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August 20, 2013

Sometimes it takes work to enjoy my kids.


Go ahead, tar and feather me. Burn me at the stake. (Actually, please don’t. Those sound dreadful).


But I totally get it if you judge me right now, and I only care a little bit. A little bit more. Ok, yeah – THAT much.


Because the fact is, the kids never want to do what I want to do. Quiet stroll in the park, sipping coffee and chatting with friends, or shopping for a new purse (or earrings, or LORD HELP ME jeans). They don’t even like wine. Seriously?


They want to do kid stuff. My son’s favorite activity is to pick things up from where I put them when I was cleaning and relocate them. Usually to the trash can. Or the toilet. This is not, come se diceIt’s not a hobby we share.


My daughter likes to read books. All 18 of the library books. Repeatedly. While asking the same “why” questions on every page. I DON’T KNOW WHY THE RABBIT IS WEARING A PURPLE SHIRT. I just don’t. 


And I’m hearing all the time about how fast they grow up and cherish the moments, and the years are short, and blah blah freaking blah. Because some days, I’m all Can you please not join me in the bathroom while I poop? Some days, it’s just hard to enjoy them.


But I do. Many days, I do enjoy them. But it really is work. I have to train myself to have the attention span of a mosquito (read: toddler). I have to learn to find joy in things that also bring joy to my 3-year-old and my one-year-old. I have to choose to let go of my desire to go into that store and try on that dress and instead stay here on the sidewalk and watch ants march by. And I find joy watching the delight on their faces and seeing them learn. Seeing their unspoiled enjoyment of simple things. These are the moments I remind myself will fade away, and I will wish I had enjoyed them. So I join them. “Let’s build an obstacle course for the ants!” I say. And I enjoy it.



June 11, 2013

The smell of dinner cooking on the stove wafts through the air, causing my stomach to growl. And by “dinner cooking on the stove,” I mean, of course, that my Pasta Roni is simmering, waiting to preserve my insides. My last meal was a bite of my daughter’s sandwich with a side of cracker, polished off with tepid water that stood on my nightstand all night.


The smell of my gourmet cooking is mingling with another familiar smell. As the aromas dance beneath my nose, I tell myself that this is what motherhood smells like*. I’m changing another diaper, and this one traveled. You know what I’m talking about; the poop exited the bottom and took surface roads for a while, trying to find fresh air. It found fresh air. Well, it found Pasta Roni air.


My daughter told me the other day, “Mommy, you a good Mommy” (we are working on using verbs, but she still talks like a caveman.) This unsolicited praise came while I was cooking another box of Pasta Roni for us to have for lunch.


My daughter is almost 3, but I plan on feeding her enough preservatives that she will easily live another 150 years. Preservatives are good, you see; they preserve the body. Science.


I also make sure my children have plenty of fresh, organic food. For example, just the other day, my 1-year-old son ate a whole serving of dirt. I believe that was the same day that we met our new neighbors. My daughter’s diaper was so full of pee, it was hanging below her knobby knees, drawing the eye to her bare feet; my son was naked; and I was in my Pajamas. At 5 pm. So, I guess you could say I’m super mom. I mean, if you want to give me an award, you can. I accept Pasta Roni.


*Motherhood smells like boxed foods and poo. If you think it smells like Pinterest, go read another blog. You’re not welcome here.

Because Today Deserves Two Entries…

October 14, 2011

We recently went on a church retreat to a huge conference center made out of nuclear bomb shelter concrete. The whitewashed walls, windowless halls, and maze-like layout welcomed us like a straightjacket welcomes a nut.


We weren’t the only ones there. There was another church group – a women’s group – meeting, too. We met them in the halls like ants: Which way is up? *Blink blink* I haven’t seen sunlight in days.


We found out later the style of architecture that the building represented is called “brutalist.” Now if that doesn’t make you feel at home, I don’t know what does.


The retreat sessions all took place during my toddler’s naptimes or bedtimes. Convenient. You know what else was convenient? The proximity of the as yet unused coat check room to our meeting space – spitting distance if you’re from Alabama.


I know what you’re thinking… You put your kid in the coat check room?? You brute! 

My, what a punster you are! Get it – Brute? Brutalist? Ok, I guess I’m the only one laughing here…


Of course I didn’t coat check my child! I have my boundaries. My limits. My morals…


Luckily my husband has none of those pesky ethics. So he got the security guards to unlock the room, set her up in a nice comfy hanger, tagged her with a number (how else will we claim her??), and left.


Ok, I kid.  Obviously. We left her in a crib, not a hanger.


And, we’re not totally negligent. We left a gangly 8-year-old girl to stand guard outside the room.


There. Happy now?


October 14, 2011

Is your kid a light sleeper? Mine usually isn’t, but she is when she’s transitioning between nap schedules. Right now, she’s transitioning between two naps a day to one, and she goes back and forth throughout the week, not settling on a schedule quite yet. So I do not go upstairs while she is napping, even though that’s where the haven of peeing lies. The stairs groan, the safety gate squeaks loudly, and I wince when I step on a creaky floorboard (why, yes, I DO live in a haunted house).


Which is why I can’t pee right now. Even though I just drank two cups of coffee. Even though I just contemplated peeing into a diaper. I will not go upstairs. I will not wake her up.


September 23, 2011

My daughter just learned how to kiss. She sucks in her cheeks like a fish and makes a puckering/smacking sound. THEN she leans in, open mouth, and slobbers on me.


I love it.

Tiny Assassin

September 22, 2011

I’m pretty sure my daughter is a tiny assassin, hired to kill me.

Today she attacked my eye with her pointer finger – jab – no time to blink. Later, she came at me with a pen. On a regular basis, she flings sippy cups and other heavy objects at my feet and head. Perhaps it’s maiming that’s her goal?

If she can’t maim or kill me using force, she intends to use psychological warfare to break my spirit by screaming as loud as her little lungs can scream, in full tantrum mode, as many times a day as possible. It’s working.

Trained Monkey

June 3, 2011

I have been nannying another girl this month, and having another child around has allowed me to see my daughter’s personality in a new light. I’m sorry to report that she is on her way to becoming a corrupt little criminal. And the the other girl, the nanny-ee? An angel. Dang.

My daughter knows she’s not allowed to play with the dog’s food and water dishes (choking hazard and, well, just gross). She got in there yesterday, and I told her no and pulled her way. She did it again, and I said no and moved her. She did it again, and I told her no and removed her from temptation. She did it again, and I slapped her hand and said no. She laughed. It was almost maniacal.

Later, I turned my back for .07 seconds, and I heard the other child (who is 6 months older than my little one) going “ehh… ehh” rather urgently. I turned and she was looking at me and pointing at my little delinquent who was basically bathing in the dog’s water.

This other girl has a favorite baby doll, which she grips tightly and does not share. Understandable. My girl doesn’t share her favorite bear – these “lovies” are exempt from sharing. But my little troublemaker crawls menacingly toward the other girl and tries to steal her baby doll. The other girl has learned, when my little mugger approaches, to just throw her doll at her. Take it! Spare my life!

So, at this point, my plan is to train her up in these natural skills and bring her into bustling cities, on trains, subways, boats, etc and get her to mug strangers to pay for her room, board, education, and arranged marriage. Basically, a trained monkey, but WAY cuter.