Each day before lunch I like to take my daughters out for a walk. It's nothing extraordinary - just a 30 minute stroll around our neighborhood so they can get some energy out before they take a nap. I always feel like they will sleep better or more importantly sleep at all if they get the fresh air.
Perhaps I shouldn't be so quick to call it not extraordinary...I've had some great times with them and their Granny-Nanny a.k.a. my mom. I've taken great pictures of them walking hand in hand, we've picked pine cones, and I get to see them enjoy the great outdoors. But perhaps the greatest lesson I've taught them thus far is...no not look both ways before crossing...it's how to get a truck to honk!
My kids enjoy walking along the busy road at the end of our block. They get genuinely excited when big trucks pass and shout, "Mommy Mommy Truck!" as if I didn't see it much less hear it rumble along. But it's sweet. Rhu gets a real kick out trucks honking and tries to wave to each one. So, being the responsible parent I am, I thought it was high time I taught her the valuable lesson of the international gesture to get trucks to honk. I explained that if she wanted a truck to blow its horn, then she should raise her little arm up and down in a yanking motion. Trucks would see it and the cool ones will honk. When I showed her the effectiveness of this she was dazzled. Each time a truck came our way, her little paw went up and down with such enthusiasm I couldn't help but giggle. The laughs that came out of her mouth should be bottled like a French perfume.
I take it back, this time with them is extraordinary and I wouldn't trade it for anything. And maybe my girls will look back someday and remember their mom taught them something useful...or at least fun.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Monday, September 26, 2011
Sh#t my kids say...
Wait, is that appropriate? I ask my kids that all the time when they are doing something they are not supposed to do. Oh well, it's my blog and it's been a while since I have posted anything. I took the summer off somewhat intentionally since I never made myself sit down and write. But also somewhat unintentionally...seems like every night I set aside to write, something would come up. But now the summer is over and it's time to get back into my routine again. To all those who wondered where Smunch Mommy went...I'M BACK!!
As a mother, I am well aware everyone thinks their kids are the cutest, smartest, wittiest...it comes with the territory of parenthood. I am no exception. My daughters are 2 1/2 and 1 1/2 and say the darnedest things. I always think I should stop and write what they say in a journal, but I live in the real world and don't have the ability to drop life and journal every 5 seconds. (I guess all the mothering, wifery, housework, work work and family get in the way!)
This summer Rhu, the 2 1/2 year old brought me to tears I was laughing so hard at the funny things she said. One bright summer morning our overly excitable dog accompanied me as I went into the nursery to get the girls up and dressed. The girls were awake and playing in their respective beds as our big black dog, Madison happily barked her way into their room. Her barking is nothing new, but I guess Rhu wasn't a morning person that morning. In the most serious voice she could muster with the look of an old crotchety lady, she promptly covered her ears and yelled, "MADISON...inside voice!" It was like she should have been wearing a housecoat and curlers she sounded like such an annoyed old fart! I never heard such a thing and I think I burst out laughing before Rhu could remove her hands from her ears. Even Madison was stunned. She had never requested babies in this house, much less ones that would yell at her!
RaRa is 1 1/2 and just as spunky as her older sister. She speaks very well in full simple sentences, but it's her one or two word quick quips that kill. We've always given the girls high-fives when they do a good job. They get a kick out of it and we enjoy their giggles. Last week, RaRa was playing nicely when out of the blue her tiny little hand went up in the air and she proclaimed, "HIGH-FIVE!" She was serious as a heart attack and looking for someone to validate her good will. Previous to this, I could never image a 17 month old acting like a 25 year old male playing pick-up flag football...guess I was wrong!
Our oldest is particularly picky when it comes to food. We've tried everything. Different foods, sauces, even a diet of carbs with a little cream cheese thrown in for good measure. I think it's God's way of punishing me for being such a picky eater. Still I try giving her new foods and hope she eats them. Last week I made spagetti with meatballs. I didn't hold out much hope for her eating them, but I tried nonetheless. To my amazement she took a bite. With a look of shock on her face she announced, "This is good." She then took another bite and said, "Daddy this is gooood!" It was like I had been feeding her gruel all this time and I suddenly switched to decent food!
Perhaps the cutest words uttered from Rhu came just last week. We went to the store to do some shopping. My husband and I agreed she didn't have to go in the cart and would be allowed to walk as we decided on birthday gifts. After looking at several options, we found ourselves wondering aimlessly down aisles. Rhu took it upon herself to pick up several objects and study them carefully. Promptly she enthusiastically proclaimed, "OH WOW!!" at each object like a Floridian who has never seen snow. Her genuine excitement at each little package of pencils and computer knick-knacks that had been relegated to the end of the aisles was amazing. It was like she was digging for oil and came across a gusher that would have made the Clampets jealous. I guess you had to be there...
Maybe that journal idea isn't so bad...as the girls grow it becomes harder and harder to remember all the funny stories. I guess I understand better now why my mom doesn't recall my sleeping patterns as a child or how I became the family baker. Maybe mothering destroys your memory. Wait, what was I saying?
As a mother, I am well aware everyone thinks their kids are the cutest, smartest, wittiest...it comes with the territory of parenthood. I am no exception. My daughters are 2 1/2 and 1 1/2 and say the darnedest things. I always think I should stop and write what they say in a journal, but I live in the real world and don't have the ability to drop life and journal every 5 seconds. (I guess all the mothering, wifery, housework, work work and family get in the way!)
This summer Rhu, the 2 1/2 year old brought me to tears I was laughing so hard at the funny things she said. One bright summer morning our overly excitable dog accompanied me as I went into the nursery to get the girls up and dressed. The girls were awake and playing in their respective beds as our big black dog, Madison happily barked her way into their room. Her barking is nothing new, but I guess Rhu wasn't a morning person that morning. In the most serious voice she could muster with the look of an old crotchety lady, she promptly covered her ears and yelled, "MADISON...inside voice!" It was like she should have been wearing a housecoat and curlers she sounded like such an annoyed old fart! I never heard such a thing and I think I burst out laughing before Rhu could remove her hands from her ears. Even Madison was stunned. She had never requested babies in this house, much less ones that would yell at her!
RaRa is 1 1/2 and just as spunky as her older sister. She speaks very well in full simple sentences, but it's her one or two word quick quips that kill. We've always given the girls high-fives when they do a good job. They get a kick out of it and we enjoy their giggles. Last week, RaRa was playing nicely when out of the blue her tiny little hand went up in the air and she proclaimed, "HIGH-FIVE!" She was serious as a heart attack and looking for someone to validate her good will. Previous to this, I could never image a 17 month old acting like a 25 year old male playing pick-up flag football...guess I was wrong!
Our oldest is particularly picky when it comes to food. We've tried everything. Different foods, sauces, even a diet of carbs with a little cream cheese thrown in for good measure. I think it's God's way of punishing me for being such a picky eater. Still I try giving her new foods and hope she eats them. Last week I made spagetti with meatballs. I didn't hold out much hope for her eating them, but I tried nonetheless. To my amazement she took a bite. With a look of shock on her face she announced, "This is good." She then took another bite and said, "Daddy this is gooood!" It was like I had been feeding her gruel all this time and I suddenly switched to decent food!
Perhaps the cutest words uttered from Rhu came just last week. We went to the store to do some shopping. My husband and I agreed she didn't have to go in the cart and would be allowed to walk as we decided on birthday gifts. After looking at several options, we found ourselves wondering aimlessly down aisles. Rhu took it upon herself to pick up several objects and study them carefully. Promptly she enthusiastically proclaimed, "OH WOW!!" at each object like a Floridian who has never seen snow. Her genuine excitement at each little package of pencils and computer knick-knacks that had been relegated to the end of the aisles was amazing. It was like she was digging for oil and came across a gusher that would have made the Clampets jealous. I guess you had to be there...
Maybe that journal idea isn't so bad...as the girls grow it becomes harder and harder to remember all the funny stories. I guess I understand better now why my mom doesn't recall my sleeping patterns as a child or how I became the family baker. Maybe mothering destroys your memory. Wait, what was I saying?
Monday, June 20, 2011
Junk in My Trunk
I have too much junk in my trunk...and I'm not talking the good kind J Lo gets paid the big bucks for!! I'm talking actual junk; knick-knacks; brickabrack; chatchkis - CRAP!! Over the years I have managed to accumulate enough stuff to pack a small house to the gills. I'm not ready for hoarders or anything, but I am ready to clean out. A couple of months ago I decided to have a yard sale. I got some family together who also has too much stuff and we picked a date.
At first I was going great guns to get rid of anything that wasn't nailed down. I had boxes in the attic, basement and anywhere my kids couldn't get into them to destroy all my hard work. I tossed old treasures, new junky toys and things that were simply collecting dust. If I wasn't sure, in the box it went. I was doing well. I went through my storage totes of holiday decorations and tossed Easter baskets, cheap Christmas decorations and old Valentine's decorations I bought in college. The project was going well.
Preparation for the big sale was long and tedious. We even managed to get out new coffee table set in time to sell the old one. I sorted through all my old treasures the night before and was sure I was prepared. I knew the early birds would probably be there at 8 am - a whole hour before the sale was set to start. But I would be ready. I planned to be outside setting up before 6am - plenty of time to be ready for the vultures...or so I thought!!!
Why don't I ever learn? Every time I think I'm fully prepared, that's when all hell breaks loose.
The day started promptly at 5:15. I woke groggy, but ready. By 6:45 I hefted all the heavy boxes out on my front lawn. The poor dewy grass had no idea what it was in for. I managed to only break one glass candle stick...not bad for a klutz! Things were going well enough I figured a donut break was well earned. The morning was early and surely no one would be so brazen to show up before 8am...wrong again. I barely returned to my front yard makeshift store before the vultures arrived. 7:45...a full hour and fifteen minutes before the advertised start of the sale my first obnoxious customer arrived. I was stilled furiously hanging clothes on the line my husband installed for me when a middle aged blond woman pulled up.
Thinking nothing of the fact she was too early she walked right up to inspect my wares. After a quick look she promptly informed my husband that his choice to quickly remove a low hanging branch was poorly timed...who asked her anyway?? She then took herself across the street where she informed my mother in law that her prices were too high. Turns out she was looking for things to buy and resell at her yard sale. She complained that she wouldn't be able to turn a profit herself. Oh, I'm sorry!! What were we thinking???
The day continued in pretty much the same tone. I was offered $1 for a party dress. Are you kidding me?? I modestly priced a brand new pair of Osh Kosh toddler overalls at $3. The MSRP on the tag still attached was $28. I was offered $1...are you kidding me?? When I stuck to my $3 guns the woman looked at me like I asked for a kidney. Another man offered me $3 for an MP3 player that I priced at $5. When I went down to $4 it was too high...because that extra dollar would break him!! Full suits priced at $8 were apparently too rich for my customers' blood. I never even got anyone to look at a 2 cup coffee maker. That just made a guest appearance from the basement for fun! A woman offered 25 cents for a brand new Coach wallet. That could have been the all time low. After 6 hours of nickel and diming I had enough. It was like people expected me to pay them to take my stuff. Maybe my neighbors had the right idea...they were looking to get rid of furniture, so they marked it free and sat down to read a book. In the end, all their stuff moved while I was tasked with bringing most of my junk back in the house.
In the end, all my hard work resulted in just enough money to buy dinner...after the exhausting day I was in no shape to cook and clean!! Now I have just enough time to get more junk together before we do it again in the fall. I told you I never learn!
At first I was going great guns to get rid of anything that wasn't nailed down. I had boxes in the attic, basement and anywhere my kids couldn't get into them to destroy all my hard work. I tossed old treasures, new junky toys and things that were simply collecting dust. If I wasn't sure, in the box it went. I was doing well. I went through my storage totes of holiday decorations and tossed Easter baskets, cheap Christmas decorations and old Valentine's decorations I bought in college. The project was going well.
Preparation for the big sale was long and tedious. We even managed to get out new coffee table set in time to sell the old one. I sorted through all my old treasures the night before and was sure I was prepared. I knew the early birds would probably be there at 8 am - a whole hour before the sale was set to start. But I would be ready. I planned to be outside setting up before 6am - plenty of time to be ready for the vultures...or so I thought!!!
Why don't I ever learn? Every time I think I'm fully prepared, that's when all hell breaks loose.
The day started promptly at 5:15. I woke groggy, but ready. By 6:45 I hefted all the heavy boxes out on my front lawn. The poor dewy grass had no idea what it was in for. I managed to only break one glass candle stick...not bad for a klutz! Things were going well enough I figured a donut break was well earned. The morning was early and surely no one would be so brazen to show up before 8am...wrong again. I barely returned to my front yard makeshift store before the vultures arrived. 7:45...a full hour and fifteen minutes before the advertised start of the sale my first obnoxious customer arrived. I was stilled furiously hanging clothes on the line my husband installed for me when a middle aged blond woman pulled up.
Thinking nothing of the fact she was too early she walked right up to inspect my wares. After a quick look she promptly informed my husband that his choice to quickly remove a low hanging branch was poorly timed...who asked her anyway?? She then took herself across the street where she informed my mother in law that her prices were too high. Turns out she was looking for things to buy and resell at her yard sale. She complained that she wouldn't be able to turn a profit herself. Oh, I'm sorry!! What were we thinking???
The day continued in pretty much the same tone. I was offered $1 for a party dress. Are you kidding me?? I modestly priced a brand new pair of Osh Kosh toddler overalls at $3. The MSRP on the tag still attached was $28. I was offered $1...are you kidding me?? When I stuck to my $3 guns the woman looked at me like I asked for a kidney. Another man offered me $3 for an MP3 player that I priced at $5. When I went down to $4 it was too high...because that extra dollar would break him!! Full suits priced at $8 were apparently too rich for my customers' blood. I never even got anyone to look at a 2 cup coffee maker. That just made a guest appearance from the basement for fun! A woman offered 25 cents for a brand new Coach wallet. That could have been the all time low. After 6 hours of nickel and diming I had enough. It was like people expected me to pay them to take my stuff. Maybe my neighbors had the right idea...they were looking to get rid of furniture, so they marked it free and sat down to read a book. In the end, all their stuff moved while I was tasked with bringing most of my junk back in the house.
In the end, all my hard work resulted in just enough money to buy dinner...after the exhausting day I was in no shape to cook and clean!! Now I have just enough time to get more junk together before we do it again in the fall. I told you I never learn!
Monday, June 13, 2011
Status Symbol
There are many things in this life I find annoying - slow drivers, inefficiency, and uncomfortable bras are just a few. But lately something that has shot to the top of the list are the people who must update their Facebook status every four seconds with what they are doing. In particular the stay-at-home-moms who seem to chronicle every move their child makes. "Oh Little Johnny ate 2 bites of scrambled eggs and had a sip of Juice." "Oh, Little Suzy just had a 52 minute nap." Gee thanks. I'm so glad I get to read about every little poop your poopsie takes.
OK, I know this sounds bitter, but I have good reason. I am a working mom. Now before you stay-at-home-moms get all "I work too!!" on me let me just say I understand. I know just how hard moms work. Remember I'm a mom too. I just get to serve another master during the daylight hours. And to add to it, I have to leave my babies to do it. I get the joy of leaving sometimes crying babies to go off and earn a paycheck.
To be fair, those who know me would say I have it pretty good. My office is at home and I can tweak my hours somewhat around my kids. But that does not negate the fact I'm not the only one raising my children. That is a pain that no amount of money could ever alleviate. Then, to top it off by people who have nothing better to do that status update or worse those who couldn't care less about their kids makes me crazy.
Who are these people who can up and leave their kids to go on vacation?? I can actually say I know someone who left their 10 week old baby to go on a booze filled convention weekend. You would have had to pry my baby out of my cold dead hands before I did that...again I know judgemental, but maybe some people need a wake up call. Perhaps we've allowed our priorities to go askew...tending to smart phones and not sweet babies.
Oh well, guess it's time for summer and all the moms who complain their kids are driving them nuts!! Can't wait!
OK, I know this sounds bitter, but I have good reason. I am a working mom. Now before you stay-at-home-moms get all "I work too!!" on me let me just say I understand. I know just how hard moms work. Remember I'm a mom too. I just get to serve another master during the daylight hours. And to add to it, I have to leave my babies to do it. I get the joy of leaving sometimes crying babies to go off and earn a paycheck.
To be fair, those who know me would say I have it pretty good. My office is at home and I can tweak my hours somewhat around my kids. But that does not negate the fact I'm not the only one raising my children. That is a pain that no amount of money could ever alleviate. Then, to top it off by people who have nothing better to do that status update or worse those who couldn't care less about their kids makes me crazy.
Who are these people who can up and leave their kids to go on vacation?? I can actually say I know someone who left their 10 week old baby to go on a booze filled convention weekend. You would have had to pry my baby out of my cold dead hands before I did that...again I know judgemental, but maybe some people need a wake up call. Perhaps we've allowed our priorities to go askew...tending to smart phones and not sweet babies.
Oh well, guess it's time for summer and all the moms who complain their kids are driving them nuts!! Can't wait!
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Magazine Malfunctions
I don't remember exactly when I started my subscription to Parenting magazine. I think it was sometime after my first child was born - a neighborhood kid was selling subscriptions as a school fundraiser. Wanting to do all I could to be a good mom I figured a whole magazine dedicated to the subject would be a perfect addition to our household. Each month since then the magazine is delivered to our mailbox by our chain smoking mailman...ironic isn't it.
In the beginning I looked forward to its arrival. I anxiously awaited the new tidbits of information it would share with me. Being a working mother, the only time I had to read it was in the bathroom, so it also come to symbolize my one well deserved bathroom break a day. I always started from page one and read straight through. Surely each article was worth my attention and of course the editors had put so much thought into its production that the least I could do was give it my full attention.
As time went on, I gradually I became a little skeptical of some of the article. Suggesting my one year would devour wheat germ and guava juice if I offered it caused me to raise an eyebrow...wheat germ?? I don't think so. Then there was the article about summer travel that came complete with a picture of a child bent over the front seat of a station wagon. Not only were her legs wide open, but they chose to put her in a bathing suit that looked like underwear. Really?? This is the best picture we could find for this article?? Then there was an article that suggests daily walks in the woods? Hay editors...ever hear of ticks and nap schedules?? Come on, we mom's do our best, but suggesting a Survivorman mentality is a bit much if you ask me.
Now that I am more confident in my parenting (or maybe just too tired to wonder) I can say I look more discerningly at the magazine. My latest chuckle between the periodical's covers was an article on fevers. The article made sense to me...most fevers do not need medicine. The body needs time to work naturally. A natural approach usually sits well with me. The part that did not was the perfectly made up model who was playing the mother. She is probably all of 22 with perfect makeup complete with smokey eyes that would make Angelina Jolie jealous. Her lips have that "I just retouched my lip gloss" look that Paris Hilton made famous. Her hair is perfectly colored in a rich brown that every brunette yearns for styled into long loose curls. (I think it even had some shimmer to it!) To top it all off, her nails are perfectly manicure because every mother has time to do those nails while they are caring for a sick child!! Come on Parenting really?? It's not enough that like most mothers I spend 23 hours a day worrying that I'm doing the best job I can. Now I have to look at Little Miss Perfectly Made up Mother while I try to glean more knowledge from your magazine. No wonder the average mother of toddlers just let themselves go without makeup and cut their hair into the standard man's haircut. How can we compete so why bother!?!?
I understand the magazine does not want to use old Mother Hubbard as their model, but do we really need to look at the cover model from last months Cosmopolitan while we are dealing with hormonal imbalances and anxiety about raising our children? I'm just saying give us a break...after all poop and puke are enough to deal with on precious little sleep.
In the beginning I looked forward to its arrival. I anxiously awaited the new tidbits of information it would share with me. Being a working mother, the only time I had to read it was in the bathroom, so it also come to symbolize my one well deserved bathroom break a day. I always started from page one and read straight through. Surely each article was worth my attention and of course the editors had put so much thought into its production that the least I could do was give it my full attention.
As time went on, I gradually I became a little skeptical of some of the article. Suggesting my one year would devour wheat germ and guava juice if I offered it caused me to raise an eyebrow...wheat germ?? I don't think so. Then there was the article about summer travel that came complete with a picture of a child bent over the front seat of a station wagon. Not only were her legs wide open, but they chose to put her in a bathing suit that looked like underwear. Really?? This is the best picture we could find for this article?? Then there was an article that suggests daily walks in the woods? Hay editors...ever hear of ticks and nap schedules?? Come on, we mom's do our best, but suggesting a Survivorman mentality is a bit much if you ask me.
Now that I am more confident in my parenting (or maybe just too tired to wonder) I can say I look more discerningly at the magazine. My latest chuckle between the periodical's covers was an article on fevers. The article made sense to me...most fevers do not need medicine. The body needs time to work naturally. A natural approach usually sits well with me. The part that did not was the perfectly made up model who was playing the mother. She is probably all of 22 with perfect makeup complete with smokey eyes that would make Angelina Jolie jealous. Her lips have that "I just retouched my lip gloss" look that Paris Hilton made famous. Her hair is perfectly colored in a rich brown that every brunette yearns for styled into long loose curls. (I think it even had some shimmer to it!) To top it all off, her nails are perfectly manicure because every mother has time to do those nails while they are caring for a sick child!! Come on Parenting really?? It's not enough that like most mothers I spend 23 hours a day worrying that I'm doing the best job I can. Now I have to look at Little Miss Perfectly Made up Mother while I try to glean more knowledge from your magazine. No wonder the average mother of toddlers just let themselves go without makeup and cut their hair into the standard man's haircut. How can we compete so why bother!?!?
I understand the magazine does not want to use old Mother Hubbard as their model, but do we really need to look at the cover model from last months Cosmopolitan while we are dealing with hormonal imbalances and anxiety about raising our children? I'm just saying give us a break...after all poop and puke are enough to deal with on precious little sleep.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Tents and Tots
Last week our oldest daughter perfected the rapid crib escape. It's not the first time she has managed to flee her coop, but it was becoming more common. She takes a Maguyver like approach and climbs the impossible. Her crib is a bit more fancy than a standard rectangle. We were too flush with hormones and baby bliss when we registered for it to see how practical a simple crib would eventually be. We picked out one with a high swooping back and a low scoop front...a mistake we now will pay for dearly.
The first time she climbed out of her crib was one winter evening after I tucked her and her sister in their respective cribs. They were making more noise than I felt was appropriate for 8:30 pm and I decided to go check out the situation. I opened the door to their dimly lit nursery to be greeted by my 2 year old sit calmly and happily in my cushy glider. She had a book open and I swear she looked like she was reading to her little sister. I promptly busted up that party and put her back in bed. After a bit of discussion, my husband and I agreed it must have been the low scoop front that allowed her to escape. She didn't have to get her leg up too far and she could be free. We formulated a plan and turned her crib around the next day. Now the high swooping back faced forward. We thought for sure that would solve the problem. Granted we now struggled to get her in and out of the crib smoothly over the high swooping part, but as long as she stayed put we would deal with the side effects.
Our solution lasted a while. We struggled daily to put her to bed without blatantly dropping her in her crib. Rhu tried the beaver approach for a while-if she couldn't climb out she'd chew her way out. After serious damage to the sides of the expensive crib we installed rubber mats...also another way to make it difficult to get out.
But alas, all good things must come to an end. Last week Rhu finally became able to climb out of her crib at will. I think the last straw was when I was getting ready for work and I saw on the baby monitor that she not only climbed out of her crib, but she climbed into her sister's. The two girls laughed and played like college freshman at a frat party. There was laughing, tickling and throwing of personal possessions overboard. That was it...she had to be stopped. Once again my husband and I discussed the situation. We agreed on the solution quickly. It was going to be drastic, but if we were going to keep our babies safe we had to do it.
That night we purchased a crib tent. It's a giant size version of one you would see at a picnic keeping the food safe from bugs. This contraption looks hysterical. A mesh tent that completely cover the crib and all side so no matter how clever the kid is, they aren't getting out...I hope.
We didn't know how she would react to being confined like a zoo animal, so we told her it was her tower. She has developed a serious infatuation with all things Rapunzel, so we hoped the spin doctoring would help the reception.
The first night went well until I heard her howl at 3am. Instantly I woke up sure we were doing psychological damage by caging her in!! I rushed into her room and rescued her from her prison. A few minutes of rocking and singing and she was ready to go back to her magical tower. It didn't take long before she figured out that smashing her face in the mesh would be funny. Since then she has taken to her new crib tent very well.
Now, every night she goes in her tent and says a happy, "Night" and she's off to dreamland. I wonder how long before she figures out how to break free...
The first time she climbed out of her crib was one winter evening after I tucked her and her sister in their respective cribs. They were making more noise than I felt was appropriate for 8:30 pm and I decided to go check out the situation. I opened the door to their dimly lit nursery to be greeted by my 2 year old sit calmly and happily in my cushy glider. She had a book open and I swear she looked like she was reading to her little sister. I promptly busted up that party and put her back in bed. After a bit of discussion, my husband and I agreed it must have been the low scoop front that allowed her to escape. She didn't have to get her leg up too far and she could be free. We formulated a plan and turned her crib around the next day. Now the high swooping back faced forward. We thought for sure that would solve the problem. Granted we now struggled to get her in and out of the crib smoothly over the high swooping part, but as long as she stayed put we would deal with the side effects.
Our solution lasted a while. We struggled daily to put her to bed without blatantly dropping her in her crib. Rhu tried the beaver approach for a while-if she couldn't climb out she'd chew her way out. After serious damage to the sides of the expensive crib we installed rubber mats...also another way to make it difficult to get out.
But alas, all good things must come to an end. Last week Rhu finally became able to climb out of her crib at will. I think the last straw was when I was getting ready for work and I saw on the baby monitor that she not only climbed out of her crib, but she climbed into her sister's. The two girls laughed and played like college freshman at a frat party. There was laughing, tickling and throwing of personal possessions overboard. That was it...she had to be stopped. Once again my husband and I discussed the situation. We agreed on the solution quickly. It was going to be drastic, but if we were going to keep our babies safe we had to do it.
That night we purchased a crib tent. It's a giant size version of one you would see at a picnic keeping the food safe from bugs. This contraption looks hysterical. A mesh tent that completely cover the crib and all side so no matter how clever the kid is, they aren't getting out...I hope.
We didn't know how she would react to being confined like a zoo animal, so we told her it was her tower. She has developed a serious infatuation with all things Rapunzel, so we hoped the spin doctoring would help the reception.
The first night went well until I heard her howl at 3am. Instantly I woke up sure we were doing psychological damage by caging her in!! I rushed into her room and rescued her from her prison. A few minutes of rocking and singing and she was ready to go back to her magical tower. It didn't take long before she figured out that smashing her face in the mesh would be funny. Since then she has taken to her new crib tent very well.
Now, every night she goes in her tent and says a happy, "Night" and she's off to dreamland. I wonder how long before she figures out how to break free...
Monday, May 9, 2011
Bubble Gum
Growing up my eldest brother always moaned that I got to chew gum in the womb. It was a frequent complaint that was meant to illustrate the unfairness of life as the oldest sibling. He always had to wait for privileges like gum chewing and curfews while I enjoyed them at a much quicker rate.
These comments throughout my childhood were as commonplace as cartoons on Saturday mornings and freeze tag in the playground. I never gave them a lot of thought other than oh well, sucked to be you until I had a child. Scratch that...until I had the second child. I find myself obsessing over being fair to both children. I try to look at situations from each child's prospective. It would be an understatement if I said this latest compulsion that consumes my life.
Growing up the attitudes of RHIP (rank has its privileges) and first up-best dressed ruled our large family. My parents and older brothers firmly believed in the pecking order. For a while as a child I thought my oldest brother was a third parent. I'm pretty sure he felt that way too until I was well into my twenties. It seemed he had as much to say when it came to raising me as my parents did. Looking back, he was doing his job as the oldest. A job he took seriously from the day I was brought home from the hospital and he placed a football helmet on my head for protection. I always thought I appreciated his efforts. I never realized how difficult a job he was dealt just for being the first fastest swimmer in our family. Until now that is... I look at my oldest child everyday and pray she takes her job just as seriously.
It was a hot summer day when we learned Rhu would become an older sister. She was barely 6 months old when we began to tell her about the baby growing in my belly. She often laid on my stomach and as it grew I purposefully told her that she was going to be a big sister and that it was a very important job. Her first assignment as a big sister was to announce the news to the grandparents. She took to this job very well...a sure sign she was up to the task of being the oldest. At six months she babbled very well and even spoke some words, but to say a sentence was a bit much to ask of her. We made a sign that said, "I'm Going to be a Big Sister" and attached it to her shirt. God forbid stores made Big Sister shirts in a size below 4T. Rhu performed her task with enthusiasm and the crowd loved it.
As the months passed and she made the word BABY a sort of mantra, I felt more and more confident she would be able to handle the transition. Finally the time came when RaRa made her debut in this world. I went into labor just as it was Rhu's bath time, but being the practical person I am I bathed my child and put her to bed without letting her know what was about to happen...why alarm a 14 month old? After many hours of contractions and pain our second child was born and so was and elder sibling-figuratively.
The timing could not have been better. RaRa and I were ready to receive visitors mid morning when Rhu would be at her best. I'll never forget hearing the sound of new baby shoes on the maternity ward floor getting louder as she got closer to our room. The cheerful giggle as she walked in and the word "Baby" shouted in delight as Rhu saw her baby sister for the first time. There was no mistaking. This kid was made to be a big sister. Her loving curiosity pulled at the heartstrings and the first hug she ever offered her little sister came from a place of pure love that only children know of. She confirmed my belief that she would be the best loving and protective older sibling in 29 years. I believe if she had a football helmet she would have placed it on RaRa's head for protection just like her uncle.
I'm sure in years to come Rhu will feel her life is unfair since she had to wait to play with crayons until she was 20 months old and RaRa did it at 10 months. Or perhaps her curfews will be harder than any subsequent children. I hope she always takes her job as oldest just as seriously. Life is not fair and we will try to do the best we can.
These comments throughout my childhood were as commonplace as cartoons on Saturday mornings and freeze tag in the playground. I never gave them a lot of thought other than oh well, sucked to be you until I had a child. Scratch that...until I had the second child. I find myself obsessing over being fair to both children. I try to look at situations from each child's prospective. It would be an understatement if I said this latest compulsion that consumes my life.
Growing up the attitudes of RHIP (rank has its privileges) and first up-best dressed ruled our large family. My parents and older brothers firmly believed in the pecking order. For a while as a child I thought my oldest brother was a third parent. I'm pretty sure he felt that way too until I was well into my twenties. It seemed he had as much to say when it came to raising me as my parents did. Looking back, he was doing his job as the oldest. A job he took seriously from the day I was brought home from the hospital and he placed a football helmet on my head for protection. I always thought I appreciated his efforts. I never realized how difficult a job he was dealt just for being the first fastest swimmer in our family. Until now that is... I look at my oldest child everyday and pray she takes her job just as seriously.
It was a hot summer day when we learned Rhu would become an older sister. She was barely 6 months old when we began to tell her about the baby growing in my belly. She often laid on my stomach and as it grew I purposefully told her that she was going to be a big sister and that it was a very important job. Her first assignment as a big sister was to announce the news to the grandparents. She took to this job very well...a sure sign she was up to the task of being the oldest. At six months she babbled very well and even spoke some words, but to say a sentence was a bit much to ask of her. We made a sign that said, "I'm Going to be a Big Sister" and attached it to her shirt. God forbid stores made Big Sister shirts in a size below 4T. Rhu performed her task with enthusiasm and the crowd loved it.
As the months passed and she made the word BABY a sort of mantra, I felt more and more confident she would be able to handle the transition. Finally the time came when RaRa made her debut in this world. I went into labor just as it was Rhu's bath time, but being the practical person I am I bathed my child and put her to bed without letting her know what was about to happen...why alarm a 14 month old? After many hours of contractions and pain our second child was born and so was and elder sibling-figuratively.
The timing could not have been better. RaRa and I were ready to receive visitors mid morning when Rhu would be at her best. I'll never forget hearing the sound of new baby shoes on the maternity ward floor getting louder as she got closer to our room. The cheerful giggle as she walked in and the word "Baby" shouted in delight as Rhu saw her baby sister for the first time. There was no mistaking. This kid was made to be a big sister. Her loving curiosity pulled at the heartstrings and the first hug she ever offered her little sister came from a place of pure love that only children know of. She confirmed my belief that she would be the best loving and protective older sibling in 29 years. I believe if she had a football helmet she would have placed it on RaRa's head for protection just like her uncle.
I'm sure in years to come Rhu will feel her life is unfair since she had to wait to play with crayons until she was 20 months old and RaRa did it at 10 months. Or perhaps her curfews will be harder than any subsequent children. I hope she always takes her job as oldest just as seriously. Life is not fair and we will try to do the best we can.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Fairy Tales and Fantasy
Unless you live under a rock, you know that in the last week Kate Middleton made every little girl's fairy tale dream come true...she married Prince William. It is the first time in over 300 years a commoner married the heir to the British throne. The world watched as she gracefully stepped out of her car and into a life of royalty. She will live a life all little girls dream about. If I were being totally honest, I must admit I watched the wedding with interest.
I love a wedding. I enjoy the romance and the dress. I enjoy being swept away by two people starting a new life completely in love. I can't help but wonder from where this part of my personality comes. My parents are probably two of the least nosiest people I know. They could care less about the royals and wouldn't watch A Wedding Story on TLC if you paid them. I wondered just long enough before it caught my attention-my two year old mesmerized by her 57th viewing of Disney's Tangled. There she was, my little Rhu being indoctrinated by a seemingly harmless movie. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks!!! This is where it starts. All the fairy tale movies and stories we force down our children's throats.
I was particularly struck by the moment in the movie where Rapunzel saves Flynn. Sorry if you have not seen the movie and I spoiled the ending, but come on-it's Disney. What did you expect to happen? In this particular scene we, the audience, is led to believe that true love is enough to save Flynn from certain death. The true love Rapunzel has in her heart can overcome the stab through the heart Flynn just suffered. Come on really? A tear drop from your true love will make gaping hole through vital organs just magically heal...oh come on!!
But, that's not even the part that made my right eyebrow jump up in amazement. It was the part where Rapunzel realizes Flynn is saved and he says a suave line like, "Did I ever tell you I have a thing for brunettes?" Then they embraces in the hug/sit on his lap move followed by a romantic kiss. It was the exact moment I saw my two year old try to reenact that scene that I realized we have a problem. My poor baby only 26 months on this earth and she has been brainwashed to believe that's how life works. What are we setting her up for-a life time of unrealistic fanatical expectations?
Take Sleeping Beauty for example. What woman thinks it's a good life plan to move in with seven messy short men and be their maid? I've known some desperate single women, but is this really the best plan to trap a man?? Being a maid? And speaking of maids, do we really think Prince William would have married Kate Middleton if she was forced to clean up after Pippa on a regular basis like Cinderella?
What are we reading our children? The classics?? No wonder we are a society of dysfunctional individuals. We've been told since we were born that if we put on funny outfits like glass slippers or dresses made by mice and go dance around our Prince Charming will come. Yea...maybe to see us at the strip club, but definitely not to sweep us off our feet and bring us to live in a palace happily ever after.
Fairy tales and fantasy are what we pump our kids full of when they are young then look at them like they are crazy when they are in their mid-20's and still waiting for their Prince Charming. Maybe it's not such a bad thing to believe in the possibility of a dream. After all, without dreams, what do we have? Without fantasy, childhood is very boring. Some of the best times spent with my girls are when we are playing dress up and dreaming. So, congratulations Kate Middleton and all the girls who find their Prince Charmings. Someday I hope my girls will find themselves living happily ever after...just not too soon. I better not find them behind any couches kissing boys when they are in grade school!!
I love a wedding. I enjoy the romance and the dress. I enjoy being swept away by two people starting a new life completely in love. I can't help but wonder from where this part of my personality comes. My parents are probably two of the least nosiest people I know. They could care less about the royals and wouldn't watch A Wedding Story on TLC if you paid them. I wondered just long enough before it caught my attention-my two year old mesmerized by her 57th viewing of Disney's Tangled. There she was, my little Rhu being indoctrinated by a seemingly harmless movie. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks!!! This is where it starts. All the fairy tale movies and stories we force down our children's throats.
I was particularly struck by the moment in the movie where Rapunzel saves Flynn. Sorry if you have not seen the movie and I spoiled the ending, but come on-it's Disney. What did you expect to happen? In this particular scene we, the audience, is led to believe that true love is enough to save Flynn from certain death. The true love Rapunzel has in her heart can overcome the stab through the heart Flynn just suffered. Come on really? A tear drop from your true love will make gaping hole through vital organs just magically heal...oh come on!!
But, that's not even the part that made my right eyebrow jump up in amazement. It was the part where Rapunzel realizes Flynn is saved and he says a suave line like, "Did I ever tell you I have a thing for brunettes?" Then they embraces in the hug/sit on his lap move followed by a romantic kiss. It was the exact moment I saw my two year old try to reenact that scene that I realized we have a problem. My poor baby only 26 months on this earth and she has been brainwashed to believe that's how life works. What are we setting her up for-a life time of unrealistic fanatical expectations?
Take Sleeping Beauty for example. What woman thinks it's a good life plan to move in with seven messy short men and be their maid? I've known some desperate single women, but is this really the best plan to trap a man?? Being a maid? And speaking of maids, do we really think Prince William would have married Kate Middleton if she was forced to clean up after Pippa on a regular basis like Cinderella?
What are we reading our children? The classics?? No wonder we are a society of dysfunctional individuals. We've been told since we were born that if we put on funny outfits like glass slippers or dresses made by mice and go dance around our Prince Charming will come. Yea...maybe to see us at the strip club, but definitely not to sweep us off our feet and bring us to live in a palace happily ever after.
Fairy tales and fantasy are what we pump our kids full of when they are young then look at them like they are crazy when they are in their mid-20's and still waiting for their Prince Charming. Maybe it's not such a bad thing to believe in the possibility of a dream. After all, without dreams, what do we have? Without fantasy, childhood is very boring. Some of the best times spent with my girls are when we are playing dress up and dreaming. So, congratulations Kate Middleton and all the girls who find their Prince Charmings. Someday I hope my girls will find themselves living happily ever after...just not too soon. I better not find them behind any couches kissing boys when they are in grade school!!
Monday, April 25, 2011
Zum Zum Zumba
Well I did it. I broke down and gave in. I can officially say that I am the last suburban mom in America to try Zumba. Last week my neighbor invited me to join her in trying the exercise class based on Latin rhythms. If you're not already laughing that's because you don't know I am an almost six foot tall Irish girl with hips and feet that are not exactly on speaking terms.
For those who are not avid Zumba fans I'll tell you the class is a series of aerobic Latin dance moves set to music that should be pouring out the back kitchen window of the local Taco Bell. The music is saturate with trumpets and horns. I swear every time I closed my eyes I pictured the singer to be a 4 foot tall Mexican guy with black hair as greasy as my car engine, a shirt mostly unbuttoned revealing a chest full of thick hair with gold chains, and hands adorned with gold rings. If I was being fully honest, this picture of "Rico Suave" included him doing a little Samba action-purely for the humorous effect mind you.
To top it all off, we took the class in the white trashiest town the good Lord every put on this green earth. So, have you got the picture? Zumba class with Latin dance moves being done by mostly white trash woman. This was enough to keep me giggling. I haven't even gotten to the part where my hips don't lie.
So, the class started and I did my best to keep up with women who obviously attend this class on a regular basis. They were even doing shout outs for music requests like we were at a Hot97 rap party. The standard issue Hispanic teacher gyrated her body in perfect rhythm while I was lucky to be facing the correct direction most of the time. At some point it occurred to me that as rhythm challenged as I was, I had somehow been able to conceive and give birth to two children-oh if they could only see me now! Pumping my arms back and forth as if I was auditioning for an MC Hammer video. I'm pretty sure that even though my kids are only 2 and 1 they would have fallen to the ground laughing. Hell, I spent most of the class laughing because of course we were facing an entire wall of mirrors.
As the class continued, I resembled a person being stung by a thousand bees with arms and legs flailing about. I squatted and thrusted with all the zeal I could muster, but still managed to project an aurora of an epileptic seizure. Tightly pursed lips and a stern expression of concentration completed my look. In truth, I looked constipated most of the time. If I knew how ridiculous I would look, I would have brought my video camera and posted the disaster on YouTube - at least I could have made money.
After 60 minutes with music by Ricky Riccardo's descendants it was time for the cool down. Oh the joy. They managed to take something as simple as stretching muscles and make it Latin complicated. By now my cheek muscles were raw from all the laughing. I just might have pulled a jaw muscle. Obediently I stretched and breathed and tried to keep from laughing. The room suddenly turned into a Zen like state. Who knows, maybe everyone's endorphins kicked in at once. I think mine took a left turn down the hall.
I did feel accomplished though. I managed to get through a class made for people the exact opposite of my cultural backgrounds. Who knows, maybe we'll be back next week. Beats doing laundry on a Wednesday night!
For those who are not avid Zumba fans I'll tell you the class is a series of aerobic Latin dance moves set to music that should be pouring out the back kitchen window of the local Taco Bell. The music is saturate with trumpets and horns. I swear every time I closed my eyes I pictured the singer to be a 4 foot tall Mexican guy with black hair as greasy as my car engine, a shirt mostly unbuttoned revealing a chest full of thick hair with gold chains, and hands adorned with gold rings. If I was being fully honest, this picture of "Rico Suave" included him doing a little Samba action-purely for the humorous effect mind you.
To top it all off, we took the class in the white trashiest town the good Lord every put on this green earth. So, have you got the picture? Zumba class with Latin dance moves being done by mostly white trash woman. This was enough to keep me giggling. I haven't even gotten to the part where my hips don't lie.
So, the class started and I did my best to keep up with women who obviously attend this class on a regular basis. They were even doing shout outs for music requests like we were at a Hot97 rap party. The standard issue Hispanic teacher gyrated her body in perfect rhythm while I was lucky to be facing the correct direction most of the time. At some point it occurred to me that as rhythm challenged as I was, I had somehow been able to conceive and give birth to two children-oh if they could only see me now! Pumping my arms back and forth as if I was auditioning for an MC Hammer video. I'm pretty sure that even though my kids are only 2 and 1 they would have fallen to the ground laughing. Hell, I spent most of the class laughing because of course we were facing an entire wall of mirrors.
As the class continued, I resembled a person being stung by a thousand bees with arms and legs flailing about. I squatted and thrusted with all the zeal I could muster, but still managed to project an aurora of an epileptic seizure. Tightly pursed lips and a stern expression of concentration completed my look. In truth, I looked constipated most of the time. If I knew how ridiculous I would look, I would have brought my video camera and posted the disaster on YouTube - at least I could have made money.
After 60 minutes with music by Ricky Riccardo's descendants it was time for the cool down. Oh the joy. They managed to take something as simple as stretching muscles and make it Latin complicated. By now my cheek muscles were raw from all the laughing. I just might have pulled a jaw muscle. Obediently I stretched and breathed and tried to keep from laughing. The room suddenly turned into a Zen like state. Who knows, maybe everyone's endorphins kicked in at once. I think mine took a left turn down the hall.
I did feel accomplished though. I managed to get through a class made for people the exact opposite of my cultural backgrounds. Who knows, maybe we'll be back next week. Beats doing laundry on a Wednesday night!
Friday, April 22, 2011
Blood and Brothers
The Five Fighting Sullivans - it's a movie my brothers and I know very well. For those unfamiliar with with it, it's a story based on the lives of the five Sullivan brothers. They were five boys who grew up together, got in fights as kids together, became men together, and eventually went off to war and died together. They were men who believed blood was thicker than water and family meant everything. It's a Hollywood production based on a true family and true events. I'm quite sure 60 years after World War II most people never heard of the movie.
But, my brothers and I are very familiar with the story because my parents used it as a teaching device during our childhood.
From time to time when we fought as kids, my mother forced us in front of our living room television. She would pop in the VHS cassette carefully labeled The Five Fighting Sullivans. I think it was her way of cooling us down while we learned a very valuable lesson. The lesson was to put family first no matter what. It is a lesson we all took to heart and keep with us to this day. A lesson I like to think my family bases their values upon. I can say this with absolute certainty because I've seen it many times in my life.
I was a gawky child - overweight and certainly not popular amongst my peers. In fact I made a habit of sticking up for others being picked on - a habit that would determine the course of my school years and eventually my life. I got by in elementary school with some other unpopular kids and was happy to call them my friends. Oh sure, it would have been nice to be popular, but I guess I knew deep down it was better to be nice.
At home my brothers tolerated me. Don't get me wrong, I knew they loved me, but I wasn't their ideal playmate. I could be whiny, bossy and tattle if I didn't get my way. They just simply preferred to be on their own. Looking back I understand it much better. For as much as the groaned at having to put up with me - they fiercely protected me. (I was the baby and the only girl.)
I remember a time when I saw them put their love for me ahead of themselves. I can still clearly remember coming home on a hot spring day after a fellow classmate spit on me as I rode my bike after school. I was devastated and humiliated not to mention completely disgusted. Some rotten boy had actually spit on me. I peddled as fast as I could home so I could wash the spit out of my hair. I didn't make it two steps into the house when I ran into my eldest brother. He was a senior in high school - 6 years older than me. At the time he was probably 140 pounds of angry muscle. He wasn't the biggest guy around but his attitude and presence was enough to make him larger than life. Even then, there was little doubt in my mind that he wasn't to be messed with without consequence. I sobbed in his arms as I recalled the events that just happened. I told him about the dumb boys that teased and taunted my friend and me. I was so humiliated as I confessed that one boy even spit on me. I'm not sure I ever completed the story. A fire grew in his eyes as he waited just long enough to hear where he could find these boys before he left.
I'm pretty sure he had a hockey stick in his hand as he rallied my two other brothers. They didn't ask any questions - they were summoned to duty by the eldest and would take care of the job at hand. Although my brothers could squabble amongst themselves like cats and dogs, they didn't hesitate to unite against a common enemy. They went off shoulder to shoulder to restore their little sister's honor. No one had to ask them to go. By now it was instinct to protect one another.
To this day I don't know what happened for sure. When my brothers came home they turned their attention back to me. Their actions were not for bragging rights or for a story to tell. They did what they had to do to stick up for one of their own. My brothers were not wild boys looking for a fight. They were young men who knew what it meant to be from a family. The next day at school, I received an apology. The boy didn't look mangled but he never messed with me again.
I knew from then on what our parents meant every time they put on that old VHS tape of The Five Fighting Sullivans. I knew the lesson they wanted us to learn. Friends come and go, but family is forever. No matter where you go in life, you'll always have your family. It's a lesson I'm desperate for my kids to learn. A lesson far too few understand. It breaks my heart every time I see people sell out their siblings. I'll never understand it and I pray every night that my kids get it. They have been given a wonderful gift in each other and I hope they always hold on tight no matter what life may bring.
My brothers are my oldest friends, closest confidants, and the people I will always be grateful to know. I'm very blessed to have them in my life.
But, my brothers and I are very familiar with the story because my parents used it as a teaching device during our childhood.
From time to time when we fought as kids, my mother forced us in front of our living room television. She would pop in the VHS cassette carefully labeled The Five Fighting Sullivans. I think it was her way of cooling us down while we learned a very valuable lesson. The lesson was to put family first no matter what. It is a lesson we all took to heart and keep with us to this day. A lesson I like to think my family bases their values upon. I can say this with absolute certainty because I've seen it many times in my life.
I was a gawky child - overweight and certainly not popular amongst my peers. In fact I made a habit of sticking up for others being picked on - a habit that would determine the course of my school years and eventually my life. I got by in elementary school with some other unpopular kids and was happy to call them my friends. Oh sure, it would have been nice to be popular, but I guess I knew deep down it was better to be nice.
At home my brothers tolerated me. Don't get me wrong, I knew they loved me, but I wasn't their ideal playmate. I could be whiny, bossy and tattle if I didn't get my way. They just simply preferred to be on their own. Looking back I understand it much better. For as much as the groaned at having to put up with me - they fiercely protected me. (I was the baby and the only girl.)
I remember a time when I saw them put their love for me ahead of themselves. I can still clearly remember coming home on a hot spring day after a fellow classmate spit on me as I rode my bike after school. I was devastated and humiliated not to mention completely disgusted. Some rotten boy had actually spit on me. I peddled as fast as I could home so I could wash the spit out of my hair. I didn't make it two steps into the house when I ran into my eldest brother. He was a senior in high school - 6 years older than me. At the time he was probably 140 pounds of angry muscle. He wasn't the biggest guy around but his attitude and presence was enough to make him larger than life. Even then, there was little doubt in my mind that he wasn't to be messed with without consequence. I sobbed in his arms as I recalled the events that just happened. I told him about the dumb boys that teased and taunted my friend and me. I was so humiliated as I confessed that one boy even spit on me. I'm not sure I ever completed the story. A fire grew in his eyes as he waited just long enough to hear where he could find these boys before he left.
I'm pretty sure he had a hockey stick in his hand as he rallied my two other brothers. They didn't ask any questions - they were summoned to duty by the eldest and would take care of the job at hand. Although my brothers could squabble amongst themselves like cats and dogs, they didn't hesitate to unite against a common enemy. They went off shoulder to shoulder to restore their little sister's honor. No one had to ask them to go. By now it was instinct to protect one another.
To this day I don't know what happened for sure. When my brothers came home they turned their attention back to me. Their actions were not for bragging rights or for a story to tell. They did what they had to do to stick up for one of their own. My brothers were not wild boys looking for a fight. They were young men who knew what it meant to be from a family. The next day at school, I received an apology. The boy didn't look mangled but he never messed with me again.
I knew from then on what our parents meant every time they put on that old VHS tape of The Five Fighting Sullivans. I knew the lesson they wanted us to learn. Friends come and go, but family is forever. No matter where you go in life, you'll always have your family. It's a lesson I'm desperate for my kids to learn. A lesson far too few understand. It breaks my heart every time I see people sell out their siblings. I'll never understand it and I pray every night that my kids get it. They have been given a wonderful gift in each other and I hope they always hold on tight no matter what life may bring.
My brothers are my oldest friends, closest confidants, and the people I will always be grateful to know. I'm very blessed to have them in my life.
Monday, April 18, 2011
A Hare Raising Experience
Spring is here. The flowers are beginning to bloom. The trees are growing buds. And there is a six foot tall bunny sitting in a pretend garden at the mall. Great. It's that time of year again-time for the annual picture with the Easter Bunny. Oh the joy. I say this with all the sarcasm I can muster after the excruciating experience we just endured. The day started out with my two year old practically singing the bunny's praise...it ended with her screaming like a banshee in the center court of our somewhat upscale mall while all three levels of shopper looked on. This is not our first run in with the nightmare causing bunny...we've been here before. This year, however, was supposed to be different. This year we had a plan. But I am slowly beginning to realize every time I think my husband and I have devised a fool proof plan, life pulls the rug out from under us and renders us cripple.
The first year we took our oldest daughter to see the bunny she was all of two and a half months old. Barely old enough to know what was going on, but smart enough to realize this giant thing that was holding her was not normal. The photo shows her looking up at the bunny with the most lethal stink eye I've ever seen her give anyone or anything. She never cried once and I remember feeling proud. Boastful even. My little trooper made it through her first bunny picture without tears. It was as if she beat out all the other wussy kids who were crying and clinging to their mommys. Oh just another time I can say if I only knew then what I know now. It is the only mall picture we have Christmas or Easter that she is not screaming for her life and trying to break free. Oh the irony.
Later that year it was time for the picture with Santa Claus. Again we put on her special dress, placed a bow on her head and pulled out the patent leather shoes. We confidently strode up to the man of the hour's North Pole setting and waited with the many other parents and kids. We had no fear. We thought for sure if we made it through the bunny picture with no problem when she was a tiny baby we would sail through this experience. Not only were we wrong, we were dead wrong. I could barely get her out of my arms to give to Santa. She had a death grip on me that I never knew a child could have. The screams were heart wrenching and the experience was morbidly embarrassing. Every parent and child on line looked at us as if we were torturing our baby. I suspected a few were even using their Blackberry's to look up the phone number for DYFS. The picture we have to memorialize that moment is of our daughter screaming, crying and trying to jump out of Santa's arms with her entire body. Ahhh another Hallmark moment.
Four months later we debated the bunny picture. I was due with my second daughter any day and did not want to jip her out of a bunny picture. We hemmed and hawed and finally decided that newborn baby would be too small for a man in a giant bunny suit to hold if Rhu performed her banshee routine. We went ahead with the picture and hoped for the best. We assured ourselves that she was older now. She would do better since she had done this before. We had faith. What we should have had was cotton for our ears. The screams were sharp and the pleas from our 14 month old were tear-jerking. I thought the stress of that picture was enough to induce labor. Thinking back I don't blame my unborn baby for clinging to the inside of my uterus. I would have been scared to come out too if all I heard was screaming. Another crash and burn picture.
The first Christmas picture that included both girls came with a modicum of planning. We thought it would be best to put the girls in their Christmas dresses right after breakfast when they were both well rested and fed. We picked a weekday for a chance at no line. We even started by letting the baby take a few test shots with Mr. Claus to show her older sister that everything was all right. The baby looked at the jolly fat man with an air of "I don't know about you, but I'll go with it." Everything was going swimmingly until we added her older sister. The screaming began and like dominoes they all fell into a frenzy. Once the older started the wailing the baby followed suit as if they rehearsed it in the car. Oh the humanity. My almost two year old was old enough now to cry, "Mommy!! Mommy!! Please Mommy!!" How could I do anything but crumble. I swept her from Santa and tried to calm her. It was over for now and the shame set in.
This Easter would be different. My husband ands I looked at this with all the intensity of a military operation. We strategized well in advance. We took into account that perhaps all Rhu needed was some warming up to the colossal bunny. So we put our plan into action. We set out on several recognisance missions. We drove to the mall several times to scout the bunny. We waved to him with all the zeal we could muster. We had the girls talk to the bunny. We hyped the bunny for several weeks before the appointed day-P Day.
After several visits and what appeared to be a very excited two year old we decided it was time. We planned our attack for after nap. A good time of day - well rested children and a short line at the bunny. I spent the day talking about seeing the bunny and my daughter reacted with enthusiasm. This was it. All our hard work and preparation came down to this. We even had my parents join us for what we were sure would be our moment of triumph. With big bows and colorful dresses we arrived at the mall still hyping the bunny. No line and we were in. Then old demons from the past came back to haunt us. The death grip was back and Rhu flat out refused to go near the bunny. She cried and pleaded to anyone who would listen. Patron from all three floors looked at us in horror. She even got her sister to cry. We tried to put them with the bunny but both girls held on so tightly we could even get in a bad picture. Rhu ran to grandpa and found the soft heart that allowed her to get away from the bunny. What could we do? I just couldn't believe all our hard work was for nothing.
The bunny patiently played with RaRa and after several minutes we decided a picture with one child was better than nothing at all. So, we relented and let RaRa go with the bunny. But, like clockwork she began to cry. So after 3 shots and $21.30 we left with the same feeling of defeat setting back in.
I thought all was lost, but once again grandpa stepped in and somehow managed to get Rhu to see the bunny as being not too bad. We made another attempt at a picture by promising them we would sit with them. It's not exactly the photo I wanted, but what can I expect from a two year old, a one year old and a big scary looking bunny?
The first year we took our oldest daughter to see the bunny she was all of two and a half months old. Barely old enough to know what was going on, but smart enough to realize this giant thing that was holding her was not normal. The photo shows her looking up at the bunny with the most lethal stink eye I've ever seen her give anyone or anything. She never cried once and I remember feeling proud. Boastful even. My little trooper made it through her first bunny picture without tears. It was as if she beat out all the other wussy kids who were crying and clinging to their mommys. Oh just another time I can say if I only knew then what I know now. It is the only mall picture we have Christmas or Easter that she is not screaming for her life and trying to break free. Oh the irony.
Later that year it was time for the picture with Santa Claus. Again we put on her special dress, placed a bow on her head and pulled out the patent leather shoes. We confidently strode up to the man of the hour's North Pole setting and waited with the many other parents and kids. We had no fear. We thought for sure if we made it through the bunny picture with no problem when she was a tiny baby we would sail through this experience. Not only were we wrong, we were dead wrong. I could barely get her out of my arms to give to Santa. She had a death grip on me that I never knew a child could have. The screams were heart wrenching and the experience was morbidly embarrassing. Every parent and child on line looked at us as if we were torturing our baby. I suspected a few were even using their Blackberry's to look up the phone number for DYFS. The picture we have to memorialize that moment is of our daughter screaming, crying and trying to jump out of Santa's arms with her entire body. Ahhh another Hallmark moment.
Four months later we debated the bunny picture. I was due with my second daughter any day and did not want to jip her out of a bunny picture. We hemmed and hawed and finally decided that newborn baby would be too small for a man in a giant bunny suit to hold if Rhu performed her banshee routine. We went ahead with the picture and hoped for the best. We assured ourselves that she was older now. She would do better since she had done this before. We had faith. What we should have had was cotton for our ears. The screams were sharp and the pleas from our 14 month old were tear-jerking. I thought the stress of that picture was enough to induce labor. Thinking back I don't blame my unborn baby for clinging to the inside of my uterus. I would have been scared to come out too if all I heard was screaming. Another crash and burn picture.
The first Christmas picture that included both girls came with a modicum of planning. We thought it would be best to put the girls in their Christmas dresses right after breakfast when they were both well rested and fed. We picked a weekday for a chance at no line. We even started by letting the baby take a few test shots with Mr. Claus to show her older sister that everything was all right. The baby looked at the jolly fat man with an air of "I don't know about you, but I'll go with it." Everything was going swimmingly until we added her older sister. The screaming began and like dominoes they all fell into a frenzy. Once the older started the wailing the baby followed suit as if they rehearsed it in the car. Oh the humanity. My almost two year old was old enough now to cry, "Mommy!! Mommy!! Please Mommy!!" How could I do anything but crumble. I swept her from Santa and tried to calm her. It was over for now and the shame set in.
This Easter would be different. My husband ands I looked at this with all the intensity of a military operation. We strategized well in advance. We took into account that perhaps all Rhu needed was some warming up to the colossal bunny. So we put our plan into action. We set out on several recognisance missions. We drove to the mall several times to scout the bunny. We waved to him with all the zeal we could muster. We had the girls talk to the bunny. We hyped the bunny for several weeks before the appointed day-P Day.
After several visits and what appeared to be a very excited two year old we decided it was time. We planned our attack for after nap. A good time of day - well rested children and a short line at the bunny. I spent the day talking about seeing the bunny and my daughter reacted with enthusiasm. This was it. All our hard work and preparation came down to this. We even had my parents join us for what we were sure would be our moment of triumph. With big bows and colorful dresses we arrived at the mall still hyping the bunny. No line and we were in. Then old demons from the past came back to haunt us. The death grip was back and Rhu flat out refused to go near the bunny. She cried and pleaded to anyone who would listen. Patron from all three floors looked at us in horror. She even got her sister to cry. We tried to put them with the bunny but both girls held on so tightly we could even get in a bad picture. Rhu ran to grandpa and found the soft heart that allowed her to get away from the bunny. What could we do? I just couldn't believe all our hard work was for nothing.
The bunny patiently played with RaRa and after several minutes we decided a picture with one child was better than nothing at all. So, we relented and let RaRa go with the bunny. But, like clockwork she began to cry. So after 3 shots and $21.30 we left with the same feeling of defeat setting back in.
I thought all was lost, but once again grandpa stepped in and somehow managed to get Rhu to see the bunny as being not too bad. We made another attempt at a picture by promising them we would sit with them. It's not exactly the photo I wanted, but what can I expect from a two year old, a one year old and a big scary looking bunny?
Monday, April 11, 2011
27 Receiving Blankets
Recently I participated in a time old ritual many women have shared for generations. Some ladies look forward to it while others dread it...the illustrious baby shower. I have attended my fair share of baby showers since I was small. My mother always brought me along because I loved to get dressed up and ooh and ahh at the pretty gifts. As a child I enjoyed sitting next to my mother as she chatted away with old friends and relatives.
So now it's my turn to be the invited guest. Before I had my children I simply enjoyed the excitement of it all. Now that I have had children and been through the masses of gifts, I can't help but sit back and wish every mother-to-be knows what I had to learn the hard way. You really don't need most of what every magazine pressures you into owning.
Sitting at the shower surrounded by woman giddy with baby excitement I fondly thought back to my first pregnancy. The memories of expecting a child but not being responsible for one yet flooded my mind. As I looked at the sea of brightly wrapped gifts, I remembered going to register for all the wonderful baby items every parenting magazine said we couldn't possibly bring a child into this world without.
It wasn't all that long ago I stood at the entrance of Babies-R-Us with a meticiously prepared list of baby essentials in one hand and a scanner gun in the other. My husband was an involved participant who insisted on control of the scanner gun and perhaps the right to veto anything too corny. Months of reading and planning yielded an inventory of vital infant equipment organized into categories with sub-categories. We were prepared. We knew what a Boppy was and why it was crucial we get it.
So our quest began. We mapped out our plan of attack and let the scanning commence. Our list of critical gear was organized by importance and we criss-crossed the store comparing strollers, walkers and baby-carriers to see which ones were worthy to use for our precious bundle of joy. In a few short hours we amassed a list of over 100 items that leading books assured us we could not survive without. We made crucial decisions on what kind of playyard the baby would need and what type of infant tub would we had to have in order to bath our angel.
Babies-R-Us was a willing accomplice on this neurotic journey. Their displays happily pointed out all the safety features of each item and reason why you absolutely need a bouncer seat and swing. Their signs always illustrate a happy baby surrounded by a house full of gear. Who were we to argue? We were just the parents.
So, after our frenzy of scanning and checking our registry list against the ones we made prior to our journey, we left feeling proud. We registered for every conceivable item that our 7 pound baby needed for survival.
A few months later, I was surprised with a wonderful baby shower with tons of perfectly wrapped presents. I received baby toys, crib mobiles and diaper bags. A changing pad, a baby bath tub and wash cloths galore. I opened presents with zeal for an eternity probably boring most guests and heartfully thanked everyone for helping us bring home our baby to a nursery Kate Gosselin would envy.
We brought our booty home and put it in the nursery. We were given so many wonderful items I could hardly get into my little darling's room. Then reality set it. Where the hell were we going to put all these things? Am I really going to need 27 receiving blankets? And what child needs 102 outfits in 0-3 month size?
The hyperventilation and twitching began and my heart raced as I thought of all the waste. I was ill at the thought of the amount of money spent on things that my mother and mother-in-law told me were not necessary. A baby bath tub-really? What evil money grubbing genius thought of this. It's a glorified bucket that cost $40.00. I had been convinced I needed it between the pregnancy hormones and every baby magazine out there insisting. But as I looked around our home it dawned on me...where would we store one of the most expensive buckets in the world? In the bathtub? Great. So everytime I wanted to shower I had to find a place for this contraption? Uh hello?!?!?! I don't think so. I didn't even have the baby and I knew alone time would become a precious commodity that I would not want to spend on moving a baby bath in and out of my bathroom like I worked for moving company.
I made a command decision and looked through all my treasures to see what we really needed. I took the baby bath and thought about what my mother told me months ago. I would probably bath the baby in the kitchen sink and would have no need for such an item. It would possibly be used a few times, but more likely would spend it's existence decorating our basement. Into the return pile it went.
The next thing I went through was all the clothing. The newborn size is just another money making idea of probably the same baby bath evil genius. Odds were our baby would be born an average size and would have no need for 42 outfits that would fit for a millisecond before she outgrew them. To the exchange pile they went. While I was at it I sorted through all the other clothes and tried to even things out a bit. I took a fair number of 0-3 month clothes and put them away for the baby. The rest I put in the exchange pile so we would have something to put on our child should she want to grow out of 0-3 month clothes...a novel idea, but luckily it worked out. I still wonder to this day why woman insist on only buying 0-3 month size clothes. Do they think the child won't need anything else in life? That somehow they will be able to go off to college in the same onesies they got taken home from the hospital in? I think not.
The next thing I managed to part with was a baby bath robe. What?? A baby bath robe?? What sadist really thinks I was going to get my winter baby to hang out in a bath robe? I thought I'd be doing pretty well if I got her out of the bath, into her towel and onto the dressing table in one piece. Now throw in a bath robe and you are just really asking for a poop accident!
This frugality continued after the baby was born. I learned in Baby Preparation class how to swaddle a baby with a receiving blanket and realized I didn't need a special $22.00 swaddling blanket. Back to the store it went. It stayed there along with the diaper genie-a contraption every mother-to-be thinks is necessary but I think is just a plain waste. What if I have just a piece of garbage to throw away? Can't just throw it in there, so what's the point. We decided to use a regular garbage can and it worked out just great.
I also brought back the JJ Cole Bundle Me. This is a great idea for a product, but I just couldn't justify using it when literally 14 different woman made my baby a handmade blanket. In the old days a blanket was good enough for me, so it would be good enough for my angel.
The streamlining continued and still does to this day. My children have all the essentials that are really essentials. Most of the fluff tends to make its way back to the store. My thrifty side always wants to scream out and take mothers-to-be to the side and let them know what they really need and what they don't. That it's really not necessary to have a baby bath tub. But my rational side knows it's their right and prerogative to register and buy what they want! Good luck new moms and save your receipts!!
So now it's my turn to be the invited guest. Before I had my children I simply enjoyed the excitement of it all. Now that I have had children and been through the masses of gifts, I can't help but sit back and wish every mother-to-be knows what I had to learn the hard way. You really don't need most of what every magazine pressures you into owning.
Sitting at the shower surrounded by woman giddy with baby excitement I fondly thought back to my first pregnancy. The memories of expecting a child but not being responsible for one yet flooded my mind. As I looked at the sea of brightly wrapped gifts, I remembered going to register for all the wonderful baby items every parenting magazine said we couldn't possibly bring a child into this world without.
It wasn't all that long ago I stood at the entrance of Babies-R-Us with a meticiously prepared list of baby essentials in one hand and a scanner gun in the other. My husband was an involved participant who insisted on control of the scanner gun and perhaps the right to veto anything too corny. Months of reading and planning yielded an inventory of vital infant equipment organized into categories with sub-categories. We were prepared. We knew what a Boppy was and why it was crucial we get it.
So our quest began. We mapped out our plan of attack and let the scanning commence. Our list of critical gear was organized by importance and we criss-crossed the store comparing strollers, walkers and baby-carriers to see which ones were worthy to use for our precious bundle of joy. In a few short hours we amassed a list of over 100 items that leading books assured us we could not survive without. We made crucial decisions on what kind of playyard the baby would need and what type of infant tub would we had to have in order to bath our angel.
Babies-R-Us was a willing accomplice on this neurotic journey. Their displays happily pointed out all the safety features of each item and reason why you absolutely need a bouncer seat and swing. Their signs always illustrate a happy baby surrounded by a house full of gear. Who were we to argue? We were just the parents.
So, after our frenzy of scanning and checking our registry list against the ones we made prior to our journey, we left feeling proud. We registered for every conceivable item that our 7 pound baby needed for survival.
A few months later, I was surprised with a wonderful baby shower with tons of perfectly wrapped presents. I received baby toys, crib mobiles and diaper bags. A changing pad, a baby bath tub and wash cloths galore. I opened presents with zeal for an eternity probably boring most guests and heartfully thanked everyone for helping us bring home our baby to a nursery Kate Gosselin would envy.
We brought our booty home and put it in the nursery. We were given so many wonderful items I could hardly get into my little darling's room. Then reality set it. Where the hell were we going to put all these things? Am I really going to need 27 receiving blankets? And what child needs 102 outfits in 0-3 month size?
The hyperventilation and twitching began and my heart raced as I thought of all the waste. I was ill at the thought of the amount of money spent on things that my mother and mother-in-law told me were not necessary. A baby bath tub-really? What evil money grubbing genius thought of this. It's a glorified bucket that cost $40.00. I had been convinced I needed it between the pregnancy hormones and every baby magazine out there insisting. But as I looked around our home it dawned on me...where would we store one of the most expensive buckets in the world? In the bathtub? Great. So everytime I wanted to shower I had to find a place for this contraption? Uh hello?!?!?! I don't think so. I didn't even have the baby and I knew alone time would become a precious commodity that I would not want to spend on moving a baby bath in and out of my bathroom like I worked for moving company.
I made a command decision and looked through all my treasures to see what we really needed. I took the baby bath and thought about what my mother told me months ago. I would probably bath the baby in the kitchen sink and would have no need for such an item. It would possibly be used a few times, but more likely would spend it's existence decorating our basement. Into the return pile it went.
The next thing I went through was all the clothing. The newborn size is just another money making idea of probably the same baby bath evil genius. Odds were our baby would be born an average size and would have no need for 42 outfits that would fit for a millisecond before she outgrew them. To the exchange pile they went. While I was at it I sorted through all the other clothes and tried to even things out a bit. I took a fair number of 0-3 month clothes and put them away for the baby. The rest I put in the exchange pile so we would have something to put on our child should she want to grow out of 0-3 month clothes...a novel idea, but luckily it worked out. I still wonder to this day why woman insist on only buying 0-3 month size clothes. Do they think the child won't need anything else in life? That somehow they will be able to go off to college in the same onesies they got taken home from the hospital in? I think not.
The next thing I managed to part with was a baby bath robe. What?? A baby bath robe?? What sadist really thinks I was going to get my winter baby to hang out in a bath robe? I thought I'd be doing pretty well if I got her out of the bath, into her towel and onto the dressing table in one piece. Now throw in a bath robe and you are just really asking for a poop accident!
This frugality continued after the baby was born. I learned in Baby Preparation class how to swaddle a baby with a receiving blanket and realized I didn't need a special $22.00 swaddling blanket. Back to the store it went. It stayed there along with the diaper genie-a contraption every mother-to-be thinks is necessary but I think is just a plain waste. What if I have just a piece of garbage to throw away? Can't just throw it in there, so what's the point. We decided to use a regular garbage can and it worked out just great.
I also brought back the JJ Cole Bundle Me. This is a great idea for a product, but I just couldn't justify using it when literally 14 different woman made my baby a handmade blanket. In the old days a blanket was good enough for me, so it would be good enough for my angel.
The streamlining continued and still does to this day. My children have all the essentials that are really essentials. Most of the fluff tends to make its way back to the store. My thrifty side always wants to scream out and take mothers-to-be to the side and let them know what they really need and what they don't. That it's really not necessary to have a baby bath tub. But my rational side knows it's their right and prerogative to register and buy what they want! Good luck new moms and save your receipts!!
Friday, April 1, 2011
Bath time
Bath times are a nightly ritual in our house. We've given baths at the same time every night since my first child was exactly seven weeks old. I'm old school so I still use the kitchen sink as the baby tub. We have tub toys, cups and soap like all proper baby baths. Once in a while I'll even throw in a squirt toy to mix it up.
We don't spend a lot of time traveling and I'm not a big fan of putting my naked kids in other people's sinks, so my kids have had a bath only a hand full of times outside our home. Last Sunday was one of those times.
It started out innocently enough. My parents graciously offered to have us over for dinner. Being exhausted and worn out in general, my husband and I jumped at the chance to have a home cooked meal with little effort on our part. Being the polite daughter I am, I asked my mom if we could bath the girls at their house. I knew RaRa would fall asleep in the car on the way home if we didn't. Waking her up and trying to bath her would be a beast and really who wants to slay that dragon if it can be avoided?? I also knew it would allow us more time to visit and play...otherwise known as more time for other people to entertain my kids. Win win all around right?
Well, that is until we get to the part where Rhu is smearing her poop on my parents living room TV like she was Picasso working on a latest masterpiece. How's that you ask? Well, I'll explain.
We managed to get through dinner with very little food on the floor and almost none flying across the table. No mere fete outside our home setting. The girls even finished their scrumptious dinner and politely set off to play. I remember feeling proud that they were so well behaved. Rhu asked several times to, "Get down?" and listened each time I said no. Wow, this firm parenting stuff is really working. My two-year-old daughter is listening to me!! Ahhh...I sigh of relief and an inflated ego loomed as I happily cleared the dishes and helped my mom clean up dinner. The men were in charge of the two babies and things were going swimmingly.
The rest of the evening progressed nicely and the girls played well with each other. It started to get late and was time to get baths done so we could be on our way home. Visions of a happy, smiling family in our standard issue SUV traveling home with freshly scrubbed children danced in my head. I was so cocky that I was even sure the little angels would go right to bed without a peep. Oh soooo wrong.
I think I can pinpoint the downturn of events at the spot when we undressed both children. This is probably when we lost control. The kitchen sink at my parent's house is a single, so RaRa was scheduled to go first. She splashed well and my ego grew even more inflated. This was going great!! Then I heard it...the words no parent wants to hear from their spouse. It came out of the living room with a looming tone. "Uh Hun...we've got a problem." I transferred my first freshly scrubbed baby to her grandmother and went to inspect this so called problem. I figured it was something simple like spilled milk. When I rounded the corner I saw it. Brown tipped fingers on my little angel. She had poop in her diapers and now with her clothes off she was able to access this new tool of destruction.
She was quick too. Her little hands managed to gain access to the poop and smear it on the innocent television in a split second. I gasped in horror at what she had done. My visions of freshly scrubbed well-behaved children shattered as I grabbed her hands so she could not do any more destruction. All I could think was where did my perfectly behaved little angel get such an idea and how could my poor parents be laughing at this disgusting mess? But they were laughing nonetheless. My father more than my mother. He enjoys getting a chuckle out of every parenting moment in my life. Not in a vicious way, but in an "Ahhh isn't parenting fun?" kind of way. No Dad, wiping poop off your television isn't fun, but thanks for asking!
With the quickness of Santa on Christmas Eve I whisked Rhu off to the sink. I didn't even bother to prep the bath by wiping her hinnie beforehand. I plunked her down in the sink and began to pull out the hose. I poured soap all over everything and scrubbed like she had just opened an envelope laced with Anthrax. My hands were like greased lightening as I washed the little stinker. I followed up her first set of scrubbing by another and still a third. Once I felt like all the poop was gone I gave her a normal bath and issued her a towel to dry off.
Meanwhile, my husband was assigned the illustrious task of cleaning the poop and he went to work without a word. After all, the source of the poop was in my hands, so he figured he got the better deal.
Once all the poop was washed, both girls were scrubbed and dressed and the laughter subsided, it was time to leave. We gathered all of our bags, our children and what was left of our pride and began saying our good-byes. We loaded our children in the car and started off for home. I couldn't help but think what happened? We started off so well. We were prepared. But, I guess you can never prepare for everything...can you?
We don't spend a lot of time traveling and I'm not a big fan of putting my naked kids in other people's sinks, so my kids have had a bath only a hand full of times outside our home. Last Sunday was one of those times.
It started out innocently enough. My parents graciously offered to have us over for dinner. Being exhausted and worn out in general, my husband and I jumped at the chance to have a home cooked meal with little effort on our part. Being the polite daughter I am, I asked my mom if we could bath the girls at their house. I knew RaRa would fall asleep in the car on the way home if we didn't. Waking her up and trying to bath her would be a beast and really who wants to slay that dragon if it can be avoided?? I also knew it would allow us more time to visit and play...otherwise known as more time for other people to entertain my kids. Win win all around right?
Well, that is until we get to the part where Rhu is smearing her poop on my parents living room TV like she was Picasso working on a latest masterpiece. How's that you ask? Well, I'll explain.
We managed to get through dinner with very little food on the floor and almost none flying across the table. No mere fete outside our home setting. The girls even finished their scrumptious dinner and politely set off to play. I remember feeling proud that they were so well behaved. Rhu asked several times to, "Get down?" and listened each time I said no. Wow, this firm parenting stuff is really working. My two-year-old daughter is listening to me!! Ahhh...I sigh of relief and an inflated ego loomed as I happily cleared the dishes and helped my mom clean up dinner. The men were in charge of the two babies and things were going swimmingly.
The rest of the evening progressed nicely and the girls played well with each other. It started to get late and was time to get baths done so we could be on our way home. Visions of a happy, smiling family in our standard issue SUV traveling home with freshly scrubbed children danced in my head. I was so cocky that I was even sure the little angels would go right to bed without a peep. Oh soooo wrong.
I think I can pinpoint the downturn of events at the spot when we undressed both children. This is probably when we lost control. The kitchen sink at my parent's house is a single, so RaRa was scheduled to go first. She splashed well and my ego grew even more inflated. This was going great!! Then I heard it...the words no parent wants to hear from their spouse. It came out of the living room with a looming tone. "Uh Hun...we've got a problem." I transferred my first freshly scrubbed baby to her grandmother and went to inspect this so called problem. I figured it was something simple like spilled milk. When I rounded the corner I saw it. Brown tipped fingers on my little angel. She had poop in her diapers and now with her clothes off she was able to access this new tool of destruction.
She was quick too. Her little hands managed to gain access to the poop and smear it on the innocent television in a split second. I gasped in horror at what she had done. My visions of freshly scrubbed well-behaved children shattered as I grabbed her hands so she could not do any more destruction. All I could think was where did my perfectly behaved little angel get such an idea and how could my poor parents be laughing at this disgusting mess? But they were laughing nonetheless. My father more than my mother. He enjoys getting a chuckle out of every parenting moment in my life. Not in a vicious way, but in an "Ahhh isn't parenting fun?" kind of way. No Dad, wiping poop off your television isn't fun, but thanks for asking!
With the quickness of Santa on Christmas Eve I whisked Rhu off to the sink. I didn't even bother to prep the bath by wiping her hinnie beforehand. I plunked her down in the sink and began to pull out the hose. I poured soap all over everything and scrubbed like she had just opened an envelope laced with Anthrax. My hands were like greased lightening as I washed the little stinker. I followed up her first set of scrubbing by another and still a third. Once I felt like all the poop was gone I gave her a normal bath and issued her a towel to dry off.
Meanwhile, my husband was assigned the illustrious task of cleaning the poop and he went to work without a word. After all, the source of the poop was in my hands, so he figured he got the better deal.
Once all the poop was washed, both girls were scrubbed and dressed and the laughter subsided, it was time to leave. We gathered all of our bags, our children and what was left of our pride and began saying our good-byes. We loaded our children in the car and started off for home. I couldn't help but think what happened? We started off so well. We were prepared. But, I guess you can never prepare for everything...can you?
Friday, March 25, 2011
Mine
I am a music person. Heart and soul through and through I love music. Almost any instance of my life I can relate to a song lyric. I can pick up and memorize song lyrics like a fish takes to water. It's my special useless talent. Well, maybe it's not completely useless...it helps me sort through life from time to time.
I am no country music lover, but after many years with my husband I have grown to appreciate the genre. I even find myself adding some country songs to my iTunes catalogue. Recently a song that could be considered country but more mainstream these days has really made me think about my babies. It's a song about young love, but has touched my heart strings. The part that hits me every time says, "You are the best thing that's ever been mine." Every time I hear it I see their little angel faces and think that's exactly the way I feel. They are the best things that have ever been mine. I know the song is meant for a couple in love, but I think artistic license can be taken.
From the word go I have been in love with my children. I remember nervously taking my first pregnancy test. It was the Tuesday after Mother's Day 2008. On Mother's Day I woke up early. My husband and I started a tradition of having our families over our house so our moms didn't do any work. I wanted to do some set-up and plant a small hosta in the front yard before church. I felt dizzy as I went about my work. I even stopped to have the dry heaves like a college kid at after a frat party. I figured I was probably tired and didn't think it was possible that my husband and I succeed in our goal so quickly. We are both likable enough people, but really who in their right mind would let us have a kid to raise? My compulsions are enough to nominate me for the revival of the Monk character.
I spent the day consumed in Mothers and hosting guests while lost in the thought that next year I just might be one of them. In my mind I was like a fat kid waiting for the bakery to open. I salivated at the chance of having someone to love from the start. Someone who I would be there from the beginning with and for. Someone to watch grow and blossom. I never experienced that in my life. I am the youngest of a large family and was never close enough to anyone that had a child to share their experience from a front row seat.
As Mother's Day came to a close and my husband and I finished cleaning up I shared my suspicion with him. He suggested to me in a calm and playful tone that perhaps I should go "pee on a stick." Never one for flowering verbiage, his demeanor was one of well let's find out. I knew from my vast research on pregnancy and babies that pregnancy tests are meant to be done first thing in the am. This left out Monday since stores were already closed.
The next day I continued my wondering if I was right. I passed several drug stores thinking I should stop and buy a test so I would have it. I even ventured into Walgreen's to get one. The price almost knocked my on my rear...I'm so frugal that I figured it would be cheaper to just wait for my period. I promptly left the store indignant at the price of the confirmation of a new life. I wondered how much it cost in the old days to just kill the bunny?
My workday finished and the rain continued to fall. I tried to distract myself by watching my old pals The Golden Girls. But, eventually my curiosity got to me and I climbed into my beloved Jeep for the 2 mile drive to Wal-Mart. I figured Wal-Mart would have the cheapest prices...ever the penny pincher. I felt somewhat embarrassed to be purchasing a pregnancy test...the good Catholic girl in me was nervous people would know what I did...EEAKKK!! I clutched my watched and twisted my wedding rings while I nervously compared pregnancy tests. It was really a sight if you didn't know me. I looked like a high school student at a drug store on prom night. (Not that I know what that's like mind you...I just watch t.v.)
After the trauma of buying the telltale test I hurried home. Oh what little I knew of all the embarrassment waiting for me on the journey called gestation. Knowing now that purchasing the pregnancy test experience would pale in comparison of giving birth in the embarrassment arena, I probably would have announced my purchase with a megaphone.
Needless to say, I took the test the next morning. I rechecked the results several times before waking my husband to share the good news. We created life and the baby would be ours. Fewer experiences match up to learning that you will be meeting the person who you will help shape and mold. The person who will see you into old age. The person you will love unconditionally forever. This feeling was just as bold the second time I took a pregnancy test. I knew we created life again as well as a life long friend for our first child.
So, I guess it's easy to see why I shed a tear when I hear, "You are the best thing that's ever been mine." They really are. They bring me back to center when the world gets to me. I am not a perfect person, but I always want them to be proud of me and this drives me to strive for better. When I'm tired, this song reminds me to keep pushing, keep working, keep loving. They took me by surprise...I will never leave them alone. They made a mother out of a careful man's compulsive daughter.
I am no country music lover, but after many years with my husband I have grown to appreciate the genre. I even find myself adding some country songs to my iTunes catalogue. Recently a song that could be considered country but more mainstream these days has really made me think about my babies. It's a song about young love, but has touched my heart strings. The part that hits me every time says, "You are the best thing that's ever been mine." Every time I hear it I see their little angel faces and think that's exactly the way I feel. They are the best things that have ever been mine. I know the song is meant for a couple in love, but I think artistic license can be taken.
From the word go I have been in love with my children. I remember nervously taking my first pregnancy test. It was the Tuesday after Mother's Day 2008. On Mother's Day I woke up early. My husband and I started a tradition of having our families over our house so our moms didn't do any work. I wanted to do some set-up and plant a small hosta in the front yard before church. I felt dizzy as I went about my work. I even stopped to have the dry heaves like a college kid at after a frat party. I figured I was probably tired and didn't think it was possible that my husband and I succeed in our goal so quickly. We are both likable enough people, but really who in their right mind would let us have a kid to raise? My compulsions are enough to nominate me for the revival of the Monk character.
I spent the day consumed in Mothers and hosting guests while lost in the thought that next year I just might be one of them. In my mind I was like a fat kid waiting for the bakery to open. I salivated at the chance of having someone to love from the start. Someone who I would be there from the beginning with and for. Someone to watch grow and blossom. I never experienced that in my life. I am the youngest of a large family and was never close enough to anyone that had a child to share their experience from a front row seat.
As Mother's Day came to a close and my husband and I finished cleaning up I shared my suspicion with him. He suggested to me in a calm and playful tone that perhaps I should go "pee on a stick." Never one for flowering verbiage, his demeanor was one of well let's find out. I knew from my vast research on pregnancy and babies that pregnancy tests are meant to be done first thing in the am. This left out Monday since stores were already closed.
The next day I continued my wondering if I was right. I passed several drug stores thinking I should stop and buy a test so I would have it. I even ventured into Walgreen's to get one. The price almost knocked my on my rear...I'm so frugal that I figured it would be cheaper to just wait for my period. I promptly left the store indignant at the price of the confirmation of a new life. I wondered how much it cost in the old days to just kill the bunny?
My workday finished and the rain continued to fall. I tried to distract myself by watching my old pals The Golden Girls. But, eventually my curiosity got to me and I climbed into my beloved Jeep for the 2 mile drive to Wal-Mart. I figured Wal-Mart would have the cheapest prices...ever the penny pincher. I felt somewhat embarrassed to be purchasing a pregnancy test...the good Catholic girl in me was nervous people would know what I did...EEAKKK!! I clutched my watched and twisted my wedding rings while I nervously compared pregnancy tests. It was really a sight if you didn't know me. I looked like a high school student at a drug store on prom night. (Not that I know what that's like mind you...I just watch t.v.)
After the trauma of buying the telltale test I hurried home. Oh what little I knew of all the embarrassment waiting for me on the journey called gestation. Knowing now that purchasing the pregnancy test experience would pale in comparison of giving birth in the embarrassment arena, I probably would have announced my purchase with a megaphone.
Needless to say, I took the test the next morning. I rechecked the results several times before waking my husband to share the good news. We created life and the baby would be ours. Fewer experiences match up to learning that you will be meeting the person who you will help shape and mold. The person who will see you into old age. The person you will love unconditionally forever. This feeling was just as bold the second time I took a pregnancy test. I knew we created life again as well as a life long friend for our first child.
So, I guess it's easy to see why I shed a tear when I hear, "You are the best thing that's ever been mine." They really are. They bring me back to center when the world gets to me. I am not a perfect person, but I always want them to be proud of me and this drives me to strive for better. When I'm tired, this song reminds me to keep pushing, keep working, keep loving. They took me by surprise...I will never leave them alone. They made a mother out of a careful man's compulsive daughter.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Picture Frames
Each month since my eldest child was born, we take a picture of each of them on the calendar day they were born to put in a special frame. Every new parent gets one of these memory frames at a shower or from a friend. Basically this means they get saddled with the obligation of performing this task or face the consequences of staring at a half filled frame and feeling the twinges of guilt for the rest of their lives.
In our family this is no mere picture - it's a ritual. All aspects of this picture are meticulously thought out and coordinated. I begin the Chinese water torture by inspecting the child's wardrobe to pick out the perfect outfit. Not only is level of sophistication painstakingly considered, but also the season and that month's holidays are taken into account. A February picture will almost certainly be a red outfit - October would be orange...you get the picture! The socks and shoes must not only match, but also enhance the outfit and of course the hair bow that is as big as their heads is the cherry on top of my psychotic sundae.
Once all the prep work is complete it is time to pose the lucky little girl. Rhu's pictures during her first year were always taken in the same spot in her crib. I felt this consistency would pay off in the end with uniform pictures in the frame - turns out it's just another symptom of my obsessive compulsive disorders. RaRa started out in her sister's crib for several months before graduating to her own crib for this regular torture. This switch midway will probably haunt me for the rest of my life. I already feel the twitches when I look at the frame with the different backgrounds.
After the child is dressed, the crib is prepped and the camera is on, the magic can finally begin. It's now a race against the clock to see if I can get the perfect picture before crying or crawling ensues. I have learned to take these pictures after a nap so we have a rested baby to work with. I start my chorus of the child's name in desperate hopes of getting them to look at me and smile. I use the singsong method of speaking PBS is constantly going on and on about to try to attract their attention. When that fails, I use props, mouth noises and even a grandparent to extract the perfect look and smile. Really I would stop at nothing to get a picture that looks like Annie Leibovitz snapped it.
Usually each session entails me snapping a few pics and running back to the crib to reposition the child. She usually crawls around again before I am able to take another picture so round and round we go with repositioning and crawling. It's an agonizing merry-go-round until one of us gives up. (Usually I win; after all I am the adult...right?)
When I am finally satisfied I got the picture or completely exhausted from the battle of wills, the exercise is over. I can finally undress the poor child who was forced to pose for a Top Model cover shoot like Tyra was breathing down her neck. I take off the outfit I assembled with such care and release her into her natural habitat like freeing Willy. The older they get, the faster they run away. I wonder why.
Tell me again, who invented these "memory" frames??
In our family this is no mere picture - it's a ritual. All aspects of this picture are meticulously thought out and coordinated. I begin the Chinese water torture by inspecting the child's wardrobe to pick out the perfect outfit. Not only is level of sophistication painstakingly considered, but also the season and that month's holidays are taken into account. A February picture will almost certainly be a red outfit - October would be orange...you get the picture! The socks and shoes must not only match, but also enhance the outfit and of course the hair bow that is as big as their heads is the cherry on top of my psychotic sundae.
Once all the prep work is complete it is time to pose the lucky little girl. Rhu's pictures during her first year were always taken in the same spot in her crib. I felt this consistency would pay off in the end with uniform pictures in the frame - turns out it's just another symptom of my obsessive compulsive disorders. RaRa started out in her sister's crib for several months before graduating to her own crib for this regular torture. This switch midway will probably haunt me for the rest of my life. I already feel the twitches when I look at the frame with the different backgrounds.
After the child is dressed, the crib is prepped and the camera is on, the magic can finally begin. It's now a race against the clock to see if I can get the perfect picture before crying or crawling ensues. I have learned to take these pictures after a nap so we have a rested baby to work with. I start my chorus of the child's name in desperate hopes of getting them to look at me and smile. I use the singsong method of speaking PBS is constantly going on and on about to try to attract their attention. When that fails, I use props, mouth noises and even a grandparent to extract the perfect look and smile. Really I would stop at nothing to get a picture that looks like Annie Leibovitz snapped it.
Usually each session entails me snapping a few pics and running back to the crib to reposition the child. She usually crawls around again before I am able to take another picture so round and round we go with repositioning and crawling. It's an agonizing merry-go-round until one of us gives up. (Usually I win; after all I am the adult...right?)
When I am finally satisfied I got the picture or completely exhausted from the battle of wills, the exercise is over. I can finally undress the poor child who was forced to pose for a Top Model cover shoot like Tyra was breathing down her neck. I take off the outfit I assembled with such care and release her into her natural habitat like freeing Willy. The older they get, the faster they run away. I wonder why.
Tell me again, who invented these "memory" frames??
Saturday, March 19, 2011
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Smunch Mommy
Smunch Mommy
Monday, March 14, 2011
Dog Chores
Like many American families we own a dog. She is a black lab who must have been the runt of her litter. We adopted her from a local shelter and never got her full story. She’s 50 pounds soaking wet with the biggest brown eyes God ever gave a dog and the floppiest ears that make me think she could be part rabbit. She’s a loving dog who made her way into our hearts the first time we saw her.
She has one fatal down fall-my bed!
What do a dog and a bed have to do with each other? It’s simple-they have a love affair all their own that stands between me and a good nights sleep.
As a young parent I can attest to the fact sleep in a precious commodity. My days are filled with preparing food for the kids like the chef at a restaurant, being the chairman of the entertainment committee, the head maid, a personal shopper and fitting in a mere 8 hours of work. My nights are consumed with bathing anything that poops, wrestling children to bed, singing songs, saying prayers, and getting up in the middle of the night for whoever’s turn it is to keep mommy up… not to mention prepping the workload and household for the next day. When all of these chores are done for the day and it is finally time for me to get into bed, a whole new set of chores begins.
These are the dog chores. It begins with walking into my bedroom and being hit by the stench of several hours of dog fart bomb assaults that were launched from a strategic position. After I managed to stop the burning feeling from causing my eyes to water and turn on the fan to dissipate the smell, I am challenged with the task of moving the sound asleep dog off my Laura Ashley pillow shams. Our dog feels it is not only her right, but also her obligation to snuggle up on top of our pillows as if the bed alone wasn’t good enough.
The next step in this night ritual is a melody of claps and whistles designed to inspire the dog to move to the foot of the bed on her own. I gave up on trying to get her off the bed completely a few years ago. We are supposed to have an agreement that she sleeps at the foot of the bed…she breaks this agreement many times every night.
The singsong of “C’mon girl…c’mon…let’s go!!” quickly turns to a stern “Let’s go!” Followed by the use of her full name. Yes I said full name…if you have a dog you know they have a full name too. After several minutes of these attempts I finally give up and pick her up and drag her to the foot of the bed. With a huff she promptly stands up, walks in a circle and a half, then lies back down. Gee thanks dog! You couldn’t do that 10 minutes ago. By this time I am so exhausted I don’t even bother trying to remove all the dog hair that now clings to my pillows and blankets. Inhaling them as I sleep has become as normal as breathing.
After I finally get into bed, my husband always manages to walk in and ask, “You’re just going to bed now?” My response is always a feeble yes as if this battle has almost beaten me…maybe it’s knowing what I have laying ahead of me…a long night of clinging to the edge of my bed and trying to find space to put my legs that is not taken up by the dog.
Tell me again why we let the dog “sleep” with us?
She has one fatal down fall-my bed!
What do a dog and a bed have to do with each other? It’s simple-they have a love affair all their own that stands between me and a good nights sleep.
As a young parent I can attest to the fact sleep in a precious commodity. My days are filled with preparing food for the kids like the chef at a restaurant, being the chairman of the entertainment committee, the head maid, a personal shopper and fitting in a mere 8 hours of work. My nights are consumed with bathing anything that poops, wrestling children to bed, singing songs, saying prayers, and getting up in the middle of the night for whoever’s turn it is to keep mommy up… not to mention prepping the workload and household for the next day. When all of these chores are done for the day and it is finally time for me to get into bed, a whole new set of chores begins.
These are the dog chores. It begins with walking into my bedroom and being hit by the stench of several hours of dog fart bomb assaults that were launched from a strategic position. After I managed to stop the burning feeling from causing my eyes to water and turn on the fan to dissipate the smell, I am challenged with the task of moving the sound asleep dog off my Laura Ashley pillow shams. Our dog feels it is not only her right, but also her obligation to snuggle up on top of our pillows as if the bed alone wasn’t good enough.
The next step in this night ritual is a melody of claps and whistles designed to inspire the dog to move to the foot of the bed on her own. I gave up on trying to get her off the bed completely a few years ago. We are supposed to have an agreement that she sleeps at the foot of the bed…she breaks this agreement many times every night.
The singsong of “C’mon girl…c’mon…let’s go!!” quickly turns to a stern “Let’s go!” Followed by the use of her full name. Yes I said full name…if you have a dog you know they have a full name too. After several minutes of these attempts I finally give up and pick her up and drag her to the foot of the bed. With a huff she promptly stands up, walks in a circle and a half, then lies back down. Gee thanks dog! You couldn’t do that 10 minutes ago. By this time I am so exhausted I don’t even bother trying to remove all the dog hair that now clings to my pillows and blankets. Inhaling them as I sleep has become as normal as breathing.
After I finally get into bed, my husband always manages to walk in and ask, “You’re just going to bed now?” My response is always a feeble yes as if this battle has almost beaten me…maybe it’s knowing what I have laying ahead of me…a long night of clinging to the edge of my bed and trying to find space to put my legs that is not taken up by the dog.
Tell me again why we let the dog “sleep” with us?
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Sniffles
The kids have the sniffles ergo Mommy has the sniffles. Everyone knows children are famous for having runny noses...it's part of their design. But you never really understand this joy until you are the one their noses are running onto.
This morning Rhu was sitting with me while we screened the baby show. Then I realized I felt something warm and wet on my arm...a mere three inches from her nose. I looked down and saw that my forearm had been the latest victim of the nasal assault the kids had been staging all week. Just a few short years ago this would have caused me to run to the nearest sink and scrub my arm as if I had just been a casualty of biological warfare. Now, i use the same snotty tissue I just wiped the kids' noses with to mop up the mucus and move on. That's really all you can do in that situation.
Parenting is a lot of wipe it up and move on. Things that would cause my single friends to stop dead in their tracks hardly phases a weary sleep deprived parent. They are the things that cement your place in the world of Parenthood. I've heard of woman who say they instinctively put their hands out to catch a child's vomit. This always seemed a bit much to me, but I can tell you now I understand it. My hands often serve as the receptacle for expelled bodily fluids and slobbered toys the kids are no longer gnawing to death.
I mention all this because it reminds me of a time when I was a new mom and I not only endured but excelled in a situation filled with more baby projectiles than I had ever thought possible.
Not long after my eldest child was born, my husband's family commemorated his grandfather's passing with a ceremony and luncheon. Being proud and responsible parents we dressed our child in an adorable outfit, packed up the car and set out on the journey. The ceremony at a military graveyard went off without so much as a peep from the little one. I even managed to enjoy lunch between trips to the car to nurse the hungriest baby in the world.
As the luncheon came to a close and we prepared to make the trip back home which included a stop at our accountant, I changed the baby's diaper only to find an exceptional present. A feeling of pride swelled inside as I managed to side step that landmine and get the diaper changed without making a mess.
After the family good byes I noticed the baby was cranky and the trip was hardly underway. It was about five minutes into the trip she vomited the exceptional amount of milk she had been consuming all day. Wanting to be perfect safety conscious parents, we immediately pulled over to change the baby out of her clothes into the fresh outfit every new mother puts in her diaper bag.
It seemed like the disaster was over and we were free to continue our journey home. Oh how little we knew of how bad it would get. Before we made it to the accountant's home, the baby managed to vomit everything she ever ate in her life, cover me and my new outfit in my own half digested breast milk and cry the most heart wrenching tears a baby could make.
By the time we made it to the accountant, the baby and I were in the back seat clinging to each other like Haitian refugees on a boat in the Atlantic as my husband went to collect our taxes and perhaps his sanity. Forget new outfits and handy wipes, we were in full out fluid onslaught. I didn't think a person that size could produce so much projectiles, but I swear to everything I hold holy it is possible. The back seat of our SUV looked like a war zone.
After what seemed like an eternity, we somehow managed to make it home that night. As we pulled into our driveway, I looked at our angel who managed to pass out and I knew I made it. I was a part of the club of mothers. Not the cheesy one every thinks of, but the club of mothers who can and will do anything for their kids without thought or complaint. The ones who will endure long stretches of sleepless nights and a closet full of stained shirts. It may not always be pretty, but it is always worth it.
So I guess in thinking about it, what's a little mucus between mother and daughter?
This morning Rhu was sitting with me while we screened the baby show. Then I realized I felt something warm and wet on my arm...a mere three inches from her nose. I looked down and saw that my forearm had been the latest victim of the nasal assault the kids had been staging all week. Just a few short years ago this would have caused me to run to the nearest sink and scrub my arm as if I had just been a casualty of biological warfare. Now, i use the same snotty tissue I just wiped the kids' noses with to mop up the mucus and move on. That's really all you can do in that situation.
Parenting is a lot of wipe it up and move on. Things that would cause my single friends to stop dead in their tracks hardly phases a weary sleep deprived parent. They are the things that cement your place in the world of Parenthood. I've heard of woman who say they instinctively put their hands out to catch a child's vomit. This always seemed a bit much to me, but I can tell you now I understand it. My hands often serve as the receptacle for expelled bodily fluids and slobbered toys the kids are no longer gnawing to death.
I mention all this because it reminds me of a time when I was a new mom and I not only endured but excelled in a situation filled with more baby projectiles than I had ever thought possible.
Not long after my eldest child was born, my husband's family commemorated his grandfather's passing with a ceremony and luncheon. Being proud and responsible parents we dressed our child in an adorable outfit, packed up the car and set out on the journey. The ceremony at a military graveyard went off without so much as a peep from the little one. I even managed to enjoy lunch between trips to the car to nurse the hungriest baby in the world.
As the luncheon came to a close and we prepared to make the trip back home which included a stop at our accountant, I changed the baby's diaper only to find an exceptional present. A feeling of pride swelled inside as I managed to side step that landmine and get the diaper changed without making a mess.
After the family good byes I noticed the baby was cranky and the trip was hardly underway. It was about five minutes into the trip she vomited the exceptional amount of milk she had been consuming all day. Wanting to be perfect safety conscious parents, we immediately pulled over to change the baby out of her clothes into the fresh outfit every new mother puts in her diaper bag.
It seemed like the disaster was over and we were free to continue our journey home. Oh how little we knew of how bad it would get. Before we made it to the accountant's home, the baby managed to vomit everything she ever ate in her life, cover me and my new outfit in my own half digested breast milk and cry the most heart wrenching tears a baby could make.
By the time we made it to the accountant, the baby and I were in the back seat clinging to each other like Haitian refugees on a boat in the Atlantic as my husband went to collect our taxes and perhaps his sanity. Forget new outfits and handy wipes, we were in full out fluid onslaught. I didn't think a person that size could produce so much projectiles, but I swear to everything I hold holy it is possible. The back seat of our SUV looked like a war zone.
After what seemed like an eternity, we somehow managed to make it home that night. As we pulled into our driveway, I looked at our angel who managed to pass out and I knew I made it. I was a part of the club of mothers. Not the cheesy one every thinks of, but the club of mothers who can and will do anything for their kids without thought or complaint. The ones who will endure long stretches of sleepless nights and a closet full of stained shirts. It may not always be pretty, but it is always worth it.
So I guess in thinking about it, what's a little mucus between mother and daughter?
Friday, March 4, 2011
Mommas got a new hobby
Recently I've discovered something about myself. I am boring. Don't get me wrong, I'm a fun girl with a very full life. I have a full time career, am married, raising two children, am very family involved, and have a long time love affair with chocolate. All of these things combined fill more than 24 hours each day, but none the less I am boring...or maybe I am bored.
I was sitting at lunch with a dear friend recently and came to the realization that I have allowed myself to fall into the mommy trap. My life revolves around the two most precious gifts God ever put on this earth. I rise and fall based on their whims as any mother would.
As our conversation turned to family, it hit me like a ton of bricks. My family members are doing more exciting things in life and are being paid to do them. One plays sports and teaches others to play them and gets paid. Another makes fun of life in front of an audience and pays the rent doing such. The last is a member of a dying breed of true warriors. I, on the other hand, spend my days talking about how exciting the potty will be to one princess and coaxing the other princess to just let go while screening the baby show.
So, as a great man once said...If you don't like your situation-Change it. (OK you got me...maybe a great man never said, but it fits, so let's go with it.)
In an attempt to do something for myself which will ultimately become a gift to my children
I've decided to start a blog. The direction is unclear at this moment. Of course it would be great to have my thoughts picked up by some national magazine for a regular column by "your average mom"...but as a great man that I actually know says a lot, "You got a better chance of sandpapering a tiger's ass." Right now I would like this to be an exercise in using my college degree to flex that 8 pound lump above my shoulders and perhaps journal my thoughts that someday my children will read and understand their mom.
I see a lot of things these days that I would love to express an opinion about. Facebook isn't always the place, but we'll see if this is. Follow me if you want to learn more about me. Don't follow me if you don't want. Either way, I'm having more fun now than I was 10 minutes ago.
Smunch Mommy
I was sitting at lunch with a dear friend recently and came to the realization that I have allowed myself to fall into the mommy trap. My life revolves around the two most precious gifts God ever put on this earth. I rise and fall based on their whims as any mother would.
As our conversation turned to family, it hit me like a ton of bricks. My family members are doing more exciting things in life and are being paid to do them. One plays sports and teaches others to play them and gets paid. Another makes fun of life in front of an audience and pays the rent doing such. The last is a member of a dying breed of true warriors. I, on the other hand, spend my days talking about how exciting the potty will be to one princess and coaxing the other princess to just let go while screening the baby show.
So, as a great man once said...If you don't like your situation-Change it. (OK you got me...maybe a great man never said, but it fits, so let's go with it.)
In an attempt to do something for myself which will ultimately become a gift to my children
I've decided to start a blog. The direction is unclear at this moment. Of course it would be great to have my thoughts picked up by some national magazine for a regular column by "your average mom"...but as a great man that I actually know says a lot, "You got a better chance of sandpapering a tiger's ass." Right now I would like this to be an exercise in using my college degree to flex that 8 pound lump above my shoulders and perhaps journal my thoughts that someday my children will read and understand their mom.
I see a lot of things these days that I would love to express an opinion about. Facebook isn't always the place, but we'll see if this is. Follow me if you want to learn more about me. Don't follow me if you don't want. Either way, I'm having more fun now than I was 10 minutes ago.
Smunch Mommy
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