This week, overall, has been a complete train wreck. I've gotten so stressed and exhausted trying to schedule a car tune up that I threw the French doors closed and stood, shaking, in the dining room as two little possessed kids tried to nudge/hack/shimmy their way into my personal space while screaming at the top of their lungs. I literally had to call the man at "Al's" back twice because I couldn't understand a word. All I could focus on was that I had two kids about to shatter forty panes of glass just to get close to me and all I wanted was to be alone. Was something wrong with me?
When the urban youth stopped by to sell $43 cleaner "scented lavender for all the Queens - like you" I bought one. I opened the door, listened, and bought one. I just didn't have the heart to say no to his spiel on a ninety-nine degree day in Iowa. He had on jeans, long sleeves, and was sweating out of control. Not only did I buy his product, I also ended up giving him a Gatorade and a pep talk... while my kids ram sacked his backpack, jumped off the porch onto my hostas, and he looked at me like "you poor thing!" instead of gratitude. Was something wrong with me?
Xanders favorite way to snack is to lay on a blanket, picnic-style, on our great room floor. He and Zoe started out okay on the same red blanket with bears. Now Zoe has to have her Ducky blanket at a forty-seven degree angle from the TV, certain throw pillow she used a Sharpie to decorate a few weeks ago, and a sippy cup she hasn't used since she was in Pampers. It used to be fun and a great way for momma to get in twenty minutes of space. Now it has turned into a complete disaster in which if Xander's big toe is within one inch of Zoe's blanket, she steamrolls an unsuspecting baby and squishes him until he cries. In return, Xander grabs fistfuls of toe head hair on top of him and pulls, yanks, and tugs until each fist takes away a nice souvenir. I watch, disgusted with them, pull them apart and scream. What is wrong with me?
Xander has a handful of words he uses. Maybe less than a handful... unless they are in eighteen-point font. At his age, Zoe was a walking storybook, telling tales of every adventure she could think of that entailed a horse, stop sign, and gas station - the things she remembered on her last trip to the store with her mom. We would laugh and create enchanted lands with our words and have conversations that could rival some adults. Xander grunts, points, and breaks down with a scream, downward facing dog, and head bang instead of sign "Milk" most days. What is wrong with X?
At swim lessons, which should be a thirty minute break, Zoe played tug of war with another little girl over the green turtle kick board. They shouted, tugged, and splashed one another, both ladies showing a fierce attitude that could rival Naomi Campbell's, until an instructor pointed out that all six kick boards were, in fact, identical green turtles. Instead of calmly reaching for another, both girls locked their grip on The One and waited. The instructor, exasperated, handed each of them a new kick board and threw the sought-after one in the deep end. I pretended not to see the ordeal. What is wrong with Zoe?
When Mr. comes home from work and after an hour has sighed fourteen times and broken up six sibling arguments, instead of feeling kinship, I usually snap, "Don't look for sympathy from me, Bud. I've done this ALL. DAY." and go back to escaping in a hot sink of Dawn and a scrub brush. What is wrong with us?
I. AM. EXHAUSTED. If someone handed me a ticket anywhere from here for the weekend, I would walk out the door, pick up some chick lit at the airport, and step on the plane. I'd sleep in-between pretzel and Sprite breaks and enjoy being cramped in an itty-bitty seat without an infant puking on me while a toddler kicks the seat in front of her every forty seconds (which is enough time for the passenger in front to get comfortable again, settle in, and then "BOOM!"). When I hit my destination I'd call my man and make sure he and the kids were alive, hang up, and sleep. Read. Eat. Repeat. I'm sure I'd miss them within twenty-four hours, but I know that first day I wouldn't think twice about neglecting my mommy duties. What is wrong with me?
Sometimes I want to shake so hard the kids vibrate off of me, almost like little tops, and spin away. Not too far, but just far enough that I can move without tripping over one of them or their toys that are always everywhere. I find the premise to Toy Story non-fiction. Those toys, which were put away and organized when I left the room, always manage to party their way onto the stairs, into the middle of the floor, and under my feet the second I return to the room holding two loads of laundry with Xander perched like a cherry on top. Zoe is no where in sight, typically roving through her closet in search of the one item she cannot reach, piling up pillows and Pottery Barn chairs, and climbing the stack to reach her elusive tutu, only to lose her balance, catch a hanger, snap it in half, and carve a bloody tunnel out of her cheek, all while I don't have my eyes on her for a minute. This has happened more than once. What is wrong with us?
I know there will be bright moments in my day today that I wouldn't trade for the world, but all in all, I would love to escape. Just for a day or two and get back my mojo... or until nap time.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Friday, July 9, 2010
Flashdance
Couldn't tell you what started it. Maybe that I said an emphatic NO! to Kudo bar #8 for the day, only pushed them on the swings for 43 consecutive minutes in 90 degree weather in direct sunlight, or turned off the sprinkler when a flash flood erupted in the middle of our backyard? Perhaps it was my offering of mandarin oranges, watermelon, celery with peanut butter, cheese and crackers, grilled cheese, hot dogs (no buns, cut in little pieces with cheese on top and pretzel sticks as toothpicks), chicken noodle soup, and macaroni and cheese for lunch, as opposed to the chocolate chip cookie dough the four fat hands clung to quickly as they snatched it out of the open fridge? Whatever it was, it pissed some kids off.
Xander can go from all smiles to screaming dervish in a matter of seconds. It's an amazing transformation to watch his gorgeous tanned cheeks to turn into pink and finally, with the proper scream, cherry tomato red. He flops around as if he is dying from a lack of oxygen, and does maneuvers with his back that would make an inch worm proud. While doing this little routine, he swats away his momma's comforting hands, but will scream and escalate if his momma is more than twelve inches from his side watching every move.
X-man was knee deep in a Tantrum and Zoe and I just watched. It was so interestingly orchestrated that Zoe gave up her screaming, throwing, and kicking to be a spectator to the master. Hey, he's learned from the best.
All I can think is that if I just knew where our Flip was, I could get this on tape, post it on Facebook, and my friends could have easy access to free birth control via a minute video of a seventeen-month-old in action. I think it would be better than Sex Ed and really promote abstinence. I mean, if you had an image of Xander acting like this when you were about to get it on, it may just curb the desire into a little healthy fear of a baby. Worth a shot, Sarah Palin.
In the tone of a video shoot, I started thinking about the soundtrack I'd play. And it hit me. FLASHDANCE! Someone give this kid a chair and a leotard! That's a tough dance and I have a prodigy on my hands - he did it with ease and precision.
Xander needs a college fund? Check. Here we come, Little Miss Perfect. I have a male entrant who has a talent that comes out with one snatch of a block, lack of nap, and nothing in his system besides granola bars and oyster crackers.
Take that, three year old girl in more make up than a MAC counter can offer, a fake tan, and four hair pieces who can sing God Bless America backwards while standing on her head. I have an all-natural beauty with a set of lungs who isn't afraid to use them.
Xander can go from all smiles to screaming dervish in a matter of seconds. It's an amazing transformation to watch his gorgeous tanned cheeks to turn into pink and finally, with the proper scream, cherry tomato red. He flops around as if he is dying from a lack of oxygen, and does maneuvers with his back that would make an inch worm proud. While doing this little routine, he swats away his momma's comforting hands, but will scream and escalate if his momma is more than twelve inches from his side watching every move.
X-man was knee deep in a Tantrum and Zoe and I just watched. It was so interestingly orchestrated that Zoe gave up her screaming, throwing, and kicking to be a spectator to the master. Hey, he's learned from the best.
All I can think is that if I just knew where our Flip was, I could get this on tape, post it on Facebook, and my friends could have easy access to free birth control via a minute video of a seventeen-month-old in action. I think it would be better than Sex Ed and really promote abstinence. I mean, if you had an image of Xander acting like this when you were about to get it on, it may just curb the desire into a little healthy fear of a baby. Worth a shot, Sarah Palin.
In the tone of a video shoot, I started thinking about the soundtrack I'd play. And it hit me. FLASHDANCE! Someone give this kid a chair and a leotard! That's a tough dance and I have a prodigy on my hands - he did it with ease and precision.
Xander needs a college fund? Check. Here we come, Little Miss Perfect. I have a male entrant who has a talent that comes out with one snatch of a block, lack of nap, and nothing in his system besides granola bars and oyster crackers.
Take that, three year old girl in more make up than a MAC counter can offer, a fake tan, and four hair pieces who can sing God Bless America backwards while standing on her head. I have an all-natural beauty with a set of lungs who isn't afraid to use them.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Cow Patties
Twenty-four miles northwest of Des Moines, Iowa really doesn't sound like it would be too far away from civilization, I thought as I plugged in the White Fence Dairy Farm's address. Our mom's group was meeting at 10:00 and we thought we'd take the mini-van for a spin on some gravel roads and pet a cow or two. Hey, what else did we have planned?
I copied the directions and when I got to number fourteen or so it got vague. The "Turn Right on Route 43/S. Main Street (14.2 miles)" turned into "If you make it this far, throw a stone and go the direction it lands. You are in the middle of nowhere. Why would you go to Woodward, Iowa?" and so on. I was on my own with a cell phone saying "No Service" and two kids pumped for some fresh dairy and good ol' fun in the manure.
We were flying down a very rural highway, feeling the speedometer hit 70 and the blacktop under Michelin's finest when all of a sudden a country, gravel road sprung up out of nowhere. We threw out a plume of dust and bumped, grinded, and gave our shocks a good test of durability. In Iowa, rural roads are not marked with 50 miles an hour signs. They aren't marked with "Beware, Deliverance Country" signage, either. They just pop up and scare the shit out of a "city girl" like me.
After we took the appropriate turns, ramps, and unmarked roads, I realized that I may be raising my children in the middle of a soybean or cornfield until my cell could find service. It gave me nightmares about my own Children of the Corn as I prayed Verizon could just let me get out one "Can you hear me now?" to 888-555-COWS. Seriously, that was the number. Verizon didn't let me down, we made a thirty-second call and talked to a very chipper Jo Jo who used directionals like, "Herb's barn. Can't miss it, roof is caved in. Turn there." and "When you see all the feral cats in a field, go another mile and then turn by the llamas" which made me do a little chair dance when we actually saw the White Fence Dairy Farm sign.
"Look, Zo! A cow!" I exclaimed excitedly as the kid's doors opened and I got the stroller out.
"Yech. It reeks! What is that smell?" came from my cherub.
"Cows. Country. Iowa."
"Nope. Poop. I know the smell of poop, Mom." Well, you got me there, Zoe.
Xander didn't do his usual go-boneless-and-scream when put into the stroller and we started up the rocky drive to a tiny barn surrounded by blue skies and white puffy clouds.
Jo Jo greeted our group of forty, threw her hands on her knees and smiled a lot, and talked waaaay over our kids heads about her bovine brood. We learned a heffer is a young female yet to give birth (and not a fat fat cow as I assumed) and the difference in stature, make, and color of beef vs. dairy cows. The mom's tried to pay attention as the kids entertained themselves by throwing rocks at the fence (and therefore, the cows).
ZAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAP!
Shrieks and cries erupted from a young mom as she tore her preschooler from the electric fence the pudgy fingers were gripping as a shock ran through her hands.
"Oops! I should have told you all that this fence does have electric currents running through it! Great to contain cows, not great for the kids!" as she skipped off to the calf barn. Over her shoulder Jo Jo threw out, "Keep little hands off it! It'll give your ticker a jump start!"
Twenty wide-eyed petrified kids hung back as the mom's coerced them with "there's ice cream" and "wanna see a baby cow" concepts as we made our way in Jo Jo's direction.
Another interesting fact we learned is that young male calfs can get, and hold, an erection when surrounded by a group of young, curious children.
We also learned that it wasn't mud, but cow feces, that covered the wet, murky path to the cattle barn and therefore, flip flops, Crocs, and sandals are not the best choice in dairy farm touring footwear.
The kids perked up as they walked the length of the barn and could get a quick tug of an ear, nudge of a nose, and gutteral sound from the cows that couldn't care less that we were inches from their lunch. It was cool to see Zoe grab that hay in one hand, still gripping an old granola bar in the other, and try to feed the cow. When she was more interested in the bar, Zoe gladly let the cow try a nibble and then decided to finish it off herself. I had to read my Purell bottle closely to see if I could use it on her mouth, lips, and tongue. No such luck.
Xander was a little overwhelmed and was thrilled to ride in his stroller and let his sister get nibbled by the Jersey Girls. We showered off our feet, calves, knees, and strollers and went into the barn to ask any questions. When one woman asked what happens to a heffer who cannot get pregnant Jo Jo replied, "She gives us beef!" with a smile.
Then, the closing line of Jo Jo's presentation, said with gusto and passion, "A dairy cow is a magnificent, giving creature. From her first pregnancy to the rest of her life, she will spend it making and giving her milk to us. Then, in a final act of selflessness, she will give us herself in the form of beef!" Jo Jo's eyes shined with excitement, and I almost felt like I should applaud, or hand her a kerchief. Instead, I thought, "let's get the cow's side of this story, sister!" and kept my mouth shut. I also thought of how many nursing momma's were in our group and how many of them would like to be pumped twice a day for the rest of their life so some other species could make sugary treats from her mammary glands. Not many, I'd guess.
We got to taste some amazing chocolate milk - honestly, it was like chilled liquid gold - and ice cream that was so delicious it made me rethink the "no bowls of ice cream before breakfast" rule in our house.
On our way back to the car, I looked down and had two kids with brown mustaches, sticky hands, and a wayward cow poop smear here or there, and smiled. Sometimes, it's nice to live in Iowa.
Sometimes.
I copied the directions and when I got to number fourteen or so it got vague. The "Turn Right on Route 43/S. Main Street (14.2 miles)" turned into "If you make it this far, throw a stone and go the direction it lands. You are in the middle of nowhere. Why would you go to Woodward, Iowa?" and so on. I was on my own with a cell phone saying "No Service" and two kids pumped for some fresh dairy and good ol' fun in the manure.
We were flying down a very rural highway, feeling the speedometer hit 70 and the blacktop under Michelin's finest when all of a sudden a country, gravel road sprung up out of nowhere. We threw out a plume of dust and bumped, grinded, and gave our shocks a good test of durability. In Iowa, rural roads are not marked with 50 miles an hour signs. They aren't marked with "Beware, Deliverance Country" signage, either. They just pop up and scare the shit out of a "city girl" like me.
After we took the appropriate turns, ramps, and unmarked roads, I realized that I may be raising my children in the middle of a soybean or cornfield until my cell could find service. It gave me nightmares about my own Children of the Corn as I prayed Verizon could just let me get out one "Can you hear me now?" to 888-555-COWS. Seriously, that was the number. Verizon didn't let me down, we made a thirty-second call and talked to a very chipper Jo Jo who used directionals like, "Herb's barn. Can't miss it, roof is caved in. Turn there." and "When you see all the feral cats in a field, go another mile and then turn by the llamas" which made me do a little chair dance when we actually saw the White Fence Dairy Farm sign.
"Look, Zo! A cow!" I exclaimed excitedly as the kid's doors opened and I got the stroller out.
"Yech. It reeks! What is that smell?" came from my cherub.
"Cows. Country. Iowa."
"Nope. Poop. I know the smell of poop, Mom." Well, you got me there, Zoe.
Xander didn't do his usual go-boneless-and-scream when put into the stroller and we started up the rocky drive to a tiny barn surrounded by blue skies and white puffy clouds.
Jo Jo greeted our group of forty, threw her hands on her knees and smiled a lot, and talked waaaay over our kids heads about her bovine brood. We learned a heffer is a young female yet to give birth (and not a fat fat cow as I assumed) and the difference in stature, make, and color of beef vs. dairy cows. The mom's tried to pay attention as the kids entertained themselves by throwing rocks at the fence (and therefore, the cows).
ZAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAP!
Shrieks and cries erupted from a young mom as she tore her preschooler from the electric fence the pudgy fingers were gripping as a shock ran through her hands.
"Oops! I should have told you all that this fence does have electric currents running through it! Great to contain cows, not great for the kids!" as she skipped off to the calf barn. Over her shoulder Jo Jo threw out, "Keep little hands off it! It'll give your ticker a jump start!"
Twenty wide-eyed petrified kids hung back as the mom's coerced them with "there's ice cream" and "wanna see a baby cow" concepts as we made our way in Jo Jo's direction.
Another interesting fact we learned is that young male calfs can get, and hold, an erection when surrounded by a group of young, curious children.
We also learned that it wasn't mud, but cow feces, that covered the wet, murky path to the cattle barn and therefore, flip flops, Crocs, and sandals are not the best choice in dairy farm touring footwear.
The kids perked up as they walked the length of the barn and could get a quick tug of an ear, nudge of a nose, and gutteral sound from the cows that couldn't care less that we were inches from their lunch. It was cool to see Zoe grab that hay in one hand, still gripping an old granola bar in the other, and try to feed the cow. When she was more interested in the bar, Zoe gladly let the cow try a nibble and then decided to finish it off herself. I had to read my Purell bottle closely to see if I could use it on her mouth, lips, and tongue. No such luck.
Xander was a little overwhelmed and was thrilled to ride in his stroller and let his sister get nibbled by the Jersey Girls. We showered off our feet, calves, knees, and strollers and went into the barn to ask any questions. When one woman asked what happens to a heffer who cannot get pregnant Jo Jo replied, "She gives us beef!" with a smile.
Then, the closing line of Jo Jo's presentation, said with gusto and passion, "A dairy cow is a magnificent, giving creature. From her first pregnancy to the rest of her life, she will spend it making and giving her milk to us. Then, in a final act of selflessness, she will give us herself in the form of beef!" Jo Jo's eyes shined with excitement, and I almost felt like I should applaud, or hand her a kerchief. Instead, I thought, "let's get the cow's side of this story, sister!" and kept my mouth shut. I also thought of how many nursing momma's were in our group and how many of them would like to be pumped twice a day for the rest of their life so some other species could make sugary treats from her mammary glands. Not many, I'd guess.
We got to taste some amazing chocolate milk - honestly, it was like chilled liquid gold - and ice cream that was so delicious it made me rethink the "no bowls of ice cream before breakfast" rule in our house.
On our way back to the car, I looked down and had two kids with brown mustaches, sticky hands, and a wayward cow poop smear here or there, and smiled. Sometimes, it's nice to live in Iowa.
Sometimes.
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