No Shoes, No Pants, It Must Be Thanksgiving

At the end of Thanksgiving today, I was without shoes and wearing someone else's pants.  Did I have a momentary relapse into my college days?  Nope. While this story does not show me in the best light, since I fully disclose everything about my children, it is with total transparency that I share my less-than-shining moment with you now.

The day started out fine. A quick workout and then we packed up the car to head to the first Thanksgiving meal of the day at my parents' house. The dinner was great and enjoyable. The biggest event was convincing my mom to use the "good wine" for her wine-drinking guests, ie me and my little brother.
Me: "Should we get out some wine?"
Mom: "Sure, I have some in the fridge. We can have the cheap wine or the good wine."
Me: "Pretty sure I want the good wine Mom."
Mom: "Are you sure?"
Me: "Yeah, why would I want to drink crappy wine? Who are you saving it for?"
Mom: No response
Me: Wondering who the heck this better wine is supposed to be for!?
For the record, the wine was really good. And the cheap wine ended up being really cheap so I'm glad we skipped it. But this wine is not the reason for my wardrobe malfunction (before you start jumping to conclusions.)

After an epic fail at putting Rocco down for a nap, we pack up again and head to house number two, aka Pete's folks. As I am still too full to eat, I take the first shift of chasing/entertaining Rocco while Pete eats. We wander around the farm, checking for cats and tractors, and finally decide to watch the cows.

I sit down on the ground and reach for Rocco so we can watch the cows better. And that's when I see it. Dog poo.
Me: "Um, Rocco, let's be sure you sit on a dry patch of grass here buddy."
Then I look around again. Dog poo is EVERYWHERE. This seems to be the main potty area for the dogs. Uh oh. Surely it's on Rocco's shoes at this point. And then it hits me. I didn't check where I was sitting down either. I quickly stand up and sure enough, somehow I managed to perfectly position myself over a pile of dog poo and now it was all over the back of my jeans. Oh, and also on my running shoes. You know the shoes I'm talking about - the ones with really good traction, aka lots of little grooves for dog poo to get permanently stuck in.

I holler to Max to get his dad to bring me paper towels and wet wipes. Being a 7 year old, it was imperative for him to know WHY, and after some giggling, he promptly told his dad what I needed and why. Pete comes out quickly while I am doing my best not to panic. He tries to clean me up, but there's no totally cleaning this off.

I slink into the house and my very considerate in-laws try to find me something else to wear. After much searching, my MIL finds me a pair of jeans.  I change clothes and stink less thankfully (something to be thankful for! bring on the turkey!).

The rest of the day is uneventful compared to basically rolling in dog poo. As the day comes to a close, I thank my MIL one more time for the jeans. She then tells me that they are Great-Grandma's jeans. I walk to the Jeep in my socked feet (those shoes are horrible!). And as we drive away, I couldn't stop laughing at the fact my day ended with me in socks wearing Great Grandma's jeans.

I told Peter I don't know the last time I felt less sexy. I thought maybe in maternity clothes. He looks at me and says "Oh no. You were much sexier in maternity clothes." Keep in mind this means I was sexier in huge tent-like clothes, 40 pounds heavier. (Side note, I actually gained 60 pounds with each pregnancy, but I still have 20 left to lose.)

And just so you know, as I am writing, I am still wearing those jeans. Meow!

Pin the Guilt on the Mommy

Just when I think I've accepted my limits as a mom, my inadequacies are pointed out yet again - this time by the website Pinterest. When I saw everyone posting about Pinterest, I thought it was either a book or a TV show and I was just out of the loop. Turns out Pinterest is where everyone posts these great ideas, from crafts to recipes to hairstyles - basically all things that I have given up on as a mom. See, I love looking at Parents magazine and reading about how these moms discovered a way to make their pasta from scratch or came up with really innovative ways to keep their kids clean when painting by using milk jugs - and feel a bit of resentment.  And I get daily emails with crafts and recipes for busy moms - which I am too busy to read and promptly delete instead (time management skills - yes!) Actually, if I'm being honest, I am a bit jealous of these moms' time, creativity and patience. These are three characteristics that I often lack.  In fact, I hide my children's play dough because I don't want to deal with the mess it creates.

So now I hear about Pinterest and see what all these other Super Moms do, making food from scratch and making neat Thanksgiving Day decorations from yarn. And I really want to be like these moms. But I'm tired at the end of the day after working and think I'm having a pretty good night if I make a dinner that doesn't involve deli turkey, much less a diorama of the first Thanksgiving feast out of macaroni. I think back to one of my all time favorite childhood memories of walking through the park with my mom, finding the prettiest leaves and taking them home to press in between the encyclopedia pages. My kids won't even know what an encyclopedia is, much less use it to press red and orange leaves.

I hear you have to be accepted into Pinterest and think, well, let's skip the guilt and just act like I've never heard of it. I feel successful if my house is clean for 5 minutes during the week or if I serve a fruit AND a vegetable at dinner. But I really do want to be the mom that does crafts everyday and makes homemade cookies each week out of carrot juice instead of actual sugar. But then I ask why reinvent the Oreo when it already is perfect? And before my Pinterest friends say it's about more than just crafts and recipes, I know it's about fashion and hair too. And I respond by saying most days I don't take the time to blow dry my hair because even that takes too long and fashion to me right now means that my clothes are clean.

I'm working on accepting what I have the time and energy to do every day and to maximize the weekend. There's only so much I can do as a working mom, and if I can make a few childhood memories for the boys, then I will have been successful. And I know someday I'll have the time to sit down and be the crafty, Martha Stewart-type mom I want to be. I just hope my boys, who will probably be 23 and 18 by then, will still want to make pilgrim hats out of thimbles and twine. As for now, I'll just read my friends' posts about the cool mom things they do and feel admiration...and jealous.

A New Recipe for the Next Potluck

I dedicate this post to my mom, who couldn't stop laughing when I told her this story. And to all the other moms out there finding themselves doing things they never thought they'd do, all for their children.

It was 9 p.m. on Wednesday night and I was just starting to mix up my new recipe. As I added ingredients, the concoction got smellier and thicker. What was I doing? Making a late notice treat for Max's class? Nope. Working on a science project? Nope. I was making magic butt cream.

Let's rewind 3 hours.

A little background information: whenever the Rock is on an antibiotic, he has HORRIBLE diaper rashes. The kind that blister regardless of creams, potions and rapid diaper changes. As if nothing could make changing a poopy diaper worse, a toddler screaming in pain as you clean him actually makes the experience even crappier (ooh! a pun!). So in desperation, I call the nurse. Now I've seen my fair share of diaper rashes and I consider myself to be a relatively level-headed mom. So for me to call the nurse means this was a Code Red diaper rash. She finally calls me back around 6 p.m.

Me: "I've got this awful diaper rash that I can't get rid of. We've used vasoline, Butt Paste, anti-fungal cream, and hydrocortizone cream, but nothing works. What can we do?"
Nurse: *speaks confidentially as though she is telling me the world's largest secret* "Do you have a piece of paper and a pen? I have a recipe for you that one of the doctors is giving out. It should work."
Me: "Shoot anytime you are ready."
Nurse: "Mix together half a tube of Desitin, half a tube of A&D ointment, add 1 big tablespoon of Bacitracin and 1 tablespoon of Malox."
Me: "Did you say Malox?" *how dare I question the secret recipe!*
Nurse: *laughs at my naive question* "Yes, Malox. It soothes. Call if that doesn't work, but I think it will."

I take the Moose to religious education class and run to Walgreens afterwards with my recipe in hand. I fill my basket with the ingredients, double checking my notes as I shop. Max looks questioningly at me but at this point, I am willing to try anything and am blindly trusting this nurse and her secret magic butt cream. It was not lost on me that when I was younger, my late night trips to the store did not involve getting things for butt cream. But then again, when I was younger, 8:30 p.m. wasn't late.

Twenty-six dollars later I drive home and gather up the tupperware and measuring spoons. I'm pretty sure the people who invented Tupperware never thought their expensive containers would be used for butt cream. I start mixing together the foul smelling stuff, with Pete looking over my shoulder with a questioning expression. It doesn't take long to mix it up and now we wait to use it the next morning. I make a few comments that this is the most expensive butt cream I've ever bought and I had to mix it all together to boot. Please understand that I am the type of person who is more than willing to buy something pre-made than make it myself so mixing up butt cream is not something I signed up to do.

The next morning is the moment of truth. We slather on this noxious cream and wait. And what do you know. The stuff actually works. And I am ecstatic. And here's a bit of truth about motherhood. When it comes to your kid, you will do anything for them and try anything to make them feel better. I've held a puking boy just to comfort him while he feels awful. And I will make a late night shopping trip to buy a bunch of random stuff and mix up a crazy recipe just because a nurse I've never met tells me it will work. And I feel like I am on top of the world to have found something that actually works against the Diaper Rash from Hell. I am as excited about this as I would be if I found a cream that REALLY did take away cellulite.

This Secret Magic Butt Paste recipe is posted on my fridge now so I can whip up a batch whenever I need it. And the next time you ask me for a recipe to include in a cookbook, I'm going to consider this one. And you know what? Chances are you'll want the butt paste recipe rather than another chocolate cake recipe. Because you are a mom. 

Mommy Quiet Time

I'm supposed to be checking my bank account online right now but somehow stumbled onto this page instead. See, I'm currently having "Mommy Quiet Time." It's a typical Sunday. We skipped church since Rocco barfed last night and that was a place we didn't want to be if we discovered his stomach bug was still visiting. Instead we decided we needed to run to about 4 different stores to do some last minute shopping before an afternoon birthday party. Oh, and we decided to pick up a sofa too (I know I just blogged about never replacing my crappy furniture, but I did finally find a sofa that I liked that came with a 5 year warrant against stains and tears - ha! I'm testing that one...). Pete took off to work after the furniture store and I took the little boys on the rest of the trips, getting home in time for lunch and a quick nap for Rocco before the party.

Well, that was the plan. Rocco has decided that he doesn't need naps anymore and was giving me hell for having the audacity of putting him in his crib. Basically he screamed and cried at me for 45 minutes while I (being a good mom) worked on Max's spelling words from hell and read to him, all the while ignoring Rocco's tantrum. Pete called to check in and I gave him the status report of what we were doing and how a nap didn't look like it was going to happen...again. Pete swung home to take Max to the party, hoping that Rocco would have given up the fight by then - fat chance! So Pete goes upstairs and rocks Rocco. And then quiet. Seriously? I'm on my second weekend of Rocco refusing to nap and Pete goes up there for 5 minutes and the kid is out. But I am just grateful for the peace. Pete drives Max to the party and tells me that the hosts will drive Max home - the magic words every parent wants to hear! And then Pete says "Now you can have a little quiet time."  The thing is, and moms, you probably know what I'm talking about, there is a tone. A tone that implies I need quiet time. That I can't hack it and it's showing. He sounds like Mick Jagger singing "Mother's Little Helper."

I'm not sure what Pete pictures when he says I now have quiet time. Maybe he thinks I sit around painting my nails or maybe I'm taking a bath. Instead my mind instantly jumps to The List. That list you always have in the back of your head of crap you need to do but never have time to get done. The list of things that you can't do with the kids around or that would go faster without them around. I run upstairs and put laundry away. Rocco stays asleep. I put on a pot of water to make noodles for lasagna. Rocco is still quiet. I iron that stack of clothes that's been sitting in my room for 4 weeks. Quiet. I actually make the lasagna for Tuesday night. Quiet. I fold towels AND put them away - all in the same time frame. Quiet. And now here I sit, about to pay bills but hesitant because my time is fleeting. Any minute that kid is going to wake up and we will be going from 0 - 60 mph in 3 seconds. But I am refreshed, despite not sitting down this whole "quiet time." Because I actually got stuff done that needed doing. I now have the energy to make Thanksgiving decorations with Max when he comes home and will be able to run after Rocco again.

I'm not sure what Pete thinks I do during quiet time, but I'm pretty sure this isn't what he intended. Either way, I'm relatively satisfied. And maybe I'll wait to pay the bills until tonight and enjoy just a few minutes of peace and quiet.

Shock and Awe or "MOM!"

I understand that I am not the center of the universe. But my children seem to think I am. And yet, they are trying to bring me down. We have psychological warfare going on in our house and I am losing. With one kid, I had a fighting chance, but with two, I don't have a prayer. No, my children are good at what they do - Shock and Awe.

Remember Shock and Awe?  Where the US attacked and attacked until our enemy gave up? Well, this is the technique my children are using against me. But instead of missiles, it's a verbal war. From what I can tell, it works like this:
1. One child starts to tell me something. Finishing the thought is not a necessary step.
2. The other child starts to tell me something or demand my attention verbally by shouting "MOM!" Again, finishing the thought is not necessary.
3. Repeat until infinity.
The beauty of the verbal Shock and Awe assault is that it has no stopping point - at least not until bedtime. The important key to this type of attack is high frequency. Each child MUST speak within 7 seconds from the other - when the attack is going well, they could speak at the same time, yet expect me to know what the heck they are talking about.

Now the fun thing about this with a 7 year old and a 2 year old is that their strategies are different. Each begins with the customary "MOM!" - it is important to speak this with urgency, whether it is about the toilet overflowing or if you want to tell me that you like the color red. This makes sure that your victim can never let down their guard - they never know if they need to run for the plunger or simply concur that yes, red is an excellent color.

With the 7 year old, I find that not only do I 1)have to know EVERYTHING but I also 2) need to be able to remember every moment of his life in detail and 3) be able to know what he is talking about when the sentence only has a vague noun and verb. Max likes to do his talking either across the house or right under my shoulder.

The 2 year old presents some of the same strategies as the 7 year old in terms of frequency and urgency, but instead of deciphering the message, I am interpreting 2 year old language. To do this you must think of everything in the house and piece the sound of the word with the object. Life gets way more fun when the 2 year old adds verbs to his vocabulary. Rocco is always at my feet with his demands, unless he is running away from getting a time out.

What does Shock and Awe look like in my house?  Here is an example:
Max: "MOM! Guess what happened in school today?"
Rocco: "MOM!"
Me: "What Max? Yes Rocco?"
Max: "MOM! So Mrs. W was reading that book about the boy - you know, the one you haven't read."
Me: "Honey, what book is that?"
Rocco: "MOM!"
Me: "What honey?"
Max: "You know, the one about the boy? Anyway, we had two choices for lunch today. Ham sandwich or salad."
Rocco: "MOM! I see Dukey!"
Me: "Rocco, don't hit the cat. Max, what did you have?"
Max: "What?"
Me: "Max, you just said you had two choices for lunch.  What did you have?"
Rocco: "MOM! Dukey!"
Rocco: "MOM! UP!"
Max: "MOM! What are you talking about?"
Rocco: "MOM! UP!"
Me: "Rocco, hold on. Max! You just were talking about lunch."
Max:"Oh, I don't remember. Mom, you know that thing I told you about?"
Me: "What thing?"
Rocco: "UP!!! NOW!!!"
Max: "You know, the thing."
Me: "The book?"
Rocco: "MOM! I poopy!"
Max: "MOM! No, the other thing. I told you in the car going to CCD."
Me: "Rocco, let's change your diaper. Max, CCD was last week. You are going to have to give me a hint about what thing you are talking about."
Max: "Nevermind."

This NEVER ends, until it's bedtime. I actually think they just like to hear themselves talk sometimes. You might be thinking to yourself, "She is exaggerating. Peter is around. Surely the kids don't follow her around the house talking to her non-stop for hours." But they do! Peter could be in the same room as I am and the conversation never includes him. He changes rooms and the kids just keep on going.

Usually after about 30 minutes, I get that crazed look in my face. And Peter will say "Do you need a break from the kids?" Honestly, I don't. I miss the little yahoos whenever I'm not near them. But I do need a break from the non-stop conversation in my house, directed at me. If I could just get a little quiet or have a conversation at a normal pace, I would be fine. But the kids have perfected their game, understanding that the rapid succession of questions and statements means I don't have time to actually form a response to their question in my head, much less spit it out. I think they know that the more they work on this now when they are young, the greater the chances are I'll mess up when they are older and it really matters. I can see myself agreeing to a co-ed party or a new car when I was just trying to sort my way through one of these conversations. Of course, this is assuming they still talk to me when they are pre-teens and teenagers.

Please don't get me wrong. There is nothing more I love than to talk to my kids. But one at a time and please wait your turn.

Kiddie Crack or Made with "Real" Fruit Juice

Folks, we are in the middle of a drug war. This coming from the Just-Say-No-To-Drugs generation. And I must say I am ashamed of us. Myself included because I too have succumbed to temptation. Parents, you know what I am talking about. Fruit Snacks. Or as I like to call them "Kiddie Crack."

Oh sure, we all start out with the best of intentions. Even I kept them out of my house until Max was 3. Of course, all of his friends were doing it and he wanted in on the action. And some of his friends' parents would give him a bag. I'd let it slide, let him experiment with the Thomas the Train, Nemo and Trucks gummies. But I had VALUES people and kept that kind of crap out of my house, like a "good" mom. I offered real fruit snacks, like apples and raisins instead. Then things started to slide. A box of Cars fruit snacks here as a special treat, a bag of fruit snacks for Halloween.

And that's how it starts my friends.  Our little junkies, I mean darlings, start to beg for them every time we go to the grocery store or Target. At only $2.50 a box, it's a cheap high, like meth. Little dime bags of joy. Just like an addict, they'll do anything for a fix. And as a dealer, I found for a bag of sugar ("real fruit juice!") I could get my kid to sit through a 90 minute Easter mass or stop crying after a shot. Public good behavior is better than money! Next thing you know, you'll find your husband offering fruit snacks to your 2 year old just to watch him do what we call "The Fruit Snack Dance" (this is true).

I knew the moment we sunk to a new low.  We had family pictures the other weekend and used Kiddie Crack to bribe Rocco (also the fruit snack dancer) to smile, pose, follow us around. Even Max wanted in on the action. Perhaps we even shook the bag at him to get him to cooperate - you could almost hear him salivating to get his next fix of cheap corn syrup.

By now we are completely immersed in the drug culture of fruit snacks. I've tried weaning my kids from their habit and going cold turkey, but to no avail. Where is the methadone for fruit snacks I ask??  What have we done? We've lectured about smoking, safe sex, drugs and drinking, but have overlooked our new epidemic - Barbie and Friends in a bag!

As a parent, I wish I was better. But I'm not. And I will be handing out fruit snacks for Halloween this year...AGAIN.

Welcome to Animal House or Parenting 101 for 3 Credits

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.