Saturday, November 8, 2008
Friday, November 7, 2008
The Election
Last week we went as a family down to our local polling station for early voting. We've been talking at home about the election and why we like our candidate. The kids have become quite enthusiastic about the election. As we stood in the line at city hall waiting to be admitted to the voting room, the children were full of questions - in voices that were often too loud. But we survived the event and as we all received our "I voted" stickers it was decided that we should go out to celebrate voting. Some people might call me a geek but I am all for eating out and happily agreed to celebrate the electoral process! Hey, this could even be a family tradition in the making!
The next day on the ride to school my oldest is full of questions about John McCain and Barack Obama (Who is the better helper? Who is the better talker? Who is the better winner? Who do we like better? Who is older John McCain or PawPaw? Is Barack Obama smarter than John McCain? Well, my teacher likes Barack Obama and I just know because I saw it in her eyes when I asked her even though she didn't answer me, I know." and on and on...) All the while the youngest keeps repeating "Bawack Obmama" every 3 seconds for the entire 20 minute drive. My knuckles were whiter, my eyes wider and my breathing was deeper than normal by the time we arrived at school.
As we drove home in the afternoon listening to NPR, portions of the candidate's speeches were playing. The oldest continued her barrage of questions telling me that one of the boys in her class says that Barack Obama is the "bestest champion of the world!" while my youngest again repeated "Bawack Obmama" at regular intervals throughout the entire ride home.
On Tuesday, the school held a mock election for students to practice citizenship and vote for their candidate. After voting the kindergartners received "I voted" stickers just like we did at the polling station.
After school we stopped at the preschool to pick up the youngest. He noticed the "I voted" sticker on big sis and was then given the complete "low down" on the voting at kindergarten, who won the election, why she didn't agree with the results and wanted to watch the news to see if that person really wins or not... I was just waiting for the "Bawack Obmamas" to start up again but instead his response was simply a pout and whiny, "But why I not get to bote?"
Trying to comfort my child who obviously wants to be included in the process of selecting our great nation's next president (and who am I to discourage this?!) I pat him on the leg with deep understanding and tell him not to worry that he can vote too. Smiling I ask him who he wants to vote for; realizing that this may be a silly question considering that I really don't want to be hypnotized again during our drive by the broken record of "Bawack Obmama"- but he is an American citizen after all and we have had so many conversations about the election.
I look eagerly into the eyes of my 3-year old awaiting his answer. His little pointer finger lightly rests on his upper lip and his eyes roll to the ceiling as he thinks. A moment later the "ummmm" starts followed by his decision...
"I bote po Auntie Shawen".
Auntie Sharon will be so proud. She was the "write-in" vote of a 3-year old. What a compliment. Sorry "Bawack Obmama".
The next day on the ride to school my oldest is full of questions about John McCain and Barack Obama (Who is the better helper? Who is the better talker? Who is the better winner? Who do we like better? Who is older John McCain or PawPaw? Is Barack Obama smarter than John McCain? Well, my teacher likes Barack Obama and I just know because I saw it in her eyes when I asked her even though she didn't answer me, I know." and on and on...) All the while the youngest keeps repeating "Bawack Obmama" every 3 seconds for the entire 20 minute drive. My knuckles were whiter, my eyes wider and my breathing was deeper than normal by the time we arrived at school.
As we drove home in the afternoon listening to NPR, portions of the candidate's speeches were playing. The oldest continued her barrage of questions telling me that one of the boys in her class says that Barack Obama is the "bestest champion of the world!" while my youngest again repeated "Bawack Obmama" at regular intervals throughout the entire ride home.
On Tuesday, the school held a mock election for students to practice citizenship and vote for their candidate. After voting the kindergartners received "I voted" stickers just like we did at the polling station.
After school we stopped at the preschool to pick up the youngest. He noticed the "I voted" sticker on big sis and was then given the complete "low down" on the voting at kindergarten, who won the election, why she didn't agree with the results and wanted to watch the news to see if that person really wins or not... I was just waiting for the "Bawack Obmamas" to start up again but instead his response was simply a pout and whiny, "But why I not get to bote?"
Trying to comfort my child who obviously wants to be included in the process of selecting our great nation's next president (and who am I to discourage this?!) I pat him on the leg with deep understanding and tell him not to worry that he can vote too. Smiling I ask him who he wants to vote for; realizing that this may be a silly question considering that I really don't want to be hypnotized again during our drive by the broken record of "Bawack Obmama"- but he is an American citizen after all and we have had so many conversations about the election.
I look eagerly into the eyes of my 3-year old awaiting his answer. His little pointer finger lightly rests on his upper lip and his eyes roll to the ceiling as he thinks. A moment later the "ummmm" starts followed by his decision...
"I bote po Auntie Shawen".
Auntie Sharon will be so proud. She was the "write-in" vote of a 3-year old. What a compliment. Sorry "Bawack Obmama".
"Good Morning Mama! I'm Just Helping You!"
I lay in bed for a few extra minutes trying to adjust my eyes to the sunlight peeking through the blind. It was Saturday. Pancakes.... mmm, the aroma called to me as I stretched, deciding whether or not to get up yet. I assessed the sounds of the day... no birds singing sweetly outside my window today. Today it was cartoons. High pitched voices were carrying on and chattering about who knows what as the carnival music cranked in the background. As my ears adjusted, I heard whispers of "Shhh! Don't wake up Mama!" and faint papa-bear-like snores in the distance. It was time to greet the masses.
I paddled down the hall quietly. The snores indicated that my husband had fallen back asleep and that the children had been left to their own devices. Not to worry though the children seems to be sitting sweetly at the kitchen table coloring like little angels. I smiled to myself just thinking of my precious little artists busily creating with their colorful Crayolas and paper.
As soon as I came into view the children's faces lit up and their voices rang with choruses of "Good Morning Mommy!", "Yay! It's Mommy!". I beamed with joy while my heart swelled with gratitude for such delightful babies.
It was then that my daughter raised her hand to greet me and show me her art. In one hand were the green plastic, blade-less Crayola scissors... harmless enough.
In the other hand, a glossy 8 x 10 bearing the smiling image of a little girl in a blue 1st day of kindergarten dress and bouncy brown pigtails. No. No. No. My heart stopped for just a moment. No. It couldn't be. My pulse began to race as my eyes surveyed the scene frantically.
The white "Lifetouch" envelope with the crystaline window had been discarded on the kitchen floor. All of the 5x7s and 3x4s had been cut apart with the precision of a drunken surgeon with a chainsaw. As I crossed the kitchen instantly- my eyes taking stillframe images of the carnage -Syrup. Syrup was everywhere. Pancake syrup drops covered the kitchen table and smeared the fronts and backs of each picture. I felt the blood draining into my feet and the lump forming in the pit of my stomach. In my exhaustion I hadn't checked my daughter's backpack and had missed that school pictures had been sent home. I felt sick.
Kindergartners aren't dumb. They have an uncanny way of knowing when Mommies are going to absolutely lose their minds. At that moment the sweetest little voice rings through the fog in my ears to let me know that she was "just trying to help" me. Her feet hardly touched the ground on the way to her room where she sat silently as I mourned the loss of our first school pictures.
Turning each picture over I evaluated its damage.
Syrup damage on all- check.
Fingerprints left in the syrup- check.
Human and dog hair stuck in the syrup- check.
"CAT " scratched in kindergarten printing on the back of each photo (in ball point pen)- check.
Overly shiny pupils coated with the aforementioned ballpoint pen ink- check.
What could I do but shake my head. I collapsed on the leather chair and just stared at the wall for awhile, the jagged pictures covering my lap. It felt like such a loss.
Just then a thought occurred to me... I can reorder! Yes! I am BRILLIANT! This will work! I will get on the phone right now and call Lifetouch and have a fresh batch of pristine kindergarten pictures shipped to my door in a flash!
But the day went on... the weekend passed... the story was shared and with each retelling a feeling of nostalgia built. The sad event had now become more of a humorous tale to share with a sigh and smile at social gatherings.
Have I reordered pictures? No. I may still, but for now each time I pass the sticky, shiny, scratched, hairy, written on and irregularly shaped school pictures I think of my little independent 5 year old- "helping me" with no clue how much those pictures meant to me. And I think of how much more she means than the pictures.
I paddled down the hall quietly. The snores indicated that my husband had fallen back asleep and that the children had been left to their own devices. Not to worry though the children seems to be sitting sweetly at the kitchen table coloring like little angels. I smiled to myself just thinking of my precious little artists busily creating with their colorful Crayolas and paper.
As soon as I came into view the children's faces lit up and their voices rang with choruses of "Good Morning Mommy!", "Yay! It's Mommy!". I beamed with joy while my heart swelled with gratitude for such delightful babies.
It was then that my daughter raised her hand to greet me and show me her art. In one hand were the green plastic, blade-less Crayola scissors... harmless enough.
In the other hand, a glossy 8 x 10 bearing the smiling image of a little girl in a blue 1st day of kindergarten dress and bouncy brown pigtails. No. No. No. My heart stopped for just a moment. No. It couldn't be. My pulse began to race as my eyes surveyed the scene frantically.
The white "Lifetouch" envelope with the crystaline window had been discarded on the kitchen floor. All of the 5x7s and 3x4s had been cut apart with the precision of a drunken surgeon with a chainsaw. As I crossed the kitchen instantly- my eyes taking stillframe images of the carnage -Syrup. Syrup was everywhere. Pancake syrup drops covered the kitchen table and smeared the fronts and backs of each picture. I felt the blood draining into my feet and the lump forming in the pit of my stomach. In my exhaustion I hadn't checked my daughter's backpack and had missed that school pictures had been sent home. I felt sick.
Kindergartners aren't dumb. They have an uncanny way of knowing when Mommies are going to absolutely lose their minds. At that moment the sweetest little voice rings through the fog in my ears to let me know that she was "just trying to help" me. Her feet hardly touched the ground on the way to her room where she sat silently as I mourned the loss of our first school pictures.
Turning each picture over I evaluated its damage.
Syrup damage on all- check.
Fingerprints left in the syrup- check.
Human and dog hair stuck in the syrup- check.
"CAT " scratched in kindergarten printing on the back of each photo (in ball point pen)- check.
Overly shiny pupils coated with the aforementioned ballpoint pen ink- check.
What could I do but shake my head. I collapsed on the leather chair and just stared at the wall for awhile, the jagged pictures covering my lap. It felt like such a loss.
Just then a thought occurred to me... I can reorder! Yes! I am BRILLIANT! This will work! I will get on the phone right now and call Lifetouch and have a fresh batch of pristine kindergarten pictures shipped to my door in a flash!
But the day went on... the weekend passed... the story was shared and with each retelling a feeling of nostalgia built. The sad event had now become more of a humorous tale to share with a sigh and smile at social gatherings.
Have I reordered pictures? No. I may still, but for now each time I pass the sticky, shiny, scratched, hairy, written on and irregularly shaped school pictures I think of my little independent 5 year old- "helping me" with no clue how much those pictures meant to me. And I think of how much more she means than the pictures.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
What Was I Thinking?!
I wish I could claim that I whipped up gourmet meals from scratch nightly and that I only feed my family whole grains, organic vegetables, free range meats and that my kids only snack on Soyjoy bars and freshly squeezed acai juice. But alas, I'm not gifted in the kitchen and my taste buds are rather unsophisticated. In fact, I don't really enjoy cooking at all. To me it is one more thing I have to do and I'd rather spend my time finding ways to avoid doing it.
The staples of my poor childrens' diets are chicken nuggets, canned veggies, mozzarella cheese sticks and cups of mandarin oranges. When I "cook" it means I made a box of Kraft mac-n-cheese and chopped some hot dogs up to throw in it. Now don't balk- because I'm awesome at making Hamburger Helper or Sloppy Joes with a side of canned green beans. Prepare to get your butt whooped if you plan to throw down with me over who makes better frozen waffles for breakfast.
I seriously have only about 10 dishes that I can truly claim that I can make well- and would be proud to serve people. Beef Stroganoff, Pot Roast, Beef Stew, Chicken Salad, Spaghetti Meat Sauce, Manicotti, Meatloaf, Chicken Fried Steak, Hamburgers and Peach Cobbler.
So tonight I ventured out of my box and I tried something new. I felt adventurous. Yes, you could say I had a wild hair. I located the cookbook bought in 1998 written by the old ladies at the local Methodist Church in celebration of their 100th year. It took a few serious blows and heavy wipes to remove the dust from the cover and the spine still cracked like new when I inched it open. But I had high hopes. Tonight I would cook!
Sour Cream Chicken Enchiladas..... yum.... the recipe practically begged to be made. Seemed simple enough, chicken, green chiles, sour cream, tortillas, onion, cream of chicken soup... yes, this may be possible after all. It was decided. I had images in my head of my children wolfing it down and begging for more. "More Mommy, More! Three cheers for Mommy! Hip, Hip Hooray! Mommy you're the best cook in the whole world!"
I relished this thought as the chicken boiled and the onions were chopped. While sauteing the onions I imagined how impressed my husband would be to come home to a house filled with the aroma of a hot and delicious dinner baking in the oven. I just knew that he would wrap his arms around me and sweetly whisper how amazing I am in the kitchen... surely the children would be put to bed early (in their own rooms) tonight!
As I took the casserole dishes out of the oven, I beamed with pride! Tonight I was a chef! I could hardly wait to get dinner on the table and see the admiration in my the eyes of my family as I ceremoniously placed the masterpiece in front of them.
The phone interrupted my thoughts and brought my daydream to a screeching halt. It was my husband. (He was going to be so proud of me.) I could hardly contain my excitement when I asked him what time he would be home from work. He was already 30 minutes later than I expected.
Fast forward 10 minutes. The kids are sitting at the kitchen table with their noses scrunched up. My oldest has not yet mastered the art of hiding her feelings. My piece de la resistance, the beautiful, made from scratch sour cream chicken enchilada dinner has been placed before each of them with a spoonful of sweet corn on the side. The youngest angel announces,
"That yucky!"
While the oldest contributes,
"Ewww, what ARE the slimy green things and clear slimy things?"
My hopes for the "three cheers for mommy" are long gone by now. So I show the children how to eat the top layer of cheese then hunt ("Its like a surprise adventure!") for the chicken pieces and tortillas. Piles of green chiles and onions are left like fallen soldiers on a battlefield. I look at my own plate then shovel in the first bite.
Although I didn't get the rounds of applause from my children, accolades of my culinary greatness- far from it, the amorous propositions from my husband (who had to work late) were nil, nevermind even a simple "thanks mom"- it was still worth the trouble. The recipe turned out pretty good if I do say so myself. I guess that little old Methodist lady really did know that she was talking about.
I needed to focus on the positive. My children got to try a new dish, whether they liked it or not. Each ate half of what I gave them to start with and I only had to add extra shredded cheese to my daughter's to make it more palatable. I felt good for branching out and trying on the role of Holly Homemaker.
I patted myself on the back for a job well done as I washed the dishes. Out of the corner of my eye I notice the fridge being opened and a few seconds later I hear the beep notifying the whole house that the fridge remained ajar. My daughter, the one who wasn't hungry when offered my fabulous dish, has her head stuck in the fridge and is making a suspicious noise resembling munching. Upon investigation I discover she is scarfing cold, leftover chicken nuggets from her lunch, straight out of the ziploc bag. Yes.... I could have stuck with the aforementioned "staples" of my childrens' diet and they would have been happy. But no. I am a mom who "goes the extra mile for her kids". Well, at least once a year.
So maybe when my husband gets home...around 11 PM... he might notice how I spent my afternoon and perhaps if I don't get that romantic proposition for my culinary talents, then maybe he'll feel guilted (Did I mention that he is 5 hours late and still isn't home?) into being extra sweet to me at least for the next day or two.
This might turn out to be a good deal after all.
The staples of my poor childrens' diets are chicken nuggets, canned veggies, mozzarella cheese sticks and cups of mandarin oranges. When I "cook" it means I made a box of Kraft mac-n-cheese and chopped some hot dogs up to throw in it. Now don't balk- because I'm awesome at making Hamburger Helper or Sloppy Joes with a side of canned green beans. Prepare to get your butt whooped if you plan to throw down with me over who makes better frozen waffles for breakfast.
I seriously have only about 10 dishes that I can truly claim that I can make well- and would be proud to serve people. Beef Stroganoff, Pot Roast, Beef Stew, Chicken Salad, Spaghetti Meat Sauce, Manicotti, Meatloaf, Chicken Fried Steak, Hamburgers and Peach Cobbler.
So tonight I ventured out of my box and I tried something new. I felt adventurous. Yes, you could say I had a wild hair. I located the cookbook bought in 1998 written by the old ladies at the local Methodist Church in celebration of their 100th year. It took a few serious blows and heavy wipes to remove the dust from the cover and the spine still cracked like new when I inched it open. But I had high hopes. Tonight I would cook!
Sour Cream Chicken Enchiladas..... yum.... the recipe practically begged to be made. Seemed simple enough, chicken, green chiles, sour cream, tortillas, onion, cream of chicken soup... yes, this may be possible after all. It was decided. I had images in my head of my children wolfing it down and begging for more. "More Mommy, More! Three cheers for Mommy! Hip, Hip Hooray! Mommy you're the best cook in the whole world!"
I relished this thought as the chicken boiled and the onions were chopped. While sauteing the onions I imagined how impressed my husband would be to come home to a house filled with the aroma of a hot and delicious dinner baking in the oven. I just knew that he would wrap his arms around me and sweetly whisper how amazing I am in the kitchen... surely the children would be put to bed early (in their own rooms) tonight!
As I took the casserole dishes out of the oven, I beamed with pride! Tonight I was a chef! I could hardly wait to get dinner on the table and see the admiration in my the eyes of my family as I ceremoniously placed the masterpiece in front of them.
The phone interrupted my thoughts and brought my daydream to a screeching halt. It was my husband. (He was going to be so proud of me.) I could hardly contain my excitement when I asked him what time he would be home from work. He was already 30 minutes later than I expected.
Fast forward 10 minutes. The kids are sitting at the kitchen table with their noses scrunched up. My oldest has not yet mastered the art of hiding her feelings. My piece de la resistance, the beautiful, made from scratch sour cream chicken enchilada dinner has been placed before each of them with a spoonful of sweet corn on the side. The youngest angel announces,
"That yucky!"
While the oldest contributes,
"Ewww, what ARE the slimy green things and clear slimy things?"
My hopes for the "three cheers for mommy" are long gone by now. So I show the children how to eat the top layer of cheese then hunt ("Its like a surprise adventure!") for the chicken pieces and tortillas. Piles of green chiles and onions are left like fallen soldiers on a battlefield. I look at my own plate then shovel in the first bite.
Although I didn't get the rounds of applause from my children, accolades of my culinary greatness- far from it, the amorous propositions from my husband (who had to work late) were nil, nevermind even a simple "thanks mom"- it was still worth the trouble. The recipe turned out pretty good if I do say so myself. I guess that little old Methodist lady really did know that she was talking about.
I needed to focus on the positive. My children got to try a new dish, whether they liked it or not. Each ate half of what I gave them to start with and I only had to add extra shredded cheese to my daughter's to make it more palatable. I felt good for branching out and trying on the role of Holly Homemaker.
I patted myself on the back for a job well done as I washed the dishes. Out of the corner of my eye I notice the fridge being opened and a few seconds later I hear the beep notifying the whole house that the fridge remained ajar. My daughter, the one who wasn't hungry when offered my fabulous dish, has her head stuck in the fridge and is making a suspicious noise resembling munching. Upon investigation I discover she is scarfing cold, leftover chicken nuggets from her lunch, straight out of the ziploc bag. Yes.... I could have stuck with the aforementioned "staples" of my childrens' diet and they would have been happy. But no. I am a mom who "goes the extra mile for her kids". Well, at least once a year.
So maybe when my husband gets home...around 11 PM... he might notice how I spent my afternoon and perhaps if I don't get that romantic proposition for my culinary talents, then maybe he'll feel guilted (Did I mention that he is 5 hours late and still isn't home?) into being extra sweet to me at least for the next day or two.
This might turn out to be a good deal after all.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Today's Moment of Zen
Today was a wonderfully lazy day. It was the type of day that is so sinfully lazy that you normally would be embarrassed if anyone knew about it. Ever had one of those? One where you don't want to answer the phone for fear that it's your friend and she innocently asks you what you're doing - or worse yet, is in the neighborhood and wants to stop by in 10 minutes. It was that lazy.
Hubby went to work early as usual but the kids and I stayed home and lazed around the house in our pajamas. At noon I was still dozing on the couch as iCarly, or some equally annoying kids program, played on the TV. My children had wrecked the house... all of the puzzle pieces from every puzzle we own, hundreds of pieces of fake plastic food from the toy kitchen and half of the books from the kids' bookshelf had found their way to the living room. All of the DVDs were out of their cases and were strewn across the floor. But today was a lazy day and honestly, I didn't care if the house was a mess. In between the zzz-s I felt the children pushing plastic jeweled rings onto my fingers, twisting my hair with their sticky little fingers and jabbing a plastic tiara on my head. As my daughter began smearing some creamy sparkle blush on my eyelids my youngest whispered,
"Mommy be happy...she a pwincess now."
I was a princess.
By 1PM, I finally became motivated to get my lazy butt up off of the couch and hauled it into the bathroom to get read for my shower. I had one leg in the shower, testing the water when my son toddles into the bathroom to announce that he had "pooped".
Now let me take a step back to paint the picture... we have been trying to potty train this little angel for a few months now. He wears big boy underwear (read that "Underoos" with Scooby or Spiderman screen printed across the butt) during the day for the past week. But like I mentioned earlier- today was a lazy day and I had not put on his big boy pants yet. Fortunately he still had a diaper so I didn't totally freak and start looking for piles around the house. Lord knows I couldn't have handled that one.
So as any loving, lazy and irritated mom who's bare rump is is already inside the shower would, I told him that he would have to wait. I was already wet. I couldn't go about dripping water all over the house after all. Well, that's when the drama started. This kid, my husband's child, threw himself onto the tile floor and started a huge fit complete with high pitched screams, wails, little fists banging on the floor and incoherent mumbling something about "poop yucky".
I wasn't going to encourage this by being his audience and had already slipped into the shower trying to be quick -but not so quick that he would think that he got his way because of the fit. The fuss continued as I soaped up and washed my hair. Showering with the sounds of screaming to seranade me. Lovely.
It reminded of when the kids were just infants and I would irrationally try to take speed showers for fear that some ungodly thing would happen to them while I had selfishly taken the time to cleanse myself. I would put them in their bouncy seats right outside the shower and keep the door cracked so that I could watch them the whole time. My oldest would scream her head off! She hated being strapped in but more than that she seemed to hate it whenever I would be in water, showers, baths, you name it. Bizarre, I know. I would finally have to shut the door to tone down the ear-piercing cries. To sooth myself and make the situation less stressful for me I would just tell myself over and over that "crying means breathing, crying means breathing...its a good thing." It seemed to work for me. So that's what I was doing now.
"Crying means breathing, crying means breathing, crying means he's still in here and hasn't decided to go whack his sister or climb into the cupboards and throw out my china... crying means breathing... its a good thing."
I used my hand to wipe a circle in the fog on the shower door. There was my little angel still throwing his fit although it was more of a cry and mumble now.
"Mommy mean. I don't like Mommy. Poop Yucky."
He had managed to roll himself up like a taquito in the germy, disgustingly fuzzy bathmat in front of the tub. I shuddered at the thought, shook my head and tried to let that image go. Finally, with the water was shut off , I grabbed a towel and stepped out into the bathroom.
As I wrapped the towel around myself my child pops up like a jack-in-the-box and with big eyes asks innocently "you all done?" I told him I was-all the while surprised that me coming out of the shower was all it took to shut that racket is off! He stood in front of me with those big, brown, innocent eyes and clasped his little hands together like he was about to pray. With the sweetest sing-song voice he could muster ... (I'm all ready for him to ask me to clean him, put on his big boy pants, etc.) my child asks, "Mommy, Can I have a tweat, a lolly... pweaseeeeee?" I nearly fell over. ~Are you freaking kidding me! Does he seriously think I am about to give him a lolly after that crazy Blair Witch behavior!? ~ With my nicest Mommy voice, you know the one straight out of the Love and Logic book, I reply, "I give lollies to little boys who treat their mommies nice and don't throw fits. I might have a lolly for a little boy who eats his lunch and is nice to Mommy. Are you ready for lunch?" At this my child drops to the ground onto his back spread eagle as if he's been shot dead then the wailing begins all over again. I calmly step over him and go to his room to get a clean diaper because clearly it is naptime at our house.
As I begin to take off the old diaper, I reflect on what caused this whole bizarre fit to start in the first place. I start to second guess myself and feel guilty about making this poor child wait in a poopy diaper for 5 minutes. What was wrong with me? I should have gotten my wet self out of the shower, grabbed a towel and changed the kid in the first place. Maybe I really am a "mean Mommy"! As I slowly allow myself to be consumed with this guilt, the diaper comes off..... NO WAY....but yes, the infamous "poopy diaper" is completely clean. Yes, girls that's right.... no poop. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Clean and dry. As I process this fact and look up at my son's face he sweetly looks at me and of all things asks, "What color is it?"
So after the laziest day on earth, the cure to our meltdown was yet another nap. And that, girls, was my (The Princess's) moment of zen for today.
Hubby went to work early as usual but the kids and I stayed home and lazed around the house in our pajamas. At noon I was still dozing on the couch as iCarly, or some equally annoying kids program, played on the TV. My children had wrecked the house... all of the puzzle pieces from every puzzle we own, hundreds of pieces of fake plastic food from the toy kitchen and half of the books from the kids' bookshelf had found their way to the living room. All of the DVDs were out of their cases and were strewn across the floor. But today was a lazy day and honestly, I didn't care if the house was a mess. In between the zzz-s I felt the children pushing plastic jeweled rings onto my fingers, twisting my hair with their sticky little fingers and jabbing a plastic tiara on my head. As my daughter began smearing some creamy sparkle blush on my eyelids my youngest whispered,
"Mommy be happy...she a pwincess now."
I was a princess.
By 1PM, I finally became motivated to get my lazy butt up off of the couch and hauled it into the bathroom to get read for my shower. I had one leg in the shower, testing the water when my son toddles into the bathroom to announce that he had "pooped".
Now let me take a step back to paint the picture... we have been trying to potty train this little angel for a few months now. He wears big boy underwear (read that "Underoos" with Scooby or Spiderman screen printed across the butt) during the day for the past week. But like I mentioned earlier- today was a lazy day and I had not put on his big boy pants yet. Fortunately he still had a diaper so I didn't totally freak and start looking for piles around the house. Lord knows I couldn't have handled that one.
So as any loving, lazy and irritated mom who's bare rump is is already inside the shower would, I told him that he would have to wait. I was already wet. I couldn't go about dripping water all over the house after all. Well, that's when the drama started. This kid, my husband's child, threw himself onto the tile floor and started a huge fit complete with high pitched screams, wails, little fists banging on the floor and incoherent mumbling something about "poop yucky".
I wasn't going to encourage this by being his audience and had already slipped into the shower trying to be quick -but not so quick that he would think that he got his way because of the fit. The fuss continued as I soaped up and washed my hair. Showering with the sounds of screaming to seranade me. Lovely.
It reminded of when the kids were just infants and I would irrationally try to take speed showers for fear that some ungodly thing would happen to them while I had selfishly taken the time to cleanse myself. I would put them in their bouncy seats right outside the shower and keep the door cracked so that I could watch them the whole time. My oldest would scream her head off! She hated being strapped in but more than that she seemed to hate it whenever I would be in water, showers, baths, you name it. Bizarre, I know. I would finally have to shut the door to tone down the ear-piercing cries. To sooth myself and make the situation less stressful for me I would just tell myself over and over that "crying means breathing, crying means breathing...its a good thing." It seemed to work for me. So that's what I was doing now.
"Crying means breathing, crying means breathing, crying means he's still in here and hasn't decided to go whack his sister or climb into the cupboards and throw out my china... crying means breathing... its a good thing."
I used my hand to wipe a circle in the fog on the shower door. There was my little angel still throwing his fit although it was more of a cry and mumble now.
"Mommy mean. I don't like Mommy. Poop Yucky."
He had managed to roll himself up like a taquito in the germy, disgustingly fuzzy bathmat in front of the tub. I shuddered at the thought, shook my head and tried to let that image go. Finally, with the water was shut off , I grabbed a towel and stepped out into the bathroom.
As I wrapped the towel around myself my child pops up like a jack-in-the-box and with big eyes asks innocently "you all done?" I told him I was-all the while surprised that me coming out of the shower was all it took to shut that racket is off! He stood in front of me with those big, brown, innocent eyes and clasped his little hands together like he was about to pray. With the sweetest sing-song voice he could muster ... (I'm all ready for him to ask me to clean him, put on his big boy pants, etc.) my child asks, "Mommy, Can I have a tweat, a lolly... pweaseeeeee?" I nearly fell over. ~Are you freaking kidding me! Does he seriously think I am about to give him a lolly after that crazy Blair Witch behavior!? ~ With my nicest Mommy voice, you know the one straight out of the Love and Logic book, I reply, "I give lollies to little boys who treat their mommies nice and don't throw fits. I might have a lolly for a little boy who eats his lunch and is nice to Mommy. Are you ready for lunch?" At this my child drops to the ground onto his back spread eagle as if he's been shot dead then the wailing begins all over again. I calmly step over him and go to his room to get a clean diaper because clearly it is naptime at our house.
As I begin to take off the old diaper, I reflect on what caused this whole bizarre fit to start in the first place. I start to second guess myself and feel guilty about making this poor child wait in a poopy diaper for 5 minutes. What was wrong with me? I should have gotten my wet self out of the shower, grabbed a towel and changed the kid in the first place. Maybe I really am a "mean Mommy"! As I slowly allow myself to be consumed with this guilt, the diaper comes off..... NO WAY....but yes, the infamous "poopy diaper" is completely clean. Yes, girls that's right.... no poop. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Clean and dry. As I process this fact and look up at my son's face he sweetly looks at me and of all things asks, "What color is it?"
So after the laziest day on earth, the cure to our meltdown was yet another nap. And that, girls, was my (The Princess's) moment of zen for today.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Transendental Meditation... and Mommy Meltdowns
Being new to blogging I'm not sure where to begin or how to theme my postings. I suppose I could take a very introspective approach and be reflective on the nature of life, our purpose on Earth, the human experience... or I could take a very different approach altogether. One that perhaps may be a bit more real ...one with more honesty... it would sure be more interesting to read. Maybe our shared Mommy Meltdowns will make us laugh and lead us to some sort of Zen. Welcome to my blog.
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