I let my potty training toddler go naked most of the day. Not only does this cut down on a crucial, timesaving step when it’s time to go potty, but it also almost eliminates his mark on my laundry load.
I let Sam drink from warm bottles.
I purposely tell my kids to clean up their rooms knowing that they will then play as nicely and quietly as they can to not bring attention to the fact that they are disobeying me.
Sam gets upset when I sweep the floor because I’m eliminating a crucial element of his dietary sustenance (I let him eat off the floor).
I don’t let my kids dress themselves when we go out because I care what others think of me.
I tell my kids that mommy is ‘working’ when I am reading the news or blogging on the computer.
My kids often have string cheese and apples for lunch because they can get it themselves.
I will often dress in baggy knit pants and a comfy T-shirt, then wear it to bed that night and then again the next day. Again, this dramatically cuts down on my laundry loads.
I believe that Hawaiian pizza and a milkshake covers all 4 food groups and is then, in fact, a healthy meal.
I rub spit up into the carpet with my sock.
I do cry over spilled milk.
I will take a binky from my toddler’s mouth and give it to the baby.
My 6 and 7 year olds have BB guns, throwing knives and are getting bows and arrows for Christmas.
My 3 year old still calls the baby “Baby Wham” and I think it’s cute.
I have let my kids help themselves to cupcakes for breakfast so that I can sleep a few minutes longer.
The real purpose of these confessions is that I hope my mom will read them and immediately make a plane reservation to come out here and take ‘proper care of these poor babies!’
Friday, December 14, 2007
Friday, November 30, 2007
Products We Mommies Really Want
Closed Captioned Cameras
I have a confession to make: I’m a bad news junkie. I know that there are many women out there who prided themselves about being informed of the events of the day, but once their babies were born, became unable to emotionally handle all the horrible things happening in the world. I, on the other hand, seem to be more drawn to these horrible stories now that I’m a mom because it keeps me in a proper state of panic.
Gone are the days of ‘Stranger, Danger’, I now have myself convinced that the guy reading our meter is secretly plotting some heinous crime.
You can imagine my devastation the first time my 6 and 7 year old sons insisted they were old enough to go in the Men’s Room at Walmart by themselves. “Not until you have a whistle.” I insisted.
Upon deeper reflection, I realized that in this day of digital everything, why not combine the electronic masterpiece of Closed Caption TV with the ingenuity of digital cameras. A Closed Captioned Camera. Just point and click and a caption about that person will appear at the base of the photo.
Snap! DIRTY OLD MAN WHO LOOKS AT NASTY MAGAZINES
“I’m sorry sir, but you’ll have to wait out here until my sons are done in the bathroom”
Snap! RETIRED NAVY OFFICER BUYING CHRISTMAS GIFTS FOR SHUT-INS
“Thank you sir, you may proceed…Er, and will you please make sure my boys aren’t having a water fight in there?”
This device would also be very helpful at the park and playgroups. Just hang back and start taking pictures so that you can direct which group of children your kids should play with.
Snap! OBEDIENT LITTLE GIRL WHO LOVES BABY DOLLS AND WANTS TO MARRY A MISSIONARY.
“Josh, go play with her and BE POLITE!”
Snap! NAUGHTY LITTLE BOY WHO GOT A BB GUN FOR HIS BIRTHDAY
“Will, don’t play with him, but let’s see….” Snap! VERY SAD BOY WHOSE PUPPY RAN AWAY “go share your cookies with that little boy over there”
Of course I realize that this device could backfire on me. I’m sure at some point I will be the unknowing subject of another panicked mommy at the park.
Snap! STAY AT HOME MOM DESPERATE FOR ADULT CONVERSATION. WARNING! WILL SUCK THE LIFE OUT OF YOU!!
I have a confession to make: I’m a bad news junkie. I know that there are many women out there who prided themselves about being informed of the events of the day, but once their babies were born, became unable to emotionally handle all the horrible things happening in the world. I, on the other hand, seem to be more drawn to these horrible stories now that I’m a mom because it keeps me in a proper state of panic.
Gone are the days of ‘Stranger, Danger’, I now have myself convinced that the guy reading our meter is secretly plotting some heinous crime.
You can imagine my devastation the first time my 6 and 7 year old sons insisted they were old enough to go in the Men’s Room at Walmart by themselves. “Not until you have a whistle.” I insisted.
Upon deeper reflection, I realized that in this day of digital everything, why not combine the electronic masterpiece of Closed Caption TV with the ingenuity of digital cameras. A Closed Captioned Camera. Just point and click and a caption about that person will appear at the base of the photo.
Snap! DIRTY OLD MAN WHO LOOKS AT NASTY MAGAZINES
“I’m sorry sir, but you’ll have to wait out here until my sons are done in the bathroom”
Snap! RETIRED NAVY OFFICER BUYING CHRISTMAS GIFTS FOR SHUT-INS
“Thank you sir, you may proceed…Er, and will you please make sure my boys aren’t having a water fight in there?”
This device would also be very helpful at the park and playgroups. Just hang back and start taking pictures so that you can direct which group of children your kids should play with.
Snap! OBEDIENT LITTLE GIRL WHO LOVES BABY DOLLS AND WANTS TO MARRY A MISSIONARY.
“Josh, go play with her and BE POLITE!”
Snap! NAUGHTY LITTLE BOY WHO GOT A BB GUN FOR HIS BIRTHDAY
“Will, don’t play with him, but let’s see….” Snap! VERY SAD BOY WHOSE PUPPY RAN AWAY “go share your cookies with that little boy over there”
Of course I realize that this device could backfire on me. I’m sure at some point I will be the unknowing subject of another panicked mommy at the park.
Snap! STAY AT HOME MOM DESPERATE FOR ADULT CONVERSATION. WARNING! WILL SUCK THE LIFE OUT OF YOU!!
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Broken Trust
**The following events have been given a small amount of artistic license, however, this is an accurate account of events as they happened…in my heart**
Brett and I will celebrate our 10th anniversary this year. It is a momentous occasion to be able to claim a full decade of marriage and I’ve been looking forward to this landmark for, well, the past 10 years. However, all of this was put into jeopardy just this morning.
It was a beautiful Sunday morning and as last night was daylight savings, we got a full extra hour of sleep. What could possibly be wrong with the world when you can actually wake up feeling somewhat refreshed? We decided to stay home from church and have a nice breakfast and just hang out with the kids. After a big family breakfast, the boys decided to go outside and bury the little money they had in the backyard. Brett and I spent the rest of the morning hanging out on the couch and enjoying the quiet.
I got up to go to the bathroom and in the one moment it took for me to glance in the mirror as I passed, the entire trust structure of my marriage crumbled. There on my chin was the biggest, most bulbous whitehead I have ever seen on anyone’s, much less my own, face!! This thing could have been charted on a topographical map and given it’s own coordinates!
As alarming as the discovery of something so heinous on my face, the true devastation was in the fact that I have spent an entire morning with a man who did not deem it necessary to inform me that a creature must have drilled into my face and laid an entire nest of eggs underneath my skin as I slept!
After collecting the shards of my broken heart, I marched into the living room, and through a bevy of tears, confronted this man I once trusted with my life.
“How (sob!) COULD you?!?” (hiccup!)
He slowly diverts his eyes from his book and looks up at me like a man who has no idea his world has crashed around him.
“What?”
I remove the wad of tissue from my now bleeding chin and let the crater speak for itself.
“Oh, that. I thought you knew”
“THOUGHT I KNEW???? Do you not know me at ALL??”
It is now that it begins to dawn on him, that all may not be well. Concern begins to wrinkle his brow and he gets the glazed look that indicates his desperate search for the right thing to say. After several agonizingly silent moments, it becomes clear to me that he is not going to find it.
With resignation and deep hurt I whisper “I trusted you”.
“You CAN trust me!” he desperately responds, “I just thought that you already knew about it and decided to leave it alone for once.”
“So, it’s come to that has it?” My deep wounds begin to numb with the balm of anger, “You think I no longer care about how I look? That I don’t care if you’re attracted to me??”
“NO! I know you care about how you look!”
“OH! So YOU don’t care about how I look! You’ve given up on me??” Pause. “Is there someone else?”
“Andrea, come on, this is ridiculous, it’s just a pimple!”
Incredulous, I respond “A pimple? You really think this is all about a PIMPLE?? It is our marriage and the fact that the basic foundation of trust has been completely SHATTERED!”
He drops his head as he has a hundred times in the past and resignedly states “Ok, what’s it gonna take?”
I stand up straight and with as much dignity as I can muster, state “Dinner AND a movie.”
Heavy sigh, “Ok. When?”
My anger flares, “I think under the circumstances as soon as possible!" I calm down a little and decide to drop the bomb, "That’s not all. I want the movie to be a romantic comedy.”
It is here that he finally comes alive, “What?! A click flick??”
I slowly lower the blood soaked tissue and reveal the gash that is clearly in need of stitches and raise my left eyebrow.
He is beaten and he knows it. He begins to slowly nod his head and quietly says that he’ll call his mom to see if she can watch the kids. He opens his mouth to say something, then changes his mind, gets up and walks across the room to the phone.
I turn my back to him and walk to the window and look out at our children shoving dollar bills into the muddy depths of the sandbox. A weary sigh escapes me and I look over my shoulder to see my husband talking on the phone in hushed tones.
A disaster averted. A marriage saved.
I turn back to the window and focus on the falling leaves of the trees, ‘But for how long?’ I think. ‘Until the next salad I eat? Will I always have to wonder if there is spinach in my teeth? Chocolate on my blouse?’
I straighten at the sound of Brett hanging up the phone. He comes to my side and takes my hand.
“It’s all arranged” I turn toward him as the sun breaks through a cloud and bathes our silhouette in soft, warm light.
Brett gazes deeply into my eyes and lovingly says “You have a big piece of goop in the corner of your eye”.
I try to choke back my tears of gratitude and put my head on his shoulder.
All is well. All is well.
Brett and I will celebrate our 10th anniversary this year. It is a momentous occasion to be able to claim a full decade of marriage and I’ve been looking forward to this landmark for, well, the past 10 years. However, all of this was put into jeopardy just this morning.
It was a beautiful Sunday morning and as last night was daylight savings, we got a full extra hour of sleep. What could possibly be wrong with the world when you can actually wake up feeling somewhat refreshed? We decided to stay home from church and have a nice breakfast and just hang out with the kids. After a big family breakfast, the boys decided to go outside and bury the little money they had in the backyard. Brett and I spent the rest of the morning hanging out on the couch and enjoying the quiet.
I got up to go to the bathroom and in the one moment it took for me to glance in the mirror as I passed, the entire trust structure of my marriage crumbled. There on my chin was the biggest, most bulbous whitehead I have ever seen on anyone’s, much less my own, face!! This thing could have been charted on a topographical map and given it’s own coordinates!
As alarming as the discovery of something so heinous on my face, the true devastation was in the fact that I have spent an entire morning with a man who did not deem it necessary to inform me that a creature must have drilled into my face and laid an entire nest of eggs underneath my skin as I slept!
After collecting the shards of my broken heart, I marched into the living room, and through a bevy of tears, confronted this man I once trusted with my life.
“How (sob!) COULD you?!?” (hiccup!)
He slowly diverts his eyes from his book and looks up at me like a man who has no idea his world has crashed around him.
“What?”
I remove the wad of tissue from my now bleeding chin and let the crater speak for itself.
“Oh, that. I thought you knew”
“THOUGHT I KNEW???? Do you not know me at ALL??”
It is now that it begins to dawn on him, that all may not be well. Concern begins to wrinkle his brow and he gets the glazed look that indicates his desperate search for the right thing to say. After several agonizingly silent moments, it becomes clear to me that he is not going to find it.
With resignation and deep hurt I whisper “I trusted you”.
“You CAN trust me!” he desperately responds, “I just thought that you already knew about it and decided to leave it alone for once.”
“So, it’s come to that has it?” My deep wounds begin to numb with the balm of anger, “You think I no longer care about how I look? That I don’t care if you’re attracted to me??”
“NO! I know you care about how you look!”
“OH! So YOU don’t care about how I look! You’ve given up on me??” Pause. “Is there someone else?”
“Andrea, come on, this is ridiculous, it’s just a pimple!”
Incredulous, I respond “A pimple? You really think this is all about a PIMPLE?? It is our marriage and the fact that the basic foundation of trust has been completely SHATTERED!”
He drops his head as he has a hundred times in the past and resignedly states “Ok, what’s it gonna take?”
I stand up straight and with as much dignity as I can muster, state “Dinner AND a movie.”
Heavy sigh, “Ok. When?”
My anger flares, “I think under the circumstances as soon as possible!" I calm down a little and decide to drop the bomb, "That’s not all. I want the movie to be a romantic comedy.”
It is here that he finally comes alive, “What?! A click flick??”
I slowly lower the blood soaked tissue and reveal the gash that is clearly in need of stitches and raise my left eyebrow.
He is beaten and he knows it. He begins to slowly nod his head and quietly says that he’ll call his mom to see if she can watch the kids. He opens his mouth to say something, then changes his mind, gets up and walks across the room to the phone.
I turn my back to him and walk to the window and look out at our children shoving dollar bills into the muddy depths of the sandbox. A weary sigh escapes me and I look over my shoulder to see my husband talking on the phone in hushed tones.
A disaster averted. A marriage saved.
I turn back to the window and focus on the falling leaves of the trees, ‘But for how long?’ I think. ‘Until the next salad I eat? Will I always have to wonder if there is spinach in my teeth? Chocolate on my blouse?’
I straighten at the sound of Brett hanging up the phone. He comes to my side and takes my hand.
“It’s all arranged” I turn toward him as the sun breaks through a cloud and bathes our silhouette in soft, warm light.
Brett gazes deeply into my eyes and lovingly says “You have a big piece of goop in the corner of your eye”.
I try to choke back my tears of gratitude and put my head on his shoulder.
All is well. All is well.
Friday, October 26, 2007
About Me
I got this email from a friend today. The point is to read their answers, then return the email with your answers so that you can learn more about each other. Since I’ve been out of the blogging loop recently, I thought for my return I would post my answers for all of you to learn more about me.
WHAT ARE YOU MOST AFRAID OF?
My children leaving home and my children coming back.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE FOOD?
Well, I would have to just stick with the general title of ‘Food’. I’m no longer very picky.
WHAT IS YOUR NATURAL HAIR COLOR?
A rich chocolate brown with soft auburn highlights. Ok, so I haven’t seen my natural color in about 15 years, but I can dream can’t I?
HAVE YOU TRAVELED?
I’ve tried, but Brett has given my photo to all Border Patrol Agents as a runaway mom and they keep making me go back home.
DO YOU SCRUNCH OR FOLD (TOILET PAPER)?
So, we are operating under the assumption that the children haven’t used all the remaining toilet paper to mummify each other and that I’m not forced to drip dry? Definitely scrunch – who has time to fold?
HAVE YOU LOVED SOMEONE SO MUCH IT MADE YOU CRY?
I love them so much, that is WHY I cry.
HAVE YOU EVER BEEN IN A CAR ACCIDENT?
Er, next question please….
MERCEDES BENZ OR LEXUS?
Clearly my friends are more upper scale than I. I’m afraid I’m going to have to stick with what I know – DODGE!
FAVORITE DAY OF THE WEEK
Sunday, Monday and Tuesday (Brett’s days off). Er, unless he’s in a bad mood, then my favorite days are Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday.
FAVORITE RESTAURANT
Anyplace where I don’t have to cook or do dishes!
FAVORITE SPORT TO WATCH
The WWF that occurs in my house everyday.
FAVORITE DRINK
DOUBLE SHOT MOCHAS!! However, I’m desperately trying to acquire a taste for whiskey
FAVORITE ICE CREAM
Starbuck’s Java Chip. Not only is this the best ice cream on earth, but my husband hates coffee and I’d rather die than give my kids caffine, so it’s AAALLL MINE!!
FAVORITE FAST FOOD RESTAURANT
Whatever is fast and, er, food.
WHAT COLOR IS YOUR CARPET?
“Watch out that’s my coffee!! Aaahhhhh….”
“Mama! Baby bahf!”
“Oops, I poo poo’d”
“Run to the potty! Run to the potty! Run to the…. Crap.”
Who on earth knows what the original color was?
WHAT ARE YOUR HOBBIES?
Are you serious?? I’m a stay at home, homeschooling mom to 4 boys. Whatever hobbies I once had were wrenched my limp and lifeless hands 7 years ago.
BEDTIME
Well, MY bedtime is supposed to be 10pm, given that the children’s bedtime is 8pm, but since most nights the children don’t get to bed until 10pm, that means I usually don’t get to bed until sometime between 12am-3am depending on how many kids and how many times they attempt the ‘I need a drink’, ‘I have to go potty again’, ‘What day is tomorrow?’, ‘Is that a movie you’re watching?? Can I watch it too?!? Is it appropriate for kids?? Why do you watch movies that aren’t appropriate for kids? Shouldn’t it be inappropriate for you too?’
WHAT MEANS THE MOST TO YOU?
Having a friend that will let me crawl through her door with 4 rowdy kids and watch 17 episodes of “What NOT to Wear” then promises to turn me in so I can go shopping in New York for 5 days without any kids. Oh yeah, and World Peace.
FAVORITE TV SHOW
I like to watch the news. It makes me feel like my life isn’t nearly as sad as I think.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE COLOR?
Yellow. It’s the color of sunshine. It’s the color of hope.
WHAT DO YOU ANTICIPATE MOST IN YOUR FUTURE?
Knowing that someday I will only be responsible for wiping 1 bottom and cutting 1 plate of food – MINE!
WHERE DO YOU LIVE?
On 1 acre in NW Montana. I’ve been trying to get my own apartment in town for a few years, but they won’t let me leave.
HOW MANY PETS DO YOU HAVE?
Are we talking pets or actual animals that live on my property? We have 10 goats, 25 chickens, 738 mice and 1 good for nothing vegetarian cat.
WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO ACCOMPLISH BEFORE YOU DIE?
My aspirations aren’t very high – I’d just like to die with the same amount of sanity that I entered parenthood with.
WHAT ARE YOU MOST AFRAID OF?
My children leaving home and my children coming back.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE FOOD?
Well, I would have to just stick with the general title of ‘Food’. I’m no longer very picky.
WHAT IS YOUR NATURAL HAIR COLOR?
A rich chocolate brown with soft auburn highlights. Ok, so I haven’t seen my natural color in about 15 years, but I can dream can’t I?
HAVE YOU TRAVELED?
I’ve tried, but Brett has given my photo to all Border Patrol Agents as a runaway mom and they keep making me go back home.
DO YOU SCRUNCH OR FOLD (TOILET PAPER)?
So, we are operating under the assumption that the children haven’t used all the remaining toilet paper to mummify each other and that I’m not forced to drip dry? Definitely scrunch – who has time to fold?
HAVE YOU LOVED SOMEONE SO MUCH IT MADE YOU CRY?
I love them so much, that is WHY I cry.
HAVE YOU EVER BEEN IN A CAR ACCIDENT?
Er, next question please….
MERCEDES BENZ OR LEXUS?
Clearly my friends are more upper scale than I. I’m afraid I’m going to have to stick with what I know – DODGE!
FAVORITE DAY OF THE WEEK
Sunday, Monday and Tuesday (Brett’s days off). Er, unless he’s in a bad mood, then my favorite days are Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday.
FAVORITE RESTAURANT
Anyplace where I don’t have to cook or do dishes!
FAVORITE SPORT TO WATCH
The WWF that occurs in my house everyday.
FAVORITE DRINK
DOUBLE SHOT MOCHAS!! However, I’m desperately trying to acquire a taste for whiskey
FAVORITE ICE CREAM
Starbuck’s Java Chip. Not only is this the best ice cream on earth, but my husband hates coffee and I’d rather die than give my kids caffine, so it’s AAALLL MINE!!
FAVORITE FAST FOOD RESTAURANT
Whatever is fast and, er, food.
WHAT COLOR IS YOUR CARPET?
“Watch out that’s my coffee!! Aaahhhhh….”
“Mama! Baby bahf!”
“Oops, I poo poo’d”
“Run to the potty! Run to the potty! Run to the…. Crap.”
Who on earth knows what the original color was?
WHAT ARE YOUR HOBBIES?
Are you serious?? I’m a stay at home, homeschooling mom to 4 boys. Whatever hobbies I once had were wrenched my limp and lifeless hands 7 years ago.
BEDTIME
Well, MY bedtime is supposed to be 10pm, given that the children’s bedtime is 8pm, but since most nights the children don’t get to bed until 10pm, that means I usually don’t get to bed until sometime between 12am-3am depending on how many kids and how many times they attempt the ‘I need a drink’, ‘I have to go potty again’, ‘What day is tomorrow?’, ‘Is that a movie you’re watching?? Can I watch it too?!? Is it appropriate for kids?? Why do you watch movies that aren’t appropriate for kids? Shouldn’t it be inappropriate for you too?’
WHAT MEANS THE MOST TO YOU?
Having a friend that will let me crawl through her door with 4 rowdy kids and watch 17 episodes of “What NOT to Wear” then promises to turn me in so I can go shopping in New York for 5 days without any kids. Oh yeah, and World Peace.
FAVORITE TV SHOW
I like to watch the news. It makes me feel like my life isn’t nearly as sad as I think.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE COLOR?
Yellow. It’s the color of sunshine. It’s the color of hope.
WHAT DO YOU ANTICIPATE MOST IN YOUR FUTURE?
Knowing that someday I will only be responsible for wiping 1 bottom and cutting 1 plate of food – MINE!
WHERE DO YOU LIVE?
On 1 acre in NW Montana. I’ve been trying to get my own apartment in town for a few years, but they won’t let me leave.
HOW MANY PETS DO YOU HAVE?
Are we talking pets or actual animals that live on my property? We have 10 goats, 25 chickens, 738 mice and 1 good for nothing vegetarian cat.
WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO ACCOMPLISH BEFORE YOU DIE?
My aspirations aren’t very high – I’d just like to die with the same amount of sanity that I entered parenthood with.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Our Family Bed
I recently read that Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie had a 9ft bed specially made so that it would fit themselves and their 4 children. Brad was then quoted as saying that they would soon need to move up to an 11 ft. bed.
As flawed as my imagination might be, I couldn’t help but picture a stunning Angelina in satin nightie and flowing hair propped up on her elbow looking lovingly across 4 spread eagled children towards an equally handsome and well coiffed Brad. They reach out their hands to try and touch fingertips together but come up several feet short, smile fondly and then stretch out with infinite space in which to seek restful sleep.
I actually felt a little sad for them as I lay tightly snuggled against my husband’s back in our full sized bed. The baby, having gotten up 20 minutes earlier, was tucked into the crook of my arm with his head resting on my shoulder. I sigh contentedly.
I hear footsteps and Joshua appears at our door. He sees us still sleeping and comes and climbs in at the bottom of the bed. He intertwines his body around our legs and quietly snuggles in. The baby begins to thrash and whine a little as I adjust my body to accommodate Josh and the disturbance brings a grumble from my husband’s back.
We re-adjust and everyone quiets down again.
The door creaks and I see Ben sneaking in with his arms laden with 2 stuffed animals, a sippy cup, book and his Buzz Lightyear toy that has lights that spin above his head when the legs are pressed together. He starts to chuck his paraphernalia into the bed hitting Brett in the back with his sippy cup and the baby in the head with the book. The quiet is now officially broken. He hoists his body into the bed and seeing that all horizontal space is taken, firmly positions himself on my face.
Brett glances over his shoulder with a scowl and scoots closer to the edge so that the ice cold sippy cup is no longer pressed against his back, but now falls into a crack to begin rapidly leaking onto the sheets. I move my head to find an air pocket and re-adjust the baby so I can rub the tiny bump developing on his forehead. I no longer have a view of the door but become aware of the presence of another child when the mattress dips heavily and my chest becomes uncomfortably restricted. I adjust my breathing to take shallow breaths and fight desperately to keep my air pocket open when Josh starts screaming “OW! Mom, you’re kicking me!!”
“Sorry, I’m just trying to breathe.”
“Why can’t they sleep in their own beds?” comes the cranky response from the shivering mound now desperately trying to fit his 6ft frame into the 4 remaining inches on the side of the bed.
“Josh! I want some covers, you can’t take them all!” whines Will and begins a tug of war that quickly removes all remaining air from my lungs.
I feel a warm, oozy sludge run slowly down my neck and into my hair as I begin to lose consciousness.
I’m in a tunnel now and see light up ahead. It is flashing and colorful and I begin to run towards it. I reach up and feel something hard and cold. I crack and eye and realize that it’s Buzz Lightyear with his lights buzzing wildly above his head.
Brett has finally given up his attempt to ignore the 4 children screaming and jumping on his bruised and battered body and rolls off the last 2 inches of mattress and onto the floor. The shift sends the mountain of children falling off my chest and oxygen floods back into my lungs.
I’m laying in the cold, wet remnants of the emptied sippy cup with spit up plastered and crusting in my hair. The kids are still fighting over blankets at the foot of the bed and Ben is animatedly playing with his 2 stuffed animals. Desperate for some of the tranquility I woke up with, I seek out Sam and lovingly cradle him on my chest. He looks at me and smiles past his pacifier. I smile back as he reaches up and removes the drippy, drooly binky from his mouth and firmly shoves it in my mouth.
I bolt upright sputtering and spitting with children flying everywhere as I jerk pillows and blankets out from under them to try and wipe out my mouth. I barely grab Sam’s leg as he begins to topple over the side and the incensed cries and yells from fallen children fill the room. Breathing heavily I look over at my husband who still has a sour look on his face and firmly declare “I want a 9 foot bed!”
As flawed as my imagination might be, I couldn’t help but picture a stunning Angelina in satin nightie and flowing hair propped up on her elbow looking lovingly across 4 spread eagled children towards an equally handsome and well coiffed Brad. They reach out their hands to try and touch fingertips together but come up several feet short, smile fondly and then stretch out with infinite space in which to seek restful sleep.
I actually felt a little sad for them as I lay tightly snuggled against my husband’s back in our full sized bed. The baby, having gotten up 20 minutes earlier, was tucked into the crook of my arm with his head resting on my shoulder. I sigh contentedly.
I hear footsteps and Joshua appears at our door. He sees us still sleeping and comes and climbs in at the bottom of the bed. He intertwines his body around our legs and quietly snuggles in. The baby begins to thrash and whine a little as I adjust my body to accommodate Josh and the disturbance brings a grumble from my husband’s back.
We re-adjust and everyone quiets down again.
The door creaks and I see Ben sneaking in with his arms laden with 2 stuffed animals, a sippy cup, book and his Buzz Lightyear toy that has lights that spin above his head when the legs are pressed together. He starts to chuck his paraphernalia into the bed hitting Brett in the back with his sippy cup and the baby in the head with the book. The quiet is now officially broken. He hoists his body into the bed and seeing that all horizontal space is taken, firmly positions himself on my face.
Brett glances over his shoulder with a scowl and scoots closer to the edge so that the ice cold sippy cup is no longer pressed against his back, but now falls into a crack to begin rapidly leaking onto the sheets. I move my head to find an air pocket and re-adjust the baby so I can rub the tiny bump developing on his forehead. I no longer have a view of the door but become aware of the presence of another child when the mattress dips heavily and my chest becomes uncomfortably restricted. I adjust my breathing to take shallow breaths and fight desperately to keep my air pocket open when Josh starts screaming “OW! Mom, you’re kicking me!!”
“Sorry, I’m just trying to breathe.”
“Why can’t they sleep in their own beds?” comes the cranky response from the shivering mound now desperately trying to fit his 6ft frame into the 4 remaining inches on the side of the bed.
“Josh! I want some covers, you can’t take them all!” whines Will and begins a tug of war that quickly removes all remaining air from my lungs.
I feel a warm, oozy sludge run slowly down my neck and into my hair as I begin to lose consciousness.
I’m in a tunnel now and see light up ahead. It is flashing and colorful and I begin to run towards it. I reach up and feel something hard and cold. I crack and eye and realize that it’s Buzz Lightyear with his lights buzzing wildly above his head.
Brett has finally given up his attempt to ignore the 4 children screaming and jumping on his bruised and battered body and rolls off the last 2 inches of mattress and onto the floor. The shift sends the mountain of children falling off my chest and oxygen floods back into my lungs.
I’m laying in the cold, wet remnants of the emptied sippy cup with spit up plastered and crusting in my hair. The kids are still fighting over blankets at the foot of the bed and Ben is animatedly playing with his 2 stuffed animals. Desperate for some of the tranquility I woke up with, I seek out Sam and lovingly cradle him on my chest. He looks at me and smiles past his pacifier. I smile back as he reaches up and removes the drippy, drooly binky from his mouth and firmly shoves it in my mouth.
I bolt upright sputtering and spitting with children flying everywhere as I jerk pillows and blankets out from under them to try and wipe out my mouth. I barely grab Sam’s leg as he begins to topple over the side and the incensed cries and yells from fallen children fill the room. Breathing heavily I look over at my husband who still has a sour look on his face and firmly declare “I want a 9 foot bed!”
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
A Day in the Life
Its 5am and I’m awakened by the rapid pattering of barefeet. Seconds later my two year old hoists himself and his bevy of bedtime essentials into our bed. He snuggles in and I hope for another couple hours of sleep. At 7am I waken again after a fitful attempt to sleep with a thrashing toddler and realize that I’m wet. I’m hoping this is due to a leaky sippy cup as opposed to a leaky diaper but I am not so lucky.
I put on a clean pair of pajamas (getting dressed means I’m ready to be productive, and I’m just not there yet), and start making breakfast for the other kids groggily emerging from their rooms. I’m feeling industrious so I make bacon and eggs.
The boys sit down at breakfast and begin complaining that they wanted cereal. “Children all over the world would love to have bacon and eggs for breakfast. You’re lucky to have food at all!” I respond.
Halfway through breakfast I realize that Ben has not touched a single bite of his food but has opted to grab the dry cereal off the baby’s tray and shove it in his toy sharks mouth and pulverize it to dust. He then takes his toy truck and begins running it through the remnants in order to assure maximum destruction. My husband looks contemplatively at his son and his untouched food and says “How does he grow?” “I have no idea” I respond.
Seven complaints and a tantrum later, breakfast is cleaned up and Brett is off to work. I start a pot of coffee and inform the troops that they are to get dressed, brush their teeth and make their beds.
I settle down in front of the computer to read the news with my cup of coffee and, upon hearing ten pounds of Legos being dumped on the floor, realize that it has been 20 minutes since my last finger sweep of Sam’s mouth where I find a mangled mass of cardboard which I soon identify as a puzzle piece.
Overall, the morning is quite peaceful as the boys are careful not to fight because they know that at the first signs of discontent, they will bring to my attention their blatant disobedience to get ready for the day.
After working at the computer for a bit, I decide it’s finally time to get dressed but at the sight of Ben’s soaked diaper hanging between his legs, I chose to change him first. It is only hanging mid-thigh and I usually try to wait until it hits his knees but I’m feeling industrious. For good measure I grab Sam as well and secretly praise myself for being so efficient. I grab 2 diapers and set them both on the hallway floor for changing. Upon opening Sam’s diaper, I am met with a pungent odor I had not expected. “UNDIAGNOSED POOP! UNDIAGNOSED POOP!” I shout. The alarm is sounded and my boys respond with the efficiency of soldiers at the wail of a bomb raid. William runs and throws his body across Sam while I struggle to keep his legs and hands from spreading the mess. Josh runs for the box of baby wipes and Ben lays in utter stillness and silence. It is a serious moment and we all exhale a sigh of relief when it is over.
When I come in from disposing of the soiled diapers, I find Sam sitting in front of the computer as if waiting for my presence before he reaches up to push the power button. As I am ½ an hour into writing a 45th Anniversary letter to my parents, I streak across the house and dive for his hand. In the scuffle, it is MY hand that brushes the power button and deletes all my heartfelt musings. I teach Ben a few choice words to reveal in front of company while I do another finger sweep of Sam’s mouth to discover a honey roasted peanut and a wadded mass of paper that looks a lot like a check stub. I remove the paper and give him back the peanut.
I make lunch then put the younger two down for a nap while the older two escape outside and begin digging a trench in our newly seeded yard. I sigh and decide to be content that at least they aren’t trying to dig up our dead cat again and that the house is quiet.
I start washing sheets and realize that I can no longer put off cleaning the bathrooms as I find that the toilet in the boy’s bathroom is no longer fit to urinate in.
While hanging the sheets on the clothesline, I see the boys have created a small pond in their trench and have taken their $30 Playmobile Pirate ship to sink into its muddy depths. I close my eyes and decide to go inside and clean the kitchen then start in again on my 45th Anniversary tribute to my parents (“Congratulations guys, I think you’re neat” is all I seem to manage). I hear whoops and hollers outside and see that the boys are now jumping on the trampoline – naked.
Ben wakes up from his nap and staggers out of his room, also naked. I go to investigate and find a completely dry diaper sitting on the floor and his bed completely soaked from mattress pad to comforter. I strip the bed and begin yet another load of laundry.
By 5:00, the boys beds are still unmade, their teeth unbrushed and I’m still in my pajamas. Ben has dumped all his toys bins so I call the boys in to begin cleaning up the mess. There is much protesting as they begin to whine that it is Ben’s mess so I take the much anticipated moment to delve into my speech of how I clean up their messes all day long and maybe this will help them to have a little more appreciation for what I do. They roll their eyes and decide to just clean it up before I can start in on my “You should be thankful to even have toys” tirade.
Brett calls from work to tell me he is going to be late. I’m bummed but decide to look on the bright side that I can just throw some granola bars and bananas at the boys for dinner.
It’s 7:00 and we’re approaching Zero Barrier. Bathtime.
I attempt to stem the flow of disaster by informing the boys that they are to get in the shower, get wet, soaped, rinsed and OUT of the shower. There is to be no splashing, playing, yelling or fighting.
An hour later, the boys are running around the house naked and screaming. I’m trying to sop up the water on the floor and wipe the water droplets ominously hanging from the ceiling like stalactites while yelling over my shoulder at several sets of deaf ears, “Just how hard is it to keep the water INSIDE the tub??”
I’m harried and ready for the house to be quiet again and try to rush through bedtime prayers, but Ben finds it necessary that every item in his bed, including the Spiderman on his pajama shirt, has a turn to pray and the quickie ritual is stretched out an agonizing 20 minutes.
The baby starts crying and Josh begins praying for the safety and provision of the whole world. I sigh heavily and try to get my mind on what is important (the spiritual growth of my son) but after he begins to pray that everyone he knows does not have nightmares that night, I begin to get antsy. Sam is still crying when Josh closes his prayer “Thank you God that I have such a good mommy who is pretty and smells good. Amen.” I silently leave his room and return with a package of cookies for him to sleep with and then go and put the baby to sleep. From the rocking chair I see the stack of inedible items on the counter that I rescued from his mouth – an eraser, 3 legos, a piece of plastic, a knarled up page from a book, 2 more puzzle pieces and a baby wipe which I desperately hope was nicked from the wipes box and not the trash.
By the time Brett gets home, I am sitting down on the couch for the first time that day. “So, what did you do today?” he asks. I look around me and realize that the house looks as though I’ve been in bed reading romance novels all day. I give a heavy, defeated sigh and respond, “Nothing.”
I put on a clean pair of pajamas (getting dressed means I’m ready to be productive, and I’m just not there yet), and start making breakfast for the other kids groggily emerging from their rooms. I’m feeling industrious so I make bacon and eggs.
The boys sit down at breakfast and begin complaining that they wanted cereal. “Children all over the world would love to have bacon and eggs for breakfast. You’re lucky to have food at all!” I respond.
Halfway through breakfast I realize that Ben has not touched a single bite of his food but has opted to grab the dry cereal off the baby’s tray and shove it in his toy sharks mouth and pulverize it to dust. He then takes his toy truck and begins running it through the remnants in order to assure maximum destruction. My husband looks contemplatively at his son and his untouched food and says “How does he grow?” “I have no idea” I respond.
Seven complaints and a tantrum later, breakfast is cleaned up and Brett is off to work. I start a pot of coffee and inform the troops that they are to get dressed, brush their teeth and make their beds.
I settle down in front of the computer to read the news with my cup of coffee and, upon hearing ten pounds of Legos being dumped on the floor, realize that it has been 20 minutes since my last finger sweep of Sam’s mouth where I find a mangled mass of cardboard which I soon identify as a puzzle piece.
Overall, the morning is quite peaceful as the boys are careful not to fight because they know that at the first signs of discontent, they will bring to my attention their blatant disobedience to get ready for the day.
After working at the computer for a bit, I decide it’s finally time to get dressed but at the sight of Ben’s soaked diaper hanging between his legs, I chose to change him first. It is only hanging mid-thigh and I usually try to wait until it hits his knees but I’m feeling industrious. For good measure I grab Sam as well and secretly praise myself for being so efficient. I grab 2 diapers and set them both on the hallway floor for changing. Upon opening Sam’s diaper, I am met with a pungent odor I had not expected. “UNDIAGNOSED POOP! UNDIAGNOSED POOP!” I shout. The alarm is sounded and my boys respond with the efficiency of soldiers at the wail of a bomb raid. William runs and throws his body across Sam while I struggle to keep his legs and hands from spreading the mess. Josh runs for the box of baby wipes and Ben lays in utter stillness and silence. It is a serious moment and we all exhale a sigh of relief when it is over.
When I come in from disposing of the soiled diapers, I find Sam sitting in front of the computer as if waiting for my presence before he reaches up to push the power button. As I am ½ an hour into writing a 45th Anniversary letter to my parents, I streak across the house and dive for his hand. In the scuffle, it is MY hand that brushes the power button and deletes all my heartfelt musings. I teach Ben a few choice words to reveal in front of company while I do another finger sweep of Sam’s mouth to discover a honey roasted peanut and a wadded mass of paper that looks a lot like a check stub. I remove the paper and give him back the peanut.
I make lunch then put the younger two down for a nap while the older two escape outside and begin digging a trench in our newly seeded yard. I sigh and decide to be content that at least they aren’t trying to dig up our dead cat again and that the house is quiet.
I start washing sheets and realize that I can no longer put off cleaning the bathrooms as I find that the toilet in the boy’s bathroom is no longer fit to urinate in.
While hanging the sheets on the clothesline, I see the boys have created a small pond in their trench and have taken their $30 Playmobile Pirate ship to sink into its muddy depths. I close my eyes and decide to go inside and clean the kitchen then start in again on my 45th Anniversary tribute to my parents (“Congratulations guys, I think you’re neat” is all I seem to manage). I hear whoops and hollers outside and see that the boys are now jumping on the trampoline – naked.
Ben wakes up from his nap and staggers out of his room, also naked. I go to investigate and find a completely dry diaper sitting on the floor and his bed completely soaked from mattress pad to comforter. I strip the bed and begin yet another load of laundry.
By 5:00, the boys beds are still unmade, their teeth unbrushed and I’m still in my pajamas. Ben has dumped all his toys bins so I call the boys in to begin cleaning up the mess. There is much protesting as they begin to whine that it is Ben’s mess so I take the much anticipated moment to delve into my speech of how I clean up their messes all day long and maybe this will help them to have a little more appreciation for what I do. They roll their eyes and decide to just clean it up before I can start in on my “You should be thankful to even have toys” tirade.
Brett calls from work to tell me he is going to be late. I’m bummed but decide to look on the bright side that I can just throw some granola bars and bananas at the boys for dinner.
It’s 7:00 and we’re approaching Zero Barrier. Bathtime.
I attempt to stem the flow of disaster by informing the boys that they are to get in the shower, get wet, soaped, rinsed and OUT of the shower. There is to be no splashing, playing, yelling or fighting.
An hour later, the boys are running around the house naked and screaming. I’m trying to sop up the water on the floor and wipe the water droplets ominously hanging from the ceiling like stalactites while yelling over my shoulder at several sets of deaf ears, “Just how hard is it to keep the water INSIDE the tub??”
I’m harried and ready for the house to be quiet again and try to rush through bedtime prayers, but Ben finds it necessary that every item in his bed, including the Spiderman on his pajama shirt, has a turn to pray and the quickie ritual is stretched out an agonizing 20 minutes.
The baby starts crying and Josh begins praying for the safety and provision of the whole world. I sigh heavily and try to get my mind on what is important (the spiritual growth of my son) but after he begins to pray that everyone he knows does not have nightmares that night, I begin to get antsy. Sam is still crying when Josh closes his prayer “Thank you God that I have such a good mommy who is pretty and smells good. Amen.” I silently leave his room and return with a package of cookies for him to sleep with and then go and put the baby to sleep. From the rocking chair I see the stack of inedible items on the counter that I rescued from his mouth – an eraser, 3 legos, a piece of plastic, a knarled up page from a book, 2 more puzzle pieces and a baby wipe which I desperately hope was nicked from the wipes box and not the trash.
By the time Brett gets home, I am sitting down on the couch for the first time that day. “So, what did you do today?” he asks. I look around me and realize that the house looks as though I’ve been in bed reading romance novels all day. I give a heavy, defeated sigh and respond, “Nothing.”
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Products We Mommies Really Want
Vomit Alarm
In case there is anyone out there in that great void of blogland that works in the Product Development Industry, I thought I would give you a budge towards some products that us mommies REALLY want.
I will begin with a product that I could have used this morning for example. A Vomit Alarm.
Too many times have I lain an ailing child on the couch with a pillow, blanket and bowl and their list of instructions: “If you feel like you need to throw up, run like hell to the bathroom and do it in the toilet. If someone is on said toilet, grab them and throw them to the floor. If you feel like you may not make it to the bathroom, then USE THIS BOWL! You are washable, my couch and carpet are not. Do you understand these rules as I have stated them to you?” A feeble ‘yes’ is the usual reply, otherwise a weak nod of the head. After signing an affidavit, the ailing child is left to rest.
It is then a mystery to me how this same child, given all the tools and instructions necessary for the proper removal of one’s stomach contents, can then proceed to lean over the couch and heave all over the carpet while holding the bowl aloft in the other hand.
As many of us mommies have more than one child and cannot umpire with a bowl waiting for the pitch, a Vomit Alarm would certainly come in handy. I’ve attempted to set up a human alarm in the form of a sibling to come screaming when heaving begins, but they are usually more interested in watching the process and giving the standard “Ewww, gross!” to come and get me.
I’m not asking for anything elaborate, just a device that can measure the heave factor and give out the standard warning. A soothing female voice that will warn me as to when it is a false alarm (“Dry heaves commencing, comfort needed”) or when the stomach is in fact getting ready to empty it’s contents (“Regurgitation imminent, bring reinforcements”).
No more streaking through the house throwing children and chairs aside at the sound of a cough, no more washing sheets and showering children at 2am and no more wailing from a brother who had the misfortune of being in the lower bunk when the ailing child up top turned towards the wall instead of the bowl. Ah, the bliss of a vomit free environment.
Please stay tuned for more Products Mommies REALLY Want in future blogs.
In case there is anyone out there in that great void of blogland that works in the Product Development Industry, I thought I would give you a budge towards some products that us mommies REALLY want.
I will begin with a product that I could have used this morning for example. A Vomit Alarm.
Too many times have I lain an ailing child on the couch with a pillow, blanket and bowl and their list of instructions: “If you feel like you need to throw up, run like hell to the bathroom and do it in the toilet. If someone is on said toilet, grab them and throw them to the floor. If you feel like you may not make it to the bathroom, then USE THIS BOWL! You are washable, my couch and carpet are not. Do you understand these rules as I have stated them to you?” A feeble ‘yes’ is the usual reply, otherwise a weak nod of the head. After signing an affidavit, the ailing child is left to rest.
It is then a mystery to me how this same child, given all the tools and instructions necessary for the proper removal of one’s stomach contents, can then proceed to lean over the couch and heave all over the carpet while holding the bowl aloft in the other hand.
As many of us mommies have more than one child and cannot umpire with a bowl waiting for the pitch, a Vomit Alarm would certainly come in handy. I’ve attempted to set up a human alarm in the form of a sibling to come screaming when heaving begins, but they are usually more interested in watching the process and giving the standard “Ewww, gross!” to come and get me.
I’m not asking for anything elaborate, just a device that can measure the heave factor and give out the standard warning. A soothing female voice that will warn me as to when it is a false alarm (“Dry heaves commencing, comfort needed”) or when the stomach is in fact getting ready to empty it’s contents (“Regurgitation imminent, bring reinforcements”).
No more streaking through the house throwing children and chairs aside at the sound of a cough, no more washing sheets and showering children at 2am and no more wailing from a brother who had the misfortune of being in the lower bunk when the ailing child up top turned towards the wall instead of the bowl. Ah, the bliss of a vomit free environment.
Please stay tuned for more Products Mommies REALLY Want in future blogs.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Application for The Brotherhood
My name is Samuel James Corbett and I would like to submit my application for consideration to join the Corbett Brotherhood.
I realize that, at 8 months of age, I am a bit younger than your normal applicants but I believe that my abilities will far outweigh any chronological deficiencies.
I have consulted the REQUIREMENTS FOR BROTHERHOOD ACCEPTANCE and will hereby list those I have hitherto completed.
1. Must have sustained a minor injury due to mom’s gross neglect.
(Please see attached accident report of last week’s highchair incident)
2. Must be able to procure your own dietary sustenance outside of mom’s permission and/or knowledge.
I will submit my list of "Recommended Edibles" as soon as I complete my research on whether the items found underneath the stove, refrigerator and couch have passed the Digestible and Passable Analysis.
3. Mother must state your name in full (last name is optional but the distinct pronunciation of full first name AND middle name is essential) at least 3 times a day. Bonus points for getting her confused enough to say full first and middle name of another child when referring to you.
4. Must alter, maim or completely destroy at least one item belonging to mom and/or dad per month. Please list below.
I find this a particular area of expertise as they still seem to be lax in the area of magazines and books. However, I was able to successfully turn off the computer while mom was about done typing something she had been working on for quite awhile. By the language that proceeded forth and the color of her face (as well as fulfilling requirement #3 above), it is my belief that she hadn’t saved it.
5. Must be able to make one or more parent abruptly stop an enjoyable leisure activity to run pell-mell to check the safety of a cherished possession or life of a child (could be your own life or that of a sibling that has been put in jeopardy).
First, I would like to say that I don’t much appreciate the fact that most of you have chosen to risk MY life in the fulfillment of this requirement and until I am big enough to repay you in kind, I will have to fall back on the corrosive abilities of my abundant supply of saliva to destroy anything of a fibrous nature.
It is my most sincere wish to be able to list myself as one of the distinguished members of The Corbett Brotherhood and hope that you view my abilities and expertise as an asset to your cause.
Thank you for your consideration.
Sincerely,
Samuel James Corbett
I realize that, at 8 months of age, I am a bit younger than your normal applicants but I believe that my abilities will far outweigh any chronological deficiencies.
I have consulted the REQUIREMENTS FOR BROTHERHOOD ACCEPTANCE and will hereby list those I have hitherto completed.
1. Must have sustained a minor injury due to mom’s gross neglect.
(Please see attached accident report of last week’s highchair incident)
2. Must be able to procure your own dietary sustenance outside of mom’s permission and/or knowledge.
I will submit my list of "Recommended Edibles" as soon as I complete my research on whether the items found underneath the stove, refrigerator and couch have passed the Digestible and Passable Analysis.
3. Mother must state your name in full (last name is optional but the distinct pronunciation of full first name AND middle name is essential) at least 3 times a day. Bonus points for getting her confused enough to say full first and middle name of another child when referring to you.
4. Must alter, maim or completely destroy at least one item belonging to mom and/or dad per month. Please list below.
I find this a particular area of expertise as they still seem to be lax in the area of magazines and books. However, I was able to successfully turn off the computer while mom was about done typing something she had been working on for quite awhile. By the language that proceeded forth and the color of her face (as well as fulfilling requirement #3 above), it is my belief that she hadn’t saved it.
5. Must be able to make one or more parent abruptly stop an enjoyable leisure activity to run pell-mell to check the safety of a cherished possession or life of a child (could be your own life or that of a sibling that has been put in jeopardy).
First, I would like to say that I don’t much appreciate the fact that most of you have chosen to risk MY life in the fulfillment of this requirement and until I am big enough to repay you in kind, I will have to fall back on the corrosive abilities of my abundant supply of saliva to destroy anything of a fibrous nature.
It is my most sincere wish to be able to list myself as one of the distinguished members of The Corbett Brotherhood and hope that you view my abilities and expertise as an asset to your cause.
Thank you for your consideration.
Sincerely,
Samuel James Corbett
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Sudoku - The Difference between Brett and I
I love word puzzles. Crosswords, cryptograms, letter scrambles, you name it, I love it. And, if I must be so bold, I’m pretty good at them as well. My husband even proposed to me with a scavenger hunt of cryptograms – it was thrilling!
A few months ago, we were all at a BBQ at my sister-in-law’s house. There on the table was a book titled Sudoku.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s sort of like a word puzzle but with numbers. It’s really addictive!”
It wasn’t long before several copies of a puzzle were made and a small competition commenced.
I grabbed a sheet and a pencil and after a brief description of the game, started working furiously.
There are 9 squares total with 9 squares inside each of those. You must number the smaller squares 1-9 but each column and each line must also be numbered 1-9 without any repeat numbers.
Got it. Since some of the numbers are already intermittently dispersed throughout the puzzle, it makes it even easier.
First square. Done.
Second square. Piece of cake.
Third square across – all the lines match up. Great.
I look over Brett’s shoulder. The man doesn’t even have the 1st square completely filled in. I have a moment of pity for the man as he clearly doesn’t fully comprehend the simplicity of the game.
I start my second set of squares. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly and easily I’m moving through this game.
I look around at everyone’s furrowed brow and the small pink flecks of eraser flying across their pages. I hazard to mention that this isn’t nearly as hard as I thought it would be. I see a few eyebrows raise and I’m guessing a few people biting their tongues as well.
Third and final row. First square, done. Second square, done. I look over Brett’s shoulder, he only has 2 squares completed and is scribbling what looks like some sort of code on the side of his page. (Heavy sigh) He is gifted in so many areas, I really shouldn’t begrudge his inability at this. You really have to have a mind that thinks outside the box in order to fully grasp the concept of word games and puzzles. I hope his failure at this doesn’t somehow emasculate him.
Last square, er, wait I can’t put a 3 there because there is already a 3 in the other line. That’s ok, I’ll just back up a bit. I start to erase. There, the 3 goes there, now we’re good, hmmm, hold on, if I put the 5 there, then there will be two 8s in the next row. Back to the eraser.
My brow is now starting to furrow as pink flecks of eraser begin to scatter across my page. I look over Brett’s shoulder now, 5 completed squares. He seems to be going faster now.
Each time I begin to advance, I find another small flaw and end up erasing a few more squares. It’s not long now and my entire sheet is empty save for the pink and gray streaks across my page.
I look around and begin to see a few smirks around the room. “How you comin’ along there Andrea?”
“Oh, fine, fine. Just had to back up a bit but I’m back in the game.”
I now start looking over Brett’s shoulder and begin copying madly. He has 2 squares left and seems to be listing the answers as though he were casually writing a note.
I’m in panic mode. My reputation is on the line. It seems that the only squares that are correct are the ones that I copied from Brett. Each time I step out on my own, the mistakes seem to mount faster and faster.
My paper now looks like a piece of ancient parchment as small holes begin to form from the rub marks of my now non-existent eraser.
“DONE!” Brett bellows. Everyone groans and drops their pencils, all equally devoid of erasers. Someone flips to the back of the answer book to check his answers as Brett offers me his untouched eraser. “It’s ok honey,” he says, “you just have to be able to think geometrically”.
A few months ago, we were all at a BBQ at my sister-in-law’s house. There on the table was a book titled Sudoku.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s sort of like a word puzzle but with numbers. It’s really addictive!”
It wasn’t long before several copies of a puzzle were made and a small competition commenced.
I grabbed a sheet and a pencil and after a brief description of the game, started working furiously.
There are 9 squares total with 9 squares inside each of those. You must number the smaller squares 1-9 but each column and each line must also be numbered 1-9 without any repeat numbers.
Got it. Since some of the numbers are already intermittently dispersed throughout the puzzle, it makes it even easier.
First square. Done.
Second square. Piece of cake.
Third square across – all the lines match up. Great.
I look over Brett’s shoulder. The man doesn’t even have the 1st square completely filled in. I have a moment of pity for the man as he clearly doesn’t fully comprehend the simplicity of the game.
I start my second set of squares. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly and easily I’m moving through this game.
I look around at everyone’s furrowed brow and the small pink flecks of eraser flying across their pages. I hazard to mention that this isn’t nearly as hard as I thought it would be. I see a few eyebrows raise and I’m guessing a few people biting their tongues as well.
Third and final row. First square, done. Second square, done. I look over Brett’s shoulder, he only has 2 squares completed and is scribbling what looks like some sort of code on the side of his page. (Heavy sigh) He is gifted in so many areas, I really shouldn’t begrudge his inability at this. You really have to have a mind that thinks outside the box in order to fully grasp the concept of word games and puzzles. I hope his failure at this doesn’t somehow emasculate him.
Last square, er, wait I can’t put a 3 there because there is already a 3 in the other line. That’s ok, I’ll just back up a bit. I start to erase. There, the 3 goes there, now we’re good, hmmm, hold on, if I put the 5 there, then there will be two 8s in the next row. Back to the eraser.
My brow is now starting to furrow as pink flecks of eraser begin to scatter across my page. I look over Brett’s shoulder now, 5 completed squares. He seems to be going faster now.
Each time I begin to advance, I find another small flaw and end up erasing a few more squares. It’s not long now and my entire sheet is empty save for the pink and gray streaks across my page.
I look around and begin to see a few smirks around the room. “How you comin’ along there Andrea?”
“Oh, fine, fine. Just had to back up a bit but I’m back in the game.”
I now start looking over Brett’s shoulder and begin copying madly. He has 2 squares left and seems to be listing the answers as though he were casually writing a note.
I’m in panic mode. My reputation is on the line. It seems that the only squares that are correct are the ones that I copied from Brett. Each time I step out on my own, the mistakes seem to mount faster and faster.
My paper now looks like a piece of ancient parchment as small holes begin to form from the rub marks of my now non-existent eraser.
“DONE!” Brett bellows. Everyone groans and drops their pencils, all equally devoid of erasers. Someone flips to the back of the answer book to check his answers as Brett offers me his untouched eraser. “It’s ok honey,” he says, “you just have to be able to think geometrically”.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
A Relative Dimension of Time
The science of physics will tell you that time is a measurable unit which moves at a fixed rate. To say that time is relative, would be to turn society as we know it upside down and inside out.
However, the evidence of the existence of another dimension of time is irrefutable to even the greatest of skeptics when the following mathematical equation is employed:
CA = RT
A
By taking CA (Chronological Age) and dividing it by A (Activity) you will be given the correct RT or Relative Time.
For example, if you take a 2 year old child and divide it by their longing for more juice, even though the ‘actual’ time of fulfilling their desire is 33 seconds, their perception or ‘relative’ time equates to 12 minutes.
The equation works in the reverse as well when you take the a 36 year old parent trying to pacify a screaming 2 year old with more juice, the same 33 second activity will come out to a relative time of 23 agonizing minutes.
The above equation is equally accurate even as the chronological age of the individual advances as proven in the following examples:
14 year old male
Desire drive = Relative Time to receive license is 1 Eternity
36 year old female
2 weeks overdue with 4th child = Relative Time of pregnancy is 9 years
As rich as my research has been, I do admit a small blip in the Relative Time Continuum for subjects over the age of 60. It has been my experience that as one approaches this increasingly vital age, the less relative and more literal time seems to be.
Case in point, if you take a 63 year old grandmother and divide it by a day long ordeal of babysitting 3 grandchildren then the statement of “I’ll be there to pick the kids up ‘in a minute’” is taken as a literal 60 second period before said children are placed out on the curb for pick up.
This theory is also proven in the following equation:
63 year old male
Waiting for menu in restaurant after server declares “I’ll be back in a sec with your menu”
= You have literally 1 second before male walks out of restaurant in a huff declaring he will never return to this slap shod place with the crappy service again.
However, the evidence of the existence of another dimension of time is irrefutable to even the greatest of skeptics when the following mathematical equation is employed:
CA = RT
A
By taking CA (Chronological Age) and dividing it by A (Activity) you will be given the correct RT or Relative Time.
For example, if you take a 2 year old child and divide it by their longing for more juice, even though the ‘actual’ time of fulfilling their desire is 33 seconds, their perception or ‘relative’ time equates to 12 minutes.
The equation works in the reverse as well when you take the a 36 year old parent trying to pacify a screaming 2 year old with more juice, the same 33 second activity will come out to a relative time of 23 agonizing minutes.
The above equation is equally accurate even as the chronological age of the individual advances as proven in the following examples:
14 year old male
Desire drive = Relative Time to receive license is 1 Eternity
36 year old female
2 weeks overdue with 4th child = Relative Time of pregnancy is 9 years
As rich as my research has been, I do admit a small blip in the Relative Time Continuum for subjects over the age of 60. It has been my experience that as one approaches this increasingly vital age, the less relative and more literal time seems to be.
Case in point, if you take a 63 year old grandmother and divide it by a day long ordeal of babysitting 3 grandchildren then the statement of “I’ll be there to pick the kids up ‘in a minute’” is taken as a literal 60 second period before said children are placed out on the curb for pick up.
This theory is also proven in the following equation:
63 year old male
Waiting for menu in restaurant after server declares “I’ll be back in a sec with your menu”
= You have literally 1 second before male walks out of restaurant in a huff declaring he will never return to this slap shod place with the crappy service again.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
The Many Languages of Parenthood
All my kids have been late talkers. I originally believed this developmental delay was due to the fact that I had all boys. It is well documented that girls commonly develop language and motor skills faster than boys do. I have had to admit, however, that my extensive quad-lingual abilities have affected the language development of my children.
Many mothers throughout the ages have, upon the birth of their first child, been endowed with an almost miraculous ability to speak Wahnese.
“Wah!”
“He’s hungry”
“Wah!”
“He’s tired”
“Wah!”
“He wants you to turn down that god-forsaken music because his head is about to explode!”
I have often been complimented for mastering the more complex language of Uhnnish. I admit I struggled with the varying dialects that my children spoke when reaching toddlerhood, but now that my 3rd child communicates solely through this language, I can herald complete understanding while even my husband often stands dumbstruck by the demands of his 2 year old son.
“Uh!”
“He wants more juice”
“Uh uh!”
“I prefer not to go to bed at the present time as I lack the desire to sleep”
But it is the fluency of which I understand Idunnoan that I am most proud of. This is a more complicated language that instinctively develops in every child above the age of 4.
“Why did you just call your brother a stupid idiot?”
“I dunno”
Translation: I realize that ‘stupid’ and ‘idiot’ have been placed on the taboo word list in our house, however, since watching you running around the yard for an hour chasing one of the escaped goats and screaming “YOU STUPID, IDIOT GOAT!” I thought that possibly it was now ok to say.
“Why did you punch your brother?”
“I dunno”
Translation: Because he’s a jerk and I knew that you wouldn’t do anything about it and it’s worth any punishment to be able to wipe that smirk off his face.
As Idunnoan is a sub-language that every man, woman and especially teenager speaks until the day they die, this fluency has helped me to understand the intricacies of my husband as well.
“Why didn’t you tell me Rick and his wife had their baby?”
“I dunno”
Translation: Because I knew you were going to ask me what they had, how much it weighed, what the name is and how her labor went, was it a medicated or natural birth, is she breast or bottle feeding and frankly, I just don’t care about any of it.
Many mothers throughout the ages have, upon the birth of their first child, been endowed with an almost miraculous ability to speak Wahnese.
“Wah!”
“He’s hungry”
“Wah!”
“He’s tired”
“Wah!”
“He wants you to turn down that god-forsaken music because his head is about to explode!”
I have often been complimented for mastering the more complex language of Uhnnish. I admit I struggled with the varying dialects that my children spoke when reaching toddlerhood, but now that my 3rd child communicates solely through this language, I can herald complete understanding while even my husband often stands dumbstruck by the demands of his 2 year old son.
“Uh!”
“He wants more juice”
“Uh uh!”
“I prefer not to go to bed at the present time as I lack the desire to sleep”
But it is the fluency of which I understand Idunnoan that I am most proud of. This is a more complicated language that instinctively develops in every child above the age of 4.
“Why did you just call your brother a stupid idiot?”
“I dunno”
Translation: I realize that ‘stupid’ and ‘idiot’ have been placed on the taboo word list in our house, however, since watching you running around the yard for an hour chasing one of the escaped goats and screaming “YOU STUPID, IDIOT GOAT!” I thought that possibly it was now ok to say.
“Why did you punch your brother?”
“I dunno”
Translation: Because he’s a jerk and I knew that you wouldn’t do anything about it and it’s worth any punishment to be able to wipe that smirk off his face.
As Idunnoan is a sub-language that every man, woman and especially teenager speaks until the day they die, this fluency has helped me to understand the intricacies of my husband as well.
“Why didn’t you tell me Rick and his wife had their baby?”
“I dunno”
Translation: Because I knew you were going to ask me what they had, how much it weighed, what the name is and how her labor went, was it a medicated or natural birth, is she breast or bottle feeding and frankly, I just don’t care about any of it.
Friday, August 17, 2007
The Frames of Time
I have found that teaching my children how to tell time is imminently easier than teaching them what time actually is.
“When are we going to the pool?”
“In an hour.”
“How long is an hour?”
“It’s 60 minutes.”
“Oh. How long is a minute?”
The solution to this time troubling dilemma however, has been resolved within the intricacies of our own family.
The following are a few examples of how the frames of time have evolved in our home:
Q: When are we going to the pool?
A: In about a tantrum.
Q: Mom, when is it lunch time?
A: In just a few complaints.
Q: When will daddy be home from work?
A: About a fist fight from now.
Brett and I have not come out unscathed by our demented sense of time either.
“I ran into Rick today”
“Wow, how long has it been since you’ve seen him?”
“Must be about 2 kids now. I mentioned having him over for dinner next paycheck.”
“I thought we were going to go camping, what about next mortgage instead? Oh, before I forget, your brother called a few tantrums ago and wants to borrow your saw.”
“Great, last time he borrowed something I didn’t see it for 3 kids, 7 utility bills and a nightshift.”
“When are we going to the pool?”
“In an hour.”
“How long is an hour?”
“It’s 60 minutes.”
“Oh. How long is a minute?”
The solution to this time troubling dilemma however, has been resolved within the intricacies of our own family.
The following are a few examples of how the frames of time have evolved in our home:
Q: When are we going to the pool?
A: In about a tantrum.
Q: Mom, when is it lunch time?
A: In just a few complaints.
Q: When will daddy be home from work?
A: About a fist fight from now.
Brett and I have not come out unscathed by our demented sense of time either.
“I ran into Rick today”
“Wow, how long has it been since you’ve seen him?”
“Must be about 2 kids now. I mentioned having him over for dinner next paycheck.”
“I thought we were going to go camping, what about next mortgage instead? Oh, before I forget, your brother called a few tantrums ago and wants to borrow your saw.”
“Great, last time he borrowed something I didn’t see it for 3 kids, 7 utility bills and a nightshift.”
Saturday, August 11, 2007
No Touching my Coffee
It’s 1:00 and I have a splitting headache. I tried to warm up some coffee from yesterday but it turned out too rancid for human consumption. I’m tired and hungry and the boys are having an unauthorized mud fight in the back yard.
The thought of a cool, frothy iced coffee propels me to get the boys together for a trip to the store for a frozen pizza and my coveted coffee.
A quick wipe down and a couple clean shirts later, we’re piling into the Jeep. Before I turn the key in the ignition, I can already hear (thud), “Ow!”, (thud), “Ow!”, (thud)…. The boys are taking turns punching each other in the chest. I choose to forgo the standard ‘rules of the car’ speech and instead declare “NO TOUCHING, NO TALKING!”
A few ear-piercing, head splitting miles later, I lean out the window to receive the ice-cold mocha covered in whipped cream into my anxious and shaking hands. For a few precious seconds, all talking ceases as I take my first sip. Ah, sweet nectar of life! Then, as if someone suddenly turned off a mute button, a bevy of “I want some!”, “Can I have a drink?!”, “Mama! Me!!” and “Waah!” ring out among a multitude of hands all grabbing and pushing at the same time. “NO TOUCHING, NO TALKING!” is all I can manage while I struggle to maintain ownership of my small cup of salvation.
While driving to the store, I occupy my mind with ideas of inventions that would hold a coffee cup around your neck so that a small nod of your head would bring it’s soothing relief instantly to your lips, but before I can perfect my design, we are parking and piling out of the car.
Once inside the store, I make the horrific realization that bucking the baby into the cart will require both of my hands, so begrudgingly I call Josh over and explain to him that he is it to HOLD my coffee and DO NOT DRINK! I struggle with several different carts before finding one that will both buckle and roll and turn to tenderly receive my frothy gift from the gods. The site that waits before me is both of astonishment and horror. My hands are frozen, extended in the air and my mouth drops open in a silent scream. Josh is standing there with the straw, the passage of liquid life from the Holy Grail into my Temple, stuck completely up his nose.
“Wha… why…” I stammer.
Beginning to realize that he might be doing something wrong, Josh begins pulling the length of straw from his oozing nasal passages and says “What? I wasn’t drinking it.”
It’s 2:00 and my head is pounding. The boys are all piled back in the car each holding a package of cookies and a frozen pizza. Even the baby seemed to grab contraband items from the shelves as I walked through the store in a zombie like state. The ice in my coffee is melting and the whipped cream is coagulating into chunks among the watery liquid which now has an unmistakably green tinge to it. My stomach starts to churn as I look at the crusty straw. The back seat sounds like a rowdy saloon full of sailors on leave as they sing and pound back cookies like shots of whiskey.
I turn to address the mutinous crowd and, through clenched teeth, say “No talking. No touching.”
The thought of a cool, frothy iced coffee propels me to get the boys together for a trip to the store for a frozen pizza and my coveted coffee.
A quick wipe down and a couple clean shirts later, we’re piling into the Jeep. Before I turn the key in the ignition, I can already hear (thud), “Ow!”, (thud), “Ow!”, (thud)…. The boys are taking turns punching each other in the chest. I choose to forgo the standard ‘rules of the car’ speech and instead declare “NO TOUCHING, NO TALKING!”
A few ear-piercing, head splitting miles later, I lean out the window to receive the ice-cold mocha covered in whipped cream into my anxious and shaking hands. For a few precious seconds, all talking ceases as I take my first sip. Ah, sweet nectar of life! Then, as if someone suddenly turned off a mute button, a bevy of “I want some!”, “Can I have a drink?!”, “Mama! Me!!” and “Waah!” ring out among a multitude of hands all grabbing and pushing at the same time. “NO TOUCHING, NO TALKING!” is all I can manage while I struggle to maintain ownership of my small cup of salvation.
While driving to the store, I occupy my mind with ideas of inventions that would hold a coffee cup around your neck so that a small nod of your head would bring it’s soothing relief instantly to your lips, but before I can perfect my design, we are parking and piling out of the car.
Once inside the store, I make the horrific realization that bucking the baby into the cart will require both of my hands, so begrudgingly I call Josh over and explain to him that he is it to HOLD my coffee and DO NOT DRINK! I struggle with several different carts before finding one that will both buckle and roll and turn to tenderly receive my frothy gift from the gods. The site that waits before me is both of astonishment and horror. My hands are frozen, extended in the air and my mouth drops open in a silent scream. Josh is standing there with the straw, the passage of liquid life from the Holy Grail into my Temple, stuck completely up his nose.
“Wha… why…” I stammer.
Beginning to realize that he might be doing something wrong, Josh begins pulling the length of straw from his oozing nasal passages and says “What? I wasn’t drinking it.”
It’s 2:00 and my head is pounding. The boys are all piled back in the car each holding a package of cookies and a frozen pizza. Even the baby seemed to grab contraband items from the shelves as I walked through the store in a zombie like state. The ice in my coffee is melting and the whipped cream is coagulating into chunks among the watery liquid which now has an unmistakably green tinge to it. My stomach starts to churn as I look at the crusty straw. The back seat sounds like a rowdy saloon full of sailors on leave as they sing and pound back cookies like shots of whiskey.
I turn to address the mutinous crowd and, through clenched teeth, say “No talking. No touching.”
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
The Hornets Nest
It’s 11:00 and time for bed. I’m jumping into the shower when I hear Brett say he is going to go outside and spray the hornets nest we found out by the firepit. Thirty minutes later, I snuggle into bed wearing my favorite jammies. The house is finally cooling off after a sweltering day and the clean sheets feel cool and crisp. I get my body pillow into the perfect position and begin to drift off into sweat oblivion.
“Pst! Andrea, I need your help with something.”
Lazily, I offer up an eyelid. Then another. Standing before me is what I assume to be my husband only because I recognize his voice. He is wearing sweatpants, a sweatshirt, knee boots and thick rubber gloves up to his elbows. I vaguely recognize the outline of a nose under the tightly drawn hood he dons.
I close my eyes again “I’m already asleep. Wake Josh up.”
“Come on! I just need you to hold a flashlight.” The man is practically vibrating with excitement and I must admit, I am a bit curious, if not horribly fearful, as to what on earth he could be up to now.
Begrudgingly, I throw on a robe and my slippers.
“No, you have to get dressed.”
“Why?”
“Because you might get stung.”
It is at this point that I realize that the man before me is actually wearing TWO pair of pants and TWO sweatshirts. This can’t be good.
When we get out to the firepit, I see a bucket of used motor oil and a shovel. Oh, this is really bad.
“What happened to just spraying it?” I say with a small glimmer of hope.
“Some might get away if I spray it. This is better. I’m going to use the shovel to knock it into the bucket then put the lid on. I just need you to hold the flashlight. Besides, I was out of spray.”
It is now that I begin to wish I had a second layer of clothing on and start to look around to make sure that nothing is in the way should the need to run screaming for my life occur.
Brett is still trying to figure out the logistics of placing the bucket in the perfect place when I see 2 hornets walking around the nest. I mention this to Brett.
“Sentinels! Turn off the light! Hide!”
I stifle a yawn as I click off the flashlight.
“They know we’re here,” he whispers “we’ll need to be careful.”
Oh brother.
After waiting a few minutes in the dark, we hazard a look. I must admit his enthusiasm is starting to catch on. All clear.
Brett gets back into position, but he just can’t seem to get the right angle.
He puts the shovel down. Looking up at the nest, he starts to pantomime the motions of grabbing it and throwing it into the bucket. You’ve got to be kidding me! Warningly I begin “Brett…” but it’s too late! With a small curse, he grabs the hornets nest throws it into the bucket then lunges for the lid and slams it down. It’s over in less than a second and he begins throwing his arms up in the air like a rodeo champ who just roped a calf.
I’m proud of my brave, strong man and join him in the whoops and hollers as we dance around the firepit.
An hour later, I’m back in bed with the lights out. We’ve already gone over the events of the night several times and are starting to drift off to sleep once again. Then, out of the darkness, Brett snickers. “The last thing they heard was ‘All Clear Sir’”.
“Pst! Andrea, I need your help with something.”
Lazily, I offer up an eyelid. Then another. Standing before me is what I assume to be my husband only because I recognize his voice. He is wearing sweatpants, a sweatshirt, knee boots and thick rubber gloves up to his elbows. I vaguely recognize the outline of a nose under the tightly drawn hood he dons.
I close my eyes again “I’m already asleep. Wake Josh up.”
“Come on! I just need you to hold a flashlight.” The man is practically vibrating with excitement and I must admit, I am a bit curious, if not horribly fearful, as to what on earth he could be up to now.
Begrudgingly, I throw on a robe and my slippers.
“No, you have to get dressed.”
“Why?”
“Because you might get stung.”
It is at this point that I realize that the man before me is actually wearing TWO pair of pants and TWO sweatshirts. This can’t be good.
When we get out to the firepit, I see a bucket of used motor oil and a shovel. Oh, this is really bad.
“What happened to just spraying it?” I say with a small glimmer of hope.
“Some might get away if I spray it. This is better. I’m going to use the shovel to knock it into the bucket then put the lid on. I just need you to hold the flashlight. Besides, I was out of spray.”
It is now that I begin to wish I had a second layer of clothing on and start to look around to make sure that nothing is in the way should the need to run screaming for my life occur.
Brett is still trying to figure out the logistics of placing the bucket in the perfect place when I see 2 hornets walking around the nest. I mention this to Brett.
“Sentinels! Turn off the light! Hide!”
I stifle a yawn as I click off the flashlight.
“They know we’re here,” he whispers “we’ll need to be careful.”
Oh brother.
After waiting a few minutes in the dark, we hazard a look. I must admit his enthusiasm is starting to catch on. All clear.
Brett gets back into position, but he just can’t seem to get the right angle.
He puts the shovel down. Looking up at the nest, he starts to pantomime the motions of grabbing it and throwing it into the bucket. You’ve got to be kidding me! Warningly I begin “Brett…” but it’s too late! With a small curse, he grabs the hornets nest throws it into the bucket then lunges for the lid and slams it down. It’s over in less than a second and he begins throwing his arms up in the air like a rodeo champ who just roped a calf.
I’m proud of my brave, strong man and join him in the whoops and hollers as we dance around the firepit.
An hour later, I’m back in bed with the lights out. We’ve already gone over the events of the night several times and are starting to drift off to sleep once again. Then, out of the darkness, Brett snickers. “The last thing they heard was ‘All Clear Sir’”.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
A Salute to Mommies
OK, for all you moms out there, young and old, go get yourself a glass of juice, tea or milk (I’d say champagne, but c’mon, who are we kidding?) and have a seat. I know it’s not Mother’s Day, but frankly I’m feeling a bit jipped that we get one stinking day out of the year.
So, I would like to raise a glass in honor of all moms who have run across a room to catch vomit in your bare hand in order to save the upholstery on the new couch, rubbed spit up into the carpet with your sock and opted for a spritz of Febreeze on your shirt to cover up the urine smell from your infant’s diaper change.
To those that have cleaned toothpaste off the walls because your 5 year old wanted to see if jumping on the tube would make the flip top open, and yogurt off the ceiling on the one stinking day you decide the kids can fend for themselves for breakfast while you sleep in.
To every mom that has looked into the face of a sniffling little girl and had to endure “You hurt my feelings”, and the fearful face a boy who declares, “I didn’t do it, but you should come quickly, the fire is spreading”.
To anyone who has stuck a pacifier in their mouth to get the worst of the lint and dirt off before putting it back in their baby’s mouth and those who have declared to a room full of adults to please excuse me but I have to go ‘potty’.
For those who have rejoiced at the P.A. announcement of a found child at Walmart because now you know where they are and can continue shopping in peace and those that have threatened the very lives of your children through clenched teeth and plastered smile.
To anyone (else) that has fallen into a puddle of tears when they looked into the cab of a stranger’s truck to see their diapered toddler who was supposed to be napping and anyone who has rolled their eyes at a screaming child and tell them to calm down only to find out their arm is, indeed, broken,
To all of us who have not slept in 8 months due to pregnancy woes and midnight feedings, 8 years because of nightmares and thunder or 18 years because of, well, teenagers.
I would like to raise a glass and salute us all.
Cheers!
So, I would like to raise a glass in honor of all moms who have run across a room to catch vomit in your bare hand in order to save the upholstery on the new couch, rubbed spit up into the carpet with your sock and opted for a spritz of Febreeze on your shirt to cover up the urine smell from your infant’s diaper change.
To those that have cleaned toothpaste off the walls because your 5 year old wanted to see if jumping on the tube would make the flip top open, and yogurt off the ceiling on the one stinking day you decide the kids can fend for themselves for breakfast while you sleep in.
To every mom that has looked into the face of a sniffling little girl and had to endure “You hurt my feelings”, and the fearful face a boy who declares, “I didn’t do it, but you should come quickly, the fire is spreading”.
To anyone who has stuck a pacifier in their mouth to get the worst of the lint and dirt off before putting it back in their baby’s mouth and those who have declared to a room full of adults to please excuse me but I have to go ‘potty’.
For those who have rejoiced at the P.A. announcement of a found child at Walmart because now you know where they are and can continue shopping in peace and those that have threatened the very lives of your children through clenched teeth and plastered smile.
To anyone (else) that has fallen into a puddle of tears when they looked into the cab of a stranger’s truck to see their diapered toddler who was supposed to be napping and anyone who has rolled their eyes at a screaming child and tell them to calm down only to find out their arm is, indeed, broken,
To all of us who have not slept in 8 months due to pregnancy woes and midnight feedings, 8 years because of nightmares and thunder or 18 years because of, well, teenagers.
I would like to raise a glass and salute us all.
Cheers!
Friday, July 20, 2007
Grammy's House
My mother in law called yesterday and we chatted for awhile. Now, unlike most mother/daughter-in-law relationships, I love my mother-in-law. We have coffee and cinnamon rolls on what used to be called Thursday, but is now appropriately re-named ‘Grammy day’ and we just enjoy each other’s company.
We were talking about a good time to come over for dinner when she casually says “Would the boys like to spend the night tonight?” She said this as if mentioning we might have meatloaf instead of hamburger. I mean, does Ed McMahon ever just casually knock on someone’s door with a fist load of balloons and say “Do you want the $375 million dollars you just won?”
The words were still echoing in the receiver as I was shoving the last bit of clothing they would need into a backpack. Their pillows were already in the car when she said that dropping them off around 6:00 would be good. It was only 2:00. Crestfallen, I decided to put a DVD on continuous play for the next 4 hours.
I instantly began having visions of my dear husband and I swanked out in our best dress, laughing and spinning wildly on a dance floor in some up scale club. Well, he has to work tomorrow, so maybe just a game of scrabble and some cereal for dinner, but whatever it was, I was promised an evening without jumping, yelling, crying and feathers floating from the new down filled silk throw pillows I recently splurged on.
My husband was already home from work when I got back from dropping off the boys.
“Where are the boys?”
My eyes twinkled in mischief “Your mom’s”
Confused, “For how long?”
“All. Night.”
We exchanged a look and then burst into fits of laughter and song. Woo Hoo!! What to do first?! Something wild, crazy, something we haven’t been able to do for, well, 7 ½ years! Anticipation builds as we both scurry about finishing up our evening duties. I clean the kitchen, he milks the goats. I clean up toys, he feeds turkeys and collects eggs, etc. etc.
By the time we’re both done, a bit of the enthusiasm has worn off. An hour later we both stand in the kitchen feeling a bit defeated. It’s just so quiet. Not a nice, peaceful quiet either. An eerie quiet. Neither of us dares speak of it so we just agree that it’s already too late to go anywhere so we’ll just read a few chapters of a book that we’ve been reading together.
Soon, it’s time for bed and we both lay quietly in the dark. I’m feeling a little sad and uneasy. Out of habit, I had walked into each of the boys rooms to make sure they had blankets on and to kiss their soft little noses. It was a quiet, relaxed, crumb free evening but it just wasn’t what I had hoped for. In the stillness of the night Brett softly says “I miss the boys.” I snuggled deeper into his arms, “Me too.”
We were talking about a good time to come over for dinner when she casually says “Would the boys like to spend the night tonight?” She said this as if mentioning we might have meatloaf instead of hamburger. I mean, does Ed McMahon ever just casually knock on someone’s door with a fist load of balloons and say “Do you want the $375 million dollars you just won?”
The words were still echoing in the receiver as I was shoving the last bit of clothing they would need into a backpack. Their pillows were already in the car when she said that dropping them off around 6:00 would be good. It was only 2:00. Crestfallen, I decided to put a DVD on continuous play for the next 4 hours.
I instantly began having visions of my dear husband and I swanked out in our best dress, laughing and spinning wildly on a dance floor in some up scale club. Well, he has to work tomorrow, so maybe just a game of scrabble and some cereal for dinner, but whatever it was, I was promised an evening without jumping, yelling, crying and feathers floating from the new down filled silk throw pillows I recently splurged on.
My husband was already home from work when I got back from dropping off the boys.
“Where are the boys?”
My eyes twinkled in mischief “Your mom’s”
Confused, “For how long?”
“All. Night.”
We exchanged a look and then burst into fits of laughter and song. Woo Hoo!! What to do first?! Something wild, crazy, something we haven’t been able to do for, well, 7 ½ years! Anticipation builds as we both scurry about finishing up our evening duties. I clean the kitchen, he milks the goats. I clean up toys, he feeds turkeys and collects eggs, etc. etc.
By the time we’re both done, a bit of the enthusiasm has worn off. An hour later we both stand in the kitchen feeling a bit defeated. It’s just so quiet. Not a nice, peaceful quiet either. An eerie quiet. Neither of us dares speak of it so we just agree that it’s already too late to go anywhere so we’ll just read a few chapters of a book that we’ve been reading together.
Soon, it’s time for bed and we both lay quietly in the dark. I’m feeling a little sad and uneasy. Out of habit, I had walked into each of the boys rooms to make sure they had blankets on and to kiss their soft little noses. It was a quiet, relaxed, crumb free evening but it just wasn’t what I had hoped for. In the stillness of the night Brett softly says “I miss the boys.” I snuggled deeper into his arms, “Me too.”
Drool Free Hair
I cut my hair. All visions of the long, lustrous, windblown locks that I would haphazardly sweep into a stunning up-do were abandoned the first time my 5 month old son clamped his tiny fists into the tangled mass of hair at the nape of my neck. Sam and I cried together as he swung from my hair like Tarzan from a vine as I tried to uncurl his vise like grip on my hair.
At 3 months of age his neck muscles finally engaged and he abandoned his full time reclined position and graduated to full ‘hip baby’ status. His discovery of my hair was cute and he would hold on as a baby chimp clings to his mother. The ensuing pulling was a mere trifle as his twitching little hand muscles would open and close without intent. I just needed to time it correctly and I could easily remove my hair from an open and outstretched hand.
Battle lines were soon drawn when, at 4 months of age, I would begin pulling out slurpy, sloppy, drooly locks of hair from his tightening grip. My every other day shampooing habit increased to twice daily to rid myself of the smell of feta cheese. I began wearing my hair up in clips and buns only to realize that the clip itself was more of a prize than my hair.
It was time for a truce. But how do you negotiate with a being whose hands seem to be made of Velcro?
After a particularly grueling day, I had had enough. The balding spots at the nape of my neck combined with my sweat drenched brow called for drastic measures. As I tend to make all important decisions on a whim, I got out my scissors and started cutting. Three hours later, I was on the phone to see what salon could get me in – today!
So, after a shampoo experience that felt more like bugs crawling in my hair and a disastrous run in with a razor, I left the hip salon with wispy shards of hair sticking out at seemingly impossible angles and $45 poorer. The good news is now that I have more high maintenance hair than my disastrous spiral perm at 16, Sam looks at my spiky, wispy tufts of hair matted with gel, pomade and hairspray much like he does a jar of prunes.
It may be high maintenance, but at least it’s hands (and drool!) free.
At 3 months of age his neck muscles finally engaged and he abandoned his full time reclined position and graduated to full ‘hip baby’ status. His discovery of my hair was cute and he would hold on as a baby chimp clings to his mother. The ensuing pulling was a mere trifle as his twitching little hand muscles would open and close without intent. I just needed to time it correctly and I could easily remove my hair from an open and outstretched hand.
Battle lines were soon drawn when, at 4 months of age, I would begin pulling out slurpy, sloppy, drooly locks of hair from his tightening grip. My every other day shampooing habit increased to twice daily to rid myself of the smell of feta cheese. I began wearing my hair up in clips and buns only to realize that the clip itself was more of a prize than my hair.
It was time for a truce. But how do you negotiate with a being whose hands seem to be made of Velcro?
After a particularly grueling day, I had had enough. The balding spots at the nape of my neck combined with my sweat drenched brow called for drastic measures. As I tend to make all important decisions on a whim, I got out my scissors and started cutting. Three hours later, I was on the phone to see what salon could get me in – today!
So, after a shampoo experience that felt more like bugs crawling in my hair and a disastrous run in with a razor, I left the hip salon with wispy shards of hair sticking out at seemingly impossible angles and $45 poorer. The good news is now that I have more high maintenance hair than my disastrous spiral perm at 16, Sam looks at my spiky, wispy tufts of hair matted with gel, pomade and hairspray much like he does a jar of prunes.
It may be high maintenance, but at least it’s hands (and drool!) free.
For the love of Chili
My husband loves chili. Wait. I should expand on that. My husband loves MY chili. In our 9 years of marriage, I have probably made him chili on a weekly basis.
When he sees that it is chili night, he purposefully eases himself down into his chair with a pre-emptive sigh of contentment. His eyes get big as he picks up his spoon in anticipation of that first rich bite of chili. Combined with my homemade, honey drenched cornbread, it is a rare man that has experienced such ecstasy at a dinner table.
I should now explain that ‘my’ chili does not have a recipe. It changes from batch to batch depending on what I have on hand and how much time I have to let it simmer and stew. This has become the most exciting element of chili night. Each pot is just a little bit different yet each meal my loving husband insists that this batch is the best he’s ever had.
Until…
It was a busy day and my late afternoon was going to be a bit crazy so I began to concoct today’s unique blend of sauces and spices into the crock pot for an easy meal later. Now normally, I taste and adjust as needed when I cook but figured that as often as I make chili, I’m just going to throw it together and call it good.
At the table that night my husband sat down in eager anticipation of his meal, lifting his spoon full of rich, thick chili to his mouth. Eyes closed to fully enjoy that first taste.
“Interesting”
Eh? His eyebrows furrow. He takes another bite to make sure that the first wasn’t somehow tainted. And then, he says it.
“You know, my mom makes really good chili. You should get her recipe”.
In utter astonishment my spoon begins to fall from my hand in slow motion. The children all stop mid-bite and stare in awestruck horror. Even the birds of the air and the beasts of the field stop to perk their ears in wonderment at the stupidity of a man who dared to drop the “M” bomb at the dinner table.
As the sun abandons it’s decent into the west, my husband dares don a look of utter amazement that his suggestion would bring about such earth shattering consequences.
It has now been several months since the mushroom cloud over our house has disappeared, but my once loving and tender husband is now permanently marked as a traitor. Don’t get me wrong, we still love him and occasionally talk to him and I even still make him chili from time to time. Of course the experience is a bit different with him cowering in the corner twitching and mumbling “Mom chili bad. Wife chili good” but for the most part, chili night is still an exciting part of our week.
When he sees that it is chili night, he purposefully eases himself down into his chair with a pre-emptive sigh of contentment. His eyes get big as he picks up his spoon in anticipation of that first rich bite of chili. Combined with my homemade, honey drenched cornbread, it is a rare man that has experienced such ecstasy at a dinner table.
I should now explain that ‘my’ chili does not have a recipe. It changes from batch to batch depending on what I have on hand and how much time I have to let it simmer and stew. This has become the most exciting element of chili night. Each pot is just a little bit different yet each meal my loving husband insists that this batch is the best he’s ever had.
Until…
It was a busy day and my late afternoon was going to be a bit crazy so I began to concoct today’s unique blend of sauces and spices into the crock pot for an easy meal later. Now normally, I taste and adjust as needed when I cook but figured that as often as I make chili, I’m just going to throw it together and call it good.
At the table that night my husband sat down in eager anticipation of his meal, lifting his spoon full of rich, thick chili to his mouth. Eyes closed to fully enjoy that first taste.
“Interesting”
Eh? His eyebrows furrow. He takes another bite to make sure that the first wasn’t somehow tainted. And then, he says it.
“You know, my mom makes really good chili. You should get her recipe”.
In utter astonishment my spoon begins to fall from my hand in slow motion. The children all stop mid-bite and stare in awestruck horror. Even the birds of the air and the beasts of the field stop to perk their ears in wonderment at the stupidity of a man who dared to drop the “M” bomb at the dinner table.
As the sun abandons it’s decent into the west, my husband dares don a look of utter amazement that his suggestion would bring about such earth shattering consequences.
It has now been several months since the mushroom cloud over our house has disappeared, but my once loving and tender husband is now permanently marked as a traitor. Don’t get me wrong, we still love him and occasionally talk to him and I even still make him chili from time to time. Of course the experience is a bit different with him cowering in the corner twitching and mumbling “Mom chili bad. Wife chili good” but for the most part, chili night is still an exciting part of our week.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Seabreeze
Don’t ask what provoked me to buy a bottle of Seabreeze facial toner, but it was more than a few months ago and I guess I was having a sentimental moment dreaming of my Noxema and Seabreeze days of yore.
I read somewhere that scent is supposed to trigger our strongest memory recall. I experienced this last night during a 9 hour power outage.
Three of the 4 boys were piled haphazardly together in bed, no doubt believing they would be more courageous to endure the thunder together than apart, and the baby was dozing contentedly in his crib.
With no water or power I was fighting images of me washing clothes in a bucket with a stick while my Fabioesque hero chopped wood so we could cook our food. Meanwhile a less hairy version of my hero worked diligently in the garage to hook up our generator so we could run some fans and keep the refrigerator going.
I realized that I wasn’t going to be able to wash my face but hope dawned when I realized that I had my trusty bottle of Seabreeze! This stuff is like battery acid so I was sure that it would rid my sweaty face of at least the days dirt and grime if not a few layers of skin to boot – hooray!
I soaked a cotton ball and soon felt that familiar sting – oooh! As I inhaled the aroma, my world began to blur and spin like an old 45 record. Before I knew it, I was sitting poolside with a slick layer of Ban de Solei SPF 2 oil with Brian Adam's “Summer of ‘69” straining through my Getto Blaster. I had Sun In in my hair and was passionately discussing Bo and Hope’s latest love disaster with my fellow Days of Our Lives junky, Natalie.
I could almost feel the prickle of the suns rays on my skin when…
“MOM!! It’s too dark!!”
Vvvrrrooooom. Plop. I’m back in my dark bathroom with the flicker of a candle illuminating a soiled cotton ball. Whether it was dirt from the day’s grind or a layer of freckles, I’m still not sure, but I’m thinking of putting my kids to bed early tonight and popping the top on my bottle of Seabreeze. Maybe this weekend I’ll splurge on a tub of Noxema as well. Do they even make Noxema anymore?
I read somewhere that scent is supposed to trigger our strongest memory recall. I experienced this last night during a 9 hour power outage.
Three of the 4 boys were piled haphazardly together in bed, no doubt believing they would be more courageous to endure the thunder together than apart, and the baby was dozing contentedly in his crib.
With no water or power I was fighting images of me washing clothes in a bucket with a stick while my Fabioesque hero chopped wood so we could cook our food. Meanwhile a less hairy version of my hero worked diligently in the garage to hook up our generator so we could run some fans and keep the refrigerator going.
I realized that I wasn’t going to be able to wash my face but hope dawned when I realized that I had my trusty bottle of Seabreeze! This stuff is like battery acid so I was sure that it would rid my sweaty face of at least the days dirt and grime if not a few layers of skin to boot – hooray!
I soaked a cotton ball and soon felt that familiar sting – oooh! As I inhaled the aroma, my world began to blur and spin like an old 45 record. Before I knew it, I was sitting poolside with a slick layer of Ban de Solei SPF 2 oil with Brian Adam's “Summer of ‘69” straining through my Getto Blaster. I had Sun In in my hair and was passionately discussing Bo and Hope’s latest love disaster with my fellow Days of Our Lives junky, Natalie.
I could almost feel the prickle of the suns rays on my skin when…
“MOM!! It’s too dark!!”
Vvvrrrooooom. Plop. I’m back in my dark bathroom with the flicker of a candle illuminating a soiled cotton ball. Whether it was dirt from the day’s grind or a layer of freckles, I’m still not sure, but I’m thinking of putting my kids to bed early tonight and popping the top on my bottle of Seabreeze. Maybe this weekend I’ll splurge on a tub of Noxema as well. Do they even make Noxema anymore?
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Mrs. Mom 2007
OK. I realize it has taken me awhile but I have finally figured out that ‘blogging’ is not a british swear word and saying that you have a blog is not referring to some new fangled shoe craze.
So, here I am.
I would like to mark my very first blog by announcing my run for Mrs. Mom 2007. I realize this may shock many due to a few recent incidences, but I assure you that the pageant officials have dutifully investigated and cleared me of all charges.
Unfortunately, due to public decency laws, I will be unable to compete in the swimsuit portion of the competition, but I believe that my talent (Spot Removal) will propel me past any possible point loss.
The interview portion should be in the bag as I shrug off any hopes of world peace and instead concentrate the bulk of my message on the hope of a single solitary meal that does not include spilling, throwing food, kicking under the table or strains of “What is it and do you really expect me to EAT it?” If this fails to wow the pageant officials then I will reveal my main political platform: Abolishing “He’s looking at me”.
I appreciate all your support and, most importantly, your votes!!
So, here I am.
I would like to mark my very first blog by announcing my run for Mrs. Mom 2007. I realize this may shock many due to a few recent incidences, but I assure you that the pageant officials have dutifully investigated and cleared me of all charges.
Unfortunately, due to public decency laws, I will be unable to compete in the swimsuit portion of the competition, but I believe that my talent (Spot Removal) will propel me past any possible point loss.
The interview portion should be in the bag as I shrug off any hopes of world peace and instead concentrate the bulk of my message on the hope of a single solitary meal that does not include spilling, throwing food, kicking under the table or strains of “What is it and do you really expect me to EAT it?” If this fails to wow the pageant officials then I will reveal my main political platform: Abolishing “He’s looking at me”.
I appreciate all your support and, most importantly, your votes!!
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