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.
Friday, May 28, 2010
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.
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