Laylee’s planning on moving out soon and I don’t think I’m invited. It has something to do with my personal appearance.
Parenting
Promises Promises
I’ll try to stop actually hurting you as I brush your hair, if you try not to wince and scream out when you feel the brush’s aura approaching your head.
Read more of the promises I’m making to my kids this week over at Parenting.com.
To the Future Mothers on the Bachelor
I like a lot of you. I don’t know you. I don’t readily admit to watching your shenanigans and exploits. I just happen to catch the show every Monday night at 8pm PST completely by accident. You are not super-real to me but just real enough I thought I’d write you all a letter on the internet, from one mom to a group of future moms who are, like, so ready to be moms.
First off, Jason doesn’t plan the dates. When he takes you out in a blimp, a jet, a parachute, a helicopter, a largish kite, shoots you from a cannon, or in some way takes you soaring to new heights with a view of the world you’d never imagined was possible, he is not the mastermind behind the experience. He has a team of PRODUCERS PLANNING EVERYTHING FOR HIM.
When you’re married, the team of producers will no longer live at your house, feeding him lines, starting the campfires, decorating his mansion and making every moment perfect. Jason will likely change back into a normal human male, a human male with a 5-year-old son whom he loves more than you.
And it’s not that heating up your own Papa Murphy’s while desperately seeking a vegetable to feed the child and then trying to get him in bed early enough that you’ll still have energy left for quality time with your shmoop isn’t fun. It’s just different. He will likely never shoot you out of a cannon or write your name in the sky again, at least not on weeknights. He may ask you to do his laundry though.
Secondly, nothing prepares you for motherhood, not watching shirtless Jason on TV playing with his son, not holding your friend’s kid until it starts to squeak ever-so-slightly, not obtaining a college degree, not “getting all the partying out of your system,” not even being hosed down with boogers and diaper fillins for 6 months straight while someone screams in your ear at the top of their lungs. Nothing prepares you. I’m not sayin’ it ain’t wonderful because it is. You’re just not, like, so ready. No one is.
My Baby LISTENS
This morning Magoo emerged from his room with a large stuffed turtle tucked under his arm, rather than the small mangy dog he’s been carrying around for weeks as his “baby.”
“This is my new baby,” he announced.
“Oh really? What happened to your old baby?”
“He never LISTENS to me. This baby LISTENS to me so he’s my new baby now.”
I think this is good criteria for choosing a baby. As she’s drooling in the Bjorn and I’m expounding my great treasures of knowledge, is the baby really listening? Well if not… You never know who I’ll end up with the next morning. It may be a turtle or a purple frog but a baby who doesn’t listen doesn’t last very long in this household.
So he took his baby to church where he cuddled him, tossed him around and eventually dropped him on the floor. I didn’t see much talking or listening and I wondered how long the relationship would last.
Laylee retrieved the wide-eyed turtle infant from the ground and began moving it around in a pattern resembling play but which did not appear enjoyable in any way. And then she sneezed.
I know she sneezed because I heard the sound next to me and a moment later she was holding the turtle 3 inches from my face with a guilty, teeth-baring grin/grimace on her face. There was a largish boogie on the turtle.
Magoo hadn’t noticed the desecration yet and she whispered, “What should I DO!?”
I searched my bag in vain for tissues or wipes and then told her quietly to take the turtle to the bathroom and wipe him down with a damp paper towel. This seemed to please her, the idea of having any business important enough to excuse her from a church meeting giving an inexplicable maturity and importance to her very being. As she marched with dignity from the room, Magoo noticed the baby-napping that had just occurred.
“Where’s she taking my BABY!?”
“Your baby has a boogie on his head and she’s gone to clean it off,” I whispered.
At this point, please ask me how much I had gotten out of the church meeting? Not a lot. I did have a renewed testimony of baby wipes, even when your human babies are past the point of diaperhood but other than that, it had been a pretty unfulfilling service.
And Magoo seemed strangely pleased over the drama with his baby. Of course he longed for his safe return, but a BOOGIE ON HIS HEAD?! That was obviously scandalous and cool in a way that only a 3 or 13-year-old boy can truly appreciate.
5 minutes passed.
Laylee returned with the turtle, holding it boog-first towards me, the grimace still on her face.
“In the bathroom there was a sign that said ”˜DO NOT something-I-couldn’t-read.’ I was worried that I wasn’t allowed to wash the boogie off his head.”
How, oh how did I keep a straight face as I told my semi-literate daughter that I was pretty sure, like 100% sure, that the sign did not say, “DO NOT WIPE BOOGIES OFF THE HEADS OF STUFFED BABY TURTLES IN THIS BATHROOM?”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
I’m pleased to say that the baby has now been cleansed and his listening skills are as good as ever. Perhaps better.
Emotional Outbursts are We
Emotional Outbursts are We – A Grammatically Correct Place Where a Kid Can Throw a Fit.
Things have been sort of climactic at our house lately. Everything is high drama. Both kids are going through a bit of a manic depressive stage. Either they’re twirling pirouettes joyfully around the house or they’re bawling their brains out. Magoo is especially bad because we’re trying to wean him off naps.
If he gets a nap, then he stays up all night with eyes as big as saucers. Blink. Blink. Grin. Giggle.
If we skip the nap, then he’s an absolute, fall-on-his-face-with-his-open-mouth-wailing, can’t-see-for-the-river-of-tears-blinding-his-eyes, mess. The slightest thing will make him bawl to an extent no one should ever bawl whose life is as charmed as his or whose cheeks are as luscious. If my cheeks were that rosy and edible, I would probably never cry again.
So a couple of nights ago I asked Laylee to set the table. We keep all our kid dishes in low drawers so they can get food and drinks for themselves while Dan and I sip sodas and watch YouTube videos of dancing cats.
Laylee very obediently and somewhat maliciously went about doing this chore as quickly as humanly possible. You see, she knows that Magoo likes to pick his own dishes at meal time, especially at dinner time, a time when he has been awake well past his ticking-time-bomb-of-a-brain’s point of no return. I watched her at work and thought, “NOT THE BLUE WIRE! CLIP THE RED!” Perhaps she was still disappointed that the police broke up our little fireworks soiree on New Year’s Eve and she wanted to see some toddleric pyrotechnics instead. Sadly I doubt she was moving that fast simply to do a good job. You could tell by the look on her face and the way she glanced over at Little Buddy that she was clipping the blue wire on purpose.
And he ERUPTED! “I wanted to pick my own plate. Don’t EVER EVER EVER pick my plate Laylee. EVER!”
“Sorry bud. You’re too late,” she said matter-of-factly.
“BUT I DON’T W-W-W-WANT THAT PLATE. I WANT TO PICK MY OWN PLATE.”
At this point I had already dished up his food and did not relish the thought of dirtying another dish. Magoo sat in front of the drawer sobbing as if his broken heart had fallen in a Humpty-Dumpty-like tragedy and the pieces would never be put together again.
The sobbing and the pleading, the sorrow and the lack of pity went on for quite some time until Dan stepped in with a brilliant idea.
“Here,” Dan said. “You wanna pick your plate? Fine. Pick your plate.”
He then carried the dish full of food over to the drawer, put it inside and closed it.
“Okay Magoo. Pick your plate.” Magoo opened the drawer, lifted the dish full of food, slid another plate from under it, sniffling all the while, and carried it pathetically to the table. His dinner remained shut in the bottom drawer.
Sometimes my greatest parenting triumphs involve not laughing at my children in their darkest hours. In their moments of greatest heartbreak, I often find my most fulfilling parental hilarity. It may be cruel but it’s the Way of Things.
As Magoo went to sit snifflingly up to the table, Dan reminded him to wash his hands and said he’d dish up for him while he was in the bathroom.
While Magoo’s hands were all a-lather, Dan quietly pulled the loaded plate from the drawer and switched it out with the nearly identical plate Magoo had so pathetilovingly chosen for himself.
And he didn’t notice. And I decided that maybe we could do just one or two more naps. Per week. For the next few years.
Yeah-No
The “yeah-no” has become quite the art form around our house. I give the kids the affirmation they need without actually allowing them to do the bizarre and sometimes impossible things they ask for. The goal is to say “no” with some sort of affirmative statement that lets them walk away with a smidge of dignity intact and smiles on their squishable faces.
[I’ve written up the instructions for the “yeah-no” at parenting.com]
Today I Was a Mom
I was a mom pretty much all day today. Here is my report:
I cruelly forced someone to wear pants outside in 40-degree weather.
I cut peanut-butter sandwiches in the shape of dinosaurs and delivered them to an alfresco restaurant-for-2 at the end of our driveway.
I danced like a lunatic while driving in my car. My passengers said I was good. I chose to believe them.
I changed shirts twice but never showered.
I calmly explained AGAIN why people under the age of 30 should never use permanent markers… ever.
I threw away 3 packs of wipes that had been left open and dried out completely. Yes. I heard the earth and Sheryl Crow scream out in pain and betrayal.
I received a visitor while sitting upon the throne who proceeded to hug and cuddle me tenderly while I peed… just because of love.
When they asked “Why,” I answered. All day long.
I held a large child like a baby while he cried and showed me his bonk. Twice.
I giggled on the escalator while holding hands with a boy and agreed that it was “JUST LIKE A RIDE!”
I tried to play a girly ballad on the car stereo but was told, “That song’s scary!” “No it’s not,” I retorted. He responded, “It’s not scary to YOU, but it’s scary to ME.” I navigated my Zune back to Eye of the Tiger.
I sat out on the front porch to sort the mail so they could keep playing outside until it was All the Way Dark.
When asked to squeeze the ketchup in the shape of a dinosaur, I did my best but was informed that it looked more like an AT-AT.
I purchased the socks with the grey bottoms even though they cost 50 cents more because they help him run so much faster.
After 3 hours of hard work, I unearthed a parking spot in our garage and put my car in it, only to be scared and confused when I went to leave for a meeting and found that the car was “missing” from the driveway.
I sat in a meeting full of other moms, animatedly discussing ways of extorting money from friends and family to support education. An award called a “Golden Acorn,” professional jump-ropers, and nominating people to be on a committee to nominate people were all discussed at the meeting as well.
I picked up two slugs with my bare hands and threw them to freedom so the children’s squealing would stop. One was on a rubber ball. One was on my living room carpet. They felt like congealed slime… because they were.
Upon request I composed two original songs, one called, “Hooky Joojie” and the other called, “Mommy, the Laylee’s Mommy,” sung to the tune of Rudolf the Red-nosed Reindeer.
I heard two people pray about how much they loved me.
Today I was a mom. It’s not a bad gig.
Still Here
So we’re experiencing the worst flooding here in ~90 years and our town is cut off in every direction from the rest of the world. Dan made it home before the flooding and our house is up high enough that we always fare okay. There’s just no new mail, no garbage pickup, no grocery deliveries to the stores and no easy access to hospital care. So many people have lost their homes throughout the state and as the waters recede, there is damage to our major routes out of town, so it may be several days until people can get in or out safely.
Luckily Dan is stuck on this side of the water and is able to work from home fairly effectively. And although Laylee thinks she’s broken her leg and is begging me to take her to Children’s Hospital for X-rays, I’m fairly certain that the Arnica I just rubbed on it has done the trick. With the way she’s prancing around the living room, I think I’ll hold off on calling the fire station emergency evac boats into immediate action.
Click over to Parenting to read about the REAL secret of how we’re handling the whole situation. Parental wisdom comes from surprising sources. It’s humorous and highly useful information to enrich your life.
Humility, Thy Name is Mother
Whatever pride or dignity I thought I possessed as a young whipper-snapper came spilling out of my body along with the child when I lay helpless in the hospital answering to the name of Mother for the first time, midwifes and nurses, grabbing, pulling and touching me in ways that I would have previously found appalling.
Over the past 6 years I’ve periodically made attempts to regain some of my lost pride but it’s hard when you live with people who can’t BELIEVE there’s not a baby in your tummy because it’s SO big, who use you as a human tissue, and who pray to Heavenly Father that he will help them please be on time for school tomorrow. Laylee knows I’ve shown myself incapable of regular punctuality so she likes to call for backup.
This morning on the way to school, I noticed I hadn’t even run a comb through her hair. This is absolutely unacceptable in my opinion, especially since she gets to pick her own clothes. I need the teacher to see one sign that she is not being physically neglected at home. So I pulled over to the side of the road and tried to do a quick fix with the only tools I had, a comb and a bobby pin. Without tangle spray or local anesthetic it’s nearly impossible to straighten Laylee’s bird’s nest without shrieks of agony so I “smoothed it over,” told her I’d done the best I could but it wasn’t great and got back into the drivers’ seat of the car.
“It’s okay,” Laylee replied. “Being on time is way more important than just looking nice anyway.” As she said this, I wondered if she was as aware as I was of my unshowered, unbrushed hair or the near-pajamas I was wearing. I could have been the poster child for “Looking Nice Isn’t That Important Anyway.” Then there was the reminder that being on time was more crucial than looks and that I’d let her down so many times in the past.
Kids will let you know what they think of you. Frequently their words are filled with love and often with that love comes brutally honest assessments of your worst traits, your biggest insecurities. Even their criticisms usually aren’t malicious at this age. They just stem from curiosity, fascination or just plain lack of social skills but they can still hurt or at least bump your pride down a notch.
Lately the kids have been using “humor” to share how they see the world, their favorite being the knock-knock joke that’s really a why-did-the-chicken-cross-the-road joke in disguise.
Both of these gems came up at dinner last night to much raucous laughter.
Knock knock
Who’s there?
Why did the mommy cross the road?
I don’t know. Why?
To go shopping.
Knock knock
Who’s there?
Why did the mommy cross the road?
I don’t know. Why?
To pick up her prescription
Nice. So this “mom” person is a materialistic shopaholic who NEEDS HER MEDS? I see why that’s funny. Almost.
Then driving to school yesterday, Magoo pointed out the window at a woman walking along the sidewalk and asked, “Mom? What name is that lady?”
“I’m not sure,” I replied.
“Oh. Oops,” he said. “That’s no lady. She’s just a MOM!”
AAAHHHHH! And yet. I love this job so much it hurts sometimes. What would I do without these kids? Besides be more of a “lady,” that is?
Three-Year-Old Interrogations
Magoo is at a stage where he just NEEDS to know. He needs to know why. He needs to know who. He thinks he knows how but he’s not sure. Yeah. He wants someone to tell him how. [Read the rest of this post at Parenting.com]