Drops of Awesome

Personal Blog of Author Kathryn Thompson

Save Me From Myself

Snazzy Jammies

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So things are moving along. Wanda is aging rapidly. We’ve moved her out of our room and I’ve decided it’s time to purchase some new Snazzy Jammies.

The problem is – I hate buying Snazzy Jammies. Now if you go to the Snazzy Jammie store to buy them, it’s not embarrassing because everyone in the store is there for the same reason, but who wants to spend that kind of money which only goes to pay for more of those life-sized posters right next to the kids’ play area at the mall?

No. When I’m looking for Snazzy Jammies, I usually look at Target or Kohl’s.

The problem is – Most people at Target and Kohl’s are not purchasing Snazzy Jammies. They are there looking for rain boots or a kitchen timer, maybe a roll of scotch tape. I like all of those things as much as the next person and so I usually try to camouflage my Snazzy Jammie purchase by spending way too much on sundries but, really, you cannot totally camouflage SJs. You just can’t.

A piece of Snazzy fabric may stick out from under your bag of diapers, giving your Snazzy-Jammy-Wearing ways away to curious bystanders. And at some point the checker will have to pull them out of their hiding place under the bathmat on the conveyer belt to scan them. She can either scan them discreetly or hold them up to the light, taking the hanger out with an eye-catching flourish and turning them from side to side in order to check out just how Snazzy they are. I’ve had both. I prefer discreet.

And I always feel like she’s looking at me a little too hard. Maybe she’s wondering if Snazzy Jammies should even come in the size I’m purchasing. So what if I’m wearing no makeup, have my hair in a bun and am sporting sweat pants. A woman carrying a mom-purse so big that it sets off the flashing “fasten seatbelt” light when she puts it on the passenger seat of her mini-van is still entitled to feel Snazzy once in a while. I think it’s in the constitution somewhere… or at the very least one of the amendments.

First Grade Terror Alert

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I recently found a calendar in the pocket of Laylee’s school folder. It’s the folder that we use to send communications back and forth from home to the classroom. Her young, fun and perky teacher is always coming up with new exciting ways to motivate and reward the kids and I assumed the calendar was part of this rah-rah go-team-ishness.

Every day Laylee’s calendar came home marked with an orange stamp that said, “GREAT WORK!” I assumed all was well. Each day I’d check the folder and each day the orange stamp would appear… for the first couple of weeks. Then all of a sudden on one day she came home with a black stamp that said “good job.”

“What!?” I asked Dan. “I don’t want to be one of those parents who’s overly involved in her kids’ schooling or who freaks out when she gets a ‘good’ instead of a ‘great’ on her report card but I want to know why she’s fallen from her pedestal on the stamp scale. She’s not even getting orange anymore. Today’s stamp was black and I want to know why. I think I’ll email the teacher and get to the bottom of this.”

Dan offered some sage words of wisdom in regards to, “Do NOT do that. If you do that then you ARE one of those parents. So she got a lower level of stamp one day. It’s really not a big deal.”

“Well, at the very least I want to know what the different stamps mean. If a teacher’s going to use a complex rating system for our kids, represented by random stamps, I at least want to know what the different levels mean.

“It’s like if the government came up with a new terror alert system but didn’t tell anyone what the different colors meant. Like if they just came on TV one day and said, ‘The terror alert level is purple,’ but no one in America knew what the ‘Purple Alert’ meant.”

“You should just ask Laylee what they mean,” Dan responded.

“That’s all well and good,” I replied, “But if I want to know what a ‘Purple Alert’ is, I’m sure as heck gonna want to hear it from the administration, not from the crazy old guy waving a shotgun outside the gates of the White House.”

“So, who exactly is Laylee in this analogy?”

“The terrorist.”

I Plan to Become a Millionaire

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This morning I was spending some sweet quality time with my squishable water-filled newborn. Sunlight was filtering in through the window of my cozy bedroom and I was sitting next to her on the bed. She looked so precious and perfect except for a bright red gash, newly carved into her pudgy cheek.

“Stop scratching yourself baby!” I urged, “I think we’re gonna have to start calling you Scar Face.”

I’ve filed her nails. We’ve tried the little mittens and the pjs with the fold-over sleeves on the ends. She gets the mittens off like a fat little cross-eyed Houdini with dark duck down for hair. She spends her life trying to punch through those fold-over sleeves. They are a great burden to her.

Looking at her latest injury, I thought of the perfect solution – plastic face shields like you can buy for your PDA but made for babies! I know, right? Best idea ever. They would stick onto the baby’s face with a light, dermatologist-tested adhesive, completely covering baby’s face except for the eyes, mouth and nostrils. They would be transparent so you could still see your baby’s face, although it would look a little like you were viewing it through a window that it was being smooshed up against. But who doesn’t think it’s cute when tiny little kids smoosh their faces up against windows? Tell me. Who?

Then the baby could scratch and scratch all she wanted without doing any damage. She’d be happy and ready for her next photo shoot at a moment’s notice.

If anyone’s interested in buying this idea for mass production and sale, please email me. Serious inquiries only.

That One Post

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Today I wrote that one post, the one at the end of pregnancy where you’re actually considering removing the baby yourself by any means possible. It was 3.5 pages single-spaced in Word. It was whiny and self-indulgent and I meant every word of it. However it was also annoying and insensitive to all sorts of people who have actual serious life problems so I’m not going to post it.

Basically, my OB told me today that although I’m scheduled for an induction at 39 weeks due to the large size of the baby and how Magoo’s 10 lbs. 8 oz. did such a number on my body, it probably won’t happen because I’m not considered a priority to the hospital.

He said to be a priority you need to have the body of a woman, you know a body that’s capable of going into labor, all female-like. You can also be considered a priority if you or your baby is dying or showing signs of imminent death, if your blood pressure spikes or you suddenly grow a tail (this last part was not actually stated). The last way to become a priority is to go weeks past your due date. Since my mom’s coming to help with the baby a week early (because of my “scheduled induction”), if I go 2 weeks over, she won’t even get a chance to see that baby. What she’ll get a chance to do is push my pregnant butt around in a wheel chair and mop me up off the floor every couple of hours while I wait and cry.

I don’t go into labor, see? I don’t dilate. I don’t efface. I stay pregnant until someone at the hospital has mercy on me, which apparently is not likely. I’m having some of the worst pain I’ve ever had in my life and I’m discouraged, exhausted, ungrateful and not a little wenchy. A month from now I’m sure I’ll be over it but tonight… I’m not so much over it.

The 43-Dollar 4300-Calorie Tub of Sour Cream

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We sat down to eat some lovely Mexican lasagna for dinner when I decided I COULD. NOT. EAT. IT. without sour cream. I left the family sitting at the dinner table and ran to the grocery store to pick up that one thing. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Time me.”

Well it’s a good thing that Dan laid down on the couch and decided to time me with the inside of his eyelids (not the most accurate of timing devices) because I completely lost all track of the time while pillaging the aisles of the grocery store.

Sudden cravings for anything unhealthy and remotely appealing took over my body. Along with the sour cream, I picked up yogurt, bagels, bread… frozen pizza, sherbet, popsicles, Jones soda, Cheez Whiz, sugar cookies and other things I haven’t purchased since probably college.

I sheepishly unloaded my purchases at the counter.

“I’m pregnant.”

Serious look from the cashier.

“Sometimes I just need things.”

Serious look followed by some sage advice, “Don’t eat it all tonight, okay? And when you’re done, go back to vegetables and other healthy foods.”

“I’ve only gained 4 pounds so far this pregnancy.”

Serious look.

When I got home and started unloading, Dan asked how my trip was. “Fruitful,” I responded. The Chief Cookie Buyer in our household stared at my haul with wide eyes. “Certainly was.”

Smart boy did not offer any sage advice. He mustn’t if he ever hopes to see another morsel of HFCS, Trans Fat or food coloring enter the house again.

I bought nectarines too, sort of to camouflage the rest of it. It was by far the most expensive and unhealthful tub of sour cream I have ever purchased.

Protuberance Thompson

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We’ve got 2 months left and we still have no name for this little chica. We’re getting more and more creative with our names. We look for them everywhere. Movie credits are fertile hunting grounds for names, especially if you want to name your kid something like Ishi Tomahachigok Thompson or Matt “The Mutt” Thompson.

Driving back from our vacation we looked at road signs and business names. Wendy, Denny, Schwab, and Chevron could all be possible candidates. At one point I read aloud a sign that said, “Stay Off the Median.”

“Meedy-Anne,” I suggested, “That’s not a bad name.” Dan gave me the shifty eye-roll. Well, it’s better than “Rest Stop” or “Bump.”

Lately I’ve been referring to her as “the protuberance” although for no splickable reason I pronounce it “protRuberance.” It just sounds better and everyone knows what I’m talking about.

“I can’t push my stool up to the computer because of the protRuberance.”

“The protRuberance makes it difficult for me to cook without burning my navel.”

“My protRuberance is going nuts. Just look at it wiggle and jump!”

I work so hard to choose names for my kids that are beautiful to me but not popular in the general population. I want to be unique without being crazy. I’ve realized lately that almost everyone is trying to do the very same thing so if I find a name that’s really unusual and beautiful, chances are it will be THE name 3 years from now and my little Adeline will join a sea of Adelines heading into elementary school in the next decade.

What I should really do is stick to names that were so over-used during my childhood that none of the moms in our generation want to use them. Then my kid will be totally unique. Or I could just name her Protuberance. It has a nice ring to it, sort of like Constance only more visually evocative.

Carding a Fat Lady

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Since I don’t drink and rarely do anything that requires me to be over the age of 16, I have very few opportunities to be required to show identification. It generally only happens if I’m pulled over for speeding or if I’m at the grocery store buying wine for cooking.

Well yesterday I bought some wine for a risotto I was planning to cook and for the first time in history they didn’t ask me for ID. Maybe it was because the cashier knew me. Possibly it had something to do with the fact that I was toting 2 children along with me and waddling, very obviously pregnant with a third. I choose to believe that I’m starting to look as distinguished as befits my 30 years of age, despite the fact that this pregnancy has me breaking out like a preteen after a chocolate binge.

Then later that night Dan and I went to see the new Harry Potter movie, mostly to enjoy the air conditioning while cuddling child-free. When I purchased the tickets, the boy at the counter asked to see my ID.

“What is this Harry Potter movie rated?” I asked incredulously.

“PG-13.”

And I’m thinking, “This kid really questions whether or not I’m over the age of 13? From the way I feel at this moment, the baby inside of me is practically 13.”

“And you’re carding me to get into the movie?”

He looked confused. He stared at me in a way that only a 15-year-old boy can when confronted with the prospect of carrying on a conversation of more than two words with an adult woman.

And then it hit me as he handed back my credit card. He was checking ID to make sure the card wasn’t stolen. “You need the ID for the credit card, huh?”

He nodded uncomfortably, looking sort of down and away.

So yeah, if you want to get into a PG-13 movie anytime soon, pay cash or have your ID close at hand.

Mother’s Day Is In the Water

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Maybe it’s just in the air. It’s definitely all around us and through us and it’s fun and LOUD and festive and at times obnoxious.
mothersday09
My mom always used to say that what she really wanted for Mother’s Day was well-behaved kids who were obedient and didn’t spend the whole day fighting. But what about these delicious red bath oil beads?! Surely they’re enough of a bribe that I can spend the rest of the day making annoying mouth noises and poking my sister in the arm until she begs for mercy.

Ah. I understand her so much better now. The kids were very excited and excitable, cute and AAAHHHHHH!!!!!

Dan is a good Mother’s Day husband. He’s actually quite passable year round but on Mother’s Day he knows how to bring it. All I want from him is a flower, a meal or two, something to unwrap, and the assurance that I don’t have to do anything resembling work for the day. Sure, I’ll read the kids a story or brush their hair, but only the fun parts of motherhood, not the ones that involve cleaning or bodily fluids.

Totally off topic but speaking of bodily fluids, Laylee’s current favorite song at church is called How Firm a Foundation and the last line of the first verse says, “What more can he say than to you he hath said, who unto the Savior for refuge hath fled?” She picks this song every time it’s her turn to pick a song and she sings it with gusto. I recently discovered why. She was sitting next to Magoo at our family night and finished, “…who unto the Savior for refuse hath fled. Hey, pst. Magoo. Refuse means poop and pee and stuff. Giggle.”

Um yeah. Upon further investigation, it seemed that she really did think those were the words to the song and hilarious words they were. She was so disappointed to find out what it actually said. Ah, the bitter realities of gaining greater knowledge.

Anyway. I did nothing today in a very deliberate sort of way. There were beautiful flowers purchased on Saturday and placed in the middle of the kitchen table with strict orders from Magoo not to look at them. He burst into my room this morning with a “HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY! Now you can look at your flowers!”

Dan got everyone ready for church while I slept in and he made my new breakfast obsession, steel cut oats, cooked to perfection.

The talks at church were upbeat and motivating and made me want to be a better mom… tomorrow… when I’m done laying about the house celebrating the fact that I am one.

Dan coached the kids well on buying me fun and thoughtful gifts and even put them in gift bags. He gave me a card with Michael Scott’s wisdom on parenting. He made dinner, did the hard part of bedtime, and cleaned the kitchen.

I feel refreshed and a bit spoiled and useless. I slept too much, parented too little, received too many presents and didn’t do enough for my own mothers. It was a good day but not a great day. I wish I’d played a game with the kids or spent some time talking with Dan while he slaved in the kitchen. Absolute slovenliness doesn’t really sit comfortably with me. In a way it was a good reminder that all these sick fat pregnant days when I feel useless at the end of the day, like I have nothing to show for myself, I’ve done more than I give myself credit for. In the future, I’ll just tell myself, “At least I got more done today than on Mother’s Day ’09. That was a doozey!”

It’s weird too because I got more praise, love and outpourings of support than on most other days of the year and it was the day I felt least deserving of it. Strange thing, this day of mothers.

Googling Solutions to Cleaning Blood Stains While Teaching Preschool

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Do you remember a while back I wrote a post about the level of sheer carnage occurring with my brawling preschoolers? Well things have calmed down through the months. The kids have stopped the smackdown and their attention spans have stretched to include schoolish activities lasting up to 15 minutes in length as long as the mother who’s teaching does a pretty elaborate song and dance routine to keep them engaged. It’s been going pretty well.

There are six moms in my group and we all take turns teaching our group of 3-year-olds from a purchased curriculum, complete with activities and pre-cut craft projects. Then we get 5 weeks off to run errands, go to doctors’ appointments or simply lay around the house bonding with our much loved inter-uterine parasite.

This morning the kids arrived at my house and I was optimistic. I was ready. I’d even vacuumed the floor and laid out all the supplies.

Over the last few days Laylee and Magoo have set up a spaceship playhouse under the stairs, under the staircase with the 8-inch wooden beam along the outside of it. It’s a cramped space and they’ve pushed the couch up against the opening so there’s only the teeniest space for them to climb in and out of their hideout. I decided to let them leave it up for a few days and the preschoolers were thrilled.

15 minutes into the playdate, one sweet teeny 3-year-old smashed her nose at full speed into the wooden beam while jumping around inside the spaceship. Blood was EVERYWHERE. The poor kid was in pain and completely traumatized by the red dribbling all down her clothes, the couch and smeared all over her face. I ran her into the kitchen where I sat on the floor, holding her and sent Magoo to get a full roll of toilet paper and my cell phone.

The bleeding was intense for someone so tiny and in a soft voice she kept saying, “I want my mom.” But her mom was unreachable and I was the next best thing.

While I tried to stop the gushing, the other kids ran around like total insane sun-starved maniacs from the rainy northwest who CANNOT HANDLE ONE MORE DAY TRAPPED INSIDE. They were squawking, sword-fighting and hitting the walls, the furniture and each other with various objects.

Then another one started screaming. Poor little S-Dawg with the cast on his arm and the brand new baby brother at home had smashed the back of his head on the wooden beam and was howling in pain. All the other kids came running. “S-DAWG SMACKED HIS HEAD.”

One of my most basic parenting instincts kicked in and I decided that hemorrhaging trumps concussion so I called out comforting words to the poor little guy while rocking the bleeder and changing her compresses. Meanwhile the other children, forgetting their fallen friends, went all Lord of the Flies again.

Eventually I got her cleaned up and convinced her to change into some of Laylee’s clothes. She insisted that the shirt be pretty enough or she’d remain happily in her gore. If she were 3 years older, she’d be Laylee’s very best friend.

I dealt with Head Wound Boy, outlawed the space ships, outlawed the swords and light sabers and got everyone to chill while I googled “how to remove blood from upholstery” and followed the listed instructions.

We started preschool over an hour late today but all the children were alive or at least clinging to life when they left my house. That is my story.

Calling All Sports Fans

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Do your kids participate in competitive sports? How in the world do you cope with it. Recent experience has shown me that I can. not. handle the pressure of watching my loved ones play in sporting events where there’s a chance they might lose. I’ve written about it at Parenting and I’d love for you to come and share your experience, stories or possible advice. Because I need to chill way the heck out.

[read more at Parenting.com]