I am sure you all know one of those people who are certain that the sun rises and sets for the sole purpose of shedding light on their offspring, heck, you might even be one of them. I can't blame you too much, if you don't think your little ones are perfect who will? Or is that what grandparents are for?
Contrary to what some people might think, not all parents believe their child is perfect and I happen to be one of them! I realized long ago that he is far from perfect, and I am ok with that. In fact, sometimes it's pretty entertaining just to watch his imperfections play out.
The other day we were over at a friends house and the guys were playing frisbee and their little boy was a master frisbee thrower, I mean, this kid could nail a running squirrel with SWAT precision. My kid? Well he was having great fun running around in circles and might possibly trample a running squirrel if the squirrel ran into his path of his make-shift pirouettes.
Every so often the frisbee would fall out of his moving hands and tumble a foot or two away from him, and we were all very proud, but most of the time he was throwing the soccer ball at the tree. When the other kids play soccer he's hitting the T-ball (he's pretty good at that one, I might add), and when the other kids want to play T-ball he goes back to mowing the lawn in circles. What can I say? He marches to the beat of his own drum.
At age 3 it's rather endearing. Dare I say I'm a bit proud of him even? He doesn't succumb to the pressures to be like everyone else and is not afraid to stand up and say “Hey! I don't want to play your organized team sport. I am having much more fun hitting baseballs with my golf club and putting my golf balls on the T, thank you very much!”
Regardless of his flair for independence, at some point in life, I would like him to be able to play a team sport while I wasn't forced to sit in the crowd wearing a disguise. It might be cute during the pre-school era, but somehow I get the idea that watching him practice Taekwondo on first base during his high school baseball tournament would not be quite as adorable, and I fear the impact it would have on his social life.
All I know is that he needs to master something, and pretty quickly. Eventually I'm going to have to put one of those stickers on the back of my car with his name on it and a picture of a football...or a baseball...or a soccer ball stuck in a tree.
So all of this has taught me that indeed nobody is perfect, and as much as I adore him, I can recognize that and try to focus on reading and writing a little bit more since I can already rule out an athletic scholarship in his future. Academia- here we come!
- Location:upstairs
- Mood:
nervous - Music:overly tired air conditioner
- Location:living room
- Mood:
exhausted - Music:beautiful silence
Everybody needs a hero
The world has seen a lot of impressive people. People that have single-handedly changed the way the world works, people that have saved lives, created masterpieces, inspired us with their music or had such a kind heart that their goodwill spread to everyone around them.
Are you just an Average Joe? Have you not ever done any of those things but you still want to be idolized by someone? Have no fear, you still can. Just become a dad of a 3 year-old boy and your place in Hero Town will be forever reserved, or at least until he becomes a teenager and thinks you're a total moron. But until then, grab that beer, start up that riding lawn mower and take that victory lap around the cove because you're a star among the wee.
Not only does Little Guy resemble his Dad sort of in the fashion that a cherry tomato resembles a regular tomato (smaller, cuter, sweeter, but otherwise identical), but now he's beginning to mirror him in nearly everything he does. Words. Mannerisms. Bad habits. Nothing is off limits to the master of mimic.
If Dad is outside, Little Guy must be outside. If Dad is cutting the grass, LG must be cutting the grass. If Dad is going to the bathroom, well, you get the idea. Dad wears two shirts to work (undershirt and shirt), so now, no matter where he goes, LG must also wear two shirts. Summer temperatures have proven not to be a deterrent to this layering behavior.
Which leads me to a public ovation to my own personal hero, Mr. Willis Haviland Carrier, whose genius made it possible for me to come inside and refrigerate myself while my husband and my son are outside cloning each other in the summer swelter. (Yes, it works both ways.)
Anyway, it got me to thinking about heroes, and the huge responsibility that falls on my husband. He must now forever be conscientious about what he says and does because of his constant companion, forever taking notes and copying whatever he sees and hears. Sometimes it doesn't come out right away, but when I least expect it, I am cornered with the knowledge that there are now two of them and I am completely out-numbered.
In a way I'm a little jealous of their bond, but then again it is nice that I can sometimes go to the bathroom by myself. Of course this crazy phenomenon only occurs when Dad is around, otherwise, I too have my own shadow, albeit not nearly as constant or aggressive.
I am envisioning (and secretly hoping for) a performance of “Me and My Shadow” on Father's Day complete with top hats, canes and synchronized dancing, but I might have my hopes up a little too high. I will probably have to just settle for watching them ride the lawnmower off into the sunset, while I'm inside, with air-conditioning, of course. Happy Father's Day, Dad's!
- Location:couch
- Mood:
sleepy - Music:what not to wear
In case anyone is planning a trip to hell anytime soon, bring a coat, because I can assure you that it has frozen over. I know this because it's 8:02 a.m., and my child just emerged from his slumber. Not only that, he was been asleep for nearly 14 hours. This wouldn't be strange, of course, if he were a teenager, or my husband, but for my 3 year-old, this is big news.
He takes great pride in waking up every morning during the 5 o'clock hour, immediately running at full speed. I have found that he has only two functions: Stop and Go. Mostly Go. There is no resting, slowing down, pacing or other speeds in between.
Apparently he was busy during the night, or the early morning, because he did not wake up wearing what I put him to bed in last night. He also had the dog with him, who was not with him when I put him to bed last night. I cannot stress the value of the alarm system on my house, which as I have found is more useful to me not to keep predators OUT, but to keep children IN.
Speaking of keeping things IN, the other day my friend and I were outside letting our kids play in my backyard and all of a sudden my friend had a look of shock and horror on her face. I turned to see the offending sight, only to discover it was my child's tiny bare bottom hobbling over to “water” the nearest tree. Classy.
Now, I know this is some sort of right of passage for little boys, ok, males. (who am I kidding?) We all had a good laugh about it and I really wished I had my camera on me, but then I got to thinking. This is really cute and funny in MY backyard, but does this mean that wherever he sees a tree it must be peed on? Hmm. Not good.
There are trees in parking lots, and parks, and his pre-school! Now we must learn to differentiate between trees that are acceptable to pee on and trees that must never be peed on. Not only that, but when we are inside we are not going to go outside for the sole purpose of peeing on a tree, which is a request that I have heard numerous times since that day. This is getting complicated and I blame his paternal grandparents who taught him this trick in the first place.
- Location:work
- Mood:
bouncy - Music:The Police- Message in a Bottle -on Pandora
For those of you not familiar with Oprah's Word of the Century: “Shlumpadinka” is defined, by the television goddess herself, as “a woman who dresses like she has completely given up…and it shows.” I find this interesting coming from a bazillionaire who pays a staff of people to make her look good, but I digress - she has a point. Are you that lady who goes to Wal-Mart in pajamas? When was the last time you took your hair out of that ponytail? Do all of your shoes make flip-flop sounds?
I'm a mom. I imagine that most of my readers are moms too. Basically, for anyone who is in the dark, the definition of “mom” is “absolutely last on the list.” Everyone and everything else, including the smelly dog, comes first. Then, if there is a spare second leftover in the day, you can do with that what you wish. Some choose to sleep. Some choose to bathe. A few of us crazy ones really go out on a limb and watch a tv show or (gasp!) read a book. Yesterday, in my spare second, I chose to hide the bodies of Little Guy's goldfish that I accidentally killed and said a little prayer that he doesn't ask me where they went.
While I do hold some value in personal appearance, I think there are a few free passes though. Moms of new babies have a legitimate place in Shlumpadinkdom in my book. I don't think I bought anything new until well after my son's first birthday. What is the point? It would get peed on, puked on, pooped on or splattered with Gerber carrots. My baby was a spitter-upper and if it weren't for my husband's collection of ratty old t-shirts during those months I would have had to just cover myself in Saran Wrap, besides, nothing else fit anyway...and it's easy to wipe down.
But all good things must come to an end, right? At some point you have to retire the stained t-shirts and sweatpants and replace them with actual clothes. You have to face the wrath of the buttons and zippers again and say goodbye to your good, faithful friend, elastic.
Facing that dressing room for the first time post-baby is an experience I will never forget. In a word: horrifying. I had become so used to being Queen Shlump that when I started seeing pants with numbered sizes instead of letters I think I hyperventilated a little. Anyway, I might look a little different, some parts are better than they were before and some we just don't talk about anymore...but I definitely don't want to look like “a woman who dresses like she has completely given up.”
I have to keep reminding myself that it's ok to take a few minutes to look and feel better about myself. The dead goldfish will still be there when I'm done. For those of you who left the birthing room wearing your pre-baby jeans- I am not talking to you. Also, I hate you a little. Also, please clone yourself for me.
______________________________
***EDIT***
Blog addition: He's been asking about the goldfish. I try to trick him into thinking he's asking about goldfish crackers and I tell him they are in the pantry. That didn't work. So far my standard answer is: "They are with Moomaw" (in heaven) and that is working...for now. I don't like lying, but what am I supposed to say? "Sorry, honey. I poisoned them and they are dead. Daddy flushed them down the potty. Yes, with your poopy."
- Location:work
- Mood:
hot - Music:pandora: p.o.d.
Today's Column:
The greatest thing about 3 year-olds is their newfound independence. Unfortunately, I have discovered that this is also the worst thing about 3 year-olds. Almost everything Little Guy does now is unassisted, unless of course sharp objects are involved, but he still thinks that is up for debate. It's a work of art sometimes to figure out a way to help your child do something when they don't want help and pretty much think they can do anything by themselves. In fact, the moment I interfere too much is clearly the end of the world.
I want to give him confidence so I applaud him for doing things by himself and I try not to correct (read: re-do) tasks that he is so proud that he did himself. This means that a lot of the time we are seen in public with pants on backwards, stickers worn as jewelry, hair all kinds of askew, and if it were up to him he would wear the same Spiderman shirt until he literally busted out of it at the seams Incredible Hulk style. If he shows up for his first day of college with his shoes on the wrong feet I will start to worry, until then I am letting him embrace his personal style.
This morning, for instance, I took him to preschool looking like a miniature clown waiting for a flood. I had to assure his teacher that I do, in fact, buy him pants that are not three inches too short, but he thought these particular blue jeans looked much better with his white socks and bright red Crocs and simply did not appreciate my fashion advice. It was definitely a “pick your battles” moment and that was one I chose not to fight. If he wants to wear capri pants and rubber shoes so be it. At least my kid will be prepared if he steps in a pothole. Can you same the same?
I probably should have done a clothes inspection last week though when we went into his doctor for his check-up and the pediatrician got a good look at his Sponge Bob Square Pants boxer briefs...inside out and backwards. Great. The doctor thinks that instead of doing laundry and providing my child with clean underwear I just turn them inside out for another wear.
- Location:work
- Mood:
blank - Music:radiohead- fake plastic trees
Parents: What do you need to know?
As varied as some of our parenting styles might be, I think that we all, as parents, can agree that keeping our kids safe is the universal number one priority. When I first became a mother and realized that I was now in charge of keeping this tiny, helpless creature safe from...everything, I was a bit overwhelmed. All of a sudden I had these new things to worry about, like the horrors that lurk in unsterilized bottles and laundry detergent that isn't specifically created for babies.
As he got older I wouldn't say it got easier, per se, but it has changed. Things you didn't worry about before you worry about now. Like when he was a wee infant, bundled up like a burrito in his ducky blanket my case of NMP (New Mom Paranoia, remember?) was pretty limited as far as what I needed to obsess about. Infant NMP included checking him to make sure he was still breathing approximately every three minutes, wake him up if he was sleeping too long, put him back to sleep if he was awake too long, didn't have a wet diaper on for more than ten seconds and was fed every three hours, on the hour. I didn't have to worry about what was left out on the counter and what may or may not look like candy.
On the other hand, things that were once cause for panic can now be forgotten. I think the baby laundry detergent lasted for exactly one bottle in my house and I may have sterilized a few things but then I quickly realized that my limited amount of down time would be better served for everyone involved if I spent it doing things like sleeping and showering. Besides, of all the things I found him shoving in his mouth over the course of the next few years, that was the least of my concerns and after all he has made it to 3- so take that, sterilization!
I am continually amazed at the fortitude my three year-old shows in finding the danger in the most innocent looking things. Take a raisin for example; Raisins: Not Just for Choking Anymore. What might look like a snack to some people looks like a nose plug to others. I have found that it's better to just not buy raisins anymore for fear of where they end up. Also, did you know that raisins can be toxic to dogs? This does not bode well for my dynamic duo as the human one has realized that anything he doesn't want anymore can be disposed of by “sharing” it with the canine one. Incidentally, this phenomenon has left me with a very unselfish child and a very fat dog.
Being a parent is an ever-changing, ever-continuous battle against letting them learn but keeping them safe at the same time. We have to be aware of the dangers inside the house, outside the house, in the car, in their schools, in shopping carts...it simply never ends. I also know that no matter how much effort you put into shielding your children, their curious nature, at least in my experience, can out-wit the most baby-proofed of houses. Accidents happen, but the best way to deal with them is to be prepared.
- Location:upstairs
- Mood:
creative
When you ask a child “what do you want to be when you grow up?”, their answers are filled with so much enthusiasm and hope, you just can't help but get lost in the daydream with them. They want to grow up to do something that they love, or something that is just plain cool. Fireman! Doctor! Astronaut!
I recently asked my 7 year-old niece the infamous question and here's how that conversation went.
Me: “Hey Madeline, what do you want to be when you grow up?”
Mad: “A chef!” she answered without hesitation.
Me: “Really? Why?”
Mad: “Because I love to cook. And it seems fun.” Her tone however translated it into something more like: “Duh.”
Ask a kid, they always have the right answer to life's quandaries. This innocent little conversation sparked an avalanche of thoughts, regrets, and questions about the path my own life had taken since childhood. At one point I too would have answered “Chef!” (because I loved to cook and it seemed fun. Duh.) but somewhere along the way I lost that simplicity and I don't even know why.
I think it has something to do with the fact that I was expected to make the single most important decision of my life when I was barely 18. So let me get this straight...I just graduated high school, I can't even buy a beer, my life revolves around my social life and you want me to decide right now at this very moment what I want to do every day until I'm 65? Brilliant plan.
Given the wisdom I had gained in all my 18 years my plan went something like this: “I'm going to go college based on their football team, waste tons of money, muddle my way through several majors and force myself to get a degree in whatever I had the most credits towards. Oh! Then I will have a few lame jobs where my soul purpose in life is to make money for other people, claim my own little space in the sea of cubies, become a champion solitaire competitor, report to a bunch of bosses and mess up TPS reports!” Oh wait, I think that last part was a movie... Or was it?
I'm really envious of the people that legitimately did know what they wanted to do and went after it at a time where they had the world at their fingertips. I, however, was not one of those people. I didn't even know I liked writing, much less wanted to do it for a living, until I was thirty. Yes yes, I know that having an education is priceless gift and I certainly am grateful that I had the opportunity but every month when that student loan bill comes I roll my eyes at it and think how nice it would be if I were paying for an education of something that actually mattered to me and then my mind trails off to how much fun it would be if I were a chef. Or an astronaut.
All of this has taught me that when Little Guy starts talking about what he wants to be when he grows up I'm going to take good notes because I want to remind him that the things he dreamed about when he was 7 might still be worth looking into. Unless he wants to be a politician- I might conveniently forget that one.
- Location:couch
- Mood: exhausted
- Music:Cars
Blast from the past
Recently my three year old has become a big fan of Leave it to Beaver reruns. I have no problem with this for a couple of reasons. First of all, it isn't Yo Gabba Gabba, Dora the Explorer or Go Diego Go...all of which make me want to throw myself in front of a moving vehicle. If you haven't had the good fortune to see an episode of Yo Gabba Gabba, just imagine what a television show would look like if it were created in the 1970's by a group of hippies heavily under the influence, throw in some dancing kids and there you go: groovylicious children's programming chock full of psychedelic clothing, afros, funk and disco fever.
So, as you can see, I'm really enjoying this time warp back into the days where everything seemed so innocent and pure. Things were simple and pleasant and the children were respectful and well behaved, except for the adorably devilish shenanigans Beaver would get himself into. No worries though, all of these could be taken care of by a stern talking to from Ward, likely still wearing his suit and tie from a hard day at the office. A "Gee, I'm really sorry Dad", and all was right with the world again. I have to wonder if things really were that simple or was it just the magic of television.
I'm inclined to think it's a little bit of both. If I think back to my own childhood, twenty-something-ish years ago, I am reminded how remarkably different things were, so to go back to Beaver days would be pretty bittersweet for this technology dependent gal. In fact, I didn't realize how techno-spoiled I actually was until a couple of weeks ago when Mother Nature showered her lightning wrath upon my house and blew up anything that was developed to waste my time. TV's, DVR's, telephones, DVD players, etc. Fortunately she spared the black hole of wasted time, my computer and the internet, otherwise I would probably had to move in with one of you.
Anyway, part of me really longs for a time when things were simpler. I remember being a kid and going on all kinds of adventures (that my parents may or may not have approved of) that I can't even imagine letting Little Guy do someday. I'm sure parents of all eras worried about the safety of their kids but the crazies just seem to be getting crazier at every turn, and that, combined with my paranoid nature, is making me want to cocoon my kid until he's thirty.
I guess the trick is finding the happy medium between today and yesterday. While I'd love for our life to be as picturesque as the Cleaver's I know that's not very realistic considering a few things: 1) At three years-old Little Guy has already given the Beaver a run for his money and probably out-menaced him by a mile. 2) I like my gadgets. 3) Me and June? We're not so much alike. I'm ahead of the game if I get dinner and vacuuming done on the same day, so if I have to add dressing up complete with heels and pearls to the agenda...well, it's just not going to happen, sorry Dear.
- Location:work
- Mood:
mellow - Music:pandora internet radio
Kittens are the new frogs
I wasn't a very typical girl when I was a kid. I liked to get dirty and play rough, critters were my best friends and I practically lived in the water, cold or not. I can't recall doing much with my Barbies except cutting all of their hair off and making them do "gymnastics" by putting them on the ceiling fan and turning it on full speed. Good times!
I did manage to grow up into a somewhat of a lady, marry, and do the ultimate womanly thing- motherhood. Obviously, I was elated to have a son. I had a good reason for chasing frogs in the backyard and catching lightning bugs again. We could go on little bug adventures and learn all kinds of cool things about really icky stuff. Now I know I could have probably done all of this with a little girl, too, but there is no guarantee. The irony of my life is that I would have a girl who came out of my womb wearing a ruffled bonnet, tap shoes and all things pink, since I know nothing about those things.
Earlier today we were outside and I happened to look down in the dirt and saw a glorious, slimy worm crawling about. A worm! Finally I get to show my son what being a boy is all about. You see, the athletic-y stuff is up to my husband, but the critter responsibility all falls on me. His father isn't exactly one with nature when it comes to such things. I expected Little Guy to be totally enthralled with the creature and think I was the coolest mom ever for not even hesitating to pick it up and show it to him in my hand. He was not impressed or even interested and he practically ran away when I brought it near him.
Hmm. Could it have something to do with the pink kitten rain boots I bought him not an hour before this incident? It's not my fault they didn't have his size in the green frog boots and he was about to go spend the day in the muddy yard! Don't worry, I will take plenty of pictures to document the pink kitten boots for many years to come, and I will also have to think of somewhere good to hide them so my husband doesn't burn them.
He might say he didn't enjoy it, but deep down inside I think he had a true bonding moment with his son when they went to pay for the pink kitten boots while I was conveniently still looking at shoes. Besides, haven't you heard? Pink is the new black! Or should I go with "Real men wear pink!"? I'm not sure which pink-ism will make me feel better about making my son wear pink kitten boots, and if that wasn't bad enough, published it. He will forgive me, I know he will, and if he doesn't I will just have to throw a worm at him.
- Location:work
Three years ago today I was in the hospital with a one day old baby. During that time I learned a lot of new things. The first thing I learned was no matter how hard a doctor tries to speed things up, a baby will come when it’s good and ready…or after it’s surgically removed, whichever comes first. Because I also learned that epidurals don’t always work on the first, second or even third try I ended up going the surgical route because I was told that pulling him out of my nose wasn’t an option. After 28 hours of labor and the previously mentioned three failed epidurals I was on the verge of performing surgery on myself.
I can already hear a lot of you calling me a wimp. I don’t care. Maybe I am a wimp. Although I have always had a very high pain tolerance which can be proven by my history of several broken bones, vicious dog attack, nearly losing my hand in an escalator accident, and quite possibly the dumbest decision I ever made: having two (non-loose) teeth pulled without novocaine because I was terrified of getting a shot in my gums. Anyway, when it comes to most things I can handle the pain, however, when it comes to a human being trying to make its way out of my body apparently I cannot, and I am ok with that.
Another thing I learned that day was that men are not born with the knowledge of how to change a diaper, they have to be taught. Since I was unable to get out of bed after our baby had his first messy diaper, my husband was left to his own devices to figure out how to change him. He quickly made his way over to the changing station, took a peek inside the diaper, looked puzzled for a few seconds and then instructed me to call the nurse for help. I heard things like “I don’t want to break him” and “what am I supposed to clean him with?” and “ewww”. (For the record- he became a champion diaper changer after that.)
A couple days later and we came home with our brand new, tiny, helpless and surprisingly loud baby. I remember walking in the house, going to our bedroom, lying him on the center of our queen-sized bed and a) thinking how remarkably small he looked there and b) wondering what the heck I am supposed to do with him now.
Since we didn’t have a nurse to call that time we had to figure it out on our own and three years later I’m still learning and still wishing I had that emergency call button, which at times has been replaced by the Poison Control number. At least we have that.
- Location:home
- Mood:
cranky - Music:digital music
If I sat down and made a (very long) laundry list of things I would like to change about myself, I think my lack of patience would be really close to the top. I am not a patient person. I never have been. Maybe it’s some kind of compulsive controlling aspect to my personality where I have to have what I want right when I want it, who knows. However, the older I get the more annoying it gets, especially when dealing with the opposite of patience: the three year-old.
I remember last year I was griping about the behavior of my two year-old and just about every mom friend that I had was quick to tell me “Oh, the 2’s are nothing. Just wait ‘til he turns 3.” I was skeptical. I was certain that nothing could top the dog buttering incident or the day the wedding ring went in the toilet. I was convinced that the day my baby turned 3 the Terrible 2’s would be over and my sweet little boy would appear from behind a cloud of smoke, perhaps wearing white angel wings and cuddling a bunny.
As his third birthday quickly approaches I am giving up on the whole smoke cloud thing and I would be terrified to put a live bunny in his presence for fear the bunny would not live through it. It’s not that he’s mean spirited, he’s just…a bit on the rambunctious side and I don’t think he really understands that a live bunny can’t play baseball…or be a baseball. This is why our pet of choice is a military grade tank cleverly disguised as a loveable yellow lab.
It really would make my life go a lot smoother if I weren’t so impatient, and maybe I wouldn’t be stuck with such bad karma like always being stuck behind the tractor on the road or the one lady in the free world who still writes a check at the grocery store. While I’m on that tangent if it’s not bad enough she’s still writing checks why does she wait until the cashier rings up all 94 items and gives her a total until she reaches in her purse for the checkbook and begins the archaic process of writing a check? Why?! Anyway, back to the importance of patience (and debit cards).
It’s not that I’m in a hurry to particularly get anywhere or do anything, it’s probably just a bad habit I picked up somewhere in life and I’m having a hard time breaking it. I’m not terribly spontaneous and I generally like to stick to a plan. When things like check books and wayward farm equipment get in my way it bugs me, admittedly, too much.
So now is the time I need to break that habit because I’d really hate for Little Guy to be that kid in school who always runs to the front of the line because the water must taste better when you’re first or if you don’t get the right swing at recess life as we know it will be over. I must keep telling myself that it’s ok to take it slow and a little waiting never hurt anyone…except for the line in the bathroom. That is where I draw the line. I despise public restrooms and I’d really like to keep my time in there as minimal as possible, so hurry it up ladies, I’ve got a 3 year-old to chase and possibly a bunny to save.
- Mood: drained
Oh yeah, so the whole reason I started this blog was to have a place to post my columns and yeah I haven't posted my column in like three weeks. Here's what you missed, for anyone who enjoys reading them:
March 5, 2008
Don’t worry, there isn’t a slide show
I’m fairly certain that nobody really cares about how my vacation was, but seeing as I just got home last night, my sunburn is still a little fresh, and I still have visions of tropical islands dancing in my head, I can’t think of anything else to write about at the moment. Perhaps you will have better luck next week and I’ll have something interesting to say.
I missed Little Guy tremendously though and found myself looking at his pictures I have collected in my cell phone and digital camera time and time again. A couple of phone calls and hearing his little voice telling me how much fun he was having without me was bittersweet, but mostly reassuring and allowed me to indulge in my vacation (almost) guilt-free.
The most fascinating part of our trip was my newly developed age identity crisis. You see, our trip started out with a bang in New Orleans where we met some of our friends for some pre-cruise activities on Bourbon Street. We partied like rock stars, well, older, more tired rock stars, maybe has-been rock stars…maybe it was more like Barry Manilow, but I bet he could really throw it down at one point.
One thing I learned in the French Quarter that night is that I was too old to be partying in the French Quarter that night. Although we didn’t really fit in we still had a blast and were getting lots of funny looks that probably translated into something like “Why is that old dude wearing a boa?” and “Look at those soccer moms dancing! Wasn’t that song popular like…in the 90’s??” I’m sure that my jeans and cardigan combo didn’t help matters much, but it was a bit chilly.
While the average age of our comrades in New Orleans that night was 19, we soon realized that the average age of our comrades on the cruise ship was 94. Again we found ourselves as the black sheep of the crowd, but in good sportsmanship (and wise use of a vacation that we already paid for) we still managed to have a great time and live it up with the bridge tournament players and Bingo Queens. They really are quite fun and it worked out pretty well as far as fewer crowds at dinner time. Most of our fellow cruisers were having dinner while we were finishing lunch and by the time we hit dinner we had the place to ourselves along with impeccable service.
Even though we never really quite fit in with any of our surroundings we realized that age really is just a number and I even learned a few dance moves from the Red Hat ladies, don’t let their age fool you, they can boogie. The six of us had a lot of fun and even made a date to meet again in 40 years for some killer shuffleboard matches and early bird dinners. Ole!
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March 19, 2008
Vinegargate
Never ask a question you don’t want the answer to. For instance, I was sitting upstairs at the computer blissfully enjoying some quiet time when I innocently asked my husband “Why do I smell vinegar?” Upon further investigation, the reason I smelled vinegar is because Little Guy, or Captain Destructo as he has recently been deemed, had found a spray bottle of vinegar and apparently decided to douse the entire house in it. If you’re wondering why I have a spray bottle of vinegar, it was during last summer’s
Moving on, anyone who has ever dyed Easter eggs knows that vinegar, in mass quantities, can become quite revolting and unlike other unpleasant smells, you never seem to get used to it. It just lingers and I’m wondering if my home owner’s insurance covers Acts of Vinegar. I am thinking not.
It was during one of those very rare and terrifying moments where each parent thinks that the child is with the other parent when this smelly burst of creativity came over my boy. I often wonder what goes through the mind of a three year old, but then I stop thinking about it because I get a headache.
One thing I have determined though, after careful thought and much analyzing, is that three year old boys can and will do anything and everything that happens to cross their adventurous little minds. To them, everything is a Really Good Idea. Vinegar painting? Excellent! Ripping pages out of lovely reading books? Fun! Eating black markers? Tasty! Peeing in their dump trucks? Target practice! Putting cookies in the VCR? I think that one was just for kicks, but one never really knows their true motive. I feel that I must add that yes, I do in fact keep close tabs on Captain Destructo. All of these things are done in fractions of seconds sometimes right before my very eyes with no time to prepare or interfere. All he needs now is a cape and he’d be a super hero.
I am longing for the day that he simply just runs out of ideas but I know in my heart that will never happen. I just hope as he gets older his Really Good Ideas include less peeing and more cleanliness, and preferably no jail time or ER visits.
I have heard that little girls aren’t quite as nerve-wracking, however, I am not sure I want to face the wrath of teenage girls, so maybe I got lucky after all? Ask me in 12 years. (Note to future self: try to contain laughter while reading this and thinking that a teenage boy would be easy…er…easier.)
- Location:home
- Mood:
busy - Music:cofffee seeping into my bloodstream
Vacation was muy fantastico and I shall write about it later...but here's my column I forgot to post last week. Right now I'm about to meet my friend for coffee since I haven't had any in over a week and I'm dying. Til latah!
I have spent the last several days getting ready for vacation. You would think that preparing for the most relaxing week in history wouldn’t be so much work. Wrong. I am exhausted. I want to BE on vacation just so I can stop getting ready for vacation. I find it nearly impossible to dress myself every day given a closet-full of options, how am I supposed to prepare ahead of time clothing for an entire week? This is the part where I just give up, throw a bunch of random things in a suitcase and hope that something matches when I get there. Now that I think about it, given the tropical destination and the availability of fruity umbrella drinks, I really don’t care if it matches or not.
Not only is there the packing, there is the preparing of the house for the grandparents that are coming to keep Little Guy. One doesn’t realize exactly how messy their house is until faced with the realization that their mother is going to be living in it for an extended amount of time.
Anyway, that’s right- we’re vacationing sans child and I’m not ashamed to admit it. I’m going to have fun. I might even be a little irresponsible. I might have too many margaritas. I might spend an entire day by the pool with copious amounts of sunscreen, silly novels and naps!
When it comes to kid-free vacations, many parents seem to be hesitant to do this. To them I ask “huh?”. A little time away is good for the soul…and the sanity.
(Insert obligatory declaration of love for child here, for example: “It’s not that I don’t LOVE being a mother and adore every single second of my child’s existence, but…”) I’m pretty much counting the seconds until I’m out of Mommy Mode and in I Can Sleep, Eat and Drink Whenever I Want to Mode. This also means that the only person’s dry pants and bathroom visits I’m responsible for are my own, AND if I want to eat chocolate cake for dinner there is nary a little person around to set a good example for and refrain. Bring on the cake.
I’m sure it will be good for Little Guy to have a break from Mom and Dad, too. I think he’s starting to think we’ve changed his name to “I think you’ve had enough cheese” or “Get off the dog!” Since his grandparents seem to be a little more willing to give in (read: suckers) he’s probably going to indulging in more cheese and dog-wrestling than any kid should and have the time of his life, or a stomach ache, I’m not sure.
Besides, it’s not like I’m boarding him in a kennel. He’s in very capable hands and spending quality time with grandparents who miss him very much. It’s a win-win for everyone involved, at least for the first few days before they realize why people in their, um, “later years” don’t have 3 year-olds and really begin to regret long-term babysitting. I’ll try to remember to keep my cell phone on.
- Location:home
- Mood: busy
- Music:news
My column this week...
Crouching Noodle, Hidden Squash
When Little Guy first started experimenting with actual food instead of liquid food I thought I had a really good eater on my hands. In fact, I was very proud of my little eater’s adventurous palette. By the time he was a year old he was eating the regulars like chicken, pork, beef, vegetables and fruits, but I also had him hooked on avocados, spinach, squash and pretty much anything that was set before him. Not only was I proud of him, I was proud of myself! I thought I had already trained a non-picky eater for life and marveled at my newfound parenting skills.
Of course, I was celebrating a bit too prematurely as he is now almost three years old and has the ability to go days without ingesting more than three bites of food and I find myself wondering if he is part camel. The appetite of a small child is a wondrous thing and seems to somehow defy nature. If it were up to him he would exist entirely on cheese and fishy crackers, and yet, would still have the energy of a nuclear bomb.
This is where us moms must get a little creative in the kitchen. My friend taught me the trick of pureed squash in the macaroni and cheese and so far my vegetablephobic child hasn’t caught on yet and eats that stuff up like there is no tomorrow, apparently storing up for the next few days of fasting. Another camouflaging veggie trick that works quite well is cleverly incorporating them into spaghetti sauce. If it’s red and contains some kind of pasta he is likely to eat it as long as there are no visible vegetable chunks present. If one manages to sneak past his eagle-eyesight and it actually makes it into his mouth it will immediately be evacuated along with a simultaneous horrified expression and all further eating at that meal will come to a screeching halt. Once he realizes he has been duped it’s all over and I have to begin strategizing for the next blitz attack.
I also really try to push the cheese, yogurt and fruit because this kid loves to snack and if he’s going to do it at least he’s getting some sort of nutritional benefit from it. However, the fruit, if not properly prepared, can go terribly awry. Apples must be peeled (where’s the nutrition in that?!), grapes must be cut in half and oranges must be entirely defunct of seeds and “white stuff” or it may as well be a stalk of broccoli.
Then of course we can’t forget the Flinstone Gummies which give me the slightest bit of peace of mind, although my mother-in-law doesn’t understand why I would ever try to give a child that seemingly has a jetpack attached to him 24-7 more energy. I have to block out the possibility of additional energy and keep reminding myself that I’m doing it for the essential vitamins and minerals that are not found in cheese and fishy crackers.
- Location:home
- Mood: mellow
- Music:news
In the paper yesterday......
The difference between a New Mom and a Veteran Mom can be easily summed up in one little word: Paranoia.
Don’t worry, New Moms, I’m not picking on you. We’ve all been there. I probably even have a little bit of the New Mom Paranoia (NMP) still left in me somewhere. Maybe. Although I did let my child eat an ice cream cone he dropped on the floor at Baskin Robbins so maybe not. Anyway, I digress. NMP is a phenomenon that strikes even the most logical of mothers.
It’s that little hidden element of hysteria that rears its ugly head in mothers of new infants when things like germs, feedings, shots, germs, diapering, animals, second hand smoke, strangers (you know, because of the germs of strangers) and germs are concerned. My first experience with NMP was when Little Guy was just a wee one fighting a bit of jaundice.
Jaundice? Oh my God! Where’s the book? His liver is not working! He has too much bilirubin in his blood. What the heck is bilirubin? Call 911! (Ok we didn’t really call 911)
His doctor said we needed to bring him into the hospital for a blood test.
The hospital? A three day old baby? You mean you want us to leave the house? Did you not hear me, he’s three days old. THREE DAYS! And it’s raining. Is this really necessary?
Clearly I was prepared to be on lockdown in our house for a good six months, but seeing as I could either leave the house for a blood test of be faced with the repercussions of an abnormally large amount of this mysterious bilirubin invading my child’s bloodstream I decided we should take the doctor’s advice and off went.
We made our way to the hospital’s lab, waited our turn and then it happened. The beast that was the lab technician had the nerve to stick my baby with a needle and make him cry. As if stepping into this germ-infested, stranger-filled house of horrors wasn’t enough, she was out for blood that one! Judging by my reaction, one would have thought I witnessed a baby-eating monster devour my child right before my very eyes with the way I cried. You see, NMP in addition to NMH (New Mom Hormones) can be a pretty frightening combination.
Despite the best efforts of bilirubin, germs, and evil lab technicians we made it through that fateful day unscathed (except for the tiny heel prick on the baby and the deep emotional scars on the New Mom). We did however move onto many more NMP experiences, including the time that my in-laws were in town visiting us and the new baby. They still love to reflect on the display of me, the New Mom, intently researching “Projectile Vomiting” in my What to Expect the First Year book and frantically measuring the traveling distance of my baby’s spit up to determine if he was indeed projectile vomiting or merely spitting up. Ahh. Memories.
- Location:home
- Mood:
cold - Music:fox news. no more mitt...what?
Who knew I had this much to say about foot accessories?
I try not to ask myself “Why?” too much because sometimes you just have to accept that things are the way they are going to be and that’s that. There really is no sense of dwelling on the reasons behind it unless there is a real problem you’re trying to solve. Like when my 34 year-old husband and our 2 year-old son can seemingly have the same exact appreciative reaction to a certain bodily function, I don’t wonder why. It just is.
As I sit here on cold Sunday morning drinking my coffee and eating my yogurt and granola (don’t be fooled, my other meals are usually not that healthy) and thinking of something profound to say to the world, the only thing I can think about right now is socks. No, not the ex-presidential cat or either of the baseball teams, just plain old socks that go on your feetsies. I know a lot of you must be thinking “crazy newspaper lady, why would you be thinking about socks at a time like that?”
Well, the answer is simple. My brain is a scary place. Anyway, back to socks and the question that plagues me every single time I do laundry… WHERE do they go? Presumably we take the matching two off our feet at the same time, put them in the same place waiting to be laundered like a laundry hamper or in my case the floor, we wash them and (again, presumably, together) then when they emerge from the dryer they have somehow morphed themselves into one sock. They no longer are a pair. They are one sock alone in the world fighting the good fight to be reunited with their long lost mate.
My house is not that big. Sure, it’s not all that organized either, but even in the mild chaos I can find anything anytime anywhere, so I know that isn’t the cause of the AWOL socks. I want to understand them, I want to be them (ok, not really), but just once I want to attach myself to a sock and see where I end up! Is there an underground society of socks who made the great escape and are living an assumed identity? Do they simply just drop off the face of the earth in some kind of natural sock population control effort? The world may never know.
I’ve heard of all those clever little tips like “safety pin your socks together before you wash them!” or “put all your socks in one of those mesh laundry bags!”, and while those are glorious ideas for people who are really organized…well, we’ve already established that I am not one of those people.
It’s not really a problem that I am trying to solve per se, I just want to cross it off my list of Dumb Things I Worry About and let go of the “Why” behind something so silly. Also, I would really like to quit buying socks because I’m pretty sure I am single-handedly keeping Hanes in business.
- Location:home
- Mood:
chipper - Music:american idol, yeah baby yeah!
As the mother of a soon-to-be three year old little boy I have learned a lot of valuable lessons regarding motherhood and child rearing. He never gets tired of teaching me new things either.
For instance, he has kept my heart in questionable working order in the past by locking me out of the house (thank you White House Police Department for your speedy response), attempting to stick a screwdriver in the electric socket, launching himself like a torpedo into a glass door, and riding our
However, today, he was kind enough to show me a new and improved way to have a heart attack by chugging some of his night time cough syrup during the .03 seconds today where I wasn’t staring at him and anticipating his every move. I must have been doing something silly like using the bathroom or extinguishing a fire.
Heart Failure Lesson(s) learned: (1) Always screw caps to any and all bottles on tightly and keep all medicine out of his reach. Well, I thought I did that but apparently I gave birth to Houdini as he managed outsmart me on both accounts. Revised lesson (1) Always wrap medicine in a straight jacket, bind with 12 feet of chains, attach concrete blocks to it and submerge it in a tank of water. (2) The people at Poison Control are very helpful and reassuring to a slightly hysterical mother who is pacing around the house blabbering aloud Triaminic ingredients and trying to measure the amount of cough syrup that is splattered on the floor to guesstimate how much he actually ingested. (800) 222-1222, for future reference.
Another thing I have learned since becoming a mother is how instantly a child can go from perfectly healthy to perfectly germ-infested. Little Guy can quite literally be fine one minute and before we finish singing our ABC’s he is drowning in an endless sea of green goo. How does such a little sinus cavity create so much goo and mass produce it so quickly?
Germy Lesson(s) learned: (1) Never wear anything nice on sick-kiddo days. That stuff really travels far and wide and can be found in places you would never think possible. It’s also very binding, so if you ever run out of super glue just hope your kid gets a cold. (2) As soon as you make the sick child what he requested for lunch (or breakfast or dinner), be prepared to soon throw it in the trash or give it to the dog because the only thing he will eat on Sick Day is Goldfish and fruit snacks. However, you must still make the requested item and present it for proper rejection or it does not count. (3) Take the normal amount of tantrums your child would have in a day and multiply that by about 8 million because everyone knows that when you’re two years old and you don’t feel good everything is grounds for hysteria. Be prepared.
Of course, by leaps and bounds, the most important lesson learned in motherhood is that even on the snottiest days of them all, he’s still my little boy and he won’t always be so willing to sneeze on me so I will take the bad days along with the good and just hope that I never run out of Lysol. Achoo.
- Location:home
- Mood:
sick
Home Sweet Home
As 2007 comes to an end, I thought I would reflect on my first full calendar year of living in White House. When we got news of my husband's new job in Nashville we immediately put our Memphis house on the market fully expecting to never sell it and end up in a two-mortgage or rental situation. Fact: several houses that were for sale in the summer of 2006 when we sold ours are still currently for sale. By some miracle or perhaps divine intervention, we literally sold our house to the first people who looked at it and had three weeks to move out.
So, we hopped in the car, traveled east on the big 40 and told our realtor we had exactly three days to find a house somewhere in the vicinity of Nashville. Criteria: budget friendly, available immediately, good schools, and of course it had to be aesthetically perfect to me in every way. Is that really too much to ask?
We had a pretty good understanding of Sumner County and were quickly able to narrow our search to "North-ish". We looked at approximately a bazillion houses in Hendersonville and on a whim our realtor drove us up to White House and the moment I saw the house I knew it had to be mine. As former city-dwellers though, we agonized over the decision, asking ourselves questions like "do we really want to live this far out?", "where am I going to shop?", and "why do those people have cows in their front yard?".
Needless to say it was an adjustment for us and I would be lying if I said the first year wasn't rough. I was out of my comfort zone, I was away from my family and friends, I was in a whole new world that seemed to revolve around high school football and farm animals.
After several months of feeling sorry for myself I took the time to smell the proverbial roses. I was surrounded by the most lovely people I have ever had the pleasure of sharing a community with. Unlike my former place of residence the people here actually smiled and say hello, and are…gasp…friendly to strangers. It’s a whole new world, one that I am very grateful to call home and one that is full of new experiences and new friends, and let’s face it, my child adores the cows and I have grown to love them, too.
- Location:home
- Mood: content
- Music:dora dora dora the explorer
Communication is a wonderful thing. The older my Little Guy gets the more I rely on effective communication to get through the day. It was pretty easy when he was an infant. He cried for very few reasons. He was either a) hungry, b) needed a new diaper, c) sleepy or d) bored. Easy. Now that he is two and a half, we have those four reasons plus several new ones like e) “I dropped a Cheerio”, f) “the dog ran away from me”, g) “I can’t get my shoe on”, h) “I want a bucket of candy”...etc.
It amazes me how much time I spend trying to translate what he is saying into something that makes sense to me. I get frustrated, he gets frustrated; I imagine a similar situation if I was dropped in the middle of a non-English speaking country and left to fend for myself. Hubby has his very own strategy to combat this problem of poor communication. It’s called “make something up”. It seems to work well for the two of them. For instance, here is how one of their conversations went not too long ago:
Little Guy: Baah-bee-baah Ahh-Sye Dahh-Dee
Dad: Bat droppings?
Little Guy: Yaaas
Dad: You want bat droppings?
Little Guy: (jumping up and down excitedly now) Yaaas!
Dad: You want ooey gooey green bat droppings?
Little Guy: (squealing in delight at this point) Yaaas!
Dad: Here, have a sticker
Regardless of what he originally wanted (he wanted to play basketball outside with Daddy, obviously), Dad will simply diffuse the situation with an offer of cheese or a monkey sticker and all is right with the world again. However, with me, he seems to get a bit irate when I don’t understand exactly what he is saying, and until I repeat it in REAL words you would think the world is pretty much coming to an end.
Yesterday he nearly reached full meltdown status because it took a good 15 minutes of intense conversation and negotiating between the two of us before I finally realized that the pants he had on were completely unacceptable and must immediately be replaced with pants that have pockets. Because, you know, of all the things a toddler needs to carry around in his pockets. Specifically a key, 2 raisins, sunglasses, a magnet, and one of my necklaces. If you think that collection is impressive, you should see what treasures he requires in his bed before he will sleep. He has a very bright future as a bag lady, but if I have anything to do with it he will be the most well-spoken bag lady there ever was.
- Location:upstairs
- Mood:
bored
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