Oh there is nothing better than throwing all medical advice pertaining to screen time to the wind and sitting down to watch HOURS of Olympics with your children. Because I am a competitive person who is past her prime, I dream of my children one day becoming Olympians and being featured on a Proctor Gamble commercial with a "thank you Mom" at the end - cue misty eyes. Not only am I grooming my children for scholarship sports, but now I am also focusing on Olympic sports. Who says they can't play college football AND be a great archer?
During the Olympics moms get a big shout out from various sponsors, which we totally eat up. I love commercials about the mom washing the uniforms in Tide for 15 years and finally, wrinkled and gray, she gets to watch her daughter compete on the vault at the Olympics - all thanks to a clean uniform. It was then I realized that we are only getting some of the credit. All moms I know are actually Olympians too. We compete in a variety of sports, but I'll just name a few examples below.
Qualifying: Every athlete has to qualify for their event and moms are no different. It's called Labor and Childbirth. Nine months of carefully watched diets and weigh-ins followed by hours and hours of pain and often times stitches finally result in a baby. Good news - all of us qualified! The other news? The nurses were right. You don't get a medal for delivering naturally. No one gets a medal for qualifying - the act of labor simply means you get to compete against your peers and be judged on your performance (sound like the Olympics yet?)
Now for the actual sports...
Beach Volleyball: Ever pick up your kid from daycare or the park and take them home, only to find a sandbox in their shoes? Of course you have. Have you also not realized about the said-sandbox until you take off the shoes and the sand dumps all over the floor? Welcome to Beach Volleyball. The rest of your daily fielding of children will be spent playing in the sand. I should note that most moms I know don't play volleyball in their underwear...I mean appropriate sports-necessary bikinis.
Diving: Toddlers and preschoolers are wonderful, smart little creatures. They instantly know what is breakable AND valuable in your house and whenever you aren't looking, decide to inspect it for Antiques Roadshow themselves. Now, as a mom, if you are fortunate enough to catch your dear child BEFORE they drop the said-item, you know the running, spring-board-like jump and dive you make towards them as the precious antique/iphone slips from their hands. Did you insure the phone this time? There's no time to remember! Dive dive dive! Points are given for form and if you catch the item before it hits the floor.
Weightlifting: Isn't it funny that as children get larger, so do their necessary accessories that must follow them to every excursion? Diaper bags get heavier, potty training requires an extra 3 sets of clothes at all times, sippy cups turn into metal water bottles. And even though children get heavier, they still want to be carried through the mall (you didn't bring the stroller because it was supposed to be a quick trip.) Extra points are given for also including a shopping bag or two.
Wrestling: What do you mean you can't wear shorts in January? Your shoes are too tight (no they aren't...) Any of these complaints leads us into our next sport, wrestling. This wrestling is not determined by weight class but instead by the number of items you must dress your child in to be presentable. A special division is for children who can undress themselves while you dress them, making the task twice as long and frustrating...I mean fun.
Relay Races - of any kind: Hopefully you have a partner in crime - someone to help you with the task of raising kids. When you hear the words, "my tummy doesn't feel good" you know you have approximately 3 seconds to 1) jump out of the way while still comforting your child, 2) look for the nearest toilet and 3) grab a towel. The relay comes into play when you are holding the child, covered in puke and waiting for your partner to come running with a towel or something so you can move from the spot without making more of a mess. Personally, I have never won this race, despite having a helpful partner. But I still compete. I don't have a choice.
Hurdles: My house is never picked up. That's not true. It never STAYS picked up. At any given moment, there are blankets, football pads, toy guitars and Skylanders characters laying on the floor. And it is only when the track is full of hurdles, can you really compete. It's that moment when you hear your dear sweet boy laughing to himself in the kitchen. And then you hear him exclaim "Chemicals!" like he's found gold. You project yourself off the sofa and if successful, skillfully jump over all of the crap laying on the floor to dash into the kitchen in time to take the Soft Scrub with Bleach from his curious little hands. As in the Olympics, wiping out on the obstacles is fairly common. But unlike in the Olympics, if you don't get up quickly, you will still have your child covered in highly toxic bleach product. Moms don't get to sit down and give up. (Side note: the "chemicals" were safely stowed away in a childlocked cabinent. Just saying...)
Last but not least, Sprints: The moment you look around the store and realize that your smart little tot has taken off from you is the starting gun. You are going to make the scariest wide-eyed freaked out sprint aisle to aisle until you find him. Us other moms will look at you in sympathy and keep our eyes open for your sweetie, all the while keeping out of your path because you will run us over. This is a primal effort and I'm pretty sure if Nike was watching, you'd get a free pair of shoes and a contract.
Until we are given our own highly advertised venue with perks, we moms will have to compete in the privacy of our own homes and social circles. We don't get to mingle with young, perfectly trained specimens of the human race at the Olympic Village. But we can give each other a high five at library storytime the next time one of us sprints out of the room to run after an escapee from the craft table. We are all athletes. We've got the scars and training to prove it.
Friday, August 24, 2012
Monday, July 30, 2012
Shave the Cat
I've been asked how I can find humor during moments of vomit, screaming, hitting, questioning, crying and the complicated rules of Pokemon. And my only answer to that is I have shaved my cat. And as I type that, I realize that "shave my cat" could have two meanings. You people are disgusting. I'm talking about my Maine Coon cat Petey. Ironically, this is a serious blog about being lighthearted.
Nine years ago almost to the week, Pete and I were pregnant. It was a surprise to both of us and being stubborn and not open to change, I was not the happiest initially. I was training for a marathon and about to start a graduate degree while working. It took a few weeks and some shopping for cute maternity clothes and I finally decided that I was pretty excited for this baby. And it was then that we lost it.
Miscarriage happens all the time but that doesn't make things any better for those of us who have gone through it. I was very healthy, fit and young. And for some reason my body betrayed me. Learning we were having a miscarriage is still to this day my saddest memory. It was one of those defining moments that completely changes who you are as a person. Finding your husband crying in the garage for what we lost so he could be strong for me is crippling. And you don't want to admit having such sorrow for someone you never met. But perfect dreams are perfect and losing them is losing what could have been perfect, unblemished by sleepless nights and temper tantrums. That week I developed a bottomless pit of sadness that is still there. Because of baby #1, I have more compassion and empathy. I "get" despair. And I know it gets better.
The day after we learned we were losing our baby, Petey the Cat was scheduled for grooming. Well, because I am a "strong" person who felt she shouldn't be affected by a miscarriage, I kept that appointment. Because life goes on damn it and cats need to be brushed. And I'm so glad I kept that appointment as it shapes my attitude every day.
We dropped Petey off at Groomingdales (yes, that was the real name) and drove aimlessly around town waiting to pick him up. After an hour or so, we picked Petey up, already in his cage. I saw his little poofy face and thought he looked great. Then I got a better glimpse. My Maine Coon cat, a 18-pound furry bowling ball, was shaved bald, except for his head, feet and the top of his tail.
I sputtered, "You shaved my cat!"
Groomingdales person, "I know! Isn't it great?!"
I was speechless. Actually, I wanted to say, "What the fuck!? You shaved my fucking cat!? Who the fuck does that? He looks like a fucking moron!?" But speechless was probably a better option right then. I PAID $45 for this hack job and took my ridiculous looking cat home.
I sat on my couch and waves of sadness washed over me again as the shock of my stupid looking cat wore off. I started to cry...again. But then I looked at my cat. And he still looked ridiculous. But this time it was kind of funny. And I actually started to laugh. What is so important here is that I didn't think I'd laugh again. I realized then that the dark pit would always be there, but life would still have funny moments - I would just have to look harder for them sometimes.
So when I hear about really crappy things happening to people and I'm searching for a piece of advice for them, I always fall back to "Shave the cat." I know it doesn't make a ton of sense. Unless you have a cat. And in that case, I've got the name of a cat groomer for you. They are excellent. And there is nothing better than a huge cat with a lion cut.
Nine years ago almost to the week, Pete and I were pregnant. It was a surprise to both of us and being stubborn and not open to change, I was not the happiest initially. I was training for a marathon and about to start a graduate degree while working. It took a few weeks and some shopping for cute maternity clothes and I finally decided that I was pretty excited for this baby. And it was then that we lost it.
Miscarriage happens all the time but that doesn't make things any better for those of us who have gone through it. I was very healthy, fit and young. And for some reason my body betrayed me. Learning we were having a miscarriage is still to this day my saddest memory. It was one of those defining moments that completely changes who you are as a person. Finding your husband crying in the garage for what we lost so he could be strong for me is crippling. And you don't want to admit having such sorrow for someone you never met. But perfect dreams are perfect and losing them is losing what could have been perfect, unblemished by sleepless nights and temper tantrums. That week I developed a bottomless pit of sadness that is still there. Because of baby #1, I have more compassion and empathy. I "get" despair. And I know it gets better.
The day after we learned we were losing our baby, Petey the Cat was scheduled for grooming. Well, because I am a "strong" person who felt she shouldn't be affected by a miscarriage, I kept that appointment. Because life goes on damn it and cats need to be brushed. And I'm so glad I kept that appointment as it shapes my attitude every day.
We dropped Petey off at Groomingdales (yes, that was the real name) and drove aimlessly around town waiting to pick him up. After an hour or so, we picked Petey up, already in his cage. I saw his little poofy face and thought he looked great. Then I got a better glimpse. My Maine Coon cat, a 18-pound furry bowling ball, was shaved bald, except for his head, feet and the top of his tail.
I sputtered, "You shaved my cat!"
Groomingdales person, "I know! Isn't it great?!"
I was speechless. Actually, I wanted to say, "What the fuck!? You shaved my fucking cat!? Who the fuck does that? He looks like a fucking moron!?" But speechless was probably a better option right then. I PAID $45 for this hack job and took my ridiculous looking cat home.
I sat on my couch and waves of sadness washed over me again as the shock of my stupid looking cat wore off. I started to cry...again. But then I looked at my cat. And he still looked ridiculous. But this time it was kind of funny. And I actually started to laugh. What is so important here is that I didn't think I'd laugh again. I realized then that the dark pit would always be there, but life would still have funny moments - I would just have to look harder for them sometimes.
So when I hear about really crappy things happening to people and I'm searching for a piece of advice for them, I always fall back to "Shave the cat." I know it doesn't make a ton of sense. Unless you have a cat. And in that case, I've got the name of a cat groomer for you. They are excellent. And there is nothing better than a huge cat with a lion cut.
Monday, July 23, 2012
The Scream
When Munch painted The Scream, he said the inspiration came from how he could hear nature screaming through the sky. And to that I say, "No Sir, you are a liar." Clearly Munch was a parent who couldn't get his child to sleep at night. I'm pretty sure I have looked like The Scream on a few occasions, thanks to my sweet littlest son.
Eight years ago when I had the Moose, my pediatrician recommended finding my "mad voice" so my son would know when I was serious when he was in trouble. I tried over the years to find this voice, practicing with different lower tones and volumes. Each time it was pathetic and Peter would grin, shake his head and say "No wonder he doesn't take you seriously." Fortunately the Moose didn't require much discipline. Unfortunately, it didn't give me much practice for his slightly more challenging little brother.
Since having the Rock, I have managed to find my Scream on two occasions. Once he swept his bowl of soup off the table, like in a bad dramatic movie, sending soup flying across the room. A voice came out of me that I can only describe as a rabid bear. I think I actually saw the bear come out of my mouth - at that moment I was having an out-of-body experience. Let's just say that Rocco understood that yes, sending your soup bowl sailing against the wall, is "not a good choice."
Now we have bedtime issues. When I say "we", I mean me. The Rock goes to sleep great for his dad. But when Mom puts him to bed, he is willing to scream my name for an hour straight until he 1) pukes or 2) I give up. One night while Pete was out, after hearing my name screamed for 40 minutes in a way that would suggest my little angel was in impending danger, I bounded upstairs only to hear, "Hi Mom. Where is my giraffee?" Again I retreated downstairs, only to have the screams start up again. Upstairs again to "I need a dwink." The next time he needed a pickle. Another 20 minutes of hearing my name screamed at the top of his lungs and I had had enough. I stomped up the stairs and enter the room with The Scream that said under no uncertain terms was it bedtime and that this crap was stopping NOW. And then the real crying began. Which made me feel like shit. Scooping up the Rock, I kissed him, apologized for yelling and told him that he still needed to go to bed. And then it was quiet.
I retreated downstairs and felt like the World's Worst Mom. I had found my "mad voice" and it didn't feel too awesome to use. Therapeutic, but the hangover sucked. The next morning, the Rock, with his mature ability to make me feel bad intentionally, told me "don't scweam at me." I told him we'd make a deal that I wouldn't scream at him if he wouldn't scream at me. Making a deal with a toddler is like trusting a thief with your housekeys - fruitless. I drove to work thinking about how I had totally failed as a parent. I have so many patient friends that never raise their voices at their kids.
And then I had an epiphany. Yes, I have amazing friends that make my parenting skills look like a bad episode of COPS. But there are also a lot of super sucky parents out there that scream at their children as the only form of communication they use, that beat their children and withhold love. And compared to the lowest standard I can think of, I felt okay. Because that night my patience had broke and yes, I yelled at Rock, but I also kept my head and my control. We've never hit our children for any reason and one really bad night at home didn't push me over the edge. And I thought maybe I should just give myself a little credit for the fact that I have a child that knowingly pushes my buttons and that ALL I did was yell.
All of us have crappy parenting moments, especially when we compare ourselves to the perfect parents out there. Maybe sometimes we should compare ourselves to a slightly lower standard, just so we can have enough of a confidence boost to make it through another day. Or night as it is my case.
So I'm not perfect, but after eight years, I did finally find that voice that a DOCTOR told me to channel. And on that note, I'm ending with a quote from one of the best books written lately, "baby, just go the fuck to sleep."
Eight years ago when I had the Moose, my pediatrician recommended finding my "mad voice" so my son would know when I was serious when he was in trouble. I tried over the years to find this voice, practicing with different lower tones and volumes. Each time it was pathetic and Peter would grin, shake his head and say "No wonder he doesn't take you seriously." Fortunately the Moose didn't require much discipline. Unfortunately, it didn't give me much practice for his slightly more challenging little brother.
Since having the Rock, I have managed to find my Scream on two occasions. Once he swept his bowl of soup off the table, like in a bad dramatic movie, sending soup flying across the room. A voice came out of me that I can only describe as a rabid bear. I think I actually saw the bear come out of my mouth - at that moment I was having an out-of-body experience. Let's just say that Rocco understood that yes, sending your soup bowl sailing against the wall, is "not a good choice."
Now we have bedtime issues. When I say "we", I mean me. The Rock goes to sleep great for his dad. But when Mom puts him to bed, he is willing to scream my name for an hour straight until he 1) pukes or 2) I give up. One night while Pete was out, after hearing my name screamed for 40 minutes in a way that would suggest my little angel was in impending danger, I bounded upstairs only to hear, "Hi Mom. Where is my giraffee?" Again I retreated downstairs, only to have the screams start up again. Upstairs again to "I need a dwink." The next time he needed a pickle. Another 20 minutes of hearing my name screamed at the top of his lungs and I had had enough. I stomped up the stairs and enter the room with The Scream that said under no uncertain terms was it bedtime and that this crap was stopping NOW. And then the real crying began. Which made me feel like shit. Scooping up the Rock, I kissed him, apologized for yelling and told him that he still needed to go to bed. And then it was quiet.
I retreated downstairs and felt like the World's Worst Mom. I had found my "mad voice" and it didn't feel too awesome to use. Therapeutic, but the hangover sucked. The next morning, the Rock, with his mature ability to make me feel bad intentionally, told me "don't scweam at me." I told him we'd make a deal that I wouldn't scream at him if he wouldn't scream at me. Making a deal with a toddler is like trusting a thief with your housekeys - fruitless. I drove to work thinking about how I had totally failed as a parent. I have so many patient friends that never raise their voices at their kids.
And then I had an epiphany. Yes, I have amazing friends that make my parenting skills look like a bad episode of COPS. But there are also a lot of super sucky parents out there that scream at their children as the only form of communication they use, that beat their children and withhold love. And compared to the lowest standard I can think of, I felt okay. Because that night my patience had broke and yes, I yelled at Rock, but I also kept my head and my control. We've never hit our children for any reason and one really bad night at home didn't push me over the edge. And I thought maybe I should just give myself a little credit for the fact that I have a child that knowingly pushes my buttons and that ALL I did was yell.
All of us have crappy parenting moments, especially when we compare ourselves to the perfect parents out there. Maybe sometimes we should compare ourselves to a slightly lower standard, just so we can have enough of a confidence boost to make it through another day. Or night as it is my case.
So I'm not perfect, but after eight years, I did finally find that voice that a DOCTOR told me to channel. And on that note, I'm ending with a quote from one of the best books written lately, "baby, just go the fuck to sleep."
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Fifty Shades of Reality
*This post is about Fifty Shades of Grey. If you are my mother and reading this blog, please do not read Fifty Shades of Grey. And if you do, do not tell me that you read it. That's all I ask.*
So I've been pretty busy lately reading the trilogy Fifty Shades of Grey. And I can't say I'm all too impressed. Why did I read all three books then? Because I'm an optimist. So if you have a new business idea of selling used chewing gum to denture users and you are looking for an angel investor, chances are I'll believe it will be a sensational idea and will float you a loan.
To be honest, I too was swept up in the fantasy of the story. Once I got over the initial shock of word porn, I found myself fantasizing about living at the Grey house. Why? Not for the mind-blowing sex. Actually, that part got a little boring. No, I was way more excited about the personal chef, chauffeur and house keeper. Heaven help me, if I could come home and have someone preparing my meals for me and cleaning my house to the point of even santizing the playroom I would be in ecstasy. Goodness knows those stuffed animals could use a good scrubbing. (And you thought I was talking about the "Red Room of Pain" didn't you? Tsk tsk...)
So here is my tribute to Fifty Shades...of Reality. Welcome to my world.
"My Fifty Shades walks in as I am cooking our dinner. 'Mmm' he says, 'what are you cooking Hot Stuff?' As my insides melt as I am slaving over a hot stove, I give him my most sultry look through my eyelashes 'Chicken nuggets. Damn, I have something in my eye.'
He walks over to the table. 'Do you need me to get the table ready? Do you know what I could do with this table?' He gives me a dark look as his eyes turn that shade of grey. 'Yes,' I reply, breathing hard because I am holding our toddler while pouring the milk for dinner, my inner goddess doing an elaborate ribbon twirling routine. 'You can wipe it with a Lysol wipe before dinner. I think we forgot after breakfast this morning.'
We eat our dinner as quickly as we can, because in our house, if you don't eat fast, you don't eat. My Fifty Shades looks at me as our fingers touch while we exchange dirty dishes. 'Do you want to take a bath or a shower?' I look at him quizzically, my subconscious looking up from her Complete Works of Shakespeare in Mandarin. 'I think we only have time for a shower. What exactly are you thinking?' My Fifty looks at me with a knowing expression. 'You are right. But we'll have to be fast or we'll run out of hot water.'
The kids playing downstairs, I jump into the shower. As I turn around, Fifty climbs into the shower. 'Now we won't run out of hot water. I'll wash your back.' Oh my. My inner goddess finishes her floor routine and moves on to an awkward salsa dance. As he lathers up his hands, he murmurs into my ear, 'Did you pick me up more shaving cream?' Oh my. The door slams open as our darling eight-year old stomps into the bathroom, 'Do you know what my brother did? He broke all my legos! He is never going into my room ever again!' Tears streaming down his face, he runs out of the bathroom. I rinse quickly and move on to damage control with the babies.
We finally put the children to bed, 90 minutes after we first start the process. I don my most alluring over-sized t-shirt and climb into bed, adjusting my pillow pet that I received for my birthday last year. Fifty is already in bed and I can hear him breathing. Deeply. I snuggle into him, feeling a rumbling deep inside. Damn, I shouldn't have had those last 3 bites of cake. Fifty turns over to face me, looking me in the eyes. Oh, my insides turn to jelly. I really shouldn't have had that cake. What was I thinking? As I turn out the light, our youngest stirs and starts shouting that he needs to go to the potty. Oh my."
So I've been pretty busy lately reading the trilogy Fifty Shades of Grey. And I can't say I'm all too impressed. Why did I read all three books then? Because I'm an optimist. So if you have a new business idea of selling used chewing gum to denture users and you are looking for an angel investor, chances are I'll believe it will be a sensational idea and will float you a loan.
To be honest, I too was swept up in the fantasy of the story. Once I got over the initial shock of word porn, I found myself fantasizing about living at the Grey house. Why? Not for the mind-blowing sex. Actually, that part got a little boring. No, I was way more excited about the personal chef, chauffeur and house keeper. Heaven help me, if I could come home and have someone preparing my meals for me and cleaning my house to the point of even santizing the playroom I would be in ecstasy. Goodness knows those stuffed animals could use a good scrubbing. (And you thought I was talking about the "Red Room of Pain" didn't you? Tsk tsk...)
So here is my tribute to Fifty Shades...of Reality. Welcome to my world.
"My Fifty Shades walks in as I am cooking our dinner. 'Mmm' he says, 'what are you cooking Hot Stuff?' As my insides melt as I am slaving over a hot stove, I give him my most sultry look through my eyelashes 'Chicken nuggets. Damn, I have something in my eye.'
He walks over to the table. 'Do you need me to get the table ready? Do you know what I could do with this table?' He gives me a dark look as his eyes turn that shade of grey. 'Yes,' I reply, breathing hard because I am holding our toddler while pouring the milk for dinner, my inner goddess doing an elaborate ribbon twirling routine. 'You can wipe it with a Lysol wipe before dinner. I think we forgot after breakfast this morning.'
We eat our dinner as quickly as we can, because in our house, if you don't eat fast, you don't eat. My Fifty Shades looks at me as our fingers touch while we exchange dirty dishes. 'Do you want to take a bath or a shower?' I look at him quizzically, my subconscious looking up from her Complete Works of Shakespeare in Mandarin. 'I think we only have time for a shower. What exactly are you thinking?' My Fifty looks at me with a knowing expression. 'You are right. But we'll have to be fast or we'll run out of hot water.'
The kids playing downstairs, I jump into the shower. As I turn around, Fifty climbs into the shower. 'Now we won't run out of hot water. I'll wash your back.' Oh my. My inner goddess finishes her floor routine and moves on to an awkward salsa dance. As he lathers up his hands, he murmurs into my ear, 'Did you pick me up more shaving cream?' Oh my. The door slams open as our darling eight-year old stomps into the bathroom, 'Do you know what my brother did? He broke all my legos! He is never going into my room ever again!' Tears streaming down his face, he runs out of the bathroom. I rinse quickly and move on to damage control with the babies.
We finally put the children to bed, 90 minutes after we first start the process. I don my most alluring over-sized t-shirt and climb into bed, adjusting my pillow pet that I received for my birthday last year. Fifty is already in bed and I can hear him breathing. Deeply. I snuggle into him, feeling a rumbling deep inside. Damn, I shouldn't have had those last 3 bites of cake. Fifty turns over to face me, looking me in the eyes. Oh, my insides turn to jelly. I really shouldn't have had that cake. What was I thinking? As I turn out the light, our youngest stirs and starts shouting that he needs to go to the potty. Oh my."
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Sugar, Adhesive and Lies - Potty Training 2.0
So we finally started potty training Rocco last weekend. He's 2 1/2 and seems ready for it so we jumped in. When we potty trained Max, I remember it being a very smooth process. The biggest hang-up was buying him prizes for pooping on the potty. Back then, I would have called it "pooing" but since having lived in a testerone-filled house for the last 8 years, I have adjusted to calling it what it is. Yuck.
To prepare, we bought lots of underwear, set aside 2 days of our lives to focus on this big event, and stocked the house with stickers and Skittles. What we didn't prepare for was Rocco being himself.
We started on Sunday and I haven't sounded so excited about underwear since I worked at Victoria's Secret ("We have the teal hipster in your size! What about the matching thong and bra?!") Rocco settled on some new Thomas the Train undies and away we went, with promises of sugar and stickers for successful potty-attempts. The reward for going potty in this house is 3 Skittles and a sticker.
The first moment I realized that Rocco was gaining the upper hand was when I found him stealing the candy. He was at the kitchen table while I was occupied doing something very wholesome and parentlike, I'm sure, like refilling my coffee cup and popping some Advil. He SAID he just wanted to SEE the Skittles. He must have meant see them in his mouth because when I looked over, he looked like a chipmunk with a mouth full of rainbow-colored sugar nuts. He was giggling as Skittles started to fall out of his mouth, which he caught quickly and shoved back into his mouth, before he ran off. The Skittles were put up and I learned my lesson to NOT TRUST ROCCO AROUND CANDY.
My next downfall was the stickers. I keep the stickers within reach because Rocco has never really cared about stickers before. That is until they were being used to count good behavior. We have a sheet of paper on the door for a potty chart. When Max trained, he dutifully placed a sticker on the chart for each time he went potty. This chart became a source of pride and joy for Max - and one we have saved for his senior graduation party. For Rocco, this chart has become a way of showing that he really is the boss in the house. I found him rapidly adding unearned stickers to his chart - when he saw me, he looked up, started laughing and took off with the sheet of stickers. I explained that stickers were only for when he went potty. This explanation was met with a smirk and an unspoken understanding that Rocco would add stickers whenever he damn well pleased.
The final straw was when Rocco learned why little boys have openings in the front of their underwear. Funny what you can poke through there. "Look Mom!" I heard and when I turned to look, I was visually accosted by Rocco's little buddy. "Oh Rock, you need to put your penis away. He stays in your underwear." But it was a lost cause because Rocky had learned that I had a new button to push. I looked to Peter for manly advice - he is a man after all and has learned to overcome the urge to walk around with his penis hanging out. I figured he was an expert with this. This is what I got:
Peter: "Rocco, put your penis away."
Rocco: "Hey Dad! Look at me!"
Peter: "Just ignore him. He'll stop."
Rocco: "Mom! Mom! Look at me! Look at me!"
Peter: "Rocco, if you don't put that away, the cats will bite it."
At this point I was completely appalled. I turned on Peter and scolded him for 1) being gross and 2) totally making up a story to fix this behavior. Now, the cats do bite Rocco because he pulls their tails and tries to sit on them. But they bite him on the arm - not anywhere more sensitive! Let's reason with Rocco instead because I'm not going to make up some blatent lie just to have him put his little guy away (internally I was panicking I'd get a call from his child care teachers about my new little flasher). At this point Petey-the-Cat (a huge maine coon cat) came walking through the kitchen. Rocco gasped, shouted "NO PETEY!" and grabbed his crotch and ran off.
Once I picked myself off the floor from laughing, I realized one thing. While I never want to make up completely unbelievable lies for my children, at least WE learned one thing - Rocco is listening afterall.
To prepare, we bought lots of underwear, set aside 2 days of our lives to focus on this big event, and stocked the house with stickers and Skittles. What we didn't prepare for was Rocco being himself.
We started on Sunday and I haven't sounded so excited about underwear since I worked at Victoria's Secret ("We have the teal hipster in your size! What about the matching thong and bra?!") Rocco settled on some new Thomas the Train undies and away we went, with promises of sugar and stickers for successful potty-attempts. The reward for going potty in this house is 3 Skittles and a sticker.
The first moment I realized that Rocco was gaining the upper hand was when I found him stealing the candy. He was at the kitchen table while I was occupied doing something very wholesome and parentlike, I'm sure, like refilling my coffee cup and popping some Advil. He SAID he just wanted to SEE the Skittles. He must have meant see them in his mouth because when I looked over, he looked like a chipmunk with a mouth full of rainbow-colored sugar nuts. He was giggling as Skittles started to fall out of his mouth, which he caught quickly and shoved back into his mouth, before he ran off. The Skittles were put up and I learned my lesson to NOT TRUST ROCCO AROUND CANDY.
My next downfall was the stickers. I keep the stickers within reach because Rocco has never really cared about stickers before. That is until they were being used to count good behavior. We have a sheet of paper on the door for a potty chart. When Max trained, he dutifully placed a sticker on the chart for each time he went potty. This chart became a source of pride and joy for Max - and one we have saved for his senior graduation party. For Rocco, this chart has become a way of showing that he really is the boss in the house. I found him rapidly adding unearned stickers to his chart - when he saw me, he looked up, started laughing and took off with the sheet of stickers. I explained that stickers were only for when he went potty. This explanation was met with a smirk and an unspoken understanding that Rocco would add stickers whenever he damn well pleased.
The final straw was when Rocco learned why little boys have openings in the front of their underwear. Funny what you can poke through there. "Look Mom!" I heard and when I turned to look, I was visually accosted by Rocco's little buddy. "Oh Rock, you need to put your penis away. He stays in your underwear." But it was a lost cause because Rocky had learned that I had a new button to push. I looked to Peter for manly advice - he is a man after all and has learned to overcome the urge to walk around with his penis hanging out. I figured he was an expert with this. This is what I got:
Peter: "Rocco, put your penis away."
Rocco: "Hey Dad! Look at me!"
Peter: "Just ignore him. He'll stop."
Rocco: "Mom! Mom! Look at me! Look at me!"
Peter: "Rocco, if you don't put that away, the cats will bite it."
At this point I was completely appalled. I turned on Peter and scolded him for 1) being gross and 2) totally making up a story to fix this behavior. Now, the cats do bite Rocco because he pulls their tails and tries to sit on them. But they bite him on the arm - not anywhere more sensitive! Let's reason with Rocco instead because I'm not going to make up some blatent lie just to have him put his little guy away (internally I was panicking I'd get a call from his child care teachers about my new little flasher). At this point Petey-the-Cat (a huge maine coon cat) came walking through the kitchen. Rocco gasped, shouted "NO PETEY!" and grabbed his crotch and ran off.
Once I picked myself off the floor from laughing, I realized one thing. While I never want to make up completely unbelievable lies for my children, at least WE learned one thing - Rocco is listening afterall.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
A Memo to Management
To: Senior Management
From: Jenny, Personal Assistant to Senior Management, aka Mommy
Re: Proposal in regards to recent complaints
Thank you for your recent honest assessment of my job performance. I acknowledge the fact that I have been absent one night a week for a total of two hours and I am sorry that my absence has bothered you. I would like to point out that while you have been unhappy that I have gone to a yoga class these past few Wednesdays, my performance in other aspects has been satisfactory and as such, I would like to propose that I continue taking these classes. I would like to support my position with the following facts:
1. For the last 8 years, I have been on call 24/7. While I embrace the fact that this is a job requirement as Mom, I would like to be able to do something for myself during regular working hours. Most employees would receive a break during the day. Usually I take my personal time between the hours of 4 - 6 a.m.; occasionally I would like to step away for a short amount of time between 6 a.m. - 4 a.m., just once a week.
2. Since having children, I recognize that sleep is a privilege, not a right. Please see point #1 regarding my work schedule. I am on-call all hours of the day and at any moment am prepared to jump out of bed to attend a thirsty-request or clean up your puke (which you forget to mention until I stick my hand in it in the dark.)
3. I know that I am away from the house on a regular basis for "work." My job provides your house, food and transportation, among other amenities. I do consider this part of my responsibilities as Mom and do not count this as "personal time."
4. In my spare time while you are sleeping or playing without me, I plan your birthday parties, sleep overs, schedule your camps, make your meals and buy you new shoes. I do not foresee my one-hour of yoga a week impacting my job duties as Mom.
5. I thoroughly enjoy watching your soccer, football, basketball, scouts, music classes and gym classes. I had hoped that one yoga a class for me would be acceptable in our family schedule.
6. This particular yoga class, while it does take me away from you, reduces my stress-levels to something that resembles human again, which I think we can all agree, is a good thing. As you can see in points 1-5, I have dedicated my life to taking care of you and occasionally need to do something for me, however selfish it may appear. This yoga class also addresses another important issue, my body. We do not usually bring this up, as it is a sensitive subject, but creating you has fucked up my body on record levels. I would do it again in less than a heartbeat, but reality must be faced. I have several pounds to drop and a stomach area that requires serious toning. I can live with the 7 inch c-section scar, simply because I can't do anything about it. But I would like to address the other sub-par areas on my physical being.
I hope you will consider my proposal for just a touch of life balance. I hope we can meet over a quick dinner of chicken nuggets to discuss it in further detail. Thank you for your time and consideration.
From: Jenny, Personal Assistant to Senior Management, aka Mommy
Re: Proposal in regards to recent complaints
Thank you for your recent honest assessment of my job performance. I acknowledge the fact that I have been absent one night a week for a total of two hours and I am sorry that my absence has bothered you. I would like to point out that while you have been unhappy that I have gone to a yoga class these past few Wednesdays, my performance in other aspects has been satisfactory and as such, I would like to propose that I continue taking these classes. I would like to support my position with the following facts:
1. For the last 8 years, I have been on call 24/7. While I embrace the fact that this is a job requirement as Mom, I would like to be able to do something for myself during regular working hours. Most employees would receive a break during the day. Usually I take my personal time between the hours of 4 - 6 a.m.; occasionally I would like to step away for a short amount of time between 6 a.m. - 4 a.m., just once a week.
2. Since having children, I recognize that sleep is a privilege, not a right. Please see point #1 regarding my work schedule. I am on-call all hours of the day and at any moment am prepared to jump out of bed to attend a thirsty-request or clean up your puke (which you forget to mention until I stick my hand in it in the dark.)
3. I know that I am away from the house on a regular basis for "work." My job provides your house, food and transportation, among other amenities. I do consider this part of my responsibilities as Mom and do not count this as "personal time."
4. In my spare time while you are sleeping or playing without me, I plan your birthday parties, sleep overs, schedule your camps, make your meals and buy you new shoes. I do not foresee my one-hour of yoga a week impacting my job duties as Mom.
5. I thoroughly enjoy watching your soccer, football, basketball, scouts, music classes and gym classes. I had hoped that one yoga a class for me would be acceptable in our family schedule.
6. This particular yoga class, while it does take me away from you, reduces my stress-levels to something that resembles human again, which I think we can all agree, is a good thing. As you can see in points 1-5, I have dedicated my life to taking care of you and occasionally need to do something for me, however selfish it may appear. This yoga class also addresses another important issue, my body. We do not usually bring this up, as it is a sensitive subject, but creating you has fucked up my body on record levels. I would do it again in less than a heartbeat, but reality must be faced. I have several pounds to drop and a stomach area that requires serious toning. I can live with the 7 inch c-section scar, simply because I can't do anything about it. But I would like to address the other sub-par areas on my physical being.
I hope you will consider my proposal for just a touch of life balance. I hope we can meet over a quick dinner of chicken nuggets to discuss it in further detail. Thank you for your time and consideration.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
An Ode to May Day (or May-Not Day)
Know this post is coming from a place of love for all moms out there...and an intense sense of envy.
I hate May Day. This is a completely worthless holiday designed to divide SUPER-parents from those of us who struggle to just get through the day with no one losing a shoe. For those of you that say that Valentine's Day is a made-up holiday from the card companies, I counter that May Day is a made-up holiday from Dixie Cups and Jiffy Pop, with Parents Magazine as a sponsor. (Because if anything is going to make you feel inadequate, it is a good parenting magazine.) Maybe you say I just like Valentine's Day and Mother's Day because it means I get presents. And maybe you would be right.
In Iowa at least, it is tradition to make special little cups (May Baskets) with goodies, like popcorn, candy and flowers. You place these May Baskets on your neighbor's porch, ring the bell and run. It's a sweet little tradition that I hate now as a mom. I loved getting May Baskets as a kid. But once I became a parent, it was clear that I was not going to be the parent who is "on top of it." I blew my first May Day when Max was in daycare. He received about 10 May Baskets from the other kids. At least there were 16 kids in his class so I wasn't the only underachiever. Every year May Day rolls around and I forget all about it again. And now that I have TWO kids, the pressure has doubled - and I have doubly failed. Today Rocco even got a May Basket (special allowing for his food allergies even!) with homemade paper flowers. And I hang my head in shame.
The thing is, I'm insanely envious of all of those parents out there that are going above and beyond. Most days my "above and beyond" is serving dinner on real plates and including one serving of a fruit OR vegetable. And I desperately want to be the parent that remembers the little holidays, like May Day or Boxing Day. Instead, just for one little day, I am filled with a crazy amount of jealousy of the moms (and dads) that make May Baskets for the entire class. I especially like it when my friends point out how this date was in their calendars so they could allot the three days necessary to make all 16 individualized May Baskets and determine an appropriate delivery method (Friend, you know who you are).
So another year goes by and no May Baskets from our house. And I have now decided to boycott May Day so at least it seems that I am making the CHOICE of not making May Baskets instead of completely forgetting about them. And if that brings me a little peace, then so be it. But please ring my doorbell and leave a little something for my babies. I promise not to sneak and eat their goodies...because a boycott is a boycott. And I can pop my own popcorn.
I hate May Day. This is a completely worthless holiday designed to divide SUPER-parents from those of us who struggle to just get through the day with no one losing a shoe. For those of you that say that Valentine's Day is a made-up holiday from the card companies, I counter that May Day is a made-up holiday from Dixie Cups and Jiffy Pop, with Parents Magazine as a sponsor. (Because if anything is going to make you feel inadequate, it is a good parenting magazine.) Maybe you say I just like Valentine's Day and Mother's Day because it means I get presents. And maybe you would be right.
In Iowa at least, it is tradition to make special little cups (May Baskets) with goodies, like popcorn, candy and flowers. You place these May Baskets on your neighbor's porch, ring the bell and run. It's a sweet little tradition that I hate now as a mom. I loved getting May Baskets as a kid. But once I became a parent, it was clear that I was not going to be the parent who is "on top of it." I blew my first May Day when Max was in daycare. He received about 10 May Baskets from the other kids. At least there were 16 kids in his class so I wasn't the only underachiever. Every year May Day rolls around and I forget all about it again. And now that I have TWO kids, the pressure has doubled - and I have doubly failed. Today Rocco even got a May Basket (special allowing for his food allergies even!) with homemade paper flowers. And I hang my head in shame.
The thing is, I'm insanely envious of all of those parents out there that are going above and beyond. Most days my "above and beyond" is serving dinner on real plates and including one serving of a fruit OR vegetable. And I desperately want to be the parent that remembers the little holidays, like May Day or Boxing Day. Instead, just for one little day, I am filled with a crazy amount of jealousy of the moms (and dads) that make May Baskets for the entire class. I especially like it when my friends point out how this date was in their calendars so they could allot the three days necessary to make all 16 individualized May Baskets and determine an appropriate delivery method (Friend, you know who you are).
So another year goes by and no May Baskets from our house. And I have now decided to boycott May Day so at least it seems that I am making the CHOICE of not making May Baskets instead of completely forgetting about them. And if that brings me a little peace, then so be it. But please ring my doorbell and leave a little something for my babies. I promise not to sneak and eat their goodies...because a boycott is a boycott. And I can pop my own popcorn.
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