I try to be a cool mom. For example, when I have to run tons of errands and get to have two little "helpers" with me, I always try to mix in a few fun things with the real stops. So we'll go for a haircut (with suckers DURING the cut, not after), Target (with a stop in the Pokemon and vacuum aisles), the pet store just for fun (where I use silly voices running commentary about how the gerbils really wish someone would just bring them a freakin' donut for once because gerbil food sucks), the grocery store, and finally the park for a picnic. And inevitably I will hear at the end of the day, "All we did today were things that were YOUR choice, and nothing that was MY choice." My attempts of being a cool mom erased for the day by needing to stop for a gallon of milk.
And I stop for reflection when I hear that the whole day has been my choice. Even at the ripe age of 34, I have never considered going to the grocery store, dry cleaners, another grocery store for the one thing the first one didn't have, the vet, and the bank as things that I actually want to do. What I would really like to do is lay in bed (while my clone works out simultaneously so I get the benefits of exercise without the effort), reading a book, while people constantly refill my coffee cup with the correct proportion of coffee to milk. I'd watch movies, talk to my friends, nap, sleep, nap again, then maybe get out of bed to go shopping for fun things, not food. Then I'd eat pizza EVERY NIGHT because 1) it is easy and 2) I like pizza. These are the choices I would make if I were actually making choices. And I would implement a rule where the word "mom" could only be uttered once every 10 minutes (current rate is once every 3 minutes - seriously, you could time it). But the last time I checked, nothing gets done if I sit around in bed all day (not that I've tested this because I've never had the chance). And feeding your family pizza every night is close to child abuse. Or at least worthy of a serious guilt trip. Like the time I complained to Rocco's doctor about how much he loves to eat Poptarts. And the doctor told me then (with a TONE) that the only one to be blamed was the person buying the Poptarts. Ugh - I KNOW! - another example of my "choice" gone wrong.
So for now, it appears my "choices" include cleaning, shopping trips where I only come home with food, paying bills I don't want to, and cooking somewhat nutritious foods. Things have certainly changed since I was 20. But then again I occasionally get the guilty pleasures of watching Disney movies again and talking in silly squeaky voices in public as I narrate the life of a gerbil without feeling too stupid. And if it really was my choice, I'd bring that gerbil a donut. He's been asking for one forever.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Testosterone Vs Estrogen Or No Wonder Mars Is A Gaseous Planet No One Can Live On
It's been awhile since I posted. Why? Because my children are sucking the life blood out of me slowly - but that's another story for another time.
Tonight's topic? Yet again, bathroom humor. I realized tonight with a sense of hopelessness that I will ALWAYS be outnumbered in my house and ALWAYS find bathroom humor to be tasteless. But I am surrounded by testosterone and my life will consist of fart jokes and potty comments. A few examples these past few days really hit this home.
1. Unfortunately this weekend the Rockstar had a bout of the stomach bug that presented itself as diarrhea. There was a point on Saturday that Rock's newest deposits were announced by such trumpeting that you would have thought a whole horn section entered my living room. Seriously, Rock is a tiny thing and even I had to admit, this was impressive (although gross). The Moose of course found this to be the funniest thing he had ever seen (heard!) and was doubled over. The Rock, who is taking a course called "Max 101", started laughing right along with him - complete with slapping pillows at the hilarity. Okay, this was a little funny on the respect that I love to hear my kids laugh, but it also meant I was grabbing a new diaper and pair of pants. To top this off, Rock's little stomach bug prevented me from going out with my girlfriend for her bachelorette party that night (Pete was out of town). Now before you go all sarcastic "poor Jenny" on me, please note that the last time I went out for dinner with girlfriends was April 2. For real. Needless to say, I needed a night out and not 6 blow outs instead, but once a Mom always a Mom. But I digress...
2. My children inherit their "noisiness" from their father. Tonight while showering the kids, perhaps Peter was a little "loud." And my kids (both of them) cracked up like they were at a comedy club. Locker room and frat party scenarios flashed through my mind like they say your life does in near-death moments. And I realized that I do not have enough estrogen to carry this house.
3. Finally, our pediatrician's office has this awesome program where they give the kids books at their well-child appointments. The last one Rock got is called "Have you seen my potty?" - appropriate, if not optimistic, that an 18-month old would be thinking about potty training, but I'm on board. Turns out Rock LOVES this book. Please, let me quote it for you (these lines are no joke):
"It's a thing for pooing in. Hey I need to poo! Me too!"
"Hurry up with the poo-pot, we're desperate here."
"Always poo with a poo-pot under your bottom!"
Sigh. How does a toddler decide that this book is the one he needs to hear multiple times a night? Really? And who the heck thinks up this crap (pardon the pun)?
To summarize...I am outnumbered and my mothering goals have changed. No longer am I shooting for Ivy League schools and raising Pro Athletes who become doctors who volunteer for Doctors Without Borders. No, now my goals are to teach my children to not laugh at farting and actually show manners, at least around their dates. And in the mean time, I also need to improve their choice in literature - I'm not giving up on the Ivy League thing yet.
Tonight's topic? Yet again, bathroom humor. I realized tonight with a sense of hopelessness that I will ALWAYS be outnumbered in my house and ALWAYS find bathroom humor to be tasteless. But I am surrounded by testosterone and my life will consist of fart jokes and potty comments. A few examples these past few days really hit this home.
1. Unfortunately this weekend the Rockstar had a bout of the stomach bug that presented itself as diarrhea. There was a point on Saturday that Rock's newest deposits were announced by such trumpeting that you would have thought a whole horn section entered my living room. Seriously, Rock is a tiny thing and even I had to admit, this was impressive (although gross). The Moose of course found this to be the funniest thing he had ever seen (heard!) and was doubled over. The Rock, who is taking a course called "Max 101", started laughing right along with him - complete with slapping pillows at the hilarity. Okay, this was a little funny on the respect that I love to hear my kids laugh, but it also meant I was grabbing a new diaper and pair of pants. To top this off, Rock's little stomach bug prevented me from going out with my girlfriend for her bachelorette party that night (Pete was out of town). Now before you go all sarcastic "poor Jenny" on me, please note that the last time I went out for dinner with girlfriends was April 2. For real. Needless to say, I needed a night out and not 6 blow outs instead, but once a Mom always a Mom. But I digress...
2. My children inherit their "noisiness" from their father. Tonight while showering the kids, perhaps Peter was a little "loud." And my kids (both of them) cracked up like they were at a comedy club. Locker room and frat party scenarios flashed through my mind like they say your life does in near-death moments. And I realized that I do not have enough estrogen to carry this house.
3. Finally, our pediatrician's office has this awesome program where they give the kids books at their well-child appointments. The last one Rock got is called "Have you seen my potty?" - appropriate, if not optimistic, that an 18-month old would be thinking about potty training, but I'm on board. Turns out Rock LOVES this book. Please, let me quote it for you (these lines are no joke):
"It's a thing for pooing in. Hey I need to poo! Me too!"
"Hurry up with the poo-pot, we're desperate here."
"Always poo with a poo-pot under your bottom!"
Sigh. How does a toddler decide that this book is the one he needs to hear multiple times a night? Really? And who the heck thinks up this crap (pardon the pun)?
To summarize...I am outnumbered and my mothering goals have changed. No longer am I shooting for Ivy League schools and raising Pro Athletes who become doctors who volunteer for Doctors Without Borders. No, now my goals are to teach my children to not laugh at farting and actually show manners, at least around their dates. And in the mean time, I also need to improve their choice in literature - I'm not giving up on the Ivy League thing yet.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
One Step Forward, Poo Steps Back
Warning: This post is not for the weak hearted.
It is important that you understand that I hate everything and anything that resembles bathroom humor or bodily functions. I don't talk about it, I don't want to hear about it. But unfortunately I have found the past two nights have had highs and lows all surrounding one thing: poo.
First, I want to start on a very high note. Although Rocky is not quite two, he is very verbal about his potty habits. The books always say that if your child can tell you that he is poopy, etc., then he is ready to potty train. Well I've found that to be a bit of crap (pardon the pun). Max never told us anything and he potty trained just fine. And it was fine with me because I really didn't want to talk about his potty needs. I don't want to hear about size, shape, smell. Peter, well, he is more than willing to discuss these details with Max. I typically leave the room. Anyway, last night Rocco looked at us and said "I poop on potty!" and then ran for the bathroom. We obliged and took off his diaper and put him on the potty. And sure enough, he actually pooped. Despite my aversion to bathroom stuff, I did a full dance with clapping. Everyone was singing, I texted the world and called my parents. I was so happy about this first positive potty experience for Roc. It literally made my night.
So tonight we are still riding the potty high, but have heard nothing from Rock about needing to use the potty. No matter, I was happy that it happened once - obviously my child is gifted, which I have always known. Peter and I were busy - very busy - in the kitchen doing important parent things like talking to Pete's mom on the phone and doing dishes. This is a crucial detail so you don't think we are just lazy parents that let our kids run amuck. Max hollers out "I think someone has a poopy diaper in here." I go to inspect and something definitely is not right. I look over and there on the floor is poo. And more poo. I look over at Rocco, who of course has it all over his hands, just in time to see he has developed an itch on his nose. And he of course scratches - I'm not going to give you the graphic details because 1) I don't like talking about this stuff and 2) I've already said too much.
It's funny that in a moment of poo crisis, while Pete and I are looking frantically around, waiting for people in hazmat suits to come sweeping in, Max only looked up briefly from his dsi to survey the scene and kept on playing. Long story short, it took two of us to wipe the exterior poo issues enough to take care of the interior poo issues and Rocco ended up in the bathtub with a strong warning that poo is never a toy.
And as I sit here typing, still recovering from this traumatic night, it is not lost on me that poo brought me total elation last night and complete panic tonight. And Rocco has found two "fun" ways to get attention. Let's hope from now on he chooses the former rather than the latter. But knowing him and his little personality, I'm just going to be grateful for the nights that I don't find a bathroom in the living room. And I'm going to keep the box of wet wipes within an arm's reach at all times.
It is important that you understand that I hate everything and anything that resembles bathroom humor or bodily functions. I don't talk about it, I don't want to hear about it. But unfortunately I have found the past two nights have had highs and lows all surrounding one thing: poo.
First, I want to start on a very high note. Although Rocky is not quite two, he is very verbal about his potty habits. The books always say that if your child can tell you that he is poopy, etc., then he is ready to potty train. Well I've found that to be a bit of crap (pardon the pun). Max never told us anything and he potty trained just fine. And it was fine with me because I really didn't want to talk about his potty needs. I don't want to hear about size, shape, smell. Peter, well, he is more than willing to discuss these details with Max. I typically leave the room. Anyway, last night Rocco looked at us and said "I poop on potty!" and then ran for the bathroom. We obliged and took off his diaper and put him on the potty. And sure enough, he actually pooped. Despite my aversion to bathroom stuff, I did a full dance with clapping. Everyone was singing, I texted the world and called my parents. I was so happy about this first positive potty experience for Roc. It literally made my night.
So tonight we are still riding the potty high, but have heard nothing from Rock about needing to use the potty. No matter, I was happy that it happened once - obviously my child is gifted, which I have always known. Peter and I were busy - very busy - in the kitchen doing important parent things like talking to Pete's mom on the phone and doing dishes. This is a crucial detail so you don't think we are just lazy parents that let our kids run amuck. Max hollers out "I think someone has a poopy diaper in here." I go to inspect and something definitely is not right. I look over and there on the floor is poo. And more poo. I look over at Rocco, who of course has it all over his hands, just in time to see he has developed an itch on his nose. And he of course scratches - I'm not going to give you the graphic details because 1) I don't like talking about this stuff and 2) I've already said too much.
It's funny that in a moment of poo crisis, while Pete and I are looking frantically around, waiting for people in hazmat suits to come sweeping in, Max only looked up briefly from his dsi to survey the scene and kept on playing. Long story short, it took two of us to wipe the exterior poo issues enough to take care of the interior poo issues and Rocco ended up in the bathtub with a strong warning that poo is never a toy.
And as I sit here typing, still recovering from this traumatic night, it is not lost on me that poo brought me total elation last night and complete panic tonight. And Rocco has found two "fun" ways to get attention. Let's hope from now on he chooses the former rather than the latter. But knowing him and his little personality, I'm just going to be grateful for the nights that I don't find a bathroom in the living room. And I'm going to keep the box of wet wipes within an arm's reach at all times.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)