Crushed Digits and Random Tuesday Thoughts

• We took the kids to see Where the Wild Things are this weekend. It was a good movie overall but not something that really held the younger kids’ attention. It touched upon some of the complexities of childhood and its all-or-nothing emotional states. I almost shed a few tears at the end, but thankfully my youngest climbing in and out of my lap and elbowing me repeatedly in the boob kept those intense feelings at bay. See, I was savvy enough to bring a zip-lock full of Halloween candy, which made it that much easier to keep my cranky, impatient, almost three year old in check, because everyone knows sugar is nature’s sedative. The only positive was. Okay, I’ll get back to you when I think of the positive.

• Candy calories ingested under extreme duress are negligible.

• After the movie we swung by the hardware store to pick up a shower head. My darling son got his finger caught and crushed in a shower stall door while my husband and I debated over pulse settings. The scream that kid let out was brain piercing, employees and customers alike flocked to glare at us while we administered first aid to a still shrieking child and his bloodied index finger. I think at one point a floor manager attempted to make contact with us, but between the noise and the band-aids, he figured he’d be more useful disappearing in to a different aisle, possibly tile or toilets. Smart move hardware store employee.

• Yes my son has full use of his finger. No bones were broken in the making of this random thought.

• An indicator that your children might be playing too many video games is when you’re driving on the highway and one of them begins to shout, “Race, mommy, be in a race.” Then every time you pass another car, they shout “Yay, you won, you beat a level 3 car.” It does make driving a little more fun when there’s that much at stake.

• If you can’t remember eating something, then the calories clearly don’t apply.

• My watch’s Indiglo function isn’t working. How the heck am I supposed to know what time it is in the dark? I need to know what time it is in the dark!

• According to my teenager, who is an expert on everything, boys that don’t have cute faces should not wear skinny jeans. It is some kind of fashion travesty. Please pass this information along to your loved ones. It’s crucial, life altering stuff.

• Also for future reference, a movie based on an old 70s family television series, does not make it by default appropriate for children. Do not assume it’s rated PG when it clearly states PG-13 on the box, when the tiny type under the box says “sexual content and language including a drug reference.”

• In my defense, it did have dinosaurs in it. Luckily for me the kids didn’t get most of the innuendo and so far my youngest has yet to repeat the word asshole in conversation. I know, I’m a bad mother. It keeps me up at night, truly.

—–

Go Random. Go Un-Mom. Go Random. Go Un-Mom.

Love Em To Death But…

It’s the disclaimer people always include when they want to complain about their kids without seeming like a monster. I love them but…Everyone loves their kids, even assassins and Nazis love their kids, so it’s not much of a justification.

I love my kids, but sometimes I wish they’d shut up for a little while.

Just typing that I’m waiting for a bolt of lightning to streak down and crisp me up good.

Yes, there are moments when I’m hanging on their every word, marveling at their insight, their compassion, their creativity, their comedy. Other times though, I’m staring at them blankly, dutifully appearing to listen as they complain, coerce or otherwise yap themselves in to redundancy.

It goes beyond the hey-mom-look-what-I-can-do cry for attention as they jump two inches off the ground for the eleventy thousandth time. Although that on its own gets pretty irritating.

There are the constant pleas for stuff they feel they need. Now. They need it right now and will rattle off a list of reasons why said object is an absolute necessity lest the earth suddenly ends its rotation. There are the constant fights that erupt and the subsequent explanations from both parties as to why they felt compelled to throttle their sibling to near unconsciousness over a package of Skittles.

Then there’s the teenager, who I am eternally grateful trusts me enough to share some of the details of her life. Truly grateful. I just wish she weren’t so damn repetitive. I just wish every sentence she uttered didn’t revolve around her in some way, which 98% of the time they do.

A typical dinner conversation-

Me: I was reading today about a woman who invented a bra that converts in to a gas mask. Seems bizarre yet oddly practical in today’s charged political climate.

Husband: Yet another thing I didn’t invent but wish I had.

Teen: OMG, did I tell you I had a bagel today in the cafeteria but then they ran out of chocolate milk so I walked up to this guy who I don’t even know and asked him if I could have his and he was like, for you, sure. It was hilarious.

Me: *blinking*

Husband: *rolling his eyes*

Other Children: *chewing*

Don’t get me wrong, this kind of stuff is fascinating when you’re fifteen. Not so much at 34. It’s good to have a link to her inner workings, I just wish they were a little more air tight.

At least after fifteen years my brain has gotten fairly adept at filtering out the useless information. Although occasionally I disregard a crucial detail in the process of decluttering.

“Mom did you wash my P.E. shorts? I need them for class today.”

“You didn’t tell me that?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Are you sure? I don’t remember that.”

“I told you last night before dinner, while you were taking the chicken out of the oven and screaming at the baby to back away from the hot door…”

“Uhm. Yeah.”

I know I’ll miss the noise some day when they’re grown and leading their own lives with nary a phone call to find out if I’m still alive and taking my arthritis medication.

I’ll miss the noise.

Right now I just miss the quiet.

—–

Have a confession to make?

The Merit of Pie

It’s one o’clock in the afternoon and I’m eating pie. Pumpkin pie. Because I can. I’m thinking about following it with a tall glass of cold milk. Two %. Skim can suck it.

My six year old has the flu and, as is usually the case when one of the kids is sick, I am obsessing about his condition, constantly taking his temperature, and otherwise assuring myself how unfit a parent I am.

Why wouldn’t I fill the time with baked goods? It’s as fine an alternative as any.

After jamming a Q-tip up one of his drainy nostrils, our pediatrician confirmed the boy had the flu and prescribed an antiviral along with a slew of other symptom quashing meds designed to keep my already lethargic son in a syrup induced haze.

He seems like he’s getting better.

The fever has finally abated.

But every opportunity he gets, he assures me he feels really, REALLY bad. Always two reallys, one emphasized for effect.

He is feeling well enough to play battle Godzilla on the Playstation at least, so that’s an improvement over the limp creature he was a couple of days ago. Still, every time he coughs I cringe. It’s barky and ugly and completely paralyzing.

So, forgive me if I backslid a little with my healthy eating vows.

When you’ve got a sick baby, all bets are off.

Maybe I’ll go back for a second slice.

Walking The Dog and Random Tuesday Thoughts

• On my way back from the bus stop this morning I saw a dog walking himself. He was carrying his own leash in his mouth as his owner strolled casually behind him. If I’d had my camera I would have taken a picture, but at 6:30 a.m. I was lucky to have been wearing shoes much less a carrying electronics. My question was, why bother with the leash if the dog’s holding it anyway? If you trust the dog to walk himself, wouldn’t you just sleep in?

• My husband is always amused by dogs performing people activities. Dogs being pushed in bucket swings, dogs sitting upright in umbrella strollers, it cracks him up every time. I always laugh when men unexpectedly scream like women. We’re easily entertained.

• My six-year-old is sick. Again. Not even just sniffles sick, but knocked on his ass with a fever sick. It’s the fourth time since he started school at the end of August. Today is actually make-up day for class pictures which he missed because he was absent the first time around. I might just have to carry him in there piggy-back just to get him to sit five seconds for the photographer.  I mean I did pay for the package already.

• I hate the commercials for Big Top Cupcakes. The frazzled woman holding her head in her hands – “Tired of looking like a fool cause your cakes aren’t cool?” I don’t think I’ve ever been laughed out of the building because I showed up with a square cake. Also, icing regular sized cupcakes is not the daunting task they make it out to be.  Maybe it just annoys me that my kids are sold on the prospect of a colossal cupcake mold just like they’re sold on Moon Sand, Pixos and Bendaroos. Maybe I’m just annoyed that I didn’t come up with some goofy product that could potentially make me gazillions if I aired it between every single kid show on Nickelodeon… Nah, I just hate giant cupcakes.

• I actually managed to escape my family a couple of weeks back to have a mom’s night out with my sister. We went out for Indian food then caught a showing of Zombieland which was just as entertaining as I expected it to be. While we were waiting for the movie to start, we headed in to the mall for coffee just as they were cleaning up to close. The guy behind the counter, Gabe, was nice enough to brew us a couple of $5 lattes. As he was setting us up with whip my sister joked, “you think he’ll spin the cans in the air ‘Cocktail’ style?” I glanced at Gabe, “he’s too young to have ever seen Cocktail.” Overhearing us, Gabe piped up, “I’m not young, I’m 18.” My sister and I stared at eachother before erupting in to a fit of giggles. “I’ve seen Cocktail,” he continued, “I’m old school…” Yeah, we laughed all the way to the theater lobby.

• Going out on a Friday night without my children would have been that much greater if I didn’t have to deal with the rest of the world’s children in public. There must have been at least 500 teenagers milling around, making out, and shouting obscenities at each other. Wow. It was a little gross, seeing other people’s babies with their tongues down one another’s throats when just a few years ago they were probably playing Pokemon and watching Spongebob cartoons. Couldn’t they just save the groping for a darkened theater and spare the rest of us the nausea?

The Un Mom.

Nuff said.

October Didn’t Work Out For Me, Nor I For It

I have maybe two solid, functioning weeks in any given month.

PMS turns me in to an inept puddle of goo and melancholy for a good seven days. It’s a roller-coaster of anxiety, confusion, and irritability. I’ve discovered it’s not just a lack of motivation I suffer from, but a complete lack of interest in almost everything. My blogging habits are proof of that.

Then menstruation comes along. A welcomed relief to my hormonal turmoil, but an entirely different challenge in itself.

October was the mother of all months. It was by far the worst cycle I’ve experienced.

Am I over-sharing? Possibly, but it is my forum after all.

I eschewed exercise in favor of bed. Ibuprofen instead of vitamins. I snubbed actual food for refined sugars and over-processed snacks.

I gave up.

Then I consulted Dr. Google who diagnosed me with PMDD then recommended anti-depressants. I’m definitely not ready to go down this road yet.

Also healthy eating and routine aerobic exercise might help.

It seems just switching over to fat-free half and half for a week is not enough of a dietary leap. I need whole-grains. I need *gasp* vegetables. Thinking about drinking OJ in the morning doesn’t qualify as a serving of fruit.

Jogging for five out of thirty days does not a fitness plan make.

I also learned that my PMS can be a preview of what lies ahead in menopause.

Menopause.

I could possibly be a homicidal maniac by the time I reach menopause.

So, I need to change stuff and not just because my pants are too tight.

I don’t like being a basket case.

I enjoy hanging with my sanity when it comes to visit.

If eating legumes and leafy greens is going to help, then I am on it.

Good-bye white sugar.

Adios white flour.

I might have to force the kids to hide their Halloween candy in an undisclosed location.

I can’t be trusted.

—–

Maybe the rest of the HASAYers are seeing better results.

Zombism and Cupcakes

After much internal debate over what costume I’d don for yesterday’s festivities, I finally settled on a zombie…

I’d picked up the budget make-up a couple of weeks ago at Walmart, the question was what kind of outfit I’d splatter with theatrical blood. A bathrobe and jammies for the zombie housewife? A fanny pack and floral shirt for a zombie tourist?

I finally settled on a zombie secretary since I’ve little use for my business attire of late and having done clerical work, I can tell you I routinely felt dead on the inside.

Here are a couple of photos. Pay no mind to the laser beams decorating my skirt, I assure you they were in style seven years ago.

I know, my arms and hands look very much alive and healthy, but I just wasn’t ready to cake my entire body in cream paint and in the ten minutes I was slapping this look together, my children were inquiring my whereabouts a total of seventeen times. Seriously, they’re all still attached at the umbilical cord. It makes shopping unpleasant.

I think I need to work on my characterization a bit. I look less starved for brains than I do bored with the conversation. Also, for future reference, discount theatrical blood worn for more than a couple of hours will leave a semi-permanent stain on skin and clothing.

Here I am attempting to feast on one of the neighbor kids.

“You’re not really going to eat me, right?”

“No, sweetie,” I assured him, “boys don’t taste nearly as good as chocolate.”

Mmmmm, chocolate.

Hope the rest of you had loads of gory, sugary fun.

*My sister gets credit for the cool cupcakes, since undead moms don’t bake.*

Yes, I Am THAT Mom

I should’ve known any outing that began with me in my only pair of clean jeans was destined for failure. Not only were they my last resort in pant wear, they were also painfully tight. Constricting my organs tight. So tight it was less of a muffin top and more of a burst sausage casing. Really unpleasant. This alone should have been reason to succumb to the power of the drawstring and leave the mall trip for some other afternoon.

The van, though, needed alignment. My husband lured me with shopping prospects.

“If your pants don’t fit, you can just buy new ones.”

“Nooooooooo. I don’t want new ones. I want these to fit!” As I stuffed a mini Twix in my face and slipped on my shoes. My sweatiest shoes.

Did I mention it was nap time?

Of course it was.

At Sears, the attendant told us it would be an hour and a half. The precise amount of time we would need to be out of there by in order to pick up our six year old at dismissal. It would be close, but what were we if not adventurous?

We handed over the keys.

We circled the mall once before stopping at the train ride, where my almost three year old son eagerly stepped in to the first car. Somewhere along the second circuit, his smile turned in to a frown. By round three his eyes were wide with panic. Fourth time past a waving mom and dad, he was wailing. Open mouth, in fear for his life.

“Stop!”

By then all I wanted was a greasy, salted pretzel and a large lemonade. We parked ourselves with the boy at the island of 75 cent kiddie rides, which no parent can bypass without fielding a nuclear sized kid meltdown. The days of quarter priced mechanical horses are long past. We converted our last three dollars in to change and let the kid loose.

Minutes later the Sears guy called. One of our tires was screwed. Two screws actually and damaged beyond repair, one of the others would never ride straight again, something about treads and rotation and other things I refused to follow in conversation.

It would be a while.

We took the escalator up to the store’s second floor. Then my husband had to make a pit stop.

In my infinite wisdom, I figured the Christmas display would best provide my fatigued child with a brightly colored, fabulously lit, distraction. He circled the various lawn ornaments with glee as I parked the stroller and pulled out my cell phone. I had to text my neighbor so she’d know to pick up the kids at the elementary school. It would only take a second.

In that second my son climbed over the display’s plastic border and hooked one of his feet beneath the blanket of cottony fake snow. He went down in slow motion toward the lit up snow man, which toppled forward in to the lit up reindeer, which in turn tipped the Christmas tree, which fell on top of the giant nutcracker. It was a domino effect of falling lawn ornaments as my son wailed and everything came crashing down before my eyes, not to mention the eyes of all the customers waiting at the tool department check out, along with three cashiers, and one associate who was pushing a mower to its rightful place. I stood there, jaw agape, in my too tight pants holding my cell phone in my hand while my baby cried amid a pile of fallen Christmas toys.

“I’m sooo sorry,” I muttered, scooping up the kid, strapping him in his stroller, then rushing off to hide in electronics.

Jeeeezus.

I sat cross legged in a desolate aisle while my son fidgeted in his seat. My husband no where to be found.

“Let me out, Mommy. I want to get down.”

Fine. At this point. Fine.

When I set him loose upon electronics, my phone buzzed. My husband wanted to know where we were. As I texted my location another employee strode up behind me.

“Ma’am!” When the hell did I become a ma’am? “That radio is heavy, he’s going to get hurt.”

I looked over in time to see my darling boy pulling a Cars boom box off a shelf and on to his darling wee head.

Oh crap son of a biscuit. I’m THAT mother.

Yes, I saved him from a potentially serious head injury.

No, we didn’t make it to the school in time.

And yes, we’ve got to go back because Sears didn’t have our replacement tire in stock.

It was just that kind of day.

Don’t even get me started on last week.

 

A Photo Essay About a Photo Essay

Hey buddy, how about you help me make a picture story? Let’s brainstorm.

Yeah, sure. First, I fly like Superman.

Okay, that’s a good start. Maybe our story can be about a Super Toddler and the amazing socked feet that kept him suspended midair.

Wait, wait. Now I run, Mommy. See.

I can go with this. Super toddler speeding through the neighborhood, looking for someone to rescue from certain doom. Granted he only runs in circles, but nobody needs to know that.

Now I jump, Mommy. No pictures.

Pictures are part of our deal, dude. Can’t have a photo story without the photos, you know?

No, Mommy, no pictures.

Can you uncover your face and cooperate with me? Please?

Mommy, I see your camera? I take pictures.

Fine, whatever. You’ve sucked the inspiration right out of me anyway. Have at it.

I take picture of you.

That is not happening. I’m so not ready for a close up. I’ve got trampoline hair and I’m wearing my sleep shirt.

Look, Mommy. It you.

No, it’s us. See.

—–

This story was brought to you by Sprite’s Keeper

and

also the letter

S

and the number

2

Notes and Random Tuesday Thoughts

• Note to kids: If you really find it necessary to use my bathroom in the wee dark hours of the morning, please make sure there is toilet paper on the roll before proceeding. Nobody likes stumbling out of bed through the dark with their eyes still gummed together just so you can have a clean tush. Next time you’re on your own.

• I heard Pearl Jam’s “Alive” on the radio last week while I was driving to the elementary school for dismissal. It wasn’t on the local rock station like I expected, it was on the classic rock station, which gave me a moment’s hesitation since I was listening to them in high school. Really, has 90s grunge been relegated to “classic” because that pretty much crushes any fantasy I might have been clinging to that I’m still a very much cool and edgy 18 year old.

• Like the laugh lines, muffin top, and four children I cart around didn’t already kill that dream.

• Also when I googled Pearl Jam, this is the blurb I got on the first Wikipedia result:

Pearl Jam is more commonly known as the worst band ever. Popularized by old white people with a taste for bud light tallboys…

• Apparently I wouldn’t know cool if it snuck up and bit me on my squishy, 30 something year old ass.

• To the person who’s bumper I accidentally rammed with my shopping cart last Friday: I’m so glad I was able to make a quick getaway before you walked out. And I’m sorry, but that (very surface) scratch could’ve already been there before I tried to position that stupid plastic race car my son insists on riding out of traffic and between our parking markers. Those things are impossibly unwieldy and difficult to maneuver so really it’s Publix’s fault. If you hadn’t yet noticed the ding then…disregard.

• My youngest is peeing in the toilet. Consistently since last week and after a not so insignificant bit of bribery. He’s actually pretty good about getting to the bathroom in time, although I haven’t given up the diapers just yet, since the couple of mishaps he has had are usually on an upholstered surface. Or my bed.

• I once had to get rid of a car because of a potty training mishap with my first child. When a three year old tells you they have to go in a high pitched panicky voice, that usually means she’s already going. On the backseat. While you load the groceries in to the trunk.

• We kept the car for several months despite the fact that every time I got in, the smell of baked pee was suffocating. It was like a drunk drifter had been taking a whiz in my car and possibly had passed out in the backseat and died.

• To the people that are buying my children presents for the holidays: Please note that the following gifts will not be accepted and if they are politely taken, will be incinerated immediately after it comes out of the wrapping.

1. Anything with sand in the name.
2. Anything with dough, do, or doh in the name.
3. Anything that requires assembly.
4. Anything that requires batteries.
5. Anything that has more than five accessories.
6. Anything that has more than five attachments.
7. Anything that does NOT have an off switch.
8. Anything that takes up more than two square feet of floor space.
9. Anything that is alive.
10. Anything meant to capture or contain something alive that someone else is expected to catch.
11. Anything that requires plugging in.
12. Anything related to food making.
13. Stuffed animals.
14. Singing plastic reptiles.
15. Any type of riding toy.
16. Balls.

• I reserve the right to add to this list as the year draws to a close. Thank you for your cooperation.

In the event of Randomness, please break glass. Or go here.

Slapping Something Together – Spin Cycle

I’m not a crafty person by nature.

I can appreciate the visual arts. I’ve even been known to create a clever doodle or two. But crafts? Not my thing. A hand knitted quilt is a beautiful, time consuming endeavor I want no part of other than to see the end result and curl under it. In bed. With some ice-cream. While I watch television.

Being a mom though, I’ve had craftiness thrust upon me.

School projects in the early years are impossible for children to complete without adult intervention. A kid who is just mastering scissor use and still gets glue in his hair on a regular basis, can’t realistically be expected to dress a cardboard doll in the traditional garb of Spain using fabric and other textured materials. Can you tell where our next project is headed?

So, in a pinch. I can make stuff. If I have to.

I just don’t necessarily like what it does to me.

“Mommy, I want to help you.”

“Don’t touch it. I’m trying to get myself an A…I mean you. I’m trying to get you an A.”

Here are some recent efforts.

Last year’s skeleton was made using a paper stencil and some fabric paint on black sweats that were harder to find than you’d expect. Maybe because it’s 103 degrees outside and nobody in their right mind would force their kid in to black sweats.

This was made the year before that for a preschool “Harvest” festival since the idea of Halloween didn’t sit well with a large portion of other parents. This was a scarecrow costume with patches sewn on from some of my old pajamas, along with some hay borrowed from a neighbors outdoor Fall decor. The belt is an actual length of rope. Authentic, no?

And to celebrate Thanksgiving, there was the paper bag Native American vest, decorated on the front with two eagles representing the spirit as well as diamonds representing geometry and zigzags representing the ability to…not run in a straight line?

On the back are what may be bear claws but I’m not entirely sure, since I don’t believe I did the research. Note my ingenious head band design keeps it from sliding down over his eyes. How’s that for innovation? How’s that for shameless egotism?

My craft abilities don’t end there, those are just the attempts I’ve got documented in photographs. Sadly, based on this post, it seems like the only kid I get crafty for is my six year old son, but the girls have seen their fair share of parental assistance over the years as well.

Don’t even get me started on science fair projects. That’s an whole other rant post, trust me.

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For a real Arts and Crafts fix, visit Sprite’s Keeper. You just may learn something.