Translation: "Happy Mother's Day"

Happy early Mother’s Day to all of you moms out there.  May your special day be murdurously great.

Granted, over the past 6 years, I’ve read plenty of books.  But most of those have been picture books, board books and, generally, anything impervious to teethmarks or drool.  With a little Tikki Tikki Tembo thrown in there as well.

But the other kind of books?  The ones with actual words targeted at audiences over the age of 8?  I’ve never taken much to.

There are so many other things I want or need to spend my free time doing.  Working on websites.  Playing Words With Friends.  Facebooking or aimlessly surfing the internet.  Important stuff like that.

To my husband, the ex-literature teacher, this is baffling.  There are few things he’d rather do than sit around and bury his nose in a book, or his Kindle.

So when the reading fever struck me earlier this week, I don’t think anyone was more shocked than he.

Or sad to see his Kindle go.  And he knew it would be a while before he got it back.

Because I started reading The Hunger Games trilogy.

If you haven’t started reading the books yet, I highly recommend that you don’t.  Because they are positively addicting.  And that’s not necessarily a good thing.

Housework has been neglected.

We’ve gone out for dinner 3 of the past 4 nights.

I haven’t gone to bed before 1 am since I started reading the books.

I might be just a wee bit obsessed.

But here’s the thing I’ve discovered.  Even if I let everything else slide around the house, there’s still the small matter of those two little munchkins that need me.

Kindergartners aren’t very sympathetic to I’LL-MAKE-YOU-BACON-AFTER-I-FINISH-CHAPTER-10′s.   They want their breakfast now.

Toddlers don’t like it when you say, “I’ll come play with you after I find out who gets picked from District 12.”  Hungry Hippos wait for no one.

And you really don’t earn brownie points with the husband when tell your son, “Go ask Daddy to change your diaper, honey.  Momma needs to see whether Katniss makes it out of this one.”

I’ve discovered that it’s really, really hard to finish a book when you have kids.

The good news for my family is that I’m burning through the books at an alarmingly fast rate.  After a couple days of reading, I’m on number three in the trilogy.

My husband, who’s already read the books, has been humoring me while I satisfy my obsession.

Secretly, I think the ex-professor in him is glad I’m finally reading an actual book.  One that does not have pictures in it.

Or perhaps he knows that, at the rate I’m reading, the end is near.  In another day or so, The Hunger Games will draw to a close.  And he’ll have home-cooked meals, and semi-clean house once again.

And, if he’s lucky, he’ll also get his Kindle back.

It begins even before they make an appearance, actually.

“She’s teething,” we say to onlookers in the restaurant, as we try to explain her unusual fussiness.

We give them cold washcloths and teething rings to gnaw on.  We rub Baby Orajel on their swollen little gums, and give them Tylenol in hopes that it will soothe away the crankiness.  We fuss over low-grade temperatures, and rush them to the doctor… only to be told that it’s probably … just … teething.

And when that first little nub of white pokes through, it’s quite a momentous occasion.

So I suppose it’s no wonder that losing your first baby tooth should be equally momentous.

For months, my daughter has been obsessed with losing her first tooth.  She’d gaze jealously at the gaping holes in her friends’ mouths.  It became almost a competition which one of her classmates would lose their teeth first.

She’d badger us with questions about the Tooth Fairy.

“How much will I get?” 

“What does the Tooth Fairly look like?” 

“Is the Tooth Fairy a boy or a girl fairy?”

So when that first tooth came out this morning, naturally, we made out like it was headline news.  We took pictures, and had her pose with her mouth open.  Because it’s a BFD when you loose your first tooth, you know.

And tonight, I readied the shiny gold dollar, inspired by my friend Sherri.   I placed the Hello Kitty necklace (because the Tooth Fairy always brings something special for the first tooth) in the box by her door.

And I couldn’t help but think about that first tooth coming in.

What took months to finally emerge… came out in less than a minute.  It’s the first of 20 little white vestiges of babyhood that will fall out over the next few years.  I have to admit, I got a little sad.

Tonight, the Tooth Fairy will bring it on.  And a little girl will wake up to find her tooth replaced by a little coin and cheap trinket.

I just hope the Tooth Fairy knows what a bargain he’s getting in that trade.  Because it isn’t just any tooth.

It’s my baby’s first tooth.

When you first moved in to my house a while back, I thought you were cute.

Well, not literally cute.  I mean, I couldn’t see you, after all.  None of us could.

But Chip could.  And I thought it was adorable how you and he would have conversations together.  How you’d whisper secrets into his ear, that were relayed on to the rest of the family.  How he’d clutch you in his tiny little hand, and hold you close to my face so I could inspect your beautiful blue hair.

I admit that I initially frowned a bit at your blue hair.  “What kind of influence would you be on my children?” I thought.

But, still, I welcomed your arrival at first.   You encouraged my son to use his imagination.  You played nicely together.  And you were very, very quiet.

You were the perfect house guest.

Lately, however, things have changed with you.  Over the past few weeks, your ugly side has slowly emerged.  And I’m beginning to think you’re not the perfect angel you initially made yourself out to be.

First, there are the messes you keep making around the house.   Candy wrappers strewn haphazardly on my kitchen floor.  Matchbox cars lying in a heap beside the toy box.  Silly putty stuck to the living room carpet.

I’ve been told that you are the culprit for these messes.  What’s up with that?

And then there are the mealtime battles.  You see, we have a rule in this house.  You must take a “no, thank you” bite of everything on your plate.  But apparently, you missed that memo.

So when you refused to eat your pancakes this morning for breakfast, it caused quite a ruckus.  Apparently, if Coco ain’t eating it, neither is Chip.

Seriously.  Who doesn’t like pancakes?  I slaved over a hot microwave to nuke those pancakes, and you will at least take a “no, thank you” bite, mister.

I’m not liking what I’m seeing, Coco.  I’ve had enough of your shenanigans.  And I think it’s about time you packed your bags and moved out.

Or maybe that’s too harsh.  On second thought, maybe that makes me a bad hostess.  I’m willing to give you a second chance to shape up.

I just have one request.  Do you think you could start eating your breakfast?  Or, at the very least, pretend like you’re eating your breakfast?

That would be a big help.  And if you do that, I might let you stay after all.

As long as you pick up your toys.

Sincerely,
The Lady of the House

So, when he leaves, I often take the opportunity to throw myself a pity party.

I like to whine about the evenings that seem to stretch on.  And on.  And ooooonnnnn.

Or the weekends playing zone defense against Team “Let’s Drive Mommy Batty.”  I complain about the fact that I don’t get to pee by myself anymore.

Wait.  That last one happens all of the time. 

Oh yeah, where was I?

Poor me.

But the worst part about him being gone?  My kids miss him.  A lot.

And I’ve found that the number of times I’m asked, “How many days until dad gets home?”  seems to multiply exponentially with the number of days he has to travel.  Example:  When he travels for one day, I sometimes get asked the question once or twice.  Two days=5 or 6 questions.

So when I got wind that my husband was going to be gone for ten days this time, I did some quick calculations.  Approximately 526 questions.  My math might be a little off there.  But it’s definitely in the ballpark of 100′s.

However, I was prepared for this trip.  As soon as dad left yesterday morning, I came up with a brilliant strategy.  We pulled out a pad of sticky notes, and made a little countdown calendar.  Kind of like an advent calendar.  Except when you got to the end, there was no scary bearded guy coming down our chimney.  Just dad, coming home.

And, because I was feeling a little sorry for myself, I snapped a photo of our calendar, and posted it to my personal Facebook page.

T-minus ten days. But who's counting?

And then I sat back, and waited for my Facebook friends to shower me with well wishes and encouragement.  Because that’s what you do when you’re having a pity party, you know.

I did get a few sympathetic souls willing to play my little game.  Like this lovely lady:

(By the way, Old Tweener, I will send you my address later in the day.)

But some of my other friends seemed to take more interest in the weekly menu that was posted right next to the countdown calendar.  Those comments went something like this:

“I like your menu. Jay is missing out on some good grub!”

Or, “…At least you have some yummy meals planned. I assume J would never condone corned beef in January.”

Or, my personal favorite:

Yes, people.  My corned beef soup is delicious.  But the point of my Facebook post was not about our menu, but rather, about me and my pity party.  Sheesh.

For the record, my weekly menu planning was done before I realized I’d be flying solo this week.  I have a strict “no cooking” rule when Jay travels.  And by “no cooking,” I’m referring to the use of the stove, the oven, or any sharp knives.  The microwave, I can do.

So this morning, I reposted on Facebook a more accurate reflection of what we’ll actually be eating this week.

And now that the issue of the menu has been addressed, let the pity party recommence!

Those of you in the area are more than welcome to come join me for the festivities.  I would be grateful for the adult conversation.  And you can even stay for dinner!

I just hope you like Spaghettios.

And, yes.  That has always been our more politically-correct way of saying she’s all fire and ice.

From the moment she came into this world, she made her presence known.  With a vengeance.

She was the tiny little bundle that screamed, almost non-stop, for the first four months of her life.  The colic.  The howls.  The wails.  It always shocked me how such a ruckus could come out of something so tiny.

And once the colic ended, another persona emerged.  One that was equally as spirited.

We soon found that, as a toddler, her voice was just as strong.  One minute, she could be the sweetest child you would ever meet.  And in the blink of an eye, she became stubborn, willful, and impossibly obstinate.  She was like a lot of toddlers, maybe.  Except with the amplification turned up.

As she got older, we thought perhaps her mood swings would even themselves out.  But they have not.  If anything, they’ve become more pronounced.  (A foreshadowing of what her teenage years will be, perhaps?)

As an almost-six-year-old, she still swings hot and cold at a pace that makes me dizzy.  She loves ferociously, and throws temper tantrums with a passion that still surprises me.

But maybe it should not surprise me.  Because I know where it comes from.

As much as I hate to admit it, she’s just like her momma.

I am stubborn.  I love those around me ferociously, but I can also snap at them with a passion that is somewhat scary.    Patience is once of the things I constantly have to work on.  I have a quick temper and a sharp tongue, both of which often lead me to regret some of the things I say.  It’s a trait I’ve always disliked in myself.

So, I cannot blame her for what she is.  I know exactly where she gets it.

Would I change what she is?  I can say, unequivocally, that even if I could, I would not.

Not in a million years.

She is my high-spirited child.  And, difficult as that is sometimes, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

But perhaps, one of the hardest lessons to-date that I am learning as a parent is this:  part of loving her unconditionally might mean accepting in her the traits that I least like in her mother.

And, perhaps, that also means learning to embrace, accept and improve upon those same traits in myself.

I like it when things add up.  Life makes sense that way.

When I come home, though?  Sometimes, that’s a different story altogether.  As much as I love my husband, I have to confess:  my marriage sometimes contains inequalities that just do not make sense to me.

To illustrate my point, let’s start with an equation that does balance, shall we?

In and of itself, this isn’t a biggie.  I get it.  Let’s be honest, here.  Taco Bell does a number on me, too.

So, it’s no wonder that this would be the next logical step in the sequence:

Again, I get this.  It’s all crystal clear up to this point.

But here’s where things don’t add up:

I swear, I am not exaggerating.  It’s got to be at least three rolls, if not more.  Really, I have a hard time understanding how one person can kill so many trees in one sitting.

And, naturally, that means this is also true:

But the greatest inequity of all might be this:

I’ll give you one guess how I feel about that:

Suffice to say, after almost 13 years of marriage, there are certain equations that just don’t add up for me.

All I can admit is, it’s a really good thing this is true:

Note: I had full permission from my husband to publish this post.  What can I say.  We love potty humor in our house.

The bloggy event of the year.

I’ve been so busy lately, I forgot to enter Taming Insanity’s Antler Up competition.

I’m so bummed about this, for several reasons:

1. Besides the prestigious glory of being crowned Antler Queen 2011, the winner also was guaranteed a Starbuck’s gift card.  And with how much I’m dragging my feet this morning, the thought of a little extra caffeine sounds pretty good right now.
2. I’m especially tired this morning, because I was up late last night working on a Typepad blog conversion for a certain-blogger-who-shall-remain-nameless.  And that nameless blogger?  Just so happens to be the guest judge for this competition.  I figured that, by this point, Poppy the nameless blogger is probably so annoyed by all of my moaning and whining about the evils of Typepad, that she’d proclaim me the victor on the spot… just so that I’d be quiet.  Or because she felt sorry for me.  I would have taken the win either way.
3. I live in the same city as Poppy, so I had also planned on finding out where she lived, dropping by unannounced, and pleading my caffeine-addicted case in person.  But I didn’t get around to doing that, either.
4. As if all of that wasn’t enough to cinch the prize, I had some pretty good antler fodder as well:
   

That’s right, people.  A handmade antler crown, made laboriously by my own daughter.  It had the cuteness factor going on, which I think would have held par even with Liz’s butt.

I think it’s safe to say, I had this competition in the bag.

It doesn't get much better than this. You blew it, mom.

Sigh.  I guess there’s always next year, right?

The Reality:  Bobo came home from school sick yesterday.  It appeared that she had the beginnings of the flu.

The Irony:  Yesterday while the kids were at school, one of the things I did check off my to-do list was changing their beds.  I finally got around to stripping off and washing the sheets, pillows and comforters from both of their rooms.  And as I put the freshly laundered linens back on their beds, I marveled at the warm-from-the-dryer sheets, the smell of Mountain Breeze Tide, and my own domestic goddess-ness.

The Reality:  Today, as I washed Bobo’s sheets, pillow and comforter again (plus a load of towels that were used the night before), the sparkly domestic goddess feeling was gone.  You’d think since doing laundry two days in a row is such a rare thing around these parts, I’d feel rather accomplished.  But I suppose washing vomit from sheets tends to take the warm and fuzzy feelings out of domesticity.

The Irony:  As I was changing Bobo’s sheets yesterday, I noticed she didn’t have a pee protector on her mattress.  I made a mental note that I should probably buy one.  But I wasn’t too worried.  After all, she’s 5.  She doesn’t have accidents in bed!  Sheesh!

The Reality:  As I attempted to scrub chunks off the mattress today, it occurred to me that I should have bought a damn pee protector yesterday.  Because they’re not just for pee, people.  Sheesh!

The Irony:  A few months ago, we bought Bobo a bunk bed.

The Reality:  She was sleeping on the bottom bunk yesterday.  And lo, we finally come to the silver lining of this story.

Because the thing I’d surely dislike more than changing vomit sheets?  Would be changing vomit sheets times two.

Cascading vomit? Does not sound like fun. She'll be sleeping on the bottom from here on out.

A dust buster, slightly used.

A set of gaudy, crystal and gold frames that looked straight out of the Liberace museum.

An Amway coupon.

And then there was the person that gave us the bird.

No, not figuratively.  Literally.

Meet “The Bird”.

The Bird was a present from a relative who, for the sake of anonymity, we’ll just call Aunt Betty.  I admit, we had kind of a “WTH?” moment when we opened the tiny little package and discovered the painted ceramic creature.

We’re not really bird people.  Or ceramic people.  Or ceramic bird people, for that matter.

Nevertheless, I firmly believed it was the thought that mattered.  So we wrote Aunt Betty a nice little note, thanking her for thinking of us.  And then we put The Bird on a bookshelf somewhere, where the little guy quickly made fast friends with the dust bunnies.

And there he remained.

Until one day, The Bird went AWOL.

I didn’t notice his absence at first.  It wasn’t until several weeks later, when I was watering the plants, that I stumbled upon our little friend.   He was tucked in the flower pot of a big palm in our living room, peeking out from behind the leaves.

“Did you put Aunt Betty’s bird in the flower pot?” I asked my husband later that night.

“Yeah.  That thing was just so ugly,” Jay answered back, nonchalantly.  “So I decided to hide the bird.  I thought we could take turns putting it somewhere in the house.”

Again, I encountered another “WTH??” moment.

I’ll never quite know what inspired my husband to hide The Bird in the first place.  But his quirky little idea caught on.  And soon, it evolved into a game.  We began trying to one-up each other, to see who could hide The Bird in the most bizarre location in the house.

It went on for months.  Until one day, The Bird was hidden in such an obscure place, it remained hidden.  And he was forgotten.

Recently, however… a few years and a couple of kidlets later, The Bird mysteriously resurfaced.

And the rousing game of “Hide the Bird” has once again resumed in our house.  Only this time, there are four of us playing.

Can you find the bird?

The bird can often be found reading the classics. He's well-read.

... and sneaky...

And he also knows all the best spots in the house. This is totally where I'd hide if I were him.

And, sometimes, when he's hidden by a two year-old, he can be found right under your nose.

Ironically, I figure that The Bird has actually gotten more use than any other wedding present we received.  Maybe my aunt knew something we didn’t.

So, thank you, Aunt Betty.  Yours is truly the gift that’s kept on giving.

I’d love to hear: What’s the “best” wedding gift you received?