR FULL Target bags later I still had at least a third of the yard to do. And that was when Zoe thought it would be fun to terrorize her little brother by pulling him off his blanket and onto the grass. Xander lifted both legs and threw out his arms, so all that was balancing on the grass was his diapered and covered butt.
After a few empty "help your brother or else's" slipped through my lips, I continued the thrilling scavenger hunt. Lost in a "did I check this section? Is that poop or a mouse? Yech. Half eaten mouse" conversation with myself, and no screams/cries/blood coming from the kids, I finished the backyard as Mr. walked out of the house fresh from work.
"What's up with the kids?" Mr. asked as he made his way back to them.
"Huh?" was all I could mutter, as I realized I had not one, but two half masticated mice in various stages of decomposition in my hands.
"What are you guys up to? Did Mommy tell you to do that?"
I turned, dropped a bag of poop, both mice, and my frustration to see both kids balancing with legs lifted, arms out, only tailbones balancing on the grass.
"Xander started a new game!" Zoe cried as Mr. joined in on the action. Soon all four of us were in his position and learned that my little man has a six pack under that milk-made keg!
That was one tough game.
Hot & Spicy!
"Hot and Spiceeeeeeeeeee! Hot and Spiceeeeeeeee!"
Nope, we weren't trying new salsa's or anything else as tame as Mexican food where a two year old girl screaming out a good old Hot & Spicy comment wouldn't immediately cause alarm and panic.
We were in Target and passing the lingerie section.
"Hot and Spiceeeeeeeeeee! Hot and Spiceeeeeeeee!"
After garnering the attention of at least a few curious shoppers, Zoe stood up in the basket of the cart and started doing her Hot & Spicy dance -- full on booty shake screaming Hot & Spicy the entire time. I just smiled that pathetic, feel bad for me, mommas, smile and told her to "Be Quiet". NOW.
My plead for her to stop was like ignitor fluid on some hot coals. She only got more excited and danced wildly about. Xander started clapping along with his big sister's song and just shy of a circus monkey tumbling through the crowd, we were as much entertainment as aisle 10 had ever seen.
We somehow made it to a quieter spot (i.e good place to reprimand without an audience) and my ramblings of what got into you, why did you do that, and what is going on here? did nothing to calm her down. She just kept saying, "Daddy likes hot and spiceeeeeeeeeees!"
I left the cart, pondering leaving my oldest child, right where we were, deciding against it, and put one child under each arm and got the hell out of Target.
"You'll never believe what Zoe did!" started a ten minute ramble to my momma sunbathing on some fantastic beach in California with a cell to her ear. She started with a giggle and ended my rant with a full on laughing fit.
"I get it that the worst thing that could happen to you today is that you could chip a newly polished toenail, and this might seem funny now, but the dance she was doing while screaming hot and spicy could have warranted a call to Child Protective Services around here, mom! People don't take life as easily as they do out there!"
"Baby, chill out..." then some mom talk and finally some words that caught my attention. "Christmas.... Mr.'s boxers.... said they were hot and spicy... I'm sure that's where it came from."
My mind raced back to the last major holiday. I was still on bed rest with Xander and my mom was "wintering in Iowa" as she told all her friends back home in Southern California. She was practically married to my husband and they raised Zoe together for the nearly four months I was imprisoned. They would share all household chores and started a joke about "hot and spicy" undies when doing laundry, as all of my mom's were granny panties and all of Mr.'s should have been donated to Goodwill a decade ago (when in doubt, if they do not have a hole in the crotch, they probably aren't his). So when one of them would have a pair that was either new or perhaps a high cut brief, it was a joke that it was hot and spicy.
Let's just say my maternity panties erred on the side of fullest-coverage-you-can-muster-with-out-being-a-wet-suit and Zo was just singing her little song about fancy pants undies in her line of vision.
We did get a little nervous, however when a few weeks later a young waitress bent down near our table and Zo reached out, touched her lower back, complete with a tattoo and thong strap, and said, "Oooooh. Hot and SPICY"!
The good news? Zo earned herself a free kids meal.
The bad news? Every time we ate at the local haunt we heard, "that's the hot and spicy kid", so it's now out of our rotation.
If Zo wants that reputation, it isn't going to be before she hits three years old.
Nope, we weren't trying new salsa's or anything else as tame as Mexican food where a two year old girl screaming out a good old Hot & Spicy comment wouldn't immediately cause alarm and panic.
We were in Target and passing the lingerie section.
"Hot and Spiceeeeeeeeeee! Hot and Spiceeeeeeeee!"
After garnering the attention of at least a few curious shoppers, Zoe stood up in the basket of the cart and started doing her Hot & Spicy dance -- full on booty shake screaming Hot & Spicy the entire time. I just smiled that pathetic, feel bad for me, mommas, smile and told her to "Be Quiet". NOW.
My plead for her to stop was like ignitor fluid on some hot coals. She only got more excited and danced wildly about. Xander started clapping along with his big sister's song and just shy of a circus monkey tumbling through the crowd, we were as much entertainment as aisle 10 had ever seen.
We somehow made it to a quieter spot (i.e good place to reprimand without an audience) and my ramblings of what got into you, why did you do that, and what is going on here? did nothing to calm her down. She just kept saying, "Daddy likes hot and spiceeeeeeeeeees!"
I left the cart, pondering leaving my oldest child, right where we were, deciding against it, and put one child under each arm and got the hell out of Target.
"You'll never believe what Zoe did!" started a ten minute ramble to my momma sunbathing on some fantastic beach in California with a cell to her ear. She started with a giggle and ended my rant with a full on laughing fit.
"I get it that the worst thing that could happen to you today is that you could chip a newly polished toenail, and this might seem funny now, but the dance she was doing while screaming hot and spicy could have warranted a call to Child Protective Services around here, mom! People don't take life as easily as they do out there!"
"Baby, chill out..." then some mom talk and finally some words that caught my attention. "Christmas.... Mr.'s boxers.... said they were hot and spicy... I'm sure that's where it came from."
My mind raced back to the last major holiday. I was still on bed rest with Xander and my mom was "wintering in Iowa" as she told all her friends back home in Southern California. She was practically married to my husband and they raised Zoe together for the nearly four months I was imprisoned. They would share all household chores and started a joke about "hot and spicy" undies when doing laundry, as all of my mom's were granny panties and all of Mr.'s should have been donated to Goodwill a decade ago (when in doubt, if they do not have a hole in the crotch, they probably aren't his). So when one of them would have a pair that was either new or perhaps a high cut brief, it was a joke that it was hot and spicy.
Let's just say my maternity panties erred on the side of fullest-coverage-you-can-muster-with-out-being-a-wet-suit and Zo was just singing her little song about fancy pants undies in her line of vision.
We did get a little nervous, however when a few weeks later a young waitress bent down near our table and Zo reached out, touched her lower back, complete with a tattoo and thong strap, and said, "Oooooh. Hot and SPICY"!
The good news? Zo earned herself a free kids meal.
The bad news? Every time we ate at the local haunt we heard, "that's the hot and spicy kid", so it's now out of our rotation.
If Zo wants that reputation, it isn't going to be before she hits three years old.
Ten things I've learned as a mother of two little kids.
10. There is no such thing as "We can be there in ten minutes" anymore. Those days are long gone.
9. Dinner out with friends can only take place where pizza, fried chicken strips, and orange-powdered mac n' cheese dominate the menu.
8. When choosing a babysitter, don't ask for a CPR/First Aid license. Tell them a good old fashion joke. If they laugh, they are hired. They are gonna need a sense of humor with this crew.
7. A diaper bag without a new package of M&M's in the doctor's office is the equivalent to breaking your high heel and going in shoeless to a very important meeting with your CFO. Nothing gets accomplished and you come out defeated and worn.
6. When someone asks your opinion of the ongoing war, you should not respond with "Interestingly enough, he is finally sleeping in his own crib for at least a few hours a night, so I think we've won that battle!"
5. It does not matter if you order chocolate, cinnamon, or pistachio ice cream. Your child will decide after eating half of theirs (i.e. licked, slobbered, and dropped the rest) that YOUR cone is the only cone that will do.
4. Give up. One day you will have to have a birthday party festooned with characters from the one TV show you would yank off the air in seconds if you were in charge.
3. You will make new friends and bond over nipples, leakage, and weight gain in seconds each and every time you go to a park.
2. Do not mention anything, and I mean anything, out loud that you wouldn't say in a concert hall with a microphone in your hand. It will be repeated.
1. Never ever ask a very pregnant mother of more than two kids "if she knows where they come from". She won't laugh.
9. Dinner out with friends can only take place where pizza, fried chicken strips, and orange-powdered mac n' cheese dominate the menu.
8. When choosing a babysitter, don't ask for a CPR/First Aid license. Tell them a good old fashion joke. If they laugh, they are hired. They are gonna need a sense of humor with this crew.
7. A diaper bag without a new package of M&M's in the doctor's office is the equivalent to breaking your high heel and going in shoeless to a very important meeting with your CFO. Nothing gets accomplished and you come out defeated and worn.
6. When someone asks your opinion of the ongoing war, you should not respond with "Interestingly enough, he is finally sleeping in his own crib for at least a few hours a night, so I think we've won that battle!"
5. It does not matter if you order chocolate, cinnamon, or pistachio ice cream. Your child will decide after eating half of theirs (i.e. licked, slobbered, and dropped the rest) that YOUR cone is the only cone that will do.
4. Give up. One day you will have to have a birthday party festooned with characters from the one TV show you would yank off the air in seconds if you were in charge.
3. You will make new friends and bond over nipples, leakage, and weight gain in seconds each and every time you go to a park.
2. Do not mention anything, and I mean anything, out loud that you wouldn't say in a concert hall with a microphone in your hand. It will be repeated.
1. Never ever ask a very pregnant mother of more than two kids "if she knows where they come from". She won't laugh.
Grass
Flying down the main channel to our neighborhood, Zoe piped up, "I need to PEEEEEEE! PEEEEEEEEE NOOOOOOW"!
"We are almost home. Two minutes, baby!" came out of my mouth as I started to pit out of my pajama top I had yet to get out of for the day.
"No. NOW." came from the backseat.
The last time we had this conversation it ended in me elbow-deep in warm soapy water, a scrub brush, and an hour I didn't have to stand in the drive way scrubbing a gallon of urine out of a top-of-the-line-costs-more-than-a-plane-ticket-down-south-at-spring-break-time car seat.
"Can you hold it? Our house is right up here..." I trailed off thinking we still had to pass the horse farm, icicle house, and the two elementary school crossing guards who seem to think that even if there is nary a school aged walker in site, they must hold up a STOP sign until all children are safely in their homes stuffing down an Easy Mac or something.
"Nooooooooooooo!" cried a desperate two year old.
I did what any desperate parent would do. I yanked the car into the side of the road, ran around to Zoe's seat, unbuckled her straps, pulled down her leggings, panties, and held her in the air so the Iowa wind would whip it away from us, as opposed to all over us.
No such luck. Zoe was breathing a sigh of relief as she let out what I'm sure Sea Bisquit couldn't compete with and then said, "MUD"!
Knowing full well I had to get her into the car, dressed, and on our way before she showed an active interest in the mud she created below our feet, we were back on the road and in our house in minutes.
It felt good to handle a situation that could have sent me into a panic attack at the beginning of potty training with ease and a smile.
That smile was erased, however, as I went to accelerate and felt something squishy between my foot and the pedal.
"What the Fu--dge?" I cried as I got a whiff of the mud from the bottom of my shoe.
"Zo, did you just pee pee in the grass?"
"Nope! I even made a few pickles!"
Pickles = turds at our house, apparently.
Well, score. A Gerkin is now all over my pedals.
"We are almost home. Two minutes, baby!" came out of my mouth as I started to pit out of my pajama top I had yet to get out of for the day.
"No. NOW." came from the backseat.
The last time we had this conversation it ended in me elbow-deep in warm soapy water, a scrub brush, and an hour I didn't have to stand in the drive way scrubbing a gallon of urine out of a top-of-the-line-costs-more-than-a-plane-ticket-down-south-at-spring-break-time car seat.
"Can you hold it? Our house is right up here..." I trailed off thinking we still had to pass the horse farm, icicle house, and the two elementary school crossing guards who seem to think that even if there is nary a school aged walker in site, they must hold up a STOP sign until all children are safely in their homes stuffing down an Easy Mac or something.
"Nooooooooooooo!" cried a desperate two year old.
I did what any desperate parent would do. I yanked the car into the side of the road, ran around to Zoe's seat, unbuckled her straps, pulled down her leggings, panties, and held her in the air so the Iowa wind would whip it away from us, as opposed to all over us.
No such luck. Zoe was breathing a sigh of relief as she let out what I'm sure Sea Bisquit couldn't compete with and then said, "MUD"!
Knowing full well I had to get her into the car, dressed, and on our way before she showed an active interest in the mud she created below our feet, we were back on the road and in our house in minutes.
It felt good to handle a situation that could have sent me into a panic attack at the beginning of potty training with ease and a smile.
That smile was erased, however, as I went to accelerate and felt something squishy between my foot and the pedal.
"What the Fu--dge?" I cried as I got a whiff of the mud from the bottom of my shoe.
"Zo, did you just pee pee in the grass?"
"Nope! I even made a few pickles!"
Pickles = turds at our house, apparently.
Well, score. A Gerkin is now all over my pedals.
Suburban Mommy Crack
Hello, my name is Mrs. and I have an addiction! sarcastically ran through my mind as I waited for my endorphins to be set on fire as soon as I could ingest this magical potion.
I have been known to wake up in the middle of the night, plug in the www's and attempt to find a 24 hour place to feed the craving beast within myself.
Legs jittery as I waited my turn, sweat pouring down my face just in case the credit wasn't good - I didn't owe them anything, did I - and cash was hard to come by these days and if I paid with a joint account card, my hubby was sure to know what I had put into my body that day. And that could be grounds for a major battle. I'd just rather get the goodness in my mouth, enjoy it, and get on with my day in peace.
"Good Morning, Mrs! Got the usual ready!" squealed the barista as she took what may be the last treat purchase on my card from Christmas from my outstretched hand.
Holding the nectar of the Gods in her hand, right in front of me but just out of my reach, Barista peaked into the backseat and said, "Full crowd this morning!" and set the delicious goodness out of my reach and went back to the bowels of the shop.
Unstrapping my seat belt, opening the car door, and using my Go Go Gadget arms could not connect me to the liquid gold, so I settled into the driver's side seat and prayed for patience.
Barista brought three puppy latte's to the window and passed them to the animals in the back - two toddlers, and a dog who all dive into a dixie cup full of whipped cream with avengence. Then it was my turn.
With that thick green straw through my parched lips I slurped up a Venti Black Iced Tea no Sweet before I pulled out of the parking lot. My shoulders dropped, tension left the minivan, and I smiled and said, "What are we up to today?" to my charges in the back, smile on my face.
Seriously, this is suburban Mommy Crack. One hit and life is good.
I have been known to wake up in the middle of the night, plug in the www's and attempt to find a 24 hour place to feed the craving beast within myself.
Legs jittery as I waited my turn, sweat pouring down my face just in case the credit wasn't good - I didn't owe them anything, did I - and cash was hard to come by these days and if I paid with a joint account card, my hubby was sure to know what I had put into my body that day. And that could be grounds for a major battle. I'd just rather get the goodness in my mouth, enjoy it, and get on with my day in peace.
"Good Morning, Mrs! Got the usual ready!" squealed the barista as she took what may be the last treat purchase on my card from Christmas from my outstretched hand.
Holding the nectar of the Gods in her hand, right in front of me but just out of my reach, Barista peaked into the backseat and said, "Full crowd this morning!" and set the delicious goodness out of my reach and went back to the bowels of the shop.
Unstrapping my seat belt, opening the car door, and using my Go Go Gadget arms could not connect me to the liquid gold, so I settled into the driver's side seat and prayed for patience.
Barista brought three puppy latte's to the window and passed them to the animals in the back - two toddlers, and a dog who all dive into a dixie cup full of whipped cream with avengence. Then it was my turn.
With that thick green straw through my parched lips I slurped up a Venti Black Iced Tea no Sweet before I pulled out of the parking lot. My shoulders dropped, tension left the minivan, and I smiled and said, "What are we up to today?" to my charges in the back, smile on my face.
Seriously, this is suburban Mommy Crack. One hit and life is good.
No such thing as a free lunch.
Zoe and I are working on creating the shopping lists together so she feels like she has a say in what we are buying and has yet another chance to recognize some sight words. The short list in one hand, sippy cups in both, and a snack cup of something advertised as kid-friendly and mother-approved between them, we headed into the warehouse of all warehouses. It started out as a quick trip to Costco - diapers, formula, wipes, bottled water and kitty litter. With two kids in the front of my cart I knew I could totally stick to the list and be out of there in half hour with less than $125 out of my cash stash.
"Zo Zo! Lil X!" gushed our great friend Kelley. It's amazing that she is as excited to see us as we are her - which is at least once a week. Kelley waved my fake-looking-for-the-membership-card attempt off and started asking Zo if she had gotten the pipe cleaners we needed last week to create the monster for her play date.
Kelley is the type of friend you don't see outside of Costco, but when you do see her, it's like homecoming. We could lean against an oversized shopping cart and gossip for hours (or at least until another momma and her brood come in at 10am on a weekday morning) until the Samples of all Samples smells drift up to the front of the store. Then it's a quick Peace Out! to our greeter and off to tempt our tastebuds with freebies.
The intention was simple - get in, get out, and get on with our day. But come on... free baked brie, croissants, ice cream, four kinds of lunch meats, dish detergent samples, hummus, rotisserie chicken salad, corn dogs, pita chips, Go Gurt, Belgium chocolates, energy bars, various smoothies, and jelly beans all being handed out like our lives depended on tasting them... who could pass up the parade of vendors on our way back to the kitty litter? A dozen napkins each, two drained sippy cups, and a momma going back for just one more baked brie (I got lucky, the vendor was bending down behind her stainless steel charriott) and I could easily grab three more morsels of cheese sent from heaven. SCORE!
Who says there's no such thing as a free lunch?
We pulled ourselves away from the samples - seriously, do they magnetize these carts to return over and over again to the steel carts of goodness all around the Holyland?
$300 in produce, items off our list, and a cool sand and water table we needed - it was so cheap! - and six various items from the sample people hawking their wares, we sprinted back to the front of the store to check out before more damage was done. And trust me, damage could be done... gorgeous 800 thread count sheets marked down to $60.97 (when does that happen, really) and a twenty-four pack of Pyrex I could use were calling my name... as were the Tommy Bahama towels I felt would look great holding our lawn chairs at the pool this summer...
Receipt in hand, employee following us with items that absolutely could not be worked back into our cart, we headed to the exit.
My nerves were alive as I realized those sheets may never ever be available again. Maybe I should turn back and get some? Nope, stay focused. Eyes on the exit.
"Youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu See!" Zoe screamed as she tried to scamper out of the cart.
"Miss Z! What's happening?" our favorite customer service rep Lucy asked, thrilled to see her two favorite shoppers.
We started chatting and I mentioned I was borderline on the sheets.
"Just got some. Amazing. I'd have paid retail for those."
The words weren't even out of her mouth as I left the kids, carts, and two thrown off Costco employees to watch my babies.
Dodging past the old coots who could spend days perusing every aisle, I flew back to the linens, grabbed two sets, and then saw the piece de la resistance... a gorgeous gallery frame set for above our bed. Grabbing all of the items, and breaking into a cold sweat, I made it back to Lucy, the kids, and two filled carts with almost $500 in trinkets later.
"Wow! Quick trip, huh?" Lucy joked as she helped me haul everything to the Golden Egg, aka minivan. "Hope you enjoyed your free lunch!"
As we drove off Lucy waved and said, "Oh, thanks for the Christmas card! The kids on Santa's lap was priceless!"
"Zo Zo! Lil X!" gushed our great friend Kelley. It's amazing that she is as excited to see us as we are her - which is at least once a week. Kelley waved my fake-looking-for-the-membership-card attempt off and started asking Zo if she had gotten the pipe cleaners we needed last week to create the monster for her play date.
Kelley is the type of friend you don't see outside of Costco, but when you do see her, it's like homecoming. We could lean against an oversized shopping cart and gossip for hours (or at least until another momma and her brood come in at 10am on a weekday morning) until the Samples of all Samples smells drift up to the front of the store. Then it's a quick Peace Out! to our greeter and off to tempt our tastebuds with freebies.
The intention was simple - get in, get out, and get on with our day. But come on... free baked brie, croissants, ice cream, four kinds of lunch meats, dish detergent samples, hummus, rotisserie chicken salad, corn dogs, pita chips, Go Gurt, Belgium chocolates, energy bars, various smoothies, and jelly beans all being handed out like our lives depended on tasting them... who could pass up the parade of vendors on our way back to the kitty litter? A dozen napkins each, two drained sippy cups, and a momma going back for just one more baked brie (I got lucky, the vendor was bending down behind her stainless steel charriott) and I could easily grab three more morsels of cheese sent from heaven. SCORE!
Who says there's no such thing as a free lunch?
We pulled ourselves away from the samples - seriously, do they magnetize these carts to return over and over again to the steel carts of goodness all around the Holyland?
$300 in produce, items off our list, and a cool sand and water table we needed - it was so cheap! - and six various items from the sample people hawking their wares, we sprinted back to the front of the store to check out before more damage was done. And trust me, damage could be done... gorgeous 800 thread count sheets marked down to $60.97 (when does that happen, really) and a twenty-four pack of Pyrex I could use were calling my name... as were the Tommy Bahama towels I felt would look great holding our lawn chairs at the pool this summer...
Receipt in hand, employee following us with items that absolutely could not be worked back into our cart, we headed to the exit.
My nerves were alive as I realized those sheets may never ever be available again. Maybe I should turn back and get some? Nope, stay focused. Eyes on the exit.
"Youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu See!" Zoe screamed as she tried to scamper out of the cart.
"Miss Z! What's happening?" our favorite customer service rep Lucy asked, thrilled to see her two favorite shoppers.
We started chatting and I mentioned I was borderline on the sheets.
"Just got some. Amazing. I'd have paid retail for those."
The words weren't even out of her mouth as I left the kids, carts, and two thrown off Costco employees to watch my babies.
Dodging past the old coots who could spend days perusing every aisle, I flew back to the linens, grabbed two sets, and then saw the piece de la resistance... a gorgeous gallery frame set for above our bed. Grabbing all of the items, and breaking into a cold sweat, I made it back to Lucy, the kids, and two filled carts with almost $500 in trinkets later.
"Wow! Quick trip, huh?" Lucy joked as she helped me haul everything to the Golden Egg, aka minivan. "Hope you enjoyed your free lunch!"
As we drove off Lucy waved and said, "Oh, thanks for the Christmas card! The kids on Santa's lap was priceless!"
Monday, March 29, 2010
Heightens each sensation
"Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation! Darkness wakes, stirs imagination..." ran through my head for the seventh time that evening as I held a restless little man in the wee hours of the morning.
My favorite musical is Phantom of the Opera. If I knew how to sing well I would have played Christine in a heartbeat (or even Meg) in theaters all across the globe. Seeing as in high school show choir I loved the stage, the music, the energy, and the dancing, but God help us all if I would have actually let out more than a low mumble with a mic pinned to my sequined number, I relegate singing to the shower, car, and into my babies ears the nights they cannot sleep.
Thoughts about our future raced through my head - the mundane ones like if I had missed out on registration for Vacation Bible School for Zoe to the real issues that can wake you from a deep sleep covered in sweat unable to catch your breath. Xander was my rock, my comfort, and I his. Even as my weary knees tried to give out after lap 1,239 around the first floor while simutaniously trying to rock, bop, and pat a child into sleep, I realized how fortunate I am to be a mom and have a perfectly healthy little man in my arms, comforted solely by my presence.
Xander wasn't supposed to be here. Not like, he should be in his crib at 2am, but actually not supposed to be alive and a part of this world.
Almost nineteen weeks along in my second pregnancy, I peed my pants as I picked up my new one year old out of her crib. We said good mornings and I joked with her that maybe mommy should be the one getting a diaper change! After she was wiped and dried I went to do the same - if you've ever been pregnant, you'll understand that it is almost blase when you pee your pants when you are with child.
Something just didn't seem right as I stood in the bathroom and being the slightly neurotic mom I am, I knew I should call the OB/Gyn, just in case.
After what felt like an hour the elevator music stopped and a live person chirped into my ear, "Good Morning, OB office. How may I direct your call?" I explained I had a serious incontinence situation earlier and I'd love to leave a message for my OB to call back and maybe give some pointers as to how to keep this from happening again.
As we were talking, I peed again and even said, "Yep, this is definitely something I could use her help with!" We laughed, I threw on a pad, and Zo and I went out the door to her pediatrician's office, as her miserable cough sounded bad enough to warrant a trip to Dr. Wonderful's office.
Dr. Wonderful is the pediatrician people would pay triple to have in their child's life. She listens, engages, and is thorough without making you feel like your child not growing the recommended inch for that time period does not mean they are a dwarf. Momma's, you know what I mean.
Dr. W was asking if we'd started talking about the big change coming into our lives in March, and I said something about well, at this point she just thinks it's either produce (a watermelon) or a beach ball, so we haven't gotten that far. Then laughing, I mentioned we'd have to talk about it sooner than later because Momma may be the one needing potty training.
Zoe ended up needing chest X-rays, as my baby was showing signs of pneumonia. While she was getting her scans, I peed again. And again. I mentioned it to Dr. W, as surely she may have some suggestions for retraining continence and she said, "GO TO THE ER NOW!"
No one had to tell me twice. Zoe and I called Mr., he met us there, switched me cars, and I went into the maternity ward not sure what they could do - maybe give me some pills to soak up excess water in my gut? Who knew?
As it turns out, just shy of my fifth month, my water broke. Xander's amniotic sac was leaking amniotic fluid at a rapid and dangerous rate. As Mr. and I learned we had less than 1% chance of having this baby, and less than 1% of 1% that the baby would ever be a typical-developing child, I sat in a dark hospital room listening to all the horrors and fears that would consume my every waking minute for the next few months.
The one lesson that truly sank in during the darkest hours of my life is that sometimes, just sometimes, you need to just listen to the music of the night.
My favorite musical is Phantom of the Opera. If I knew how to sing well I would have played Christine in a heartbeat (or even Meg) in theaters all across the globe. Seeing as in high school show choir I loved the stage, the music, the energy, and the dancing, but God help us all if I would have actually let out more than a low mumble with a mic pinned to my sequined number, I relegate singing to the shower, car, and into my babies ears the nights they cannot sleep.
Thoughts about our future raced through my head - the mundane ones like if I had missed out on registration for Vacation Bible School for Zoe to the real issues that can wake you from a deep sleep covered in sweat unable to catch your breath. Xander was my rock, my comfort, and I his. Even as my weary knees tried to give out after lap 1,239 around the first floor while simutaniously trying to rock, bop, and pat a child into sleep, I realized how fortunate I am to be a mom and have a perfectly healthy little man in my arms, comforted solely by my presence.
Xander wasn't supposed to be here. Not like, he should be in his crib at 2am, but actually not supposed to be alive and a part of this world.
Almost nineteen weeks along in my second pregnancy, I peed my pants as I picked up my new one year old out of her crib. We said good mornings and I joked with her that maybe mommy should be the one getting a diaper change! After she was wiped and dried I went to do the same - if you've ever been pregnant, you'll understand that it is almost blase when you pee your pants when you are with child.
Something just didn't seem right as I stood in the bathroom and being the slightly neurotic mom I am, I knew I should call the OB/Gyn, just in case.
After what felt like an hour the elevator music stopped and a live person chirped into my ear, "Good Morning, OB office. How may I direct your call?" I explained I had a serious incontinence situation earlier and I'd love to leave a message for my OB to call back and maybe give some pointers as to how to keep this from happening again.
As we were talking, I peed again and even said, "Yep, this is definitely something I could use her help with!" We laughed, I threw on a pad, and Zo and I went out the door to her pediatrician's office, as her miserable cough sounded bad enough to warrant a trip to Dr. Wonderful's office.
Dr. Wonderful is the pediatrician people would pay triple to have in their child's life. She listens, engages, and is thorough without making you feel like your child not growing the recommended inch for that time period does not mean they are a dwarf. Momma's, you know what I mean.
Dr. W was asking if we'd started talking about the big change coming into our lives in March, and I said something about well, at this point she just thinks it's either produce (a watermelon) or a beach ball, so we haven't gotten that far. Then laughing, I mentioned we'd have to talk about it sooner than later because Momma may be the one needing potty training.
Zoe ended up needing chest X-rays, as my baby was showing signs of pneumonia. While she was getting her scans, I peed again. And again. I mentioned it to Dr. W, as surely she may have some suggestions for retraining continence and she said, "GO TO THE ER NOW!"
No one had to tell me twice. Zoe and I called Mr., he met us there, switched me cars, and I went into the maternity ward not sure what they could do - maybe give me some pills to soak up excess water in my gut? Who knew?
As it turns out, just shy of my fifth month, my water broke. Xander's amniotic sac was leaking amniotic fluid at a rapid and dangerous rate. As Mr. and I learned we had less than 1% chance of having this baby, and less than 1% of 1% that the baby would ever be a typical-developing child, I sat in a dark hospital room listening to all the horrors and fears that would consume my every waking minute for the next few months.
The one lesson that truly sank in during the darkest hours of my life is that sometimes, just sometimes, you need to just listen to the music of the night.
Lap Time
It was one of those evenings that if you could hit fast forward, you would. In a heartbeat. Or TIVO it, pause, and then when things are calm you could go back and not miss the high points but definitely skip the lows. This not being an Adam Sandler or Jim Carey flick when we are handed such powers, Mr. & I just needed to hack our way through the tangly, thorny brush that was our family dinner hour.
It started with Zoe wanting to desperately help butter the baked potatoes. To the child-less reader, this may seem like an innocent wish on her part and a learning moment to boot. NOPE. It was a fight over getting the mail opener she mistook for a safety knife out of her sweaty grip before stabbing herself in her shirtless chest, realizing she had also climbed onto the counter and pulled out a steak knife as her backup buttering instrument of choice, and now had upped the ante to opening up her chest filet-style. Fantastic.
Skip to Xander doing his damndest to throw absolutely any item he could consecutively off her tray and onto the just vacuumed carpet. As a pea zinged past Mr.'s head he ducked and it made a nice SPLAT! on the cabinet.
"Niiiiiiiiiiiiice aim, lil' man!" as Mr. thought twice about filling his glass with Coke and ice. Yep, a generous splash of the Captain would help the night sail along smoothly.
We all ended up sitting down with a baby emptying his tray at record speed, a hubby with a lot more than a simple splash of courage in his cup, a shirtless, pant-less toddler licking spoonful's of butter off her carving knife, and one mom who needed a cocktail, night out, and make over but would be thrilled with a shower.
Instead of lifting our spirits with a "Yes! It's almost summer!" dinner from the world's best Montgomery Inn sauce all over our BBQ chicken, it just made us both a little more homesick for the Buckeye state.
After getting kids wiped down/sprayed off/sanitized, we the war begin. Xander had garnered all of Mr.'s attention with his dimples and sweetness, I was up to my ears in soap suds as I tried to chisel off the molten BBQ sauce desperately hoping to live forever in my new Pyrex pan, and Zoe had some unattended time on her hands.
Three* nicely folded piles sorted into laundry basket by recipient were stacked on the landing, ready to ascend the stairs to a closet or drawer before bed. *Although we do not have fancy-pants side loaders we do our best to shove the absolute most in each and every load in our decade old generic W/D combo. So, this was surely what most people would easily call six loads of clothes. I digress...
Little Miss Sunshine decided to knock over the piles and pretend to make it rain. Yep, she put up her new Tinkerbell umbrella and not only made it rain, but create what was surely something mother nature should take note on when she wants to give a region a serious wrath of her power.
Mixed, crumbled, and all over the place I just started screaming when I saw all the laundry I spent working on all day (which took away from my precious Facebook time) was now in worse shape than when it went into the wash, hours earlier.
After more than a little sassing back and a snide smile or two, Momma had to pull down some Dora panties and give her princess a smack. The princess was in a fit of tears as she headed to the highest room in the tallest castle and I wasn't sure if I was crying over the work ahead of me or because I had to spank my baby girl.
Mr., Baby X, and I folded, sorted, and stacked and I felt like I needed to puke. Like a dog hanging his head, I went into Zo's room and laid down with her on her bed. We talked for a long time about how much I love her and just want her to make great choices and learn how to respect people, things, and her home. She understood, wise beyond her years, and snuggled in.
"When you need some attention next time, maybe say, "I could use some lap time, okay, mom?" I whispered into her sweaty hairline as she snuggled against me.
"But Mom," her hair sticking to my cheek, "you are too big for my lap!"
It started with Zoe wanting to desperately help butter the baked potatoes. To the child-less reader, this may seem like an innocent wish on her part and a learning moment to boot. NOPE. It was a fight over getting the mail opener she mistook for a safety knife out of her sweaty grip before stabbing herself in her shirtless chest, realizing she had also climbed onto the counter and pulled out a steak knife as her backup buttering instrument of choice, and now had upped the ante to opening up her chest filet-style. Fantastic.
Skip to Xander doing his damndest to throw absolutely any item he could consecutively off her tray and onto the just vacuumed carpet. As a pea zinged past Mr.'s head he ducked and it made a nice SPLAT! on the cabinet.
"Niiiiiiiiiiiiice aim, lil' man!" as Mr. thought twice about filling his glass with Coke and ice. Yep, a generous splash of the Captain would help the night sail along smoothly.
We all ended up sitting down with a baby emptying his tray at record speed, a hubby with a lot more than a simple splash of courage in his cup, a shirtless, pant-less toddler licking spoonful's of butter off her carving knife, and one mom who needed a cocktail, night out, and make over but would be thrilled with a shower.
Instead of lifting our spirits with a "Yes! It's almost summer!" dinner from the world's best Montgomery Inn sauce all over our BBQ chicken, it just made us both a little more homesick for the Buckeye state.
After getting kids wiped down/sprayed off/sanitized, we the war begin. Xander had garnered all of Mr.'s attention with his dimples and sweetness, I was up to my ears in soap suds as I tried to chisel off the molten BBQ sauce desperately hoping to live forever in my new Pyrex pan, and Zoe had some unattended time on her hands.
Three* nicely folded piles sorted into laundry basket by recipient were stacked on the landing, ready to ascend the stairs to a closet or drawer before bed. *Although we do not have fancy-pants side loaders we do our best to shove the absolute most in each and every load in our decade old generic W/D combo. So, this was surely what most people would easily call six loads of clothes. I digress...
Little Miss Sunshine decided to knock over the piles and pretend to make it rain. Yep, she put up her new Tinkerbell umbrella and not only made it rain, but create what was surely something mother nature should take note on when she wants to give a region a serious wrath of her power.
Mixed, crumbled, and all over the place I just started screaming when I saw all the laundry I spent working on all day (which took away from my precious Facebook time) was now in worse shape than when it went into the wash, hours earlier.
After more than a little sassing back and a snide smile or two, Momma had to pull down some Dora panties and give her princess a smack. The princess was in a fit of tears as she headed to the highest room in the tallest castle and I wasn't sure if I was crying over the work ahead of me or because I had to spank my baby girl.
Mr., Baby X, and I folded, sorted, and stacked and I felt like I needed to puke. Like a dog hanging his head, I went into Zo's room and laid down with her on her bed. We talked for a long time about how much I love her and just want her to make great choices and learn how to respect people, things, and her home. She understood, wise beyond her years, and snuggled in.
"When you need some attention next time, maybe say, "I could use some lap time, okay, mom?" I whispered into her sweaty hairline as she snuggled against me.
"But Mom," her hair sticking to my cheek, "you are too big for my lap!"
Blush
Blush! I chanted in my head as I watched Xander take a few steps on his own. It's so cute. He is my quiet, draw-no-attention-to-myself child that somehow came from the same genetic pool that his older, EVERYONE WATCHING WHAT I CAN DO?!? sister first sprang from.
X was taking his solo steps from the sofa to the toy box he did everyday. Instead of realizing his feet could take his body anywhere now, Xander preferred to test and make sure they worked every day, as if sleep somehow took away this new special super power of being bipedal.
If Xander so much as sensed someone was within watching distance, his little (okay, chubby-fall-off-his-face) cheeks would turn magenta, hives would appear on his neck, and he would plop down on his Pampered butt and crawl the rest of the way. It happened every single morning for the past four months. I learned to make myself scarce when he started moving on his own accord and make sure Zoe was engrossed in something else.
Even if his sister could be a defensive lineman for a pro-football team, and liked to show off her tackle skills, she had a heart of gold and would make sure her little man knew she could also throw off her pads and helmet and become his favorite cheerleader. In fact, she was his biggest fan.
Not realizing I was holding my breath, I let out a huge sigh of excitement as Xander went the twenty steps from the couch to his beloved oak chest of goodies. Zoe grabbed my hand and squeezed it, smiling up at me.
Surely she didn't know why I had been quiet and pretending to scrub the dishes that refused to shine?
"He did it, Mom! He's growing up!" she exclaimed with her clammy little hand in mine.
You both are, Zo. You both are!
The Very Hungry Toddler
"We've never lost a kid before!" huffed the usher, as I assured her I would sit with both of my kids in the large theatre, as opposed to go with her directives of two of us in row A, one in row B. Bare in mind here that my kids are 1 and 2, respectively. As tempted as I was to duct tape Xander to her leg and let her enjoy him for an hour in a dark, quiet place, I simply stepped around her to the next available row and sat down in the flurry of young families trying to pick out seats in the crowded circus ring they called the Civic Center.
"Lot of nerve, that one!" Grouchy Mc Gee called out behind us as we sat together - as a family - in a row further back than reserved, just so we could have our seats together.
It was open seating, wasn't it? Sure was, so I sat down and got jackets off, shoes off (my kids cannot have restricted toes for one minute longer than necessary, at any given time - their rules, not mine) and sippy cups out. Soon the lights dimmed and Xander took a keen interest in the little girl in front of us' hair clip. Good thing she was either A) comatose or B) one of ten siblings who was used to a lot of distraction, because she didn't even move or swat him away as he tried to pick those cherries off the top of her pony tail!
Zoe clapped along with the other kids as the black lights lit up a cute little stage with an antsy chammelion making his Des Moines stage debut (at 9 am on a Monday morning... not exactly Broadway bound) and squealed in delight as the opening amphibian wiggled, waggled, and tried to morph into a flamingo, deer, giraffe, goldfish, and elephant before realizing being a chamelion - himself - was the best thing to be. Cute story line that lasted three minutes.
What was I nervous about? They are awesome! I thought to myself as I leaned back in my chair and started to take my own coat off.
Maybe my sudden movement changed the aura around us, but suddenly it was like, "Mooooooooooooooooooom! I'm Star-viiiiiiiiiiiiing!" in surround sound. Both kids pretended they hadn't gotten two Eggo's a piece and some fruit less than two hours earlier and decided to ramsack the diaper bag for treats.
What I learned is that a play about a hungry caterpillar will induce hunger pains as dramatic as labor pains. They go up and down, get shorter between pangs, and can only be controlled with serious endorphins (like a sugar high). I also learned that kids who usually throw up their noses to Craisins day old gummy bears will be giddy with excitement at each new find and scarf them with gusto. Kids will not die if they ingest anything without 10 or more grams of sugar if it constitutes as a "desperate measure snack". Also, sand, fuzz, and diaper bag crud can easily be cleaned off a once-licked sucker that somehow was only half-wrapped back up before the user threw it to the depths of the diaper bag by simply swishing it around in Mom's mouth before a toddler's...
And, if you can handle an hour in the dark with two toddlers who are supposed to be silent, you deserve a stiff shot of something potent not sold at a children's theatre drink stand.
Not Mommies!
When it came to the hey day of women's liberation, I wouldn't have been in the front of the picket lines, but I would have signed a petition or two and sent a check (even if they didn't send me return address labels first) to fund some of the fight. I would have posted links on a social networking site (they had Facebook in the sixties, right?) and read up on the latest before attending a cocktail party, just to piss off some macho men.
Zoe was begging for her Daddy to make her a Daddy Delight Grilled Cheese for lunch (what makes it a Daddy Delight? Well, it's a white bread/American cheese creation they always love, but he uses about a 1/4 pound of butter per sandwich and that is a delight)! I was kicking the darn washing machine because as it does a few times a year, it was refusing to do it's final spin, so clothes were taking a day to dry in the dryer and once again I jumped the gun and called the Maytag repair man to fix the dryer. A $60 service call, ma'am you just need to clean out the lint trap - gummy bears will affect the dryer's drying capacity, and a have a nice day later I realized it was the WASHER. So, I was perfectly content with my kids knawing out enough chocolate chips from granola bars to constitute as lunch (it not only gets them fed, but also gives me some mommy time), and not exactly up for some cheese grillin'.
"It's Monday. Dad's at work today!"
"Why he here yesterday?"
"It was the weekend. On weekends Daddy's and other's who work outside their houses get to stay home with their family and relax." Ha. Relax! How about bake 72 cookies for the church bake sale, three meals for other mom's who just had their second (or third babies), weather strip each outside door, decorate for upcoming Easter, reorganize the garage, and keep two toddlers entertained. Yeah, a real spa-like atmosphere weekends are...
"Not Mommies!"
It wasn't a question, it was an emphatic statement. And that is why my head swiveled around at lightening speed, and I put down the sledge hammer (damn washer).
"What do you mean, Not Mommies?"
"Mommies don't work! Just Daddies!"
"Do you think that Mommy doesn't work?"
"Yep!"
"Do you think this is fun?" I retorted, looking at a pile of play dough lumped in the corner I somehow missed when I mopped last month, at least five loads of laundry in various stages or laundering, cat puke all over the litter box (?) and a baby in only a size-too-small Pamper bathing in the dog's water bowl.
"Yep! It is fun, Mom!" Zoe exclaimed as she curled her little arms around my thigh and gave me her famous "hurting hugs" she likes to do to emphasize an 'I love you moment'.
At that point I realized my baby girl didn't care at all that I was a woman or a man, or anything about gender roles. She just knew that I was the lucky one to stay home all day with my babies. And she's right. As busy as a Mommy gets, it really isn't work. It's luck that brought all this chaos into our lives and as the wise women who came before us promise... we are gonna miss this!
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Doughnuts?
Is it wrong to assume a continental breakfast will be included at a bariatric weight loss informational clinic? I mean, it's early in the morning, last for a few hours, and is a way to recruit paying customers. Sadly, out of the 12 obese souls I sat with in a bleak conference room somewhere in the bowels of Mercy hospital, I was the only one who didn't bring substance to get through two hours in a meeting.
Nary a stale bagel in site, I had to satisfy my growling belly with an entire box of tic tacs. At least they were one calorie each, so really they are diet food... right?
What I did learn is that I am clinicly obese, at a 12x more likely risk to die of heart disease than my still-skinny sorority sisters who I shared clothes with a decade ago, and your mouth goes numb on consecutive Tic Tac #46.
I also learned that obesity is something we can fight daily - in our every choice, action, and decision. The lost souls around me seemed to not get the message, as each of them had quite a staggering array of Mountain Dew, Little Debbies, salty corn chips, and various King-sized chocolate goodies stashed in pockets, purses, and actually, I'm not quite sure where the older gentleman kept his arsenal, and really, I'd rather not know.
The main point that the surgeon made me take note of is that you have to have a support system. A person who loves you who will support you throughout the weight loss journey. I knew my husband was that person - he is strong, smart, motivated, and my biggest fan. Fantastic!
I went home with a lot of questions in my head, swirling around and causing confusion and chaos that happens as new life-changing information can only do. Racing in the door the dog greeted me with a jump on my chest, knock down of the purse, and a lick to the crotch. Love you too, pooch.
"Mr! I'm back!" I quietly yelled (if you can quietly yell) down the stairs, as it was the most wonderful time of the day - nap time! No one answered so I did a quick look around the upstairs, kitchen, and backyard only to realize he had to be downstairs. NCAA tourney blasting, a Miller Lite empty (or two) on the coffee table, and the Mac with multiple windows pulled up.
"Hey. Did you fill up the car? I noticed it was low," came from behind the Mac.
"Of course. I have so much information to go over with you. Lots of decisions to make."
"Hmmmm. Where'd you go again?"
"Bariatric Weight Loss Meeting. At Mercy."
"Oh yeah. How'd it go?"
"Interesting. Gotta sort some things out."
"Okay. I 'm going to lay down for a bit and reenergize. The kids wore me OUT!"
So maybe it's time to rethink this support person?
Observations
I am that mom who really thought somehow TV would creep into my sweet angels eyes and turn them into ADHD/Autistic/Rude little beasts who would have Elmo steal any chance of a future as a Literary Scholar/Doctor/Lawyer (not the shark-type lawyers, but the do gooders who change the world AND make money). This thought process consumed me in my first pregnancy -- we would NOT have a TV on when said child was in the room/house/neighborhood. It was the devil and the devil was not welcome to 152 Aurora Ct.
Then I learned that taking a shower, making a phone call, or cooking dinner are the prime times for the needy "Moooooooooooooms!" that pop up from a child perfectly absorbed in his/her game/book/fort until the exact moment you need a little quiet. Then the somehow something shattered that perfect ten minutes of quiet and you are left asking your physician to "hold on, just a sec, OK?" and scrambling for a sugary treat worthy of ten more minutes of quiet.
One day, in angst, I threw on the TV. Of course, it was PBS, and at the beginning of the show it talked about how it's like "preschool on TV" and gave some curriculum indicators that would be addressed/mastered/discussed in the next 20 minute segment.
We won't get to the third benchmark, PBS, I snidely thought, as I knew the second the doctor and I got a chance to discuss the test results no more TV. After fifteen minutes of complete quiet from the great room, I sprinted over to Zoe to make sure she was, in fact, still breathing. Not only was she breathing, but a giggle escaped her sweet lips as she watched a bi-racial cartoon character jive about the scientific process.
Plopping into an overstuffed-crazily-upholstered art deco chair I watched the rest of the show with Zo. And it was not only cute, funny, and entertaining, it was teaching her the scientific process... at two.
Later that day over organic whole wheat bread, all-natural peanut butter, fresh strawberries from our small, yet functional, garden, and an apple from the Farmers Market, we talked about making observations. OK, you caught me. We tried organic for at least a week. I mean, really tried. Until I realized all the organic crap was in the farthest part of the mega-grocery and totally organic meant no more Oreo's in this house. Zo was stuffing her mouth with the last of her fries - she loves those Mickey D's fries - I mean, organic fruits - and she commented on her Happy Meal toy's long spindly legs. I said, "That's a good observation, Zo! Yes, your odd-soon to be in the Goodwill pile toy DOES have spindly legs! You made an observation!"
Zo shrugged and I polished off the last of my sandwich and her nuggets with a smug little comment to PBS about how they may have a bi-racial kid jiving to the scientific process, but that doesn't mean the viewers will LEARN the scientific process.
No more TV in this house! I will not, I refuse, to use the TV as a babysitter!
A few mornings later, in the rush of getting the Mr. off to work and two kids to two different ENT/OT appointments in assorted parts of town, Mr. begged Zoe to bring him a pair of clean socks to cover her little feet. When on the fifth request as he simultaneously dressed, shaved, and scarfed down a banana, Zo brought in some graying white socks. Mr. leaned down to cover those adorable piggies to realize the socks were definitely not from the clean pile.
"Zoe! These socks are filthy! Filthy!" He stated a little upset that his two year old could not differentiate a clean from a dirty sock.
"Yep! Here's the clean ones." she stated as she pulled another clean white pair out from behind her back.
Puzzled, the Mr. said, "Those are clean!"
"Just wanted to test you, Daddy! You can make good observations!"
Friday, March 26, 2010
Grilled Cheese & Nipples
Where in the hell is my phone? ran through my head for the fifteenth time as I looked under the mounds of clean (and no longer clean) laundry and various paraphenilia on the large kitchen island.
I threw a couple of pairs of size 12 month baby pants out of the way just as I caught my call going to voicemail. Sliding by Xander, who patiently played in his high chair, Zoe sprinted through my legs and grabbed her animated-walking puppy that will serve as a catalyst to a broken bone sometime in the near future. Hers? Mine? Not sure - just mark my words.
After a quick "Zo! Please keep that in the play room! If I see it again it becomes mine" to the back of her cute pony-tailed head as she trotted off with puppy in hand, the task I was elbow deep in needed my immediate attention. Someone put the gallon of milk back in the fridge without the lid on and Xander used the milk jug on the bottom shelf to try to pull himself up while I attempted to make breakfast this morning. I had just stripped Xander down to his Pampers and threw my shirt in the wash, but still had quite a few shelves, drawers, and jars to de-milk, so I got back to it.
"Mooooooooooooooooom! Xander is a stinky stinky baby! Yech!" came from the high chair. Zander was fussing, Zoe was playing a game of peek a book with X and the puppy, and our real dog was sniffing Xander's crotch with interest. Yep - diaper change time.
As soon as I laid Xander down I knew it was an exploding diaper situation. A dozen wipes later, X was still trying to slither through, under, and around me as I attempted to keep my ivory carpet ivory and his clothes clean. Zoe was doing her "Dancing dancing booty dance" she likes to do when she is craving attention (in her Dora undies, a two year old version of a booty dance).
As I wrapped up a filthy diaper and an even filthier baby, I started laughing and in the split second Zo had my attention, Xander was crawling away at a hare's pace. Crap! Literally.
Grabbing him I did what I had to do. I set him in the utility tub, grabbed the sprayer, and doused him in bleach. Maybe not bleach, but he was sanitized, rediapered, and safely secured into his high chair to a chorus of "Grill cheesh in apples, peas!" was sang over and over like a mantra from somewhere in the kitchen.
"Zo! We just had breakf - " I stopped talking as I realized it was noon, and we had breakfast more than five hours earlier.
"Two grilled cheeses coming up!" I said aloud as my head said, Lord knows your brother will need something in his stomach after that doozy!
I remembered to scrub my hands and in doing so could still smell something more like a septic tank than a grilling sandwich. If the (real) dog had another accident in the house, she's outside the rest of the day!
Nope. Not the dog. Upon further investigation (ok, a sniff test that lead me back to myself) I realized I was covered in some diaper damage and stripped down to my skivvies... except I had yet to get a bra laundered for the day, so skivvies meant black socks and old pink Hanes panties a size too small. Not to worry - get the sandwiches cut (triangles for Zoe, tiny pieces for the little man) and I'll hop into the shower.
As I leaned over to stop the chocolate milk from spilling all over the table, Zoe screamed, "Mom! Get your nipple off my grilled cheese!"
Sometimes, you just gotta laugh. So I laughed until I hurt and made chocolate milk blow out Zoe's nostrils. The doorbell rang and realized all three of us were topless, only in undies and socks, and it was a December day in Iowa. I threw on some clothes out of the dirty pile on the kitchen island and just laughed when the delivery man said, "Sure wish I could sit around and play with my kids all day, too!"
Me, too.
So I stopped the fridge clean out, carpet scrubbing, and dishes-doing and joined Zoe in the Dancing Dancing Booty Dance while Xander clapped along.
I threw a couple of pairs of size 12 month baby pants out of the way just as I caught my call going to voicemail. Sliding by Xander, who patiently played in his high chair, Zoe sprinted through my legs and grabbed her animated-walking puppy that will serve as a catalyst to a broken bone sometime in the near future. Hers? Mine? Not sure - just mark my words.
After a quick "Zo! Please keep that in the play room! If I see it again it becomes mine" to the back of her cute pony-tailed head as she trotted off with puppy in hand, the task I was elbow deep in needed my immediate attention. Someone put the gallon of milk back in the fridge without the lid on and Xander used the milk jug on the bottom shelf to try to pull himself up while I attempted to make breakfast this morning. I had just stripped Xander down to his Pampers and threw my shirt in the wash, but still had quite a few shelves, drawers, and jars to de-milk, so I got back to it.
"Mooooooooooooooooom! Xander is a stinky stinky baby! Yech!" came from the high chair. Zander was fussing, Zoe was playing a game of peek a book with X and the puppy, and our real dog was sniffing Xander's crotch with interest. Yep - diaper change time.
As soon as I laid Xander down I knew it was an exploding diaper situation. A dozen wipes later, X was still trying to slither through, under, and around me as I attempted to keep my ivory carpet ivory and his clothes clean. Zoe was doing her "Dancing dancing booty dance" she likes to do when she is craving attention (in her Dora undies, a two year old version of a booty dance).
As I wrapped up a filthy diaper and an even filthier baby, I started laughing and in the split second Zo had my attention, Xander was crawling away at a hare's pace. Crap! Literally.
Grabbing him I did what I had to do. I set him in the utility tub, grabbed the sprayer, and doused him in bleach. Maybe not bleach, but he was sanitized, rediapered, and safely secured into his high chair to a chorus of "Grill cheesh in apples, peas!" was sang over and over like a mantra from somewhere in the kitchen.
"Zo! We just had breakf - " I stopped talking as I realized it was noon, and we had breakfast more than five hours earlier.
"Two grilled cheeses coming up!" I said aloud as my head said, Lord knows your brother will need something in his stomach after that doozy!
I remembered to scrub my hands and in doing so could still smell something more like a septic tank than a grilling sandwich. If the (real) dog had another accident in the house, she's outside the rest of the day!
Nope. Not the dog. Upon further investigation (ok, a sniff test that lead me back to myself) I realized I was covered in some diaper damage and stripped down to my skivvies... except I had yet to get a bra laundered for the day, so skivvies meant black socks and old pink Hanes panties a size too small. Not to worry - get the sandwiches cut (triangles for Zoe, tiny pieces for the little man) and I'll hop into the shower.
As I leaned over to stop the chocolate milk from spilling all over the table, Zoe screamed, "Mom! Get your nipple off my grilled cheese!"
Sometimes, you just gotta laugh. So I laughed until I hurt and made chocolate milk blow out Zoe's nostrils. The doorbell rang and realized all three of us were topless, only in undies and socks, and it was a December day in Iowa. I threw on some clothes out of the dirty pile on the kitchen island and just laughed when the delivery man said, "Sure wish I could sit around and play with my kids all day, too!"
Me, too.
So I stopped the fridge clean out, carpet scrubbing, and dishes-doing and joined Zoe in the Dancing Dancing Booty Dance while Xander clapped along.
A Little Fur
howering used to be synonymous with relaxing, rejuvenating, and renewing. That was before I had two babies in 18 months.
Now, on the mornings I can drag my lifeless body into a trickle of water before my husband leaves for work, it's fast, cold, and I usually miss something. And I always wash at least one thing twice - you know, "Shit. Did I already to my hair?" as I am rewashing my hair for the third time but totally forgot my pits. It's inevitable and happens. Those are the days I actually do shower without an audience.
I used to have a cute figure. Ok, a knock out one. Every once in awhile I would have a few too many cocktails and imagine what it would be like to entertain in the nude... never did I imagine it would be to a crowd of little people I gave life to...
Now that cute figure is further from my life than a reliable babysitter and I'm not as comfortable with the "more to love" version of myself, but a crowded bathroom happens daily. So, my husband hopped out of the stall, stubbing his toe on the dusty, rusty, and seldom used Weight Watchers scale and tripped over a few dozen (new) tampons from the industrial-sized box Zoe was using as logs for a staggeringly large tampon cabin she'd erected. Ty's towel dropped and Zoe's eyes zeroed in with interest. She stood up, eye level, and zoomed in as Ty quickly scooped up the towel and scurried into a more private place for his privates to hang loose.
Zoe didn't say a word, Ty lifted his eyebrow's with a "dodged a bullet there" look over her, and I winked and hopped into the now-icy water. Why do we always let it run between showers? It never actually works out that I hop right in as he hops on out.
Of course my towel was missing when I was getting out of the shower, as it was used to mop up the moat of water Zoe somehow got from the sink to the tampon cabin, so Birthday Suit Momma got to do the strut of shame to the linen closet.
Just as I was pulling on some clean undies - which, in our house takes a few minutes to find, as you never know if they'll be all over the master bedroom in clean laundry piles, in the appropriate drawer, or on Zoe's head as a "Diving Mask" when she plays "Scuba School" in the dry jacuzzi tub. Zo peaks her head from the bathroom and says, "Mom! You and Daddy are the same but different!"
"That's right, baby." I mumbled hunting for an actual pair of my own socks.
"Yep. You both have fur!" She stated, very proud of herself.
"Fur? Like a teddy bear?" I asked as I settled for a pair of my husband's trouser socks he refuses to wear unless it's a job interview or funeral.
Gleefully she responded, "Yep! Fur. To keep your peanuts and vagina all warm!"
Yep.
Now, on the mornings I can drag my lifeless body into a trickle of water before my husband leaves for work, it's fast, cold, and I usually miss something. And I always wash at least one thing twice - you know, "Shit. Did I already to my hair?" as I am rewashing my hair for the third time but totally forgot my pits. It's inevitable and happens. Those are the days I actually do shower without an audience.
I used to have a cute figure. Ok, a knock out one. Every once in awhile I would have a few too many cocktails and imagine what it would be like to entertain in the nude... never did I imagine it would be to a crowd of little people I gave life to...
Now that cute figure is further from my life than a reliable babysitter and I'm not as comfortable with the "more to love" version of myself, but a crowded bathroom happens daily. So, my husband hopped out of the stall, stubbing his toe on the dusty, rusty, and seldom used Weight Watchers scale and tripped over a few dozen (new) tampons from the industrial-sized box Zoe was using as logs for a staggeringly large tampon cabin she'd erected. Ty's towel dropped and Zoe's eyes zeroed in with interest. She stood up, eye level, and zoomed in as Ty quickly scooped up the towel and scurried into a more private place for his privates to hang loose.
Zoe didn't say a word, Ty lifted his eyebrow's with a "dodged a bullet there" look over her, and I winked and hopped into the now-icy water. Why do we always let it run between showers? It never actually works out that I hop right in as he hops on out.
Of course my towel was missing when I was getting out of the shower, as it was used to mop up the moat of water Zoe somehow got from the sink to the tampon cabin, so Birthday Suit Momma got to do the strut of shame to the linen closet.
Just as I was pulling on some clean undies - which, in our house takes a few minutes to find, as you never know if they'll be all over the master bedroom in clean laundry piles, in the appropriate drawer, or on Zoe's head as a "Diving Mask" when she plays "Scuba School" in the dry jacuzzi tub. Zo peaks her head from the bathroom and says, "Mom! You and Daddy are the same but different!"
"That's right, baby." I mumbled hunting for an actual pair of my own socks.
"Yep. You both have fur!" She stated, very proud of herself.
"Fur? Like a teddy bear?" I asked as I settled for a pair of my husband's trouser socks he refuses to wear unless it's a job interview or funeral.
Gleefully she responded, "Yep! Fur. To keep your peanuts and vagina all warm!"
Yep.
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