"When did they stop putting toys in cereal boxes?
When I was little, I remember wandering the cereal aisle and picking my breakfast food based on what the reward was: a Frisbee with the Trix rabbit's face emblazoned on the front. Holographic stickers with the Luck Charms leprechaun. A mystery decoder wheel. I could suffer through raisin bran for a month if it meant I got a magic ring at the end.
I cannot admit this out loud. In the first place, we are expected to be supermoms these days, instead of admitting that we have flaws. It is tempting to believe that all mothers wake up feeling fresh every morning, never raise their voices, only cook with organic food, and are equally at ease with the CEO and PTA.
Here's a secret: Those mothers don't exist. Most of us--even if we'd never confess--are suffering through the raisin bran in the hopes of a glimpse of that magic ring.
I look very good on paper. In real life, I have to pick superglue out of the carpet, rarely remember to defrost dinner, and plan to have "because I said so" engraved on my tombstone.
Real mothers wonder why experts who write for "Parents" and "Good Housekeeping" seem to have their acts together all the time when they themselves can barely keep their heads above the stormy seas of parenthood.
Real mothers don't just listen with humble embarrassment to the elderly lady who offers unsolicited advice in the checkout line when a child is throwing a tantrum. We take the child, dump him in the lady's cart, and say, "Great. Maybe you can do a better job."
Real mothers know that it's okay to eat cold pizza for breakfast.
Real mothers admit it is easier to fail at this job than to succeed.
If parenting is the box of raisin bran, then real mothers know the ratio of flakes to fun is severly imbalanced. For every moment that your child confides in you, or tells you he loves you, or does something unprompted to protect his brother that you happen to witness, there are many more moments of chaos, error, and self-doubt.
Real mothers may not speak the heresy, but they sometimes secretly wish they'd chosen something for breakfast other than this endless cereal.
Real mothers worry that other mothers will find that magic ring, whereas they'll be looking and looking for ages.
Rest easy, real mothers. The very fact that you worry about being a good mom means that you already are one."
--Jodi Picoult, "House Rules"
(written from the perspective of the mother of an autistic son)
Showing posts with label Mommy madness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mommy madness. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Madness #22--ancient history
Sometimes, my little mommy self misses the days before my son...
...found out that crayons were edible, fun to brush his teeth with, and could break in half.
...thought that throwing every single one of his Legos down the stairs, one at a time, for Mommy to trip on, was a good idea.
...decided to be afraid of water, making bath time a nightmare for all of us.
...discovered the joy of glaring at Mama from underneath his blonde bangs.
...learned how to take his socks and shoes off when we're running late and trying to get out the door.
...would rather hang out with Elmo than his own mother.
...realized that screaming the word "TAT-tooooooo" while pointing at someone with a visible tattoo really embarrasses Mommy.
...started misbehaving badly enough to warrant spankings before breakfast.
...knew that he was capable of asking for something, then of refusing it when it's offered.
...understood that he was cute and how to use it to his advantage.
...felt it was just hilarious to blow his nose into my clothing or hand.
But you know what? I wouldn't trade that kid for any other kid in the world. Because with all these new things he's learning come other new things--like how to yell "lah-loo" to tell Mama that he loves her, and how to give Mommy sweet kisses through the bars of his crib at bedtime.
If that's my reward for wiping boogers off my pants every day, I'll take all the half-chewed crayons and missing socks I can get.
...found out that crayons were edible, fun to brush his teeth with, and could break in half.
...thought that throwing every single one of his Legos down the stairs, one at a time, for Mommy to trip on, was a good idea.
...decided to be afraid of water, making bath time a nightmare for all of us.
...discovered the joy of glaring at Mama from underneath his blonde bangs.
...learned how to take his socks and shoes off when we're running late and trying to get out the door.
...would rather hang out with Elmo than his own mother.
...realized that screaming the word "TAT-tooooooo" while pointing at someone with a visible tattoo really embarrasses Mommy.
...started misbehaving badly enough to warrant spankings before breakfast.
...knew that he was capable of asking for something, then of refusing it when it's offered.
...understood that he was cute and how to use it to his advantage.
...felt it was just hilarious to blow his nose into my clothing or hand.
But you know what? I wouldn't trade that kid for any other kid in the world. Because with all these new things he's learning come other new things--like how to yell "lah-loo" to tell Mama that he loves her, and how to give Mommy sweet kisses through the bars of his crib at bedtime.
If that's my reward for wiping boogers off my pants every day, I'll take all the half-chewed crayons and missing socks I can get.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Madness #21--"Wake up, sleepy-head!"
My three all-time favorite ways to be woken up?
1. Having Legos thrown at me.
2. Getting my face slapped by a tiny little hand, while "MA!!" is yelled right in my ear.
3. Hearing the word "poop" being whispered in the other room, steadily getting louder and louder until I go in and find someone standing in his crib desperately trying to un-Velcro his very messy diaper.
Whoever said being a mom wasn't absolutely crazy is absolutely crazy.
1. Having Legos thrown at me.
2. Getting my face slapped by a tiny little hand, while "MA!!" is yelled right in my ear.
3. Hearing the word "poop" being whispered in the other room, steadily getting louder and louder until I go in and find someone standing in his crib desperately trying to un-Velcro his very messy diaper.
Whoever said being a mom wasn't absolutely crazy is absolutely crazy.
Monday, March 2, 2009
sigh
You know you're a mother when a dishwasher full of clean dishes, a sleeping child taking his second nap of the day, two corn dogs, friends coming over tonight to watch the final "Bachelor" episode, a Dutch Bros blended annihilator, and a Tyra Show rerun make you blissfully happy.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Here it is, girls...
So, at almost every Stirring function, when a bunch of us women are sitting around, sipping coffee and gabbing about the latest vampire novel, somehow my huge pregnant belly always seems to come up in conversation. I don't know how it creeps in there, but it does, and I find myself smiling and nodding as these girls tell me how huge I was. And no one means any harm by it, it's just that apparently I was an anomoly to the entire church body--I was the new girl that was skinny as a rail with a belly the size of China tacked onto the front of me. I was the new girl that nobody knew but everybody knew.
And of course, at a baby shower this past week, my big ol' belly stuck it's big ol' belly into a convo some of the girls were having about pregnancy. I was chatting with someone else when I overheard someone mention my name and say the usual, "But you couldn't even tell she was pregnant from the back!" It's probably because I gained all my pregnancy weight in my face. All forty pounds, sitting in my cherub-y chipmunk cheeks.
Anyway, a couple of the girls at the baby shower met me after I had had Marty and was at least trying to squeeze into normal-people clothing. They know me as my much smaller, much less whoa-look-at-that-belly-there-must-be-like-five-babies-in-there self. So, friends, since you asked to see a picture of this pregnancy anomoly, I thought I'd oblige. Even though pulling this photo out again makes me feel like I have to pee--I swear, my bladder was flat as a pancake by this point:
So yes, I really was this big. Goo. I had to literally cradle my belly and support its weight with my arms if I walked for more than ten minutes, just to spare my poor aching back. And I was pregnant for another three weeks AFTER this picture was taken. So tack on another ten-or-so pounds, and you've got a great mental picture of me waddling into the maternity ward when Marty was finally ready to arrive, yelling at some poor nurse to "get this thing out of me"!
Fun times, gals. FUN times.
And of course, at a baby shower this past week, my big ol' belly stuck it's big ol' belly into a convo some of the girls were having about pregnancy. I was chatting with someone else when I overheard someone mention my name and say the usual, "But you couldn't even tell she was pregnant from the back!" It's probably because I gained all my pregnancy weight in my face. All forty pounds, sitting in my cherub-y chipmunk cheeks.
Anyway, a couple of the girls at the baby shower met me after I had had Marty and was at least trying to squeeze into normal-people clothing. They know me as my much smaller, much less whoa-look-at-that-belly-there-must-be-like-five-babies-in-there self. So, friends, since you asked to see a picture of this pregnancy anomoly, I thought I'd oblige. Even though pulling this photo out again makes me feel like I have to pee--I swear, my bladder was flat as a pancake by this point:
So yes, I really was this big. Goo. I had to literally cradle my belly and support its weight with my arms if I walked for more than ten minutes, just to spare my poor aching back. And I was pregnant for another three weeks AFTER this picture was taken. So tack on another ten-or-so pounds, and you've got a great mental picture of me waddling into the maternity ward when Marty was finally ready to arrive, yelling at some poor nurse to "get this thing out of me"!
Fun times, gals. FUN times.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Madness #20--Mr. Personality
Pretty much since the day Marty and I first had our "we should make babies together someday" conversation, we've dreamt about what our children would be like.
Not just what they would look like, but what different personality traits of ours they might exhibit. Dramatic like Mommy? Funny like Dad? Smart and nerdy like Mommy? Able to grow some pretty cool facial hair like Dad? Unable to freakin' parallel park a huge truck even though she's been driving it for three years now like Mommy?
We seemed to think that the moment we first held child number one in our arms, we'd have our answer. Forgot to factor in the time it takes for a baby's real colors to show through. I mean, for the first couple months, all infants really do is eat, sleep, and poop. With the occasional smile thrown in to keep its parents entertained.
Well our little Mo has finally begun to take on some characteristics of his own. Little quirks that deem him weird enough to be our child, but just awesome enough to be our child, too. And since I'm fortunate enough to get to stay home with him, and spend all day learning new things about my special guy, I thought I'd share some of my favorites.
Quirk #1: Keeping all his ducks in a row.
The other day, I was doing some work on the computer while Marty played with a handful of pens. My back was to him, so I'd turn around occasionally to see what he was up to. One such turn-around revealed a very precise row of pens on the bed, nearly parallel and equidistant to one another. And when I complimented his fine work, he smiled at me, then removed each pen, one by one, placing them back in the drawer they came from. Someone seems to have inherited his mother's irrational need to have things "just-so" around the house. I may not be clean, but you can bet that the candle-holder in our guest bathroom will always be at the exact same angle every time you come over. I'm so proud to have someone else share in my lunacy.
Quirk #2: Fridge fascination.
Now that Marty can point at the things he wants, we've enjoyed a new level of communication between us. The amount of tension and frustration in our house has certainly lessened since he just shows us why he's upset instead of crying about it and letting us scramble to do the guess-work. One thing he's always pointing at is the fridge, and he's not happy until you've opened it and let him peek inside. At first we thought it was his way of telling us he was hungry, but we've come to realize he just likes to look at whatever happens to be growing on the shelves. His father does the same thing. Open fridge, survey contents, shut fridge door. A harmless, but quite frequent ritual at our house.
Quirk #3: Feeds off of a good reaction.
He's already got a flare for the dramatic. Whether he's dancing around the living room, elbows high in the air, or trying on Daddy's clothes, Marty loves to get a reaction out of you. Preferably a laugh or squeal, even more preferably in an octave only dogs can hear. And if something makes you smile, he'll repeat it until your smiles are so fake your teeth hurt. We like to humor the little guy. Who knows, maybe he'll be a theater buff like Mama. Or a comedian like Daddy. This one could go either way, but in the meantime, we're just enjoying watching him make a goober out of himself in an effort to keep us entertained.
Quirk #4: Not so big on the rides.
Unlike most kids, who beg their parents for a quarter so they can enjoy a 30-second horsie ride in front of the dollar store before heading home, our munchy munchkin hates the thought. We've tried horses, fire trucks, monster trucks, little seats that just move in a circle--he screams bloody murder. He's the most boring kid to take to Chuck E. Cheese. He'd rather just carry one of the red ski balls around than do anything else. Not sure where this trait came from, since both Mommy and Daddy love rides--loopy loops, upside-downers, and everything. We'll just have to work him into it. Man him up a bit before his friends make fun of him for chickening out.
Not just what they would look like, but what different personality traits of ours they might exhibit. Dramatic like Mommy? Funny like Dad? Smart and nerdy like Mommy? Able to grow some pretty cool facial hair like Dad? Unable to freakin' parallel park a huge truck even though she's been driving it for three years now like Mommy?
We seemed to think that the moment we first held child number one in our arms, we'd have our answer. Forgot to factor in the time it takes for a baby's real colors to show through. I mean, for the first couple months, all infants really do is eat, sleep, and poop. With the occasional smile thrown in to keep its parents entertained.
Well our little Mo has finally begun to take on some characteristics of his own. Little quirks that deem him weird enough to be our child, but just awesome enough to be our child, too. And since I'm fortunate enough to get to stay home with him, and spend all day learning new things about my special guy, I thought I'd share some of my favorites.
Quirk #1: Keeping all his ducks in a row.
The other day, I was doing some work on the computer while Marty played with a handful of pens. My back was to him, so I'd turn around occasionally to see what he was up to. One such turn-around revealed a very precise row of pens on the bed, nearly parallel and equidistant to one another. And when I complimented his fine work, he smiled at me, then removed each pen, one by one, placing them back in the drawer they came from. Someone seems to have inherited his mother's irrational need to have things "just-so" around the house. I may not be clean, but you can bet that the candle-holder in our guest bathroom will always be at the exact same angle every time you come over. I'm so proud to have someone else share in my lunacy.
Quirk #2: Fridge fascination.
Now that Marty can point at the things he wants, we've enjoyed a new level of communication between us. The amount of tension and frustration in our house has certainly lessened since he just shows us why he's upset instead of crying about it and letting us scramble to do the guess-work. One thing he's always pointing at is the fridge, and he's not happy until you've opened it and let him peek inside. At first we thought it was his way of telling us he was hungry, but we've come to realize he just likes to look at whatever happens to be growing on the shelves. His father does the same thing. Open fridge, survey contents, shut fridge door. A harmless, but quite frequent ritual at our house.
Quirk #3: Feeds off of a good reaction.
He's already got a flare for the dramatic. Whether he's dancing around the living room, elbows high in the air, or trying on Daddy's clothes, Marty loves to get a reaction out of you. Preferably a laugh or squeal, even more preferably in an octave only dogs can hear. And if something makes you smile, he'll repeat it until your smiles are so fake your teeth hurt. We like to humor the little guy. Who knows, maybe he'll be a theater buff like Mama. Or a comedian like Daddy. This one could go either way, but in the meantime, we're just enjoying watching him make a goober out of himself in an effort to keep us entertained.
Quirk #4: Not so big on the rides.
Unlike most kids, who beg their parents for a quarter so they can enjoy a 30-second horsie ride in front of the dollar store before heading home, our munchy munchkin hates the thought. We've tried horses, fire trucks, monster trucks, little seats that just move in a circle--he screams bloody murder. He's the most boring kid to take to Chuck E. Cheese. He'd rather just carry one of the red ski balls around than do anything else. Not sure where this trait came from, since both Mommy and Daddy love rides--loopy loops, upside-downers, and everything. We'll just have to work him into it. Man him up a bit before his friends make fun of him for chickening out.
Quirk #5: Already obsessed with Sesame Street.
What mom hasn't ever put her child in front of the television so she can have just a few moments to herself? Guilty. But my "clever plan" to keep him occupied so I can actually shower on a more regular basis has backfired. He's addicted to Sesame Street. When it's on, his eyes almost glass over, and no amount of distraction can keep him from his favorite show. Guess I'm just glad I get to control how often he watches it. Our tv system is pretty difficult to operate, so at least for now, Mommy decides when it's time for some dancing monsters and alphabet songs. Hmmm. Who else in our house gets obsessed with certain tv shows? And has their own version of the glass-eyes look? And will have the occasional drool stain on their shirt to show off just how tuned in they are?
Quirk #5: Our creature of habit.
When my mother-in-law watched Marty for a week, I was so worried that I'd forget to tell her about all the little rituals we do on a regular basis. We hit the wind chimes every time we walk up to the front door. We stroll down to the mailbox every afternoon, hand-in-hand. We sing songs during diaper changes, and call his cups "sippys". And my goodness, if I forget to carry out even one of these tiny habits we've formed, a certain little guy lets me know. He'll fuss until we go back out to the front porch and hit the chimes. He'll start singing and chatting when he's getting his diaper changed if I'm silent. What a good little reminder-er I have! But if we're still calling cups "sippys" in high school, our creature of habit might have to start breaking a few of them.
Quirk #6: Bookworm-status.
Marty and I have always loved to read. This year, we're even having a reading contest to see who can conquer more pages by December. So it's only fitting that our littlest family member be hooked on books too. He'll carry his pile of cardboard goodies around the house, then sit down and open them up. He'll move his eyes as though actually reading, and turn the pages when he feels he's given that spread a good pause or two. And the books that are more interactive, like the ones that have little squeakers in them or that have flaps you can lift to reveal things underneath are prized possessions to our reader. We're already arguing about whether to buy him the Harry Potter or Hardy Boys series first.
Quirk #7: A very manly shoe fetish.
Someone just loves to wear shoes. Maybe that's why he somehow managed to collect at least six pairs that fit him at the moment. Not counting his Elmo slippers. But he'll bring me his shoes, and hold them out to me until I put them on for him. I think he assumes it means I'll take him outside, but usually by the time his shoes are on, he's just so excited to be wearing them that he forgets about playing in the yard and happily toddles off. Where did this little fetish come from? I won't even tell you how many pairs of shoes his father has.
So that's our son in his own little nutty nutshell. Thanks for taking the time to get to know him better, as we continue to learn just how funny and quirky he's turning out to be.
We'll keep you posted if he starts belting out Broadway showtunes or eats Top Ramen breakfast-lunch-and-dinner. Monkey see, monkey do! Or is that Moseley see, Moseley do?
Either way, we're just fascinated. Is it wrong to just sit and stare at your child for hours on end? With the same ferver usually spent staring at the fridge contents or reading about Clifford the Big Red Dog?
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Madness #19--our little ballerina
Who knew that a couple shakes of the elbow or wiggles of the butt could make us laugh this hard?
Monday, August 18, 2008
Madness #19--that first word
So, we finally figured out what Marty's first word was.
See, for so long, he's been babbling like a brook, saying all sorts of things in his own special language. Several times we'd hear words that sounded familiar, and wonder if they counted as his first step into a recognizable vocabulary. He's said "gek-um" and "ba", as his proud and curious parents looked on, thinking he was saying "you're welcome" or describing his favorite rubber ball.
Nope. Funny that he usually only said those things right after we did.
Another mom, probably mine, explained that a baby's first word is the first word that they not only recognize, but understand how to use. Like they have to say it in the right context.
So even though Marty knows what it means to be "all done" and obediently brings me things when I ask for them, he has to actually say something to make it count as word number one.
That word finally graced his lips. Drumroll, please.
My son's very first official utterance? "Whoa". Seriously, why am I not surprised that my kid would be the one with such a weird first word? Write THAT one in a baby book. Add THAT one to his first-year scrapbook. Goo. Whoa.
It started when we were in Pennsylvania last month, and my crazy family tried to do a water balloon toss with all however-many-like-sixty-ish of us. Apparently every time the balloons were tossed, he'd respond at the appropriate time with a little "whoa". Shocked face and bug eyes and all.
Enter Marty's 30th birthday party at the Pecauts last weekend. We played cornhole, and every time a beanbag was thrown across the yard his little "whoas" would come out to play too.
Enter watching the olympics with my brother and his wife Sunday morning. Marty and I love all the water sports--swimming, diving, polo. Synchronized, though Marty would never admit that. Anyway, we were checking out the divers, and every time an athlete would hit the water, every time there was even the smallest splash, he'd yell a huge "whoa" from his high chair. And he had the best seat in the house, so he didn't miss a single dive. He'd even "whoa" the slo-mo replays.
Adorable. I'd say it got old after a while, but I'd be lying if I did. Still hilarious every time. You just have to see his little "whoa" face to appreciate the full effect.
So sometime, when he's around, you've got to either toss something or do a double-flip-twisty-bendy-somersault into a pool. And you'll get the cutest little "whoa" you've ever heard.
See, for so long, he's been babbling like a brook, saying all sorts of things in his own special language. Several times we'd hear words that sounded familiar, and wonder if they counted as his first step into a recognizable vocabulary. He's said "gek-um" and "ba", as his proud and curious parents looked on, thinking he was saying "you're welcome" or describing his favorite rubber ball.
Nope. Funny that he usually only said those things right after we did.
Another mom, probably mine, explained that a baby's first word is the first word that they not only recognize, but understand how to use. Like they have to say it in the right context.
So even though Marty knows what it means to be "all done" and obediently brings me things when I ask for them, he has to actually say something to make it count as word number one.
That word finally graced his lips. Drumroll, please.
My son's very first official utterance? "Whoa". Seriously, why am I not surprised that my kid would be the one with such a weird first word? Write THAT one in a baby book. Add THAT one to his first-year scrapbook. Goo. Whoa.
It started when we were in Pennsylvania last month, and my crazy family tried to do a water balloon toss with all however-many-like-sixty-ish of us. Apparently every time the balloons were tossed, he'd respond at the appropriate time with a little "whoa". Shocked face and bug eyes and all.
Enter Marty's 30th birthday party at the Pecauts last weekend. We played cornhole, and every time a beanbag was thrown across the yard his little "whoas" would come out to play too.
Enter watching the olympics with my brother and his wife Sunday morning. Marty and I love all the water sports--swimming, diving, polo. Synchronized, though Marty would never admit that. Anyway, we were checking out the divers, and every time an athlete would hit the water, every time there was even the smallest splash, he'd yell a huge "whoa" from his high chair. And he had the best seat in the house, so he didn't miss a single dive. He'd even "whoa" the slo-mo replays.
Adorable. I'd say it got old after a while, but I'd be lying if I did. Still hilarious every time. You just have to see his little "whoa" face to appreciate the full effect.
So sometime, when he's around, you've got to either toss something or do a double-flip-twisty-bendy-somersault into a pool. And you'll get the cutest little "whoa" you've ever heard.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
"Why Parents Drink"
A father passing by his son's bedroom was astonished to see that his son's bed was nicely made and everything usually adorning his messy floor was picked up. Then he noticed an envelope, propped up prominently on the pillow and addressed to 'Dad.' With a horrible feeling in his gut, he opened the envelope with trembling hands and read the letter.
"Dear Dad,
It is with great regret and sorrow that I'm writing you. But I had to elope with my new girlfriend because I wanted to avoid a scene with you and Mom. Stacy is so nice, and we've developed a passionate relationship in the week we've been dating. I never brought her home, since I knew you would not approve of her piercings, tattoos, tight motorcycle clothes and the fact that she is much older than I am. But it's not only the passion, Dad. She's pregnant.
Stacy promises that we will be very happy. She owns a trailer in the woods and a stack of firewood that'll last us the whole winter. We share a dream of having many more children. And Stacy has opened my eyes to the fact that marijuana doesn't really hurt anyone. We'll be growing it for ourselves and trading it with the other people that live nearby for their cocaine and ecstasy. So really, it's a great business investment. In the meantime, we will pray that science finds a cure for AIDS so Stacy can get better. She deserves it.
But don't worry Dad. I'm 15 and I know how to take care of myself. Someday I'm sure that we will be back to visit so that you can get to know your grandchildren and new daughter-in-law, even if she's Mom's age. Maybe they could be friends.
Love,
your son John
PS. Dad, none of the above is true. I'm over at Tommy's house. I just wanted to remind you that there are worse things in life than the report card that's in my top desk drawer. I love you. Call me when it's safe to come home."
"Dear Dad,
It is with great regret and sorrow that I'm writing you. But I had to elope with my new girlfriend because I wanted to avoid a scene with you and Mom. Stacy is so nice, and we've developed a passionate relationship in the week we've been dating. I never brought her home, since I knew you would not approve of her piercings, tattoos, tight motorcycle clothes and the fact that she is much older than I am. But it's not only the passion, Dad. She's pregnant.
Stacy promises that we will be very happy. She owns a trailer in the woods and a stack of firewood that'll last us the whole winter. We share a dream of having many more children. And Stacy has opened my eyes to the fact that marijuana doesn't really hurt anyone. We'll be growing it for ourselves and trading it with the other people that live nearby for their cocaine and ecstasy. So really, it's a great business investment. In the meantime, we will pray that science finds a cure for AIDS so Stacy can get better. She deserves it.
But don't worry Dad. I'm 15 and I know how to take care of myself. Someday I'm sure that we will be back to visit so that you can get to know your grandchildren and new daughter-in-law, even if she's Mom's age. Maybe they could be friends.
Love,
your son John
PS. Dad, none of the above is true. I'm over at Tommy's house. I just wanted to remind you that there are worse things in life than the report card that's in my top desk drawer. I love you. Call me when it's safe to come home."
Monday, August 11, 2008
Madness #18--magic sippys
My son is growing up too fast. And I seem to be getting dumber all the while.
So Marty graduated to a "big boy" sippy cup a couple months ago. I'm even contemplating packing up his bottles and storing them in the garage until Moseley #4 comes along. Gasp. Those bottles have gotten us through some sleepless nights, so it would be a rough goodbye for me.
But it's time to move on. We started little Goobie off with your basic, 6-ounce sippy, with a rubbery top so he could suck on it pretty easily. But six measly ounces just doesn't cut it anymore. I knew I had to invest in some 10-ouncers, so he wouldn't keep coming to me for refills a hundred times a day.
Went to Target. Picked out Gerber's finest--really, the ones that were on sale, and even cheaper with my coupon. And of course, we had to get the boy colors, since I knew my husband would not appreciate seeing his son drink out of a pink cup, no matter how often he takes a sip here and there when Alyssum's is lying around. But blue and green it was.
That night, I eagerly filled Goob's blue sippy with water and stuck it in the fridge so it would be nice and cold the next morning. Kind of a "good morning, breakfast wake-me-up". But when I went to retrieve it the following AM, the sippy was gone! In its place was a purple one of the same make and model. Purple?! But that's a girl color!
My mom happened to be standing there, and I showed her what happened, asking how the purple one got into the fridge. I must have been tired, because I could have sworn that someone broke into my house and pulled a sippy switch on me. But nothing else in the house was different. I was so confused. Until my mom calmly answered, "Becky, it probably just changes color when it gets cold."
So Marty graduated to a "big boy" sippy cup a couple months ago. I'm even contemplating packing up his bottles and storing them in the garage until Moseley #4 comes along. Gasp. Those bottles have gotten us through some sleepless nights, so it would be a rough goodbye for me.
But it's time to move on. We started little Goobie off with your basic, 6-ounce sippy, with a rubbery top so he could suck on it pretty easily. But six measly ounces just doesn't cut it anymore. I knew I had to invest in some 10-ouncers, so he wouldn't keep coming to me for refills a hundred times a day.
Went to Target. Picked out Gerber's finest--really, the ones that were on sale, and even cheaper with my coupon. And of course, we had to get the boy colors, since I knew my husband would not appreciate seeing his son drink out of a pink cup, no matter how often he takes a sip here and there when Alyssum's is lying around. But blue and green it was.
That night, I eagerly filled Goob's blue sippy with water and stuck it in the fridge so it would be nice and cold the next morning. Kind of a "good morning, breakfast wake-me-up". But when I went to retrieve it the following AM, the sippy was gone! In its place was a purple one of the same make and model. Purple?! But that's a girl color!
My mom happened to be standing there, and I showed her what happened, asking how the purple one got into the fridge. I must have been tired, because I could have sworn that someone broke into my house and pulled a sippy switch on me. But nothing else in the house was different. I was so confused. Until my mom calmly answered, "Becky, it probably just changes color when it gets cold."
D'oh! Can I blame this one on being blonde as a child? I swear, I think I have the smarts, and then pull a stunt like this one. I'm sure it'll go down in my family history next to the time I thought that Canadians said "ya" instead of "eh". My Swedish roots were surely shuddering in the one-eighth of me they occupy.
Maybe I'll blame all this on the fact that I converse with a fourteen-month-old most of the day, whose latest intellectual acheivement was to immitate his Mommy saying, "Don't touch." And to toss a beanbag at his little baby buddies. So in the grand scheme of things, thinking a sippy-snatcher broke into my fridge is really not that bad.
Right? Guys? Right?!
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Madness #17--mid-afternoon post-lunch baths
So, apparently ravioli just isn't as good unless you've tasted it with your eyebrows.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Madness #17--nakey baby
Little did I know when I got up this morning that I was in for a real treat.
So, my precious son woke up at a reasonable hour. He started laughing and talking over the baby monitor, so I jumped out of bed to go get him, excited to start our day together. I have this little voice that I use whenever I open the door and see him standing there smiling at me through the bars of his crib. So I said my "Good morning, Baby" in an octave only dogs can hear and reached to pick him up.
He was soaked. And smelled like pee-pee. Upon closer inspection, I noticed a diaper sitting next to the sock monkey in his crib. Upon even closer inspection, I noticed a little pale butt sticking out from underneath his pajama top where a diaper is supposed to be.
So my theory is that he wanted to surprise me by going commando. That his diaper got uncomfortable and he played with it until he figured out how to take it off. And from the looks of it, he made that decision pretty early on last night. His diaper had less in it than his crib sheet had soaked up. Needless to say, I laughed pretty hard as he looked at me with that little mischievous grin of his. Complete with half-grown teeth and a dimple or two.
But despite the extra laundry I'll be doing today, and the morning bath before breakfast, I'm thanking my lucky stars. He could have smelled like poo-poo.
So, my precious son woke up at a reasonable hour. He started laughing and talking over the baby monitor, so I jumped out of bed to go get him, excited to start our day together. I have this little voice that I use whenever I open the door and see him standing there smiling at me through the bars of his crib. So I said my "Good morning, Baby" in an octave only dogs can hear and reached to pick him up.
He was soaked. And smelled like pee-pee. Upon closer inspection, I noticed a diaper sitting next to the sock monkey in his crib. Upon even closer inspection, I noticed a little pale butt sticking out from underneath his pajama top where a diaper is supposed to be.
So my theory is that he wanted to surprise me by going commando. That his diaper got uncomfortable and he played with it until he figured out how to take it off. And from the looks of it, he made that decision pretty early on last night. His diaper had less in it than his crib sheet had soaked up. Needless to say, I laughed pretty hard as he looked at me with that little mischievous grin of his. Complete with half-grown teeth and a dimple or two.
But despite the extra laundry I'll be doing today, and the morning bath before breakfast, I'm thanking my lucky stars. He could have smelled like poo-poo.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Madness #16--my own dairy farm
So, making yogurt is easier than I realized.
Just follow these simple directions for your own tasty deliciousness:
Step 1: Fill your child's favorite sippy cup with whole milk.
Step 2: Watch as he inevitably drops it.
Step 3: Watch as it inevitably rolls under your furniture and ends up in a hard-to-reach place.
Step 4: Think to yourself, "I'll get it later".
Step 5: Wait a couple days.
Step 6: Do the dishes and wonder where that missing sippy cup ran off to.
Step 7: Invite friends over and watch their noses scrunch up in response to a sickening smell that you haven't realized is taking over your house.
Step 8: Put two and two together.
Step 9: Get on your hands and knees to retrieve the science experiment growing under your couch.
Step 10: Unscrew the sippy cup lid and try not to vomit.
Step 11: Voila! Your very own, home-grown yogurt.
Lucerne would be so proud.
Just follow these simple directions for your own tasty deliciousness:
Step 1: Fill your child's favorite sippy cup with whole milk.
Step 2: Watch as he inevitably drops it.
Step 3: Watch as it inevitably rolls under your furniture and ends up in a hard-to-reach place.
Step 4: Think to yourself, "I'll get it later".
Step 5: Wait a couple days.
Step 6: Do the dishes and wonder where that missing sippy cup ran off to.
Step 7: Invite friends over and watch their noses scrunch up in response to a sickening smell that you haven't realized is taking over your house.
Step 8: Put two and two together.
Step 9: Get on your hands and knees to retrieve the science experiment growing under your couch.
Step 10: Unscrew the sippy cup lid and try not to vomit.
Step 11: Voila! Your very own, home-grown yogurt.
Lucerne would be so proud.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Madness #15--a sour attitude
Lesson learned.
Don't ever give a teething child lemonade to drink.
It's like pouring lemon juice on an open wound. No really. You're literally pouring lemon juice on an open wound.
Goo.
Don't ever give a teething child lemonade to drink.
It's like pouring lemon juice on an open wound. No really. You're literally pouring lemon juice on an open wound.
Goo.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Madness #14--playdates
Little did I realize that sleepovers aren't just for kids. I guess I kind of assumed that once Mommy-hood hit, I'd wave goodbye to the occasional fun ME time.
But no. Last night some friends spent the night because all the fire smoke prevented them from turning on their swamp cooler or opening windows. And their house had become it's own Easy-Bake Oven.
So we thought we'd share our central air. Let the fun begin. We made our own vanilla cokes by pouring vanilla extract into our sodas, we watched Marty sing his heart out in an old home video, we laughed at my husband saying "I'm always the balls", we named our new business venture Dee-Dods, we prayed healing over my son's fever and watched the Lord remove it completely, we ate three boxes of mac n' cheese, we made a paper bag hand puppet and had it watch Marty do the dishes, and all this with a couple strawberry margaritas in our bellys.
Who says adults can't be teenagers all over again? I feel like I need to go put in my retainer and french braid someone's hair.
But no. Last night some friends spent the night because all the fire smoke prevented them from turning on their swamp cooler or opening windows. And their house had become it's own Easy-Bake Oven.
So we thought we'd share our central air. Let the fun begin. We made our own vanilla cokes by pouring vanilla extract into our sodas, we watched Marty sing his heart out in an old home video, we laughed at my husband saying "I'm always the balls", we named our new business venture Dee-Dods, we prayed healing over my son's fever and watched the Lord remove it completely, we ate three boxes of mac n' cheese, we made a paper bag hand puppet and had it watch Marty do the dishes, and all this with a couple strawberry margaritas in our bellys.
Who says adults can't be teenagers all over again? I feel like I need to go put in my retainer and french braid someone's hair.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Madness #13--crying over spilt milk
I never knew that seeing my son drink lowfat milk out of a sippy cup would bring tears to my eyes.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Madness #12--dictionary needed
I never knew I'd start saying "baba" and "goob-a-loob" in everyday conversation.
And think I was perfectly normal.
And think I was perfectly normal.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Madness #11--new baby syndrome
Why is is that one minute I can be super frustrated with my son and swear off having any more children, and the next I'm pleading with Marty to help me make another baby?
I think it has to do with how cute babies are when they're really little. Their skin is so soft, and they fit so perfectly in your arms. They coo and smile at you like little angels.
And let's face it--I've never really had a small child. From the day he entered the world, Marty has been a big boy, and proud of it. He weighed in at ten pounds, four ounces, and hasn't stopped growing since. He never really fit in my arms. I always had to kind of prop him on one hip in order to carry him around the house without hurting my back. Funny, since I had a c-section, the doctors sent me home with the warning that I was not to lift anything over ten pounds. Just carrying my son to the car for his first ride home was breaking the rules.
And all the cooing is long gone. My son is not a huge fan of just sitting and cuddling anymore. He has to see everything, hear everything, touch everything, put everything into his mouth, no matter how long it's been growing stale on the carpet. His shirts are always covered with crumbs or boogers or formula or apple juice, and I find myself just stripping him down to his diaper most days because he won't lay down long enough for me to put on a clean outfit without rolling over. I never knew I was so horrible at wrestling, or that an infant could ever manage to overpower me. And those diaper changes! For some reason, now that he's discovered a certain manly part of himself, he HAS to touch it every time I take his diaper off, no matter how much poop has been smeared on it. So we are constantly washing hands, saying "no", slapping his wrist, taking unidentified objects out of his mouth. Where did that little baby go? The one who'd sleep for hours on end and never cry longer than a moment?
It gets me thinking about how fun it would be to kind of start over with another baby. To remember all those precious moments, like the pre-walking stages when he'd be entertained for hours just sitting in one spot with a fun toy. And it doesn't help to have friends (thanks, Sarah) who have adorable, mini-sized children that are so well-behaved and don't require constant chasing after.
But I'm counting my blessings. A walking almost-one-year-old certainly helps to shed any leftover baby weight I've been hanging on to! Maybe I can continue hoping that I'll someday get back to my normal size and normal self. Knowing my luck, though, that'll be right when I find out baby number two is on the way.
Then again, if I keep this up, I'll never be content with where we are NOW. So, crusty hair and poop smears and penis pulls aside, I think I'll just love the kid I've got.
I think it has to do with how cute babies are when they're really little. Their skin is so soft, and they fit so perfectly in your arms. They coo and smile at you like little angels.
And let's face it--I've never really had a small child. From the day he entered the world, Marty has been a big boy, and proud of it. He weighed in at ten pounds, four ounces, and hasn't stopped growing since. He never really fit in my arms. I always had to kind of prop him on one hip in order to carry him around the house without hurting my back. Funny, since I had a c-section, the doctors sent me home with the warning that I was not to lift anything over ten pounds. Just carrying my son to the car for his first ride home was breaking the rules.
And all the cooing is long gone. My son is not a huge fan of just sitting and cuddling anymore. He has to see everything, hear everything, touch everything, put everything into his mouth, no matter how long it's been growing stale on the carpet. His shirts are always covered with crumbs or boogers or formula or apple juice, and I find myself just stripping him down to his diaper most days because he won't lay down long enough for me to put on a clean outfit without rolling over. I never knew I was so horrible at wrestling, or that an infant could ever manage to overpower me. And those diaper changes! For some reason, now that he's discovered a certain manly part of himself, he HAS to touch it every time I take his diaper off, no matter how much poop has been smeared on it. So we are constantly washing hands, saying "no", slapping his wrist, taking unidentified objects out of his mouth. Where did that little baby go? The one who'd sleep for hours on end and never cry longer than a moment?
It gets me thinking about how fun it would be to kind of start over with another baby. To remember all those precious moments, like the pre-walking stages when he'd be entertained for hours just sitting in one spot with a fun toy. And it doesn't help to have friends (thanks, Sarah) who have adorable, mini-sized children that are so well-behaved and don't require constant chasing after.
But I'm counting my blessings. A walking almost-one-year-old certainly helps to shed any leftover baby weight I've been hanging on to! Maybe I can continue hoping that I'll someday get back to my normal size and normal self. Knowing my luck, though, that'll be right when I find out baby number two is on the way.
Then again, if I keep this up, I'll never be content with where we are NOW. So, crusty hair and poop smears and penis pulls aside, I think I'll just love the kid I've got.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Madness #10--daytime television
I caught my husband watching Oprah yesterday.
Madness. Guess she really does appeal to all sorts of audiences. That, or he was too tired to change the channel.
Madness. Guess she really does appeal to all sorts of audiences. That, or he was too tired to change the channel.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Madness #9--immaculate conception?
In high school I used to dream that I was pregnant.
I'd be freaking out in my dream, wondering how I was going to explain my pregnancy to my parents. Especially because I had never even kissed a boy, let alone "done the deed". I remember feeling embarrassed that I had become just another teen mom. Another statistic. And then I'd wake up and remember that my little virgin self had nothing to worry about.
But I think these dreams planted a sort of self-consiousness in my head about legitimizing my pregnancies to people. And okay, I know I look a lot younger than I am. But why do I feel the need to make sure people know that my son was born inside of wedlock?
When I first got pregnant, I was super excited, and would gush to all my customers at Starbucks (I was a shift supervisor for three years), feeding off of their excitement for me. Really, I was just high pretty much all the time. But one morning, when I mentioned it to this guy who used to come in regularly and order his grande two-pump nonfat no whip mocha or whatever, he just said he was sorry. Was my huge smile not evidence enough that I was happy about those two pink lines showing up on the stick I peed on? He thought I was just a teenage girl who got knocked up by her boyfriend.
Ever since that moment, I found myself flashing my wedding ring whenever I told people my news. And once that baby bump started showing, I'd say, "Yeah, my HUSBAND and I can't wait to be parents." As if it was my responsibility to make sure everyone knows my kid is legit. That we did things the right way.
The stupid thing is, I still do it. I still make sure to mention that I'm married. Guess this is a part of motherhood I never knew I'd deal with, since I'm such a young mom to begin with but look even younger. But do people really care to know that I saved myself for Marty? Do people really need to know that I'm justified in my motherhood? In my mind, I guess they do.
So if you see me around town talking about how much my son looks like his father, my HUSBAND, or trying to get the light to hit my wedding ring so it sparkles and becomes blatantly obvious, just smile at my insecurity. I'm probably simultaneously making fun of myself in my head.
I'd be freaking out in my dream, wondering how I was going to explain my pregnancy to my parents. Especially because I had never even kissed a boy, let alone "done the deed". I remember feeling embarrassed that I had become just another teen mom. Another statistic. And then I'd wake up and remember that my little virgin self had nothing to worry about.
But I think these dreams planted a sort of self-consiousness in my head about legitimizing my pregnancies to people. And okay, I know I look a lot younger than I am. But why do I feel the need to make sure people know that my son was born inside of wedlock?
When I first got pregnant, I was super excited, and would gush to all my customers at Starbucks (I was a shift supervisor for three years), feeding off of their excitement for me. Really, I was just high pretty much all the time. But one morning, when I mentioned it to this guy who used to come in regularly and order his grande two-pump nonfat no whip mocha or whatever, he just said he was sorry. Was my huge smile not evidence enough that I was happy about those two pink lines showing up on the stick I peed on? He thought I was just a teenage girl who got knocked up by her boyfriend.
Ever since that moment, I found myself flashing my wedding ring whenever I told people my news. And once that baby bump started showing, I'd say, "Yeah, my HUSBAND and I can't wait to be parents." As if it was my responsibility to make sure everyone knows my kid is legit. That we did things the right way.
The stupid thing is, I still do it. I still make sure to mention that I'm married. Guess this is a part of motherhood I never knew I'd deal with, since I'm such a young mom to begin with but look even younger. But do people really care to know that I saved myself for Marty? Do people really need to know that I'm justified in my motherhood? In my mind, I guess they do.
So if you see me around town talking about how much my son looks like his father, my HUSBAND, or trying to get the light to hit my wedding ring so it sparkles and becomes blatantly obvious, just smile at my insecurity. I'm probably simultaneously making fun of myself in my head.
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