Today I realized that I live no better than I did in college. And I don't think my living situation will improve soon either. Let me explain.
The Sofa: Remember that really crappy hand-me-down sofa that you got from your friend that finally got married, that they got from their older brother? To class it up, you covered it with a sheet because it was so gross? I have a couch like that now (minus the sheet - I haven't stooped that low yet, although I did use a slip cover for a year). It didn't start that way, but my kids have destroyed it. If by some random chance a strawberry is laying on the floor, my child will step on it and track it on to the sofa. They will spill milk on the sofa. They will vomit and bleed on my sofa. No amount of flipping the cushions will bring back the dignity of my sofa. Pete and I have talked for a few years now about how we need to replace this sofa. But every time I think of spending money on a new sofa, I shudder to think of how quickly my children will take its value from $1000 to $0 (2 weeks top).
The "Family" Table: In college we had the piece of crap table that had mysterious stains and warps. When Pete and I moved into our house and had space and money for a new table and set of chairs, we felt very responsible and forward-thinking for purchasing the table and chair set toted to be "family friendly." Look at us, we thought, acting like mature adults, buying a table designed to withstand the rigors of children. No glass tops for us or bar stools. No, we chose a respectable table and chair set. One built to last. Now that we actually have kids, I would like to make a few recommendations to all table makers out there, claiming their tables are "family friendly":
1. Do not put any grooves in your tables. Food just gets stuck there and calcifies into the grooves that only a power sander could remove. Gross, but I believe in transparency.
2. Please make rounded corners with bumper pads. I think every parent knows why I am asking for this. And while you are at it, put pads underneath the table. Hell, just make the whole damned thing padded and save us some ice and tears.
3. Cover the table in a big roll of paper that we could just rip off when we are done with a meal (or art project) - like the tables at the doctor's office or at an Italian restaurant. My table now looks like a modern art display because washable markers are a case for false advertising.
Now I know where my college table came from - some family out there finally had their kids move out and they recycled their table with the first poor college student they could find and bought a nice new table with a glass top.
The "Carpet": Once a new house, our carpet was a thing of wonder - much nicer than the flattened down, stained carpet from our previous apartments. Of course the first spill was painful, but quickly treated, it didn't show. Now that I have children, my carpet could better be described as leopard print instead of beige (a stupid color for anyone with kids anyway - should have gone with a shade of Kool Aid). If I spot treated every spot on my carpet, I would never be done - and trust me, on ambitious moments, I have tried. Occasionally we hire carpet cleaners and things look good for about a month, and then reality sets in again and I'm back to animal prints. At this point, I'm waiting until after the holidays to schedule my next carpet cleaning because there just isn't a point in doing it before we haul in a Christmas tree and spill some holiday cheer on the carpet. I'm waiting to get my money's worth because I know clean carpet with kids is like a clean car when you live on a gravel road - fleeting.
The Meals: In college, I ate out literally every night. Pizza was the food of choice most nights, but I did like to mix it up by ordering it from different places. After I grew a little older, I found it novel to cook a meal and vary my cultural cuisine when dining out (Mexican and Chinese baby!) Since I've had kids, I've found my meal experiences have reverted back to the college days. Now chicken nuggets and pizza are the two most requested foods in my house, and when given the choice of restaurants, my kids ALWAYS choose the Golden Arches (gag!)
While I admit that there are times I miss college - skipping class on nice days, skipping class on crappy days, skipping class because my soap is on, skipping class because I was up all night not studying - I don't miss living like a college student. Yet here I am. When I invite you to dinner, you may find my table disgusting, but at least it won't matter if you spill something on the floor. Pass the chicken nuggets and don't get me started on my roommates. They are always late with the rent.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Sometimes Being a Mom Sucks or Thank Goodness for Insurance
I usually like to keep things light. But this week was anything but. It started with me finally taking Max to the doctor for his knee. It has caused him pain off and on for the last 6 weeks, and being the good mom that I am, I waited to take him to get it checked out. Really, what can't a little ice and dirt heal, right? The doctor orders x-rays, which I considered to be a major waste of time, but obliged anyway. And lo and behold, "something" is showing up on the x-rays - nothing like vague details. Trying very hard not to jump to conclusions, I scheduled an appointment with the orthopedic doctor for the next day.
Enter the next day. Max's pediatrician calls the house and says, "What's going on with Max? Do you know about his x-rays? When's he going to the orthopedic doctor?" After a longer conversation with Max's actual doctor, it turns out he thinks Max's x-ray indicates a "good sized" soft spot in his bone, either a cyst or an infection in the bone. Good morning Panic. Nice to see you. Oh, and it's Rocco's 2nd birthday so this call puts a little damper on the Elmo guitar and new vacuum.
We take Max to the specialist, already prepped for a cancer diagnosis, when he tells us that it is a different issue entirely. After much questioning, we take a collective sigh of relief. Sum total of doctor's appointments or trips for x-rays? 3 as of Thursday morning.
To begin Friday, I actually made a point of making it a goal not to go to the doctor. As I start my commute to work I get a call from Pete that he gave Rocco milk (he's allergic to dairy, and not that cute kind of allergic that you can ignore, but the stop-breathing kind of allergic). I turn right around and run through epi-pen procedure as I speed home, praying that it really isn't THAT bad. Oh, but it is. I get home to find a very quiet, lethargic, falling "asleep", wheezing Rocco. I give him the shot of epi-pen in his leg and call 911, thinking, "Are you freaking (edited for those opposed to harder language) kidding me??!!" I have taught first aid and CPR for 8 years and still felt so at a loss. This is my baby and we almost lost him exactly 2 years ago and here we are again, going to Blank.
Fortunately, the epi-pen worked. Well, not like Pulp Fiction - no Uma Thurman gasping, sitting bolt right up with a needle in the heart, but he started to get color back in his cheeks. And as I rode to the ER with Rocco in the ambulance, I searched my brain for SOMETHING funny about all this only to come up with nothing. Instead I focused my efforts on how to talk to my husband when I saw him next in the ER and keeping Rocco alert. Success on both fronts, by the way, through Herculean strength and compassion. Doctor/x-ray/ER count now up to 4 from Monday - Friday.
This brings us to Saturday. I am emotionally exhausted and physically shot. I really just need one normal, decent day. Instead Saturday night I was up half the night with a crying Rocco - for no apparent reason - choosing to sleep on the floor of his room instead of wearing a path in the carpet from my room to his and since I am no longer 7, destroyed my back in the process of my impromptu camp out. Instead of an ambitious Sunday of running 7 miles and packing the kids up for church, I crawled (literally) out of Rocco's room and made my way downstairs where Peter had thankfully made me a pot of coffee.
Which brings me to two clear conclusions to wrap up the week. One, sometimes being a mom just sucks. Sometimes there really isn't anything good in having your entire being wrapped up in the well-being of someone else, so that when there is bad news it is more personal than if it actually happened to you. And moms, I know you know what I mean. When your kids are in pain or suffering, there really isn't anything more devastating. And when I can't find something funny about the situation, you know it's one of those moments where you just have to pull through, suck it up, and hope to be able to live to tell the story the next day. And it was one of those weeks. A Mom Marathon. Oh, and let's not forget that work, after-school activities, and the like keep on going, regardless of your crappy hour/day/week. But tonight (Sunday), both boys jumped into my chair and snuggled up to me and I thought, "This is why I am a mom." Oh, and conclusion number two? Thank goodness for health insurance!
Here's hoping I get a full night of sleep in my own room!
Enter the next day. Max's pediatrician calls the house and says, "What's going on with Max? Do you know about his x-rays? When's he going to the orthopedic doctor?" After a longer conversation with Max's actual doctor, it turns out he thinks Max's x-ray indicates a "good sized" soft spot in his bone, either a cyst or an infection in the bone. Good morning Panic. Nice to see you. Oh, and it's Rocco's 2nd birthday so this call puts a little damper on the Elmo guitar and new vacuum.
We take Max to the specialist, already prepped for a cancer diagnosis, when he tells us that it is a different issue entirely. After much questioning, we take a collective sigh of relief. Sum total of doctor's appointments or trips for x-rays? 3 as of Thursday morning.
To begin Friday, I actually made a point of making it a goal not to go to the doctor. As I start my commute to work I get a call from Pete that he gave Rocco milk (he's allergic to dairy, and not that cute kind of allergic that you can ignore, but the stop-breathing kind of allergic). I turn right around and run through epi-pen procedure as I speed home, praying that it really isn't THAT bad. Oh, but it is. I get home to find a very quiet, lethargic, falling "asleep", wheezing Rocco. I give him the shot of epi-pen in his leg and call 911, thinking, "Are you freaking (edited for those opposed to harder language) kidding me??!!" I have taught first aid and CPR for 8 years and still felt so at a loss. This is my baby and we almost lost him exactly 2 years ago and here we are again, going to Blank.
Fortunately, the epi-pen worked. Well, not like Pulp Fiction - no Uma Thurman gasping, sitting bolt right up with a needle in the heart, but he started to get color back in his cheeks. And as I rode to the ER with Rocco in the ambulance, I searched my brain for SOMETHING funny about all this only to come up with nothing. Instead I focused my efforts on how to talk to my husband when I saw him next in the ER and keeping Rocco alert. Success on both fronts, by the way, through Herculean strength and compassion. Doctor/x-ray/ER count now up to 4 from Monday - Friday.
This brings us to Saturday. I am emotionally exhausted and physically shot. I really just need one normal, decent day. Instead Saturday night I was up half the night with a crying Rocco - for no apparent reason - choosing to sleep on the floor of his room instead of wearing a path in the carpet from my room to his and since I am no longer 7, destroyed my back in the process of my impromptu camp out. Instead of an ambitious Sunday of running 7 miles and packing the kids up for church, I crawled (literally) out of Rocco's room and made my way downstairs where Peter had thankfully made me a pot of coffee.
Which brings me to two clear conclusions to wrap up the week. One, sometimes being a mom just sucks. Sometimes there really isn't anything good in having your entire being wrapped up in the well-being of someone else, so that when there is bad news it is more personal than if it actually happened to you. And moms, I know you know what I mean. When your kids are in pain or suffering, there really isn't anything more devastating. And when I can't find something funny about the situation, you know it's one of those moments where you just have to pull through, suck it up, and hope to be able to live to tell the story the next day. And it was one of those weeks. A Mom Marathon. Oh, and let's not forget that work, after-school activities, and the like keep on going, regardless of your crappy hour/day/week. But tonight (Sunday), both boys jumped into my chair and snuggled up to me and I thought, "This is why I am a mom." Oh, and conclusion number two? Thank goodness for health insurance!
Here's hoping I get a full night of sleep in my own room!
Saturday, October 8, 2011
A Fun Family Tradition, Even If It Kills Me or Smile Dammit! or Stupid Parenting 101
Today was going to be a great day. We were going to my favorite apple orchard for the Fall Festival - something we do every year. We were going to buy apples, eat treats, pet the animals, ride on a haywagon, make a candle, go through the straw maze and take the annual picture in front of the pumpkins. The weather was great. The only other thing we had to do today was have Max at scouts to sell popcorn at 3 p.m. Easy Peasy - I can fit more activities into half this time and I had a whole leisurely day for these two commitments. I couldn't wait.
And it turns out I didn't have to wait for the day to begin. Because at 4:30 a.m. I woke up to the sound every parent hates to hear, second only to puking, The Cough. From 4:30 - 5:30 a.m. I listened to Rocco cough in his sleep. He gave up at 5:30 a.m. and beckoned (screamed) for me. Now as a seasoned parent, coughs shouldn't bother me. You can ignore it because there's not much you can do at this stage in the game - it will either get better or worse but at this point, you wait. Except that one of the fun things about having a kid with food allergies is that eczema and asthma come along as side orders. So when Rocky coughs, we get to break out the nebulizer and run for the steroids.
"No biggie" I think. Pete and I give him a breathing treatment and wait for the cough to go away. I even take a (crappy) run. I get back and lo and behold, the cough is worse. Way worse. "Cool" I think "I've still got this under control." I go for the predinosone. I start squirting the medicine into Rocco's mouth and watch him gag. Then I watch him barf. Over and over. Pete looks at me and asks if he should call the clinic. I'm going to zip through this part of the story because it involves puke flying, Pete not knowing what number to call and us getting into a yelling match. The details will be funny, but not quite yet. So that's a story for another time. In the end, we make a typical Saturday morning doctor's appointment. I say typical because my kids are never sick on a M-F from 8 a.m. - 4:30 p.m. They are only sick after 5 p.m. and on weekends.
By now, my vision of the apple orchard has pretty much gone up in smoke. We all drag to the doctor, get a new script for a different type of steroid, do another breathing treatment and then head to the pharmacy. Everyone is pretty bummed at the turn of events. And then Peter says what will alter the course of the day completely "You know, I bet we can still make it to the orchard and back in time for Max to be at scouts at 3 p.m."
For once, my common sense takes control and screams "No! It can't be done! The orchard is over an hour away. It's 11 a.m. We'd be there for 15 minutes and have to go home. Rocco is sick and has been up since 5:30 a.m. Hell, I've been up since 4:30 a.m. We don't have lunch yet and we'd have to eat before we go. It's too tight. For the love of God, use some self control for once and don't try to do the impossible." And then I think of The Picture. The one I get of the kids in front of the pumpkins EVERY YEAR. This Fall Festival is a fall family tradition, with photo documentation. If we miss it, we will completely mess up the order of the pictures. And this one small detail is what sets me over the edge and makes me agree to the Worst. Decision. Ever. We decide to go for it.
We call my folks and say the orchard is back on. We think we can do it. We hit McDonald's, encourage the kids to inhale their food (two great things for kids when you are trying to instill healthy eating habits), give Rocco his new medicine, which he doesn't puke up. I take this as a sign that this day will be successful after all. We load into the car, make a quick stop at the grandparents' house to get them and head to the orchard.
We get to the orchard a little before 1 p.m. We speed through a few of the activities, skipping things that would require sitting down. Everything is packed into bags instead of eaten on site. We scramble through making an "experience" in 30 minutes. Then we load into the car and head for home. A little behind schedule. Crap. Oh, and then there's the sick toddler who is now far behind his nap routine. Hmm...a recipe for disaster? Surely not! Pete reassures me that Rocco will quit crying within a few minutes of the drive home. Nope! We hear about our stupid parenting decision (in not so many words) for the entire 70 minute drive home. We get home with 7 minutes to 1) find Max's scout shirt, 2) get him to put it on and 3) rebutton all of the buttons because he never lines the buttons up correctly the first time. Pete deals with the shirt dilemma while I convince a now hysterical toddler that it is time for a nap, a late nap, but one nonetheless.
I sit here now, mulling over my choices for the day. If we had stayed home, Rocco and Max would have had some down time, naps would have been on the agenda, and we wouldn't have had to rush and listen to screaming for over an hour. I'm asking myself, maybe we should have skipped the tradition this year for sanity's sake. However, I did get The Picture. And my scrapbook (the one in my head because I don't have time to make one) will be complete.
And it turns out I didn't have to wait for the day to begin. Because at 4:30 a.m. I woke up to the sound every parent hates to hear, second only to puking, The Cough. From 4:30 - 5:30 a.m. I listened to Rocco cough in his sleep. He gave up at 5:30 a.m. and beckoned (screamed) for me. Now as a seasoned parent, coughs shouldn't bother me. You can ignore it because there's not much you can do at this stage in the game - it will either get better or worse but at this point, you wait. Except that one of the fun things about having a kid with food allergies is that eczema and asthma come along as side orders. So when Rocky coughs, we get to break out the nebulizer and run for the steroids.
"No biggie" I think. Pete and I give him a breathing treatment and wait for the cough to go away. I even take a (crappy) run. I get back and lo and behold, the cough is worse. Way worse. "Cool" I think "I've still got this under control." I go for the predinosone. I start squirting the medicine into Rocco's mouth and watch him gag. Then I watch him barf. Over and over. Pete looks at me and asks if he should call the clinic. I'm going to zip through this part of the story because it involves puke flying, Pete not knowing what number to call and us getting into a yelling match. The details will be funny, but not quite yet. So that's a story for another time. In the end, we make a typical Saturday morning doctor's appointment. I say typical because my kids are never sick on a M-F from 8 a.m. - 4:30 p.m. They are only sick after 5 p.m. and on weekends.
By now, my vision of the apple orchard has pretty much gone up in smoke. We all drag to the doctor, get a new script for a different type of steroid, do another breathing treatment and then head to the pharmacy. Everyone is pretty bummed at the turn of events. And then Peter says what will alter the course of the day completely "You know, I bet we can still make it to the orchard and back in time for Max to be at scouts at 3 p.m."
For once, my common sense takes control and screams "No! It can't be done! The orchard is over an hour away. It's 11 a.m. We'd be there for 15 minutes and have to go home. Rocco is sick and has been up since 5:30 a.m. Hell, I've been up since 4:30 a.m. We don't have lunch yet and we'd have to eat before we go. It's too tight. For the love of God, use some self control for once and don't try to do the impossible." And then I think of The Picture. The one I get of the kids in front of the pumpkins EVERY YEAR. This Fall Festival is a fall family tradition, with photo documentation. If we miss it, we will completely mess up the order of the pictures. And this one small detail is what sets me over the edge and makes me agree to the Worst. Decision. Ever. We decide to go for it.
We call my folks and say the orchard is back on. We think we can do it. We hit McDonald's, encourage the kids to inhale their food (two great things for kids when you are trying to instill healthy eating habits), give Rocco his new medicine, which he doesn't puke up. I take this as a sign that this day will be successful after all. We load into the car, make a quick stop at the grandparents' house to get them and head to the orchard.
We get to the orchard a little before 1 p.m. We speed through a few of the activities, skipping things that would require sitting down. Everything is packed into bags instead of eaten on site. We scramble through making an "experience" in 30 minutes. Then we load into the car and head for home. A little behind schedule. Crap. Oh, and then there's the sick toddler who is now far behind his nap routine. Hmm...a recipe for disaster? Surely not! Pete reassures me that Rocco will quit crying within a few minutes of the drive home. Nope! We hear about our stupid parenting decision (in not so many words) for the entire 70 minute drive home. We get home with 7 minutes to 1) find Max's scout shirt, 2) get him to put it on and 3) rebutton all of the buttons because he never lines the buttons up correctly the first time. Pete deals with the shirt dilemma while I convince a now hysterical toddler that it is time for a nap, a late nap, but one nonetheless.
I sit here now, mulling over my choices for the day. If we had stayed home, Rocco and Max would have had some down time, naps would have been on the agenda, and we wouldn't have had to rush and listen to screaming for over an hour. I'm asking myself, maybe we should have skipped the tradition this year for sanity's sake. However, I did get The Picture. And my scrapbook (the one in my head because I don't have time to make one) will be complete.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Church Night Sailor Style
A few things you should know about me. 1. I'm Catholic. 2. As such, I usually carry around guilt about one thing or another. 3. I swear like a sailor. I'd like to give my mom credit for at least 2 of the three. Because of her, I'm Catholic, born and raised. Not super devout mind you, but I did my time in CCD (religious education) classes and graduated as full-fledged Catholic. Because of my mom, I also swear like a sailor. What's awesome about my mom is that she doesn't even know when she swears. A "shit" will fly out and as I give her a look for saying it around my kids, she really doesn't even know she's said it.
Back to the guilt...Max has religious education now until he is a sophomore in high school (sorry buddy!). And every year I feel bad about not signing up to be his teacher. Somehow one of the things about being Catholic that I have embraced is the ability to feel guilty about everything. So this year, I decided I would volunteer to teach his second grade class and give myself a little peace of mind. If it makes me a better person because of it, well, I'll just have to bear that burden (ha!).
Tonight is the first night I lead Max's class and I'm a bit nervous. I'm not super "churchy". I've got a belief system that's probably a blend of many things and I'm a bit private about it. So religious education teacher is the perfect role for me (note dripping sarcasm). Other than being completely out of my element, there is one other small concern I have. I tend to swear like my mom, meaning that some of my favorite phrases might contain a few choice words, like hell, dammit and balls.
I have debated with Peter whether these are actually cuss words. He seems to think "Whatthehell!" might count as swearing. I'm trying to curb it (sort of). Every year at Lent, I try to give up swearing - I'm just not successful. No joke, one year during Lent, I stepped in a puddle and said "God Dammit! I just stepped into a Goddamn fucking puddle!" Then Pete gave me that knowing look and I said "SHIT! I totally swore! Goddamn it!" I believe I am a lost cause. I think it's genetic.
So tonight I am a bit nervous that as I am teaching these young minds, I might accidentally pop out a reliable "What The Hell?" And you'd think that being in church would help remind me to keep my tongue in check. But maybe I'm the only parent out there where church brings it out in her more. Because when I take my kids to church, I'm hard pressed to have a day that I don't say "if you don't sit up straight and pay attention, I'm taking your Goddamn ds away for the next week!" And that's just slips out - I can't even tell you what I say in my head.
Welcome to Church Night - Sailor Style. Ahoy Mates! Wish me luck.
Back to the guilt...Max has religious education now until he is a sophomore in high school (sorry buddy!). And every year I feel bad about not signing up to be his teacher. Somehow one of the things about being Catholic that I have embraced is the ability to feel guilty about everything. So this year, I decided I would volunteer to teach his second grade class and give myself a little peace of mind. If it makes me a better person because of it, well, I'll just have to bear that burden (ha!).
Tonight is the first night I lead Max's class and I'm a bit nervous. I'm not super "churchy". I've got a belief system that's probably a blend of many things and I'm a bit private about it. So religious education teacher is the perfect role for me (note dripping sarcasm). Other than being completely out of my element, there is one other small concern I have. I tend to swear like my mom, meaning that some of my favorite phrases might contain a few choice words, like hell, dammit and balls.
I have debated with Peter whether these are actually cuss words. He seems to think "Whatthehell!" might count as swearing. I'm trying to curb it (sort of). Every year at Lent, I try to give up swearing - I'm just not successful. No joke, one year during Lent, I stepped in a puddle and said "God Dammit! I just stepped into a Goddamn fucking puddle!" Then Pete gave me that knowing look and I said "SHIT! I totally swore! Goddamn it!" I believe I am a lost cause. I think it's genetic.
So tonight I am a bit nervous that as I am teaching these young minds, I might accidentally pop out a reliable "What The Hell?" And you'd think that being in church would help remind me to keep my tongue in check. But maybe I'm the only parent out there where church brings it out in her more. Because when I take my kids to church, I'm hard pressed to have a day that I don't say "if you don't sit up straight and pay attention, I'm taking your Goddamn ds away for the next week!" And that's just slips out - I can't even tell you what I say in my head.
Welcome to Church Night - Sailor Style. Ahoy Mates! Wish me luck.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
My Adult "Choices" or Bring the Gerbil a Damn Donut Already
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.
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 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.
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