Usually when I am driving NBO somewhere, I am simultaneously breaking up a fight, or telling someone to keep their hands (or feet...or head) to themselves, or asking them to please, please just stop screaming. Occasionally, though, the stars align and there is relative peace in the car. It doesn't happen often, but I try to relish these moments when they do happen. Mainly because it is a reminder that I really do maintain the ability to hear myself think--something that I usually swear I am no longer capable of doing. At all. Ever.
Today, as we were driving home from school, N was talking about her friend Mary. N is always talking about someone, in that stream of consciousness way shared only by six-year-old girls and eighty-five-year-old women with dementia. I really couldn't tell you exactly what she was talking about, because my mind started wandering after she had been talking for seven minutes straight, without taking a single breath. B, however, was apparently paying attention.
"Which one is Mary?" he asked
"You know who she is, B." N informed him, before resuming her story--if you can call eight minutes of stream of consciousness ramblings about Mary, the book fair, and an eraser a "story".
"No, I don't know!" B told her. "Tell me what she looks like".
N informed him that he just saw her the other day, so he knows what she looks like.
"I don't know who she is, N!" B was clearly getting frustrated, "Just tell me! What shape is her head?"
N explained through her laughter that Mary's head was shaped like pretty much everyone else's, so she couldn't describe her to him that way.
B sighed. This was not going well. He obviously just wanted to know what the girl looked like. What was so hard about that?
"OK, " he said, and I thought he was giving up completely, before he added, with complete seriousness, "Then just tell me what color her feet are".
A simple question, really.
I'm just hoping this isn't how foot fetishes begin.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Help Wanted..
Self Starter Needed Immediately for Busy Home Based Business.
Must have ability to multi-task in order to fulfill following roles:
cook, housekeeper, nurse, child care provider, dishwasher, teacher, accountant, chauffeur, personal shopper, counselor, and referee.
Experience desired, but not required, in following areas:
Diaper changing, laundry, potty training, lie detection, laundry, identification of unknown objects and/or substances, laundry, ignoring frequent stares and/or comments from strangers, laundry.
Preference will be given to candidates who have demonstrated ESP and/or the ability to locate lost shoes, jackets, dinosaurs, or teddy bears without a GPS.
The ability to serve the same food item in different forms three nights in a row while never using the word "leftovers" is a plus.
The successful candidate will not mind getting dirty--even if you just changed into clean clothing and "getting dirty" involves being up to your elbows in poop.
The successful candidate will also not mind getting repeatedly yelled at, or being repeatedly ignored, depending on the day.
Most importantly, the ideal candidate will possess the ability to complete all of the above tasks on an average of four hours sleep.
Other duties as assigned.
Pay is non negotiable and is generally in the form of chocolate covered kisses (no, not the candy version), I wuv yous, and hand made cards.
Time off is limited but wine is served nightly after eight pm.
This is a temporary position, as the person currently in this position is hoping to take a brief sabbatical at a) the nearest establishment that serves liquor or b) the corner liquor store.
If interested, please inquire immediately.
As a bonus, help with housekeeping may be provided:
Must have ability to multi-task in order to fulfill following roles:
cook, housekeeper, nurse, child care provider, dishwasher, teacher, accountant, chauffeur, personal shopper, counselor, and referee.
Experience desired, but not required, in following areas:
Diaper changing, laundry, potty training, lie detection, laundry, identification of unknown objects and/or substances, laundry, ignoring frequent stares and/or comments from strangers, laundry.
Preference will be given to candidates who have demonstrated ESP and/or the ability to locate lost shoes, jackets, dinosaurs, or teddy bears without a GPS.
The ability to serve the same food item in different forms three nights in a row while never using the word "leftovers" is a plus.
The successful candidate will not mind getting dirty--even if you just changed into clean clothing and "getting dirty" involves being up to your elbows in poop.
The successful candidate will also not mind getting repeatedly yelled at, or being repeatedly ignored, depending on the day.
Most importantly, the ideal candidate will possess the ability to complete all of the above tasks on an average of four hours sleep.
Other duties as assigned.
Pay is non negotiable and is generally in the form of chocolate covered kisses (no, not the candy version), I wuv yous, and hand made cards.
Time off is limited but wine is served nightly after eight pm.
This is a temporary position, as the person currently in this position is hoping to take a brief sabbatical at a) the nearest establishment that serves liquor or b) the corner liquor store.
If interested, please inquire immediately.
As a bonus, help with housekeeping may be provided:
Friday, April 27, 2012
What an amazing life....
cross posted from Familymattersmom
Perfection comes up a lot with some of my
clients. The need to be perfect. The need to appear perfect. The need to let go
of the idea that they have to be perfect. And, with increasing frequency, the
need to cancel their Facebook accounts so they can stop being exposed to all
those other people whose lives appear to be perfect.
Marie loved her husband of five years so incredibly much. She was unbelievably lucky to have found such a man. And her children were absolutely amazing. She was loving every minute of being their mommy. She was so blessed to have this family, and to have moved into their dream home the year before.
Wow. Marie really has it all, doesn't she?
I mean, everyone thinks so. All they have to do is read her facebook updates, or private messages to old friends, or her blog, where she writes in depth about this incredible, amazing blessing called motherhood, to know that she has such an incredible life.
If reading about it is not enough to convince them of Marie's absolutely incredible, amazing life, they just have to look at the pictures of her perfectly dressed children, and her immaculate dream home, and the amazing anniversary trip she and her husband took to the Caribbean last year.
And hopefully, as Marie's old friends see the evidence of her perfect life for themselves, they manage to resist the urge to vomit all over their keyboards.
The reality is, Marie may or may not actually be feeling that her life is quite as wonderful as she portrays on facebook--or wherever--but one thing is for sure.
Marie is absolutely, unbelievably, incredibly nauseating.
Don't get me wrong. Life is amazing. In fact, we would probably all be better off if we took a few minutes every morning to be grateful...for our families, our friends, our health, our homes.
We should be grateful for all of these things. But not because they are perfect. We should be grateful for them in spite of the fact that they're not.
Our families may be exhausting, our friends might sometimes be too busy, our health may not be perfect, and our homes may be smaller and messier than we'd like.
But still, for most of us, there is much to be grateful for.
The problem is, when we are bombarded with other peoples' alleged perfection, we start to think that's what we should be striving for, too. Or, if we are someone who already tends to think in "perfect" terms, people like Marie just add fuel to our less than perfect fires. Now there's someone who has it all. That's what my life should look like now. She manages to keep it all together. Why can't I?
Of course, striving for perfection in any form is only going to increase our own unhappiness, since that is one thing we are guaranteed never to achieve.
The Marie's in this world are just showing us what they want us to see. Maybe it happens to be a pretty accurate portrayal of their life. But maybe it's not. Maybe they're trying really hard to impress others, or maybe they're only trying to impress--or convince--themselves. It's also possible that Marie just likes to wear rose colored glasses. (In which case, she better hope those glasses never break. She could be in for a rude awakening).
One thing is certain. For every piece of information that we have--or think we have- about someone else's life, there are many more things that we don't know.
So the next time you're bombarded with someone else's incredible, amazing, unbelievable life, remember that there may be a good reason it's so unbelievable.
And if your life is feeling less than perfect in comparison, don't focus on how you can make yours more perfect.
Focus on living--and loving--the less than perfect life that you have.
Marie loved her husband of five years so incredibly much. She was unbelievably lucky to have found such a man. And her children were absolutely amazing. She was loving every minute of being their mommy. She was so blessed to have this family, and to have moved into their dream home the year before.
Wow. Marie really has it all, doesn't she?
I mean, everyone thinks so. All they have to do is read her facebook updates, or private messages to old friends, or her blog, where she writes in depth about this incredible, amazing blessing called motherhood, to know that she has such an incredible life.
If reading about it is not enough to convince them of Marie's absolutely incredible, amazing life, they just have to look at the pictures of her perfectly dressed children, and her immaculate dream home, and the amazing anniversary trip she and her husband took to the Caribbean last year.
And hopefully, as Marie's old friends see the evidence of her perfect life for themselves, they manage to resist the urge to vomit all over their keyboards.
The reality is, Marie may or may not actually be feeling that her life is quite as wonderful as she portrays on facebook--or wherever--but one thing is for sure.
Marie is absolutely, unbelievably, incredibly nauseating.
Don't get me wrong. Life is amazing. In fact, we would probably all be better off if we took a few minutes every morning to be grateful...for our families, our friends, our health, our homes.
We should be grateful for all of these things. But not because they are perfect. We should be grateful for them in spite of the fact that they're not.
Our families may be exhausting, our friends might sometimes be too busy, our health may not be perfect, and our homes may be smaller and messier than we'd like.
But still, for most of us, there is much to be grateful for.
The problem is, when we are bombarded with other peoples' alleged perfection, we start to think that's what we should be striving for, too. Or, if we are someone who already tends to think in "perfect" terms, people like Marie just add fuel to our less than perfect fires. Now there's someone who has it all. That's what my life should look like now. She manages to keep it all together. Why can't I?
Of course, striving for perfection in any form is only going to increase our own unhappiness, since that is one thing we are guaranteed never to achieve.
The Marie's in this world are just showing us what they want us to see. Maybe it happens to be a pretty accurate portrayal of their life. But maybe it's not. Maybe they're trying really hard to impress others, or maybe they're only trying to impress--or convince--themselves. It's also possible that Marie just likes to wear rose colored glasses. (In which case, she better hope those glasses never break. She could be in for a rude awakening).
One thing is certain. For every piece of information that we have--or think we have- about someone else's life, there are many more things that we don't know.
So the next time you're bombarded with someone else's incredible, amazing, unbelievable life, remember that there may be a good reason it's so unbelievable.
And if your life is feeling less than perfect in comparison, don't focus on how you can make yours more perfect.
Focus on living--and loving--the less than perfect life that you have.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Wanna Trade?
My sister Caca wants to trade places with me. (No, Caca's not her real name. It's just what we call her). She was having a less than fun day, and she thought that my day sounded better than hers. I'm still considering her offer. Here's what I know about her job:
She works very hard. She has an office, with a door that closes. I'm pretty sure it locks, too. While she's working very hard at her desk, without anyone sitting on her lap, she sometimes drinks coffee. Without fear that anyone will drink it, spill it, or put a crayon in it. She has a cafeteria in her building. She gets to go there for lunch. By herself. They have a salad bar. And dessert. And there is no play area. They also have ice cream day.
She gets to talk to grown-ups, though I do have mixed feelings on that one. I'm just not sure I'd be that good at that anymore. Oh sure, I interact with adults when I go to work a couple evenings a week, but mainly I listen. People even tell me, "You are such a good listener". Yup, I sure am. Good thing, too, since I am no longer a good talker, unless it involves the phrases:
Did you use the potty?
Do you need a diaper?
Get off your brother.
Because I said so.
So maybe if I do trade places with her, I would have to limit my verbal interactions with others. Maybe I'll just schedule meetings on ice cream day when my mouth will be full anyway.
I'm still not sure if I should do it. I mean, if I trade places with Caca, and go work in her office with the door that locks, at the desk where I can drink coffee without anyone sitting on my lap, where they have a cafeteria with no play area and ice cream day, I might miss all the things I'm used to.
Like wiping pee off the floor.
And breaking up fights.
And pulling the wads of wet toilet paper off the bathroom walls.
Like changing diapers.
And finding Polly pockets, toy trains, and unidentified foreign objects under the couch...and on the kitchen floor...and under my pillow.
Like spending an hour a day looking for everyone's shoes...and everyone's jackets...and my mind.
I mean, who would want to give all that up? Not to mention, I wouldn't have a clue how to actually do her job.
I may just have to tell Caca we can work something else out. Maybe we can have the best of both worlds.
If she could lock me in a room with ice cream once a week, I promise I'll put a crayon in her coffee.
And maybe I'll even pee on the floor.
She works very hard. She has an office, with a door that closes. I'm pretty sure it locks, too. While she's working very hard at her desk, without anyone sitting on her lap, she sometimes drinks coffee. Without fear that anyone will drink it, spill it, or put a crayon in it. She has a cafeteria in her building. She gets to go there for lunch. By herself. They have a salad bar. And dessert. And there is no play area. They also have ice cream day.
She gets to talk to grown-ups, though I do have mixed feelings on that one. I'm just not sure I'd be that good at that anymore. Oh sure, I interact with adults when I go to work a couple evenings a week, but mainly I listen. People even tell me, "You are such a good listener". Yup, I sure am. Good thing, too, since I am no longer a good talker, unless it involves the phrases:
Did you use the potty?
Do you need a diaper?
Get off your brother.
Because I said so.
So maybe if I do trade places with her, I would have to limit my verbal interactions with others. Maybe I'll just schedule meetings on ice cream day when my mouth will be full anyway.
I'm still not sure if I should do it. I mean, if I trade places with Caca, and go work in her office with the door that locks, at the desk where I can drink coffee without anyone sitting on my lap, where they have a cafeteria with no play area and ice cream day, I might miss all the things I'm used to.
Like wiping pee off the floor.
And breaking up fights.
And pulling the wads of wet toilet paper off the bathroom walls.
Like changing diapers.
And finding Polly pockets, toy trains, and unidentified foreign objects under the couch...and on the kitchen floor...and under my pillow.
Like spending an hour a day looking for everyone's shoes...and everyone's jackets...and my mind.
I mean, who would want to give all that up? Not to mention, I wouldn't have a clue how to actually do her job.
I may just have to tell Caca we can work something else out. Maybe we can have the best of both worlds.
If she could lock me in a room with ice cream once a week, I promise I'll put a crayon in her coffee.
And maybe I'll even pee on the floor.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Don't Forget Your Manners!
I try to stress the importance of saying please and thank you. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't. It occurred to me that I may not always be the best role model in this area, so I've made it my goal to try to remember to say please and thank you more often myself.
This morning, Jimmy dropped N and I off at her school so I could go with her on her field trip to the Zoo. The whole first grade was going. As Jimmy dropped us off, he informed me that his plan was to take B and O to get their hair cut. You may remember that I tried this with B not so long ago. It didn't go so well. So when Jimmy informed me oh so non-chalantly that he was just going to march them into the barber shop for hair cuts, my first thought was....Please. Hey, that counts toward my goal, right?
N and I had a great, if exhausting, day at the zoo. We saw giant pandas, we saw elephants, we saw lemurs who appeared to be mating. That was a nice touch. Right up there with all the educational signs in front of the panda exhibit that explained the difficulties of mating in captivity. A word to the wise: If you have a pre-schooler who is on the verge of reading, and you think how great it will be to have her reading by kindergarten, think again. Thank you very much, National Zoo. Hey, there's another one toward my goal!
Eventually, we arrived back at N's school, and J and the boys picked us up. Of course, I immediately looked at their hair...which had actually been cut. Quite short, in fact. Actually, it was a little too short for my taste, plus I hadn't asked J to save a lock of O's hair, since in all honesty, I did not think this whole hair cut thing would be happening. But hey, at least their hair got cut, and maybe Jimmy is just better at the hair cut thing than I am. I'm okay with that. After all, there are plenty of other things that are more my area of expertise, thank you very much. It's not like he's going to start going to the grocery store with them or anything. Please.
Of course, I wanted details that Jimmy was just not providing. How did this all go down? Did they give you a hard time? Or did they just hop up in those barbershop chairs and say "Hair cut, please!" (Or, in O's case, Hair cup pease!)? For some reason, Jimmy was not forthcoming. In fact, he seemed a little agitated, but I wasn't sure if that was directly related to the hair cut experience, or to the fact that he had just spent six hours with two of our children. All.By.Himself.
As I was washing B and O's new short hair in the bathtub this evening, I was thinking that I should say thank you to my husband for spending the day with B and O so that I could go with N on her field trip. And just as I was thinking that, B shared some of the knowledge that he apparently gained from spending the day with his dad.
"Mom, this @%$ water is too hot."
Unlike another recent attempt at this word, this time his pronounciation and context were absolutely perfect. Almost like he's been practicing. Not that he needs practice. Please.
I suspect he's just a quick learner.
Thank You Very Much.
This morning, Jimmy dropped N and I off at her school so I could go with her on her field trip to the Zoo. The whole first grade was going. As Jimmy dropped us off, he informed me that his plan was to take B and O to get their hair cut. You may remember that I tried this with B not so long ago. It didn't go so well. So when Jimmy informed me oh so non-chalantly that he was just going to march them into the barber shop for hair cuts, my first thought was....Please. Hey, that counts toward my goal, right?
N and I had a great, if exhausting, day at the zoo. We saw giant pandas, we saw elephants, we saw lemurs who appeared to be mating. That was a nice touch. Right up there with all the educational signs in front of the panda exhibit that explained the difficulties of mating in captivity. A word to the wise: If you have a pre-schooler who is on the verge of reading, and you think how great it will be to have her reading by kindergarten, think again. Thank you very much, National Zoo. Hey, there's another one toward my goal!
Eventually, we arrived back at N's school, and J and the boys picked us up. Of course, I immediately looked at their hair...which had actually been cut. Quite short, in fact. Actually, it was a little too short for my taste, plus I hadn't asked J to save a lock of O's hair, since in all honesty, I did not think this whole hair cut thing would be happening. But hey, at least their hair got cut, and maybe Jimmy is just better at the hair cut thing than I am. I'm okay with that. After all, there are plenty of other things that are more my area of expertise, thank you very much. It's not like he's going to start going to the grocery store with them or anything. Please.
Of course, I wanted details that Jimmy was just not providing. How did this all go down? Did they give you a hard time? Or did they just hop up in those barbershop chairs and say "Hair cut, please!" (Or, in O's case, Hair cup pease!)? For some reason, Jimmy was not forthcoming. In fact, he seemed a little agitated, but I wasn't sure if that was directly related to the hair cut experience, or to the fact that he had just spent six hours with two of our children. All.By.Himself.
As I was washing B and O's new short hair in the bathtub this evening, I was thinking that I should say thank you to my husband for spending the day with B and O so that I could go with N on her field trip. And just as I was thinking that, B shared some of the knowledge that he apparently gained from spending the day with his dad.
"Mom, this @%$ water is too hot."
Unlike another recent attempt at this word, this time his pronounciation and context were absolutely perfect. Almost like he's been practicing. Not that he needs practice. Please.
I suspect he's just a quick learner.
Thank You Very Much.
O let me take a picture of his hair cut. B told me there was just no #%#@ way.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Chill Out!
I was in the bathroom this evening.
By myself.
Isn't that an incredible story?
Ok, so that's not all of it. But I was in the bathroom. And I really was by myself, as miraculous as that may seem. As usual, two of my offspring--or maybe it was three--had followed me up the stairs and were attempting to keep me company in the bathroom, but this time, I managed to get the door locked before anyone made it in behind me.
I was rather enjoying the 2.496 minutes of solitude I hoped I had before someone started banging on the door, screaming my name (Yes, Mommy is my name. Isn't it?), or God forbid, jiggling the door handle. The banging and screaming I can tune out pretty well at this point, but the jiggling always gets me. I'm like the girl who locks herself in the attic in those horror movies. She's pretty sure she's safe while the scary guy is still downstairs, but once she hears his footsteps on the stairs...she knows it's all over. Door jiggling is the NBO equivalent of footsteps on the stairs. One minute I'm enjoying my almost three minutes of peace and relative quiet, and the next minute, the door handle jiggling starts, and I suddenly hear the music from Psycho in my head. At least I think it's just in my head.
Yes, I just said I enjoy that 2.496 minutes of peace and relative quiet in the bathroom. I'm not telling you what I do in there, but it's safe to assume I do the same types of things in my bathroom that you do in yours. Only I might also have a trashy romance novel and a bottle or two stashed under my sink.
So today, I was enjoying my little mini vacation, when I suddenly heard something even worse than the door handle jiggling.
I heard the distinct sounds of the ice cream truck. In April. On a day that feels more like Winter than Spring. Pushing it just a little, Mr Ice Cream Man?
I should clarify that this is not just any ice cream man. Our ice cream man is a stalker. I suspected he was stalking us last summer, when he would just happen to drive by our house, three times a day, until we relented and agreed to buy ice cream because we couldn't take the whining anymore. My stalking suspicions were confirmed however, when he started hanging out at the end of our driveway, blocking our only means of a motorized escape, and playing that music over..and over...and over again, until I thought my head would explode, at which point we would go out, money in hand, prepared to hand it to him even if he was out of ice cream, if only he would just go the hell away.
Finally, one day last Fall, when he had been sitting at the end of our driveway for close to ten minutes, I told the kids to wave good-bye. Since they were wearing sweaters, preparing to collect leaves, and looking forward to Thanksgiving, they weren't terribly disappointed that they wouldn't be getting ice cream that day. Even they knew that it was time for Mr. Stalker Ice Cream Man to go. So they waved good-bye. And I stood behind them, also waving good-bye, as I smiled and mouthed, "IT'S NOVEMBER YOU FREAK".
Eventually, with what appeared to be some degree of sadness, he drove away.
So today, when the kids confirmed my suspicions by excitedly yelling up to me that the ice cream man was outside, I quickly told them, through the door, that we would not be buying ice cream from Mr. Stalker Ice Cream Man. In April. When it's forty degrees outside. N informed me that he wasn't leaving, though that may have been because B and O were standing in the window waving to him. Maybe he thought that if he just waited long enough, we would come outside, money in hand, prepared to buy him off again just to make him leave.
That wasn't going to happen this time, though.
This time, I discovered that as long as he was outside, the kids were busy watching him out the window and waving.
That gave me an extra 2.394 minutes in the bathroom. All by myself.
Maybe Mr. Stalker Ice Cream Man has some value in my life after all. Maybe we could even be friends.
If only he'd start selling margaritas from that truck.
And deliver them to my bathroom.
By myself.
Isn't that an incredible story?
Ok, so that's not all of it. But I was in the bathroom. And I really was by myself, as miraculous as that may seem. As usual, two of my offspring--or maybe it was three--had followed me up the stairs and were attempting to keep me company in the bathroom, but this time, I managed to get the door locked before anyone made it in behind me.
I was rather enjoying the 2.496 minutes of solitude I hoped I had before someone started banging on the door, screaming my name (Yes, Mommy is my name. Isn't it?), or God forbid, jiggling the door handle. The banging and screaming I can tune out pretty well at this point, but the jiggling always gets me. I'm like the girl who locks herself in the attic in those horror movies. She's pretty sure she's safe while the scary guy is still downstairs, but once she hears his footsteps on the stairs...she knows it's all over. Door jiggling is the NBO equivalent of footsteps on the stairs. One minute I'm enjoying my almost three minutes of peace and relative quiet, and the next minute, the door handle jiggling starts, and I suddenly hear the music from Psycho in my head. At least I think it's just in my head.
Yes, I just said I enjoy that 2.496 minutes of peace and relative quiet in the bathroom. I'm not telling you what I do in there, but it's safe to assume I do the same types of things in my bathroom that you do in yours. Only I might also have a trashy romance novel and a bottle or two stashed under my sink.
So today, I was enjoying my little mini vacation, when I suddenly heard something even worse than the door handle jiggling.
I heard the distinct sounds of the ice cream truck. In April. On a day that feels more like Winter than Spring. Pushing it just a little, Mr Ice Cream Man?
I should clarify that this is not just any ice cream man. Our ice cream man is a stalker. I suspected he was stalking us last summer, when he would just happen to drive by our house, three times a day, until we relented and agreed to buy ice cream because we couldn't take the whining anymore. My stalking suspicions were confirmed however, when he started hanging out at the end of our driveway, blocking our only means of a motorized escape, and playing that music over..and over...and over again, until I thought my head would explode, at which point we would go out, money in hand, prepared to hand it to him even if he was out of ice cream, if only he would just go the hell away.
Finally, one day last Fall, when he had been sitting at the end of our driveway for close to ten minutes, I told the kids to wave good-bye. Since they were wearing sweaters, preparing to collect leaves, and looking forward to Thanksgiving, they weren't terribly disappointed that they wouldn't be getting ice cream that day. Even they knew that it was time for Mr. Stalker Ice Cream Man to go. So they waved good-bye. And I stood behind them, also waving good-bye, as I smiled and mouthed, "IT'S NOVEMBER YOU FREAK".
Eventually, with what appeared to be some degree of sadness, he drove away.
So today, when the kids confirmed my suspicions by excitedly yelling up to me that the ice cream man was outside, I quickly told them, through the door, that we would not be buying ice cream from Mr. Stalker Ice Cream Man. In April. When it's forty degrees outside. N informed me that he wasn't leaving, though that may have been because B and O were standing in the window waving to him. Maybe he thought that if he just waited long enough, we would come outside, money in hand, prepared to buy him off again just to make him leave.
That wasn't going to happen this time, though.
This time, I discovered that as long as he was outside, the kids were busy watching him out the window and waving.
That gave me an extra 2.394 minutes in the bathroom. All by myself.
Maybe Mr. Stalker Ice Cream Man has some value in my life after all. Maybe we could even be friends.
If only he'd start selling margaritas from that truck.
And deliver them to my bathroom.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Clean This Mess!
I am not a neat freak.
No, that's not really true. In my head, I am a neat freak.
I look through magazines and salivate over pictures of immaculate spaces. I admire the pictures of neat, orderly living rooms, uncluttered by toys, with leather couches that don't have holes or dog claw marks in them. I imagine how nice it would be to have a couch like that in my home, one that smells like leather instead of yogurt, and milk, and God knows what else.
It's not just magazines that cause me to salivate. When I walk into friends' home that are somehow kept clean and orderly, I often stare, speechless, as I take in the beauty around me. It's Nirvana. How do they do it? Oh sure, a few have cleaning ladies, but most don't. Some don't have kids, or have older kids--well that certainly makes a difference, I remind myself. And some have one or two children, often not as young as mine, which might make it slightly easier for them. At least that's what I tell myself to try to make myself feel better. Then I go home, brooding with neatness envy.
In reality, while all of those things come into play, these people are probably just better at this neatness thing than I am. Because while there is a neat freak inside my head, that's usually where she stays. She almost never comes out in person, to play with the rest of us.
It may be self preservation. If that neat freak actually tried to keep things neat and orderly around here, she- I mean I- would have already lost what's left of my mind. See what I mean? Just thinking about it has caused me to refer to myself in the third person--a sure sign that someone who is already clinging to the edge of their sanity is about to lose their grip.
Before kids I could keep it together. Somewhat. Sometimes. As long as I had a day each week to focus on the house, I could keep most of the house looking mostly decent. Now? Forget it. Even when I do get things back to a neat and orderly state, my hard work is destroyed in approximately thirty-four seconds. And, on the rare occasions when the neat freak inside my head does come out to play and I focus, for example, on thoroughly cleaning the living room, I usually wish that she had just stayed inside my head. I stand back and admire the result of my hard work, and then turn around and see that, while I have been picking up, and dusting, and straightening, and vacuuming the living room, my children have been pouring cereal, flour, and dog food all over the kitchen floor, and then adding milk to make it more edible. Oh sure, if they would really eat it, that would be fine. But they don't. They just leave it there. For me tolay down and cry in clean up.
So yeah, I guess you could say I've given up. Oh sure, I clean the kitchen seventeen times a day. And the bathroom is flooded frequently enough that it's not too hard to just add some bleach and wipe everything down. But the rest? Well, forget it. But of course that only works for so long, before the neat freak inside my head starts nagging me, and I decide that a neat and orderly house needs to be more of a priority.
Then I'm quickly reminded why it's not more of a priority.
Today, I told N to clean her room. This is not the first time this week I have told her. In fact, I have told her approximately nineteen times in the past two days alone. It was time. And since she is the only one of my children who actually can clean her room--to some degree--I fully take advantage of it. It's also a good way to separate NBO when the three of them have been fighting, telling on each other, and slamming doors for most of the morning.
For a few minutes, she is in her room and it's quiet. B and O are playing in their room, with minimal screaming, which makes me incredibly happy (yes, I have been forced to lower my standards in that area, as well). I am in the kitchen, way too excited that I get to do dishes without someone hanging onto my leg or removing the dirty dishes from the dishwasher as soon as I put them in.
Suddenly it is no longer quiet.
There is screaming. Then some yelling. I hear all three voices in the upstairs hallway. More screaming, more yelling, and then...laughter. And squealing. And more laughter. Lots of laughter. I peek around the corner to see all three of them upstairs, running in and out of bedrooms, and streaming what appears to be an entire roll--or maybe two- of toilet paper down the hallway, into the bedrooms, and back into the hallway.
No one is playing quietly. No one is cleaning. In fact, they are making it worse. Much worse.
But they aren't fighting. Or telling on each other. Or slamming doors. They are laughing. Joyfully. Together.
As they trash my house.
I will try to remember this moment later, when, after telling them that this is not what we do with toilet paper, I will be the one cleaning it up.
Who needs an immaculate house anyway?
Oh shut up, Neat Freak.
Stay inside my head, where you belong.
No, that's not really true. In my head, I am a neat freak.
I look through magazines and salivate over pictures of immaculate spaces. I admire the pictures of neat, orderly living rooms, uncluttered by toys, with leather couches that don't have holes or dog claw marks in them. I imagine how nice it would be to have a couch like that in my home, one that smells like leather instead of yogurt, and milk, and God knows what else.
It's not just magazines that cause me to salivate. When I walk into friends' home that are somehow kept clean and orderly, I often stare, speechless, as I take in the beauty around me. It's Nirvana. How do they do it? Oh sure, a few have cleaning ladies, but most don't. Some don't have kids, or have older kids--well that certainly makes a difference, I remind myself. And some have one or two children, often not as young as mine, which might make it slightly easier for them. At least that's what I tell myself to try to make myself feel better. Then I go home, brooding with neatness envy.
In reality, while all of those things come into play, these people are probably just better at this neatness thing than I am. Because while there is a neat freak inside my head, that's usually where she stays. She almost never comes out in person, to play with the rest of us.
It may be self preservation. If that neat freak actually tried to keep things neat and orderly around here, she- I mean I- would have already lost what's left of my mind. See what I mean? Just thinking about it has caused me to refer to myself in the third person--a sure sign that someone who is already clinging to the edge of their sanity is about to lose their grip.
Before kids I could keep it together. Somewhat. Sometimes. As long as I had a day each week to focus on the house, I could keep most of the house looking mostly decent. Now? Forget it. Even when I do get things back to a neat and orderly state, my hard work is destroyed in approximately thirty-four seconds. And, on the rare occasions when the neat freak inside my head does come out to play and I focus, for example, on thoroughly cleaning the living room, I usually wish that she had just stayed inside my head. I stand back and admire the result of my hard work, and then turn around and see that, while I have been picking up, and dusting, and straightening, and vacuuming the living room, my children have been pouring cereal, flour, and dog food all over the kitchen floor, and then adding milk to make it more edible. Oh sure, if they would really eat it, that would be fine. But they don't. They just leave it there. For me to
So yeah, I guess you could say I've given up. Oh sure, I clean the kitchen seventeen times a day. And the bathroom is flooded frequently enough that it's not too hard to just add some bleach and wipe everything down. But the rest? Well, forget it. But of course that only works for so long, before the neat freak inside my head starts nagging me, and I decide that a neat and orderly house needs to be more of a priority.
Then I'm quickly reminded why it's not more of a priority.
Today, I told N to clean her room. This is not the first time this week I have told her. In fact, I have told her approximately nineteen times in the past two days alone. It was time. And since she is the only one of my children who actually can clean her room--to some degree--I fully take advantage of it. It's also a good way to separate NBO when the three of them have been fighting, telling on each other, and slamming doors for most of the morning.
For a few minutes, she is in her room and it's quiet. B and O are playing in their room, with minimal screaming, which makes me incredibly happy (yes, I have been forced to lower my standards in that area, as well). I am in the kitchen, way too excited that I get to do dishes without someone hanging onto my leg or removing the dirty dishes from the dishwasher as soon as I put them in.
Suddenly it is no longer quiet.
There is screaming. Then some yelling. I hear all three voices in the upstairs hallway. More screaming, more yelling, and then...laughter. And squealing. And more laughter. Lots of laughter. I peek around the corner to see all three of them upstairs, running in and out of bedrooms, and streaming what appears to be an entire roll--or maybe two- of toilet paper down the hallway, into the bedrooms, and back into the hallway.
No one is playing quietly. No one is cleaning. In fact, they are making it worse. Much worse.
But they aren't fighting. Or telling on each other. Or slamming doors. They are laughing. Joyfully. Together.
As they trash my house.
I will try to remember this moment later, when, after telling them that this is not what we do with toilet paper, I will be the one cleaning it up.
Who needs an immaculate house anyway?
Oh shut up, Neat Freak.
Stay inside my head, where you belong.
Friday, April 20, 2012
Let's Hear it for the Boys...
cross posted from Familymattersmom
Letter to the Teacher at My Child's School:
If I knew who you were, I might be tempted to address this with you directly. But since I only see your car in the parking lot, and never you, this letter will have to suffice. I notice your car because of its bumper sticker, which says:
I believe in good men and other fantasy creatures.
Since the teachers' parking lot is also the parents parking lot, and the spot where many children are dropped off or picked up by their parents, I have noticed your bumper sticker once a week or so for the past year and a half. And each time I do, I am struck by the same thought: No one has made her remove that thing yet?
Oh, I know, that's probably way beyond the schools scope. And of course there's the First Amendment to think about. And, in general, I have to agree with those who say that our society has become entirely too concerned with political correctness.
On the other hand, this is in the parking lot of a school. In a parking lot frequented by children. Some of whom are boys. Who will become men. And this bumper sticker is on the car of a teacher who is teaching some of them. Even though you apparently don't believe they can become good men.
OK, fine, so maybe I'm over-reacting. Maybe you don't really believe that. In all likelihood, you are a twenty-something teacher who is fed up with the dating scene and who hasn't really thought about the message that your bumper sticker potentially sends. And the reality is, many of the twenty something guys you have dated probably haven't been the best boyfriends. At this point in their lives, many of them probably wouldn't make the best husbands. But can you really say that they're not good men?
Dont' get me wrong. Like you, I have sat around at happy hour as we women go around the table with stories about those men. We all know how they can be. We share our stories, shake our heads, order more wine, and roll our collective eyes as we sigh and say "Men.....". Of course, across the bar, a group of men is having a similar conversation about women, though theirs often involves more grunting, more drinking, and fewer actual words.
Wait, isn't that a little sexist of you?
Look, I'm not saying that men and women aren't different. And, at what I'm presuming to be your stage of life, you may just be discovering some of those differences. And maybe some of the guys you know are more than just different. Maybe they're jerks. Maybe they've disappointed you. Maybe they haven't been as committed, or as involved, or as expressive, as you would like. Maybe some of them haven't even been respectful. A few of them, perhaps aren't good men. But to suggest that there aren't any good men is quite a leap, don't you think?
After all, we women can be a little less than perfect at times, too. And yet, I can't help but think that if there was a bumper sticker in the school parking lot that said:
I believe in good (or intelligent, or reasonable) women and other fantasy creatures..
Well, there would be quite the outcry.
Because clearly, THAT is sexist.
And what kind of message is that sending to our daughters, especially in their school?
Maybe these kinds of thoughts are best left at happy hour, and not in a school parking lot, where it can be seen by your students. And their mothers, of course. Did I mention that I'm a mom of boys? Maybe that's why I'm so bothered by this. It's just not a message I want to be sent to my sons. Or to my daughter, for that matter.
And here's the other thing. You're wrong.
Good men are not a fantasy.
You see, I happen to be the wife of a good man. I am also the daughter, sister, sister-in-law, niece, aunt, cousin, and friend to many more. Oh sure, at times, some of these men haven't been good boyfriends, or even good husbands. Maybe they weren't always good friends, or ideal fathers. And God knows there are times when the women in their lives haven't understood them. But the vast majority of men I have known are, in fact, good men.
I can also assure you that my two young boys will grow up to be good men, though I can't guarantee that they will always fulfill every role in their life perfectly.
Then again, dear teacher with the bumper sticker I hope my sons will never see, none of us fulfill our roles perfectly all the time, do we?
If I knew who you were, I might be tempted to address this with you directly. But since I only see your car in the parking lot, and never you, this letter will have to suffice. I notice your car because of its bumper sticker, which says:
I believe in good men and other fantasy creatures.
Since the teachers' parking lot is also the parents parking lot, and the spot where many children are dropped off or picked up by their parents, I have noticed your bumper sticker once a week or so for the past year and a half. And each time I do, I am struck by the same thought: No one has made her remove that thing yet?
Oh, I know, that's probably way beyond the schools scope. And of course there's the First Amendment to think about. And, in general, I have to agree with those who say that our society has become entirely too concerned with political correctness.
On the other hand, this is in the parking lot of a school. In a parking lot frequented by children. Some of whom are boys. Who will become men. And this bumper sticker is on the car of a teacher who is teaching some of them. Even though you apparently don't believe they can become good men.
OK, fine, so maybe I'm over-reacting. Maybe you don't really believe that. In all likelihood, you are a twenty-something teacher who is fed up with the dating scene and who hasn't really thought about the message that your bumper sticker potentially sends. And the reality is, many of the twenty something guys you have dated probably haven't been the best boyfriends. At this point in their lives, many of them probably wouldn't make the best husbands. But can you really say that they're not good men?
Dont' get me wrong. Like you, I have sat around at happy hour as we women go around the table with stories about those men. We all know how they can be. We share our stories, shake our heads, order more wine, and roll our collective eyes as we sigh and say "Men.....". Of course, across the bar, a group of men is having a similar conversation about women, though theirs often involves more grunting, more drinking, and fewer actual words.
Wait, isn't that a little sexist of you?
Look, I'm not saying that men and women aren't different. And, at what I'm presuming to be your stage of life, you may just be discovering some of those differences. And maybe some of the guys you know are more than just different. Maybe they're jerks. Maybe they've disappointed you. Maybe they haven't been as committed, or as involved, or as expressive, as you would like. Maybe some of them haven't even been respectful. A few of them, perhaps aren't good men. But to suggest that there aren't any good men is quite a leap, don't you think?
After all, we women can be a little less than perfect at times, too. And yet, I can't help but think that if there was a bumper sticker in the school parking lot that said:
I believe in good (or intelligent, or reasonable) women and other fantasy creatures..
Well, there would be quite the outcry.
Because clearly, THAT is sexist.
And what kind of message is that sending to our daughters, especially in their school?
Maybe these kinds of thoughts are best left at happy hour, and not in a school parking lot, where it can be seen by your students. And their mothers, of course. Did I mention that I'm a mom of boys? Maybe that's why I'm so bothered by this. It's just not a message I want to be sent to my sons. Or to my daughter, for that matter.
And here's the other thing. You're wrong.
Good men are not a fantasy.
You see, I happen to be the wife of a good man. I am also the daughter, sister, sister-in-law, niece, aunt, cousin, and friend to many more. Oh sure, at times, some of these men haven't been good boyfriends, or even good husbands. Maybe they weren't always good friends, or ideal fathers. And God knows there are times when the women in their lives haven't understood them. But the vast majority of men I have known are, in fact, good men.
I can also assure you that my two young boys will grow up to be good men, though I can't guarantee that they will always fulfill every role in their life perfectly.
Then again, dear teacher with the bumper sticker I hope my sons will never see, none of us fulfill our roles perfectly all the time, do we?
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
From The Family Matters Mom: Balance This
NBO have just been incredibly sweet little angels the past couple of days, which means I have nothing to write about! (Hmmm, guess I'd better start feeding them more sugar, or start buying syrup again, or do something very brave, like take them out in public). So since I didn't have anything to write about them today, I thought I would share a recent post from my other blog, The Family Matters Mom. If you haven't, I would love for you to check it out, and maybe even become a follower. As always, thanks for reading!
familymattersmom.blogspot.com
familymattersmom.blogspot.com
Monday, April 16, 2012
Who Are You?
I guess we all have those days. Today was one of those days for B. You know how it is. Some days you just feel a little bit Batman...and a little bit Spiderman.
And yes, Batman/Spiderman and Superman are shopping in this picture, in Trader Joe's.
And yes, in case you're wondering, it does run in the family.
Apparently, Bat Girl's talents do not include removing the rotting pumpkins from the porch before the Halloween pictures are taken. Oh well. You can't have it all, I guess.
Batman...Spiderman...Superman...Batgirl..it really doesn't matter.
They're all my heros.
And they are also really super.
Especially when they are doing this.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Take Notes!
Let me start by saying, I think I am usually a pretty nice mom. I spend an hour tucking them all into bed at night. I often read The Very Hungry Caterpillar three times a night, even though I've been sick of reading it since 2006. I play outside with them every day. I often get up at 4 am with O, just because he wants to snuggle (Ok, fine--this is also the only way I will get any sleep. Whatever). I continue to suffer through B's swimming classes because I think it's important for him to learn to swim, though any sane person would have quit after the first week. I count to three before sending my children to their rooms, and I count to ten before locking myself in mine. What more could any child ask for?
This morning, after coming home from Church, I decided to take NBO to the park and then for haircuts. Jimmy was working, and it was a beautiful day for the park. N and B also really needed haircuts. Well, so do I, for that matter, but I'm sure mine can wait another year or two. We stopped at the store first, and I paid with cash. The cashier looked at the one hundred dollar bill I handed him, and held it up to the light. Repeatedly. As if he wasn't sure it was real. I looked at him, pointed to the kids, and nicely said, "Really? Does it look like I have time to manufacture money?". He looked at me like that statement was, in fact, proof that I manufacture money. Please. If I had that kind of time on my hands, do you really think I'd be making counterfeit money? Uh, no. If I had time to manufacturing something, I would be making moonshine. In my backyard. And I would not be sharing.
He eventually gave me my change, and we headed to the park. It's 80 and sunny. A perfect day for the park. For most people. For my fair skinned children, it's too hot. Sorry, I should say it was too hot for my fair skinned whiners. Yup, I just called them whiners. Cause today, they were. From the moment we got out of the car, they whined. It's too hot. I want to ride the scooter. No, I don't want to ride the scooter. I want to ride in the stroller. No, I don't want to ride in the stroller...
We went for a walk on the trail, which is mostly shaded. In spite of this, they proceeded to whine about the heat some more, and then one over tired three-year-old decided that he didn't want to be in the stroller. Or out of the stroller. Or riding the scooter that he insisted we bring. No, he wanted to hang onto the side of the stroller, which his brother was also in, and have me push him. The stroller and two children weights about a hundred pounds. It's hard enough to push when everyone is sitting. It's about impossible to push with one child hanging precariously onto the side. I told him nicely it wasn't happening. He started to get off the stroller, and then saw that his six-year-old sister was vying for his seat in the stroller, so he decided to hold onto the side again. I told him firmly that I can't push the stroller like that. I told the six-year-old that she doesn't need a stroller. They both ignored me.
And then, I had an epiphany. I was done.
I was tired of being a nice mommy. For days, I have been having visions of me, a hotel room, and a bottle of vodka. Although that particular scenario is not an option (at the moment, but that may change. Mother's Day is coming up, after all), Nice Mommy really is long overdue for a sabbatical. I told a certain three-year-old to get his hiney back in the stroller, or out of the stroller, but to stop hanging onto the side, or we were leaving. He ignored me, and decided to hit his brother instead. Then his sister. I turned around and headed for the car, and informed them that our walk in the park was over (haha! Walk in the park? Whoever coined that expression obviously never took a walk in the park with three kids. There is absolutely nothing about a walk in the park that is a walk in the park). We walked back to the car. B was crying, begging, and pleading to go back to the trail. "Nope. Too late", I informed him. Nice Mommy is officially on sabbatical. Now Mean Mommy's in charge. Didn't see that one coming, did you pal?
As I buckled O into his car seat, B informed me that he was staying there, in the park. Mean Mommy put on her sweetest, fakest Nice Mommy voice, and said "OK, honey, but we're all leaving, so I'm not sure who's going to take care of you. Was there any family in particular that you were thinking of asking?". B changed his mind and decided to get in the car.
"Can I still get a hair cut mommy?" he asked.
"Maybe, " I tell him. "If you are quiet until we get there and don't touch anyone."
N was mysteriously quiet at this point. At one point, she started to say something, looked at me, and apparently changed her mind. Huh.
B promised he would be good. Let me tell you, I have heard that promise before, and he doesn't mean it. Mean Mommy decided that he must learn now that empty promises are unacceptable, lest he try this crap with his wife some day, and ends up divorced, penniless, and living in our basement when he's forty.
I leaned in close to B to make sure he heard me. "Listen to me," I tell him in my calmest Mean Mommy voice, "IF we go get your hair cut, you'd better be nice. No screaming, hitting, yelling, or running. If you don't behave yourself, I don't care if half your hair is cut, I don't care if the scissors are still attached to your hair, and I don't care if you've had time to pick out a toy, we will leave. At that moment". He looks at me and nods. Nice Mommy would probably feel kind of bad. Mean Mommy doesn't.
I noticed a woman walking by. She is young, thin, and wearing coordinated clothing. She does not have a gaggle of children with her. She probably gets her hair cut every six weeks. She probably has time to take long walks in the park every day, and her walks in the park are probably really walks in the park. I finish putting the kids, stroller, scooter, diaper bag, and helmets in the car, stopping only to read B the riot act again when he hits N.
As I get in the drivers seat, I notice that the woman has now stopped, and she is staring at our car. She is also writing in a notebook. I really want to ask her what she writing. My license number? Did she think I was serious about letting B stay here without us? Is she going to report me for child abandonment? Is she reporting me to CPS for denying my kids a hair cut? Maybe she just heard the words "scissors" and "head" and thinks I am threatening them with bodily harm. Or maybe she is writing this down, so when she gets home from her long leisurely walk in the park and her husband says "Honey, isn't it time we thought about having a baby?", she can read him the list of her observations about us before she looks at him sweetly and says, "Hell No".
But no, after thinking about it, I decided it's probably none of those things. Clearly, she was just taking notes, for when she does have her own gaggle of children.
How to be a Mean Mommy, Chapter One...
So glad I could help.
Thanks for reading! And no...of course he didn't end up getting his hair cut...but not for lack of trying.
This morning, after coming home from Church, I decided to take NBO to the park and then for haircuts. Jimmy was working, and it was a beautiful day for the park. N and B also really needed haircuts. Well, so do I, for that matter, but I'm sure mine can wait another year or two. We stopped at the store first, and I paid with cash. The cashier looked at the one hundred dollar bill I handed him, and held it up to the light. Repeatedly. As if he wasn't sure it was real. I looked at him, pointed to the kids, and nicely said, "Really? Does it look like I have time to manufacture money?". He looked at me like that statement was, in fact, proof that I manufacture money. Please. If I had that kind of time on my hands, do you really think I'd be making counterfeit money? Uh, no. If I had time to manufacturing something, I would be making moonshine. In my backyard. And I would not be sharing.
He eventually gave me my change, and we headed to the park. It's 80 and sunny. A perfect day for the park. For most people. For my fair skinned children, it's too hot. Sorry, I should say it was too hot for my fair skinned whiners. Yup, I just called them whiners. Cause today, they were. From the moment we got out of the car, they whined. It's too hot. I want to ride the scooter. No, I don't want to ride the scooter. I want to ride in the stroller. No, I don't want to ride in the stroller...
We went for a walk on the trail, which is mostly shaded. In spite of this, they proceeded to whine about the heat some more, and then one over tired three-year-old decided that he didn't want to be in the stroller. Or out of the stroller. Or riding the scooter that he insisted we bring. No, he wanted to hang onto the side of the stroller, which his brother was also in, and have me push him. The stroller and two children weights about a hundred pounds. It's hard enough to push when everyone is sitting. It's about impossible to push with one child hanging precariously onto the side. I told him nicely it wasn't happening. He started to get off the stroller, and then saw that his six-year-old sister was vying for his seat in the stroller, so he decided to hold onto the side again. I told him firmly that I can't push the stroller like that. I told the six-year-old that she doesn't need a stroller. They both ignored me.
And then, I had an epiphany. I was done.
I was tired of being a nice mommy. For days, I have been having visions of me, a hotel room, and a bottle of vodka. Although that particular scenario is not an option (at the moment, but that may change. Mother's Day is coming up, after all), Nice Mommy really is long overdue for a sabbatical. I told a certain three-year-old to get his hiney back in the stroller, or out of the stroller, but to stop hanging onto the side, or we were leaving. He ignored me, and decided to hit his brother instead. Then his sister. I turned around and headed for the car, and informed them that our walk in the park was over (haha! Walk in the park? Whoever coined that expression obviously never took a walk in the park with three kids. There is absolutely nothing about a walk in the park that is a walk in the park). We walked back to the car. B was crying, begging, and pleading to go back to the trail. "Nope. Too late", I informed him. Nice Mommy is officially on sabbatical. Now Mean Mommy's in charge. Didn't see that one coming, did you pal?
As I buckled O into his car seat, B informed me that he was staying there, in the park. Mean Mommy put on her sweetest, fakest Nice Mommy voice, and said "OK, honey, but we're all leaving, so I'm not sure who's going to take care of you. Was there any family in particular that you were thinking of asking?". B changed his mind and decided to get in the car.
"Can I still get a hair cut mommy?" he asked.
"Maybe, " I tell him. "If you are quiet until we get there and don't touch anyone."
N was mysteriously quiet at this point. At one point, she started to say something, looked at me, and apparently changed her mind. Huh.
B promised he would be good. Let me tell you, I have heard that promise before, and he doesn't mean it. Mean Mommy decided that he must learn now that empty promises are unacceptable, lest he try this crap with his wife some day, and ends up divorced, penniless, and living in our basement when he's forty.
I leaned in close to B to make sure he heard me. "Listen to me," I tell him in my calmest Mean Mommy voice, "IF we go get your hair cut, you'd better be nice. No screaming, hitting, yelling, or running. If you don't behave yourself, I don't care if half your hair is cut, I don't care if the scissors are still attached to your hair, and I don't care if you've had time to pick out a toy, we will leave. At that moment". He looks at me and nods. Nice Mommy would probably feel kind of bad. Mean Mommy doesn't.
I noticed a woman walking by. She is young, thin, and wearing coordinated clothing. She does not have a gaggle of children with her. She probably gets her hair cut every six weeks. She probably has time to take long walks in the park every day, and her walks in the park are probably really walks in the park. I finish putting the kids, stroller, scooter, diaper bag, and helmets in the car, stopping only to read B the riot act again when he hits N.
As I get in the drivers seat, I notice that the woman has now stopped, and she is staring at our car. She is also writing in a notebook. I really want to ask her what she writing. My license number? Did she think I was serious about letting B stay here without us? Is she going to report me for child abandonment? Is she reporting me to CPS for denying my kids a hair cut? Maybe she just heard the words "scissors" and "head" and thinks I am threatening them with bodily harm. Or maybe she is writing this down, so when she gets home from her long leisurely walk in the park and her husband says "Honey, isn't it time we thought about having a baby?", she can read him the list of her observations about us before she looks at him sweetly and says, "Hell No".
But no, after thinking about it, I decided it's probably none of those things. Clearly, she was just taking notes, for when she does have her own gaggle of children.
How to be a Mean Mommy, Chapter One...
So glad I could help.
Thanks for reading! And no...of course he didn't end up getting his hair cut...but not for lack of trying.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Fifty Ways to Wake Your Mother...
I just love that old Paul Simon song, Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover, don't you? I mean, it came out in 1975--many, many years before I was born--but they still played it occasionally while I was growing up. I've been thinking about that song a lot lately, especially in the morning for some reason, as my sweet, gentle children are quietly climbing into bed with us. For some reason, though, the words in my head are a little different from how I remember them.
The problem is we can't all fit into your bed, they said to me
The answer is easy if you take it logically
We'd like to help you in your struggle to be free
There must be fifty ways to wake your mother.
They said it's really not our habit to intrude
Furthermore
We hope our meaning won't be lost or misconstrued
But we'll repeat ourselves at the risk of being crude
There must be fifty ways to wake your mother
Fifty ways to wake your mother
You just jump on her back, Jack
Swing from that fan, Stan
You can throw a toy,Roy
Just don't let her sleep
Throw her that bus,Gus
You don't need to discuss much
Just tell her you gotta pee, Lee
Just don't let her sleep
They said it grieves us so to see you in such pain
We wish there was something we could do to make you smile again
I said I appreciate that and would you please explain
About the fifty ways..
They said why don't we all just sleep here on it tonight
And we believe in the early morning you'll begin to see the damn sunlight
And then they kissed me and I realized they probably were right
There must be fifty ways to wake your mother
Fifty ways to wake your mother
You just jump on her back, Jack
Swing from that fan, Stan
You can throw a toy, Roy
Just don't Let her sleep...
Throw her that bus,Gus
You don't need to discuss much
Just tell her you gotta pee, Lee
Just don't let her sleep...
Friday, April 13, 2012
Roots And Wings...
We all know that we're supposed to give our children roots and wings.
Roots to give them a foundation. Something to be a part of. Something to ground them.
Wings so that they may fly. On their own. Without us.
Since my kids are all under age seven, I can go for long periods of time just focusing on the roots. I tell myself that the wings part will come later, and I can sometimes go for weeks actually believing that. But then there are times, like this week, when I am reminded that the wings part, to some extent, takes place now, too. I think, That's right, this is part of my job, too. And then I think how over-rated wings are.
It's counter intuitive, really.
Holding them close, and then pushing them away.
And yet, if we don't, we're only doing half of our job.
Earlier this week, B had his third swim class. This time, I had been asked to stay outside of the pool area, and watch through the one way glass. I promised him we'd get a cheeseburger for lunch if he did a good job. So I stood on the other side of the door, watching, as he laid on the concrete on the side of the pool and cried.
No, that's not really true. He didn't cry.
He sobbed.
Of course my initial reaction was to go in and tell him that I would sit right there and watch. But I had been asked not to, so I didn't. Instead, I waited, and just watched him. As he sobbed.
I thought of going into the pool area despite being asked not to. Then I thought of going in, grabbing him, and leaving. The instructor thought it would be a good thing for me to watch from behind the glass. But I was trying to figure out which part of this was good.
After obsessing for a few minutes, I decided that I needed to give it a chance, so that's what I did.
I stayed there and watched him sob, for the majority of the class. I came close to sobbing myself, for the majority of the class. And then, when the class was over, I went in and got him, and wrapped him in a towel. While he was still sobbing. And stating that he didn't want to learn how to swim.
I bought him a cheeseburger anyway, in the hopes that he would remember the cheeseburger, and not the trauma of the swim class when his mother wasn't there.
Today before school, N had an audition for the school talent show. Well, she was supposed to have an audition for the talent show. She had been excited about it for weeks. I suspected that there would be some drama as it got closer. She is only six, after all, and this would involve singing, on a stage, in front of people. Part of me had even thought I should tell her she needed to wait until next year. But then I figured it was probably better to let her try, and see how it goes.
We were actually drama free the whole time leading up to the audition. But then we got to the audition. And she saw that there were actually people there. And she started sobbing. She calmed down for a while, until it was her turn. Then she sobbed some more.
Ultimately, there was no audition. Which was just fine with me. But apparently, the only thing that made N sob more than the thought of an audition was the thought of not doing an audition. She declared that she wanted to go home with me instead of going to school. I actually thought about it, and looking at her tear streaked face, it was hard to tell her no. But I did.
She asked me to walk her to her class, which is highly frowned upon. I decided I didn't care, and walked her to class anyway.
Tonight in our house, no one was sobbing. Or even crying. It might have something to do with my new philosophy:
Screw you, wings.
I'm going back to my roots.
At least for now.
Roots to give them a foundation. Something to be a part of. Something to ground them.
Wings so that they may fly. On their own. Without us.
Since my kids are all under age seven, I can go for long periods of time just focusing on the roots. I tell myself that the wings part will come later, and I can sometimes go for weeks actually believing that. But then there are times, like this week, when I am reminded that the wings part, to some extent, takes place now, too. I think, That's right, this is part of my job, too. And then I think how over-rated wings are.
It's counter intuitive, really.
Holding them close, and then pushing them away.
And yet, if we don't, we're only doing half of our job.
Earlier this week, B had his third swim class. This time, I had been asked to stay outside of the pool area, and watch through the one way glass. I promised him we'd get a cheeseburger for lunch if he did a good job. So I stood on the other side of the door, watching, as he laid on the concrete on the side of the pool and cried.
No, that's not really true. He didn't cry.
He sobbed.
Of course my initial reaction was to go in and tell him that I would sit right there and watch. But I had been asked not to, so I didn't. Instead, I waited, and just watched him. As he sobbed.
I thought of going into the pool area despite being asked not to. Then I thought of going in, grabbing him, and leaving. The instructor thought it would be a good thing for me to watch from behind the glass. But I was trying to figure out which part of this was good.
After obsessing for a few minutes, I decided that I needed to give it a chance, so that's what I did.
I stayed there and watched him sob, for the majority of the class. I came close to sobbing myself, for the majority of the class. And then, when the class was over, I went in and got him, and wrapped him in a towel. While he was still sobbing. And stating that he didn't want to learn how to swim.
I bought him a cheeseburger anyway, in the hopes that he would remember the cheeseburger, and not the trauma of the swim class when his mother wasn't there.
Today before school, N had an audition for the school talent show. Well, she was supposed to have an audition for the talent show. She had been excited about it for weeks. I suspected that there would be some drama as it got closer. She is only six, after all, and this would involve singing, on a stage, in front of people. Part of me had even thought I should tell her she needed to wait until next year. But then I figured it was probably better to let her try, and see how it goes.
We were actually drama free the whole time leading up to the audition. But then we got to the audition. And she saw that there were actually people there. And she started sobbing. She calmed down for a while, until it was her turn. Then she sobbed some more.
Ultimately, there was no audition. Which was just fine with me. But apparently, the only thing that made N sob more than the thought of an audition was the thought of not doing an audition. She declared that she wanted to go home with me instead of going to school. I actually thought about it, and looking at her tear streaked face, it was hard to tell her no. But I did.
She asked me to walk her to her class, which is highly frowned upon. I decided I didn't care, and walked her to class anyway.
Tonight in our house, no one was sobbing. Or even crying. It might have something to do with my new philosophy:
Screw you, wings.
I'm going back to my roots.
At least for now.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
On Being a Good Shopper...
(Disclaimer: Yes, I realize that I have written several times about the grocery store. I actually thought about not writing this, because I didn't want people to start thinking of me as the mom who writes about the grocery store all the time. But the reality is, I have three kids and a husband who need to eat, and I have two kids still in diapers. Like it or not, the grocery store is a big part of my life. Yes, I find that sad, too. Fortunately for me, the grocery store is also right next to the liquor store).
So, I really try to be a good shopper. Really, I do. I don't use the express lane if I have more than 15 items. OK, fine, sometimes 16, but that's it. Although sometimes I do legitimately miscount and find that I have 17 or 18, but that's an honest mistake, so its forgiven, right? I smile at people even when I don't really feel like it. I engage in some degree of small talk with the cashiers, even when I wish they would just ring up my groceries and not ask me if I'm buying Tylenol because I have a headache (Nope. Cramps. Want me to tell you more about that?), or if the kids get their red hair from my husband (Nope. Mailman. Or maybe the UPS guy. Who can keep track?). I don't leave my cart in the middle of the aisle--well, unless there are glass jars on the shelves at O's eye level--then I figure blocking the aisle is preferable to our fellow shoppers having to dodge flying shards of glass.
I even follow the shopping cart rules--well, OK sometimes B rides in the back, but he never, ever stands up back there. Not for very long, anyway. I even put my cart back in the little cart house--well, assuming we're not parked half a mile away from the cart house, and the kids aren't already strapped into their car seats. I mean, people have actually gotten arrested for child endangerment for leaving their kids in the car while they returned their cart. Sorry, but if comes down to kids or carts, I'm choosing kids.
My point is, I do try. And obviously, the people at our grocery store know this, since if you'll recall, I was personally selected to be a member of the elite Manager's Club at our store. But yesterday, I'm thinking maybe they forgot that I'm a member of the elite Manager's Club. I had taken B and O to the store, and we were checking out, when B was clearly getting restless. O was in the cart, but of course I picked the cart with the seat belt that doesn't work. The very talkative cashier is handing me my receipt as B decides to push the cart, with O in it but not strapped in, away from the cash register and into the Muppets DVD display. The display tips over. The cart, fortunately, does not. Several Muppets DVDs are on the floor, but most are still at least halfway in the cardboard display, which is kind of dented and leaning precariously on one side.
"Oh God" the cashier says as she rolls her eyes. I smile, say thank you, and put out my hand, thinking she will hand me my receipt, since obviously I need to go. Now. B backs the cart out of the DVD display. O is still in it, but I'm thinking not for long. The lady is beginning her spiel. I know this spiel, because I hear it every time I am here. Thank customer by name, tell customer how many gas points she has, tell customer how many bonus point she has. Hey, I have an idea for another one. How about, "assume customer has half a clue and can actually read all of this off of her own damn receipt when she gets home".
"Thank you Mrs...uh, lets see.." she is staring at my receipt, stuck on the part where she's supposed to thank me by name.
"Its OK, thanks, but I really have to go", I tell her. She ignores me and finds my last name. B is now pushing the cart and O toward the exit. "Lets see, you have...:" She is looking to see how many gas points I have.
"Its OK. I can read it", I tell her with a smile, "I really need to go now."
She ignores me. She happily tells me how many gas points I have, then looks at me expectantly, as if she has just given me a gift, and I'm supposed to thank her. I think she may be waiting for me to hug her. I want to remind her that I did spend a ridiculous amount of money on groceries, after all, to get those gas points.
She is still not handing over the receipt.
B narrowly avoids pushing the cart into an elderly shopper.
"It looks like you have..." She is obviously not going to stop until she also tells me how many bonus points I have.
I contemplate grabbing the receipt out of her hand. I am no longer smiling.
B still has a ways to go before he reaches the exit, but I cannot believe that she is holding me and my receipt hostage while my three-year-old pushes my unrestrained one-year-old away in a shopping cart. She already saw what he could do to a DVD display. Stacks of cookies and glass bottles of iced tea are now in his path. She ain't seen nothing yet.
Finally, she finds the information she is looking for on my receipt, and tells me how many reward points I have. Like I give a soon to be flying fig newton. I grab the receipt and catch up with B and O just before B rams the shopping cart into the back of some unsuspecting shopper.
I had planned to pick up the DVD display, but in my haste to catch up with B and O, I didn't have a chance. I decide I really don't care.
And then, from behind me, I hear the cashier's voice loudly say, " Um, excuse me? The Muppets have a little problem back here".
She is clearly talking to me. I'm thinking that whatever problem the Muppets have is nothing compared to the one she's going to have if I have to turn this shopping cart-with one unrestrained child and another now hanging illegally onto the side--around. I contemplate doing just that, but since I suddenly have an incredibly strong desire to throw something at her, I decide it's probably better to just keep walking. As we walk to the car, I fantasize about telling her exactly where she can put Kermit and Miss Piggy.
I also want to ask her if she knows who I am. After all, I am a member of the elite Manager's Club. And they don't just hand those memberships out to anyone. You have to really be someone.
Someone who spends way too much time and money at this store. Someone who just left Kermit and Miss Piggy laying on the floor, without even offering them a hand up. Like I give a frog's leg.
Someone who's going to start having her groceries delivered to her home. Very, very soon.
So, I really try to be a good shopper. Really, I do. I don't use the express lane if I have more than 15 items. OK, fine, sometimes 16, but that's it. Although sometimes I do legitimately miscount and find that I have 17 or 18, but that's an honest mistake, so its forgiven, right? I smile at people even when I don't really feel like it. I engage in some degree of small talk with the cashiers, even when I wish they would just ring up my groceries and not ask me if I'm buying Tylenol because I have a headache (Nope. Cramps. Want me to tell you more about that?), or if the kids get their red hair from my husband (Nope. Mailman. Or maybe the UPS guy. Who can keep track?). I don't leave my cart in the middle of the aisle--well, unless there are glass jars on the shelves at O's eye level--then I figure blocking the aisle is preferable to our fellow shoppers having to dodge flying shards of glass.
I even follow the shopping cart rules--well, OK sometimes B rides in the back, but he never, ever stands up back there. Not for very long, anyway. I even put my cart back in the little cart house--well, assuming we're not parked half a mile away from the cart house, and the kids aren't already strapped into their car seats. I mean, people have actually gotten arrested for child endangerment for leaving their kids in the car while they returned their cart. Sorry, but if comes down to kids or carts, I'm choosing kids.
My point is, I do try. And obviously, the people at our grocery store know this, since if you'll recall, I was personally selected to be a member of the elite Manager's Club at our store. But yesterday, I'm thinking maybe they forgot that I'm a member of the elite Manager's Club. I had taken B and O to the store, and we were checking out, when B was clearly getting restless. O was in the cart, but of course I picked the cart with the seat belt that doesn't work. The very talkative cashier is handing me my receipt as B decides to push the cart, with O in it but not strapped in, away from the cash register and into the Muppets DVD display. The display tips over. The cart, fortunately, does not. Several Muppets DVDs are on the floor, but most are still at least halfway in the cardboard display, which is kind of dented and leaning precariously on one side.
"Oh God" the cashier says as she rolls her eyes. I smile, say thank you, and put out my hand, thinking she will hand me my receipt, since obviously I need to go. Now. B backs the cart out of the DVD display. O is still in it, but I'm thinking not for long. The lady is beginning her spiel. I know this spiel, because I hear it every time I am here. Thank customer by name, tell customer how many gas points she has, tell customer how many bonus point she has. Hey, I have an idea for another one. How about, "assume customer has half a clue and can actually read all of this off of her own damn receipt when she gets home".
"Thank you Mrs...uh, lets see.." she is staring at my receipt, stuck on the part where she's supposed to thank me by name.
"Its OK, thanks, but I really have to go", I tell her. She ignores me and finds my last name. B is now pushing the cart and O toward the exit. "Lets see, you have...:" She is looking to see how many gas points I have.
"Its OK. I can read it", I tell her with a smile, "I really need to go now."
She ignores me. She happily tells me how many gas points I have, then looks at me expectantly, as if she has just given me a gift, and I'm supposed to thank her. I think she may be waiting for me to hug her. I want to remind her that I did spend a ridiculous amount of money on groceries, after all, to get those gas points.
She is still not handing over the receipt.
B narrowly avoids pushing the cart into an elderly shopper.
"It looks like you have..." She is obviously not going to stop until she also tells me how many bonus points I have.
I contemplate grabbing the receipt out of her hand. I am no longer smiling.
B still has a ways to go before he reaches the exit, but I cannot believe that she is holding me and my receipt hostage while my three-year-old pushes my unrestrained one-year-old away in a shopping cart. She already saw what he could do to a DVD display. Stacks of cookies and glass bottles of iced tea are now in his path. She ain't seen nothing yet.
Finally, she finds the information she is looking for on my receipt, and tells me how many reward points I have. Like I give a soon to be flying fig newton. I grab the receipt and catch up with B and O just before B rams the shopping cart into the back of some unsuspecting shopper.
I had planned to pick up the DVD display, but in my haste to catch up with B and O, I didn't have a chance. I decide I really don't care.
And then, from behind me, I hear the cashier's voice loudly say, " Um, excuse me? The Muppets have a little problem back here".
She is clearly talking to me. I'm thinking that whatever problem the Muppets have is nothing compared to the one she's going to have if I have to turn this shopping cart-with one unrestrained child and another now hanging illegally onto the side--around. I contemplate doing just that, but since I suddenly have an incredibly strong desire to throw something at her, I decide it's probably better to just keep walking. As we walk to the car, I fantasize about telling her exactly where she can put Kermit and Miss Piggy.
I also want to ask her if she knows who I am. After all, I am a member of the elite Manager's Club. And they don't just hand those memberships out to anyone. You have to really be someone.
Someone who spends way too much time and money at this store. Someone who just left Kermit and Miss Piggy laying on the floor, without even offering them a hand up. Like I give a frog's leg.
Someone who's going to start having her groceries delivered to her home. Very, very soon.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
When You Wish Upon A.....
It's Spring Break in NBO land. Just the thought of a whole week of no school makes me incredibly happy. An entire week of not having to rush to get N to the bus in the morning, trying to convince her to let me brush her hair as B is repeatedly asking me to turn on Mickey Mouse, and O is screaming for pancakes. A whole week of not having to listen to the School Day Morning Medley that plays in our house:
Ouch! Mickey Mouse! Pancake! Mickey Mouse! Ouch! Pancake!
I was hoping that, one of these mornings, I may even get the chance to hear myself think. But yesterday morning, I realized that the Spring Break Morning Medley is pretty similar to the School Day Morning Medley.
Mickey Mouse! Pancake! Mickey Mouse! Pancake!
Since I still had to brush N's hair before we left the house--just a little later than usual-- she got to do a solo.
Ouch!!!!
Ok, so maybe Spring Break mornings aren't going to live up to my expectations. Spring break is still a good thing. The kids get to spend a lot more time together, which always makes myeye twitch heart swell with joy. It's so great when they are able to drive each other crazy play happily together for a whole day. N was a little disappointed that we weren't going to Disney World like a few of her friends from school, and kept asking what we were going to do on Spring break, but I explained that we will still have fun--enjoying not being on a schedule, and just spending time together. We also get to see friends we don't see much when everyone's in school, and they get to stay up a little later than usual.
Last night, for example, we let the kids stay up late and we had a fire in the backyard. (This was Jimmy's idea. He told N and B that if they picked up all the sticks in the yard and brought them to the fire pit, he would build a fire. No sticks. No fire. Smart man. I'm totally stealing this strategy. Today I'm going to tell them that, if they weed and rototill the whole yard, we'll plant some flowers. No weeding and rototilling. No flowers.) So last night, because I wasn't up for playing "How long until O falls or is pushed into the fire", we put him to bed, and Jimmy, N, B, and I sat outside around the fire. We noticed that alot of stars were visible last night, so we were looking for constellations (yes, I said looking for, not looking at. Since we're pretty clueless in this area, we couldn't look up at the sky and say "Look, kids! There's Orion!" Instead, we played "Hey! Who can find a bunch of stars that look like...anything?")
At one point, Jimmy said "Wow, look! A shooting star!" We all saw it, but the thing was, it wasn't exactly shooting, or even falling. It was just moving, very slowly across the sky, and then it disappeared. We thought this was odd, but since we knew it wasn't a plane, we decided it had to be a shooting--or at least meandering--star. "Quick!" We told the kids, "Make a wish!" N happily informed us that she already had. A few minutes later, we saw another one. Again, it didn't shoot, or even fall, but made it's way slowly across the sky before disappearing. Again, N made a wish. Jimmy and I looked at each other, thinking maybe these weren't stars after all, but since they looked exactly like stars, and didn't have flashing lights like planes, and since they disappeared, we figured they had to be stars. Jimmy asked N what her wish was, and she told him she couldn't tell since then it wouldn't come true. B, meanwhile, decided that he didn't care about shooting--or meandering--stars. He was much more fascinated by his juice box melting in the fire pit.
A few minutes later, we saw another meandering star, and now even N was questioning what we were seeing. In fact, she informed us that "This is really freaking me out". We assured her it was nothing to freak out about, thought maybe these weren't shooting stars after all. She relaxed, before rolling her eyes and asking, "Did you really just have me wish upon a plane?"
Of course not, honey.
Apparently, we had you wish upon an iridium satellite.
Now how many kids can say they got to do that on Spring Break?
Ouch! Mickey Mouse! Pancake! Mickey Mouse! Ouch! Pancake!
I was hoping that, one of these mornings, I may even get the chance to hear myself think. But yesterday morning, I realized that the Spring Break Morning Medley is pretty similar to the School Day Morning Medley.
Mickey Mouse! Pancake! Mickey Mouse! Pancake!
Since I still had to brush N's hair before we left the house--just a little later than usual-- she got to do a solo.
Ouch!!!!
Ok, so maybe Spring Break mornings aren't going to live up to my expectations. Spring break is still a good thing. The kids get to spend a lot more time together, which always makes my
Last night, for example, we let the kids stay up late and we had a fire in the backyard. (This was Jimmy's idea. He told N and B that if they picked up all the sticks in the yard and brought them to the fire pit, he would build a fire. No sticks. No fire. Smart man. I'm totally stealing this strategy. Today I'm going to tell them that, if they weed and rototill the whole yard, we'll plant some flowers. No weeding and rototilling. No flowers.) So last night, because I wasn't up for playing "How long until O falls or is pushed into the fire", we put him to bed, and Jimmy, N, B, and I sat outside around the fire. We noticed that alot of stars were visible last night, so we were looking for constellations (yes, I said looking for, not looking at. Since we're pretty clueless in this area, we couldn't look up at the sky and say "Look, kids! There's Orion!" Instead, we played "Hey! Who can find a bunch of stars that look like...anything?")
At one point, Jimmy said "Wow, look! A shooting star!" We all saw it, but the thing was, it wasn't exactly shooting, or even falling. It was just moving, very slowly across the sky, and then it disappeared. We thought this was odd, but since we knew it wasn't a plane, we decided it had to be a shooting--or at least meandering--star. "Quick!" We told the kids, "Make a wish!" N happily informed us that she already had. A few minutes later, we saw another one. Again, it didn't shoot, or even fall, but made it's way slowly across the sky before disappearing. Again, N made a wish. Jimmy and I looked at each other, thinking maybe these weren't stars after all, but since they looked exactly like stars, and didn't have flashing lights like planes, and since they disappeared, we figured they had to be stars. Jimmy asked N what her wish was, and she told him she couldn't tell since then it wouldn't come true. B, meanwhile, decided that he didn't care about shooting--or meandering--stars. He was much more fascinated by his juice box melting in the fire pit.
A few minutes later, we saw another meandering star, and now even N was questioning what we were seeing. In fact, she informed us that "This is really freaking me out". We assured her it was nothing to freak out about, thought maybe these weren't shooting stars after all. She relaxed, before rolling her eyes and asking, "Did you really just have me wish upon a plane?"
Of course not, honey.
Apparently, we had you wish upon an iridium satellite.
Now how many kids can say they got to do that on Spring Break?
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Excited To Announce...
We have something exciting to announce. A new addition! We are all excited about it. Well, ok, truth be told, I am excited about it. No one else really cares. Including Jimmy. In fact, I don't think he even knows about it yet. I guess I should tell him, but it's been a busy few days around here, and it just hasn't seemed that important. And really, once I do tell him, he may not even want to see it. He's just not that into it. In truth, he'd rather be fishing. And really, I'm ok with it. I mean, it's not like he had anything to do with starting it all. It was all me. As you can imagine, I will be pretty busy with the new addition, and may not have as much time to be writing here, but I still plan on keeping the NBO Chronicles going. After all, the NBO Chronicles was here first, and it should take precedence over the new one.
So I hope you'll take a minute to check out the new addition, and maybe even share it with your friends. I would love it if you would sign up to follow it!
The new blog can be found at familymattersmom.blogspot.com, and it deals more with my thoughts and experiences as a therapist, as opposed to my thoughts and experiences with diapers, temper tantrums, and tequila.
Yes, I said my new blog. Why, what did you think I meant?
As always, thanks for reading!
P.S...Happy April Fool's Day. (But yes, there really is a new blog).
So I hope you'll take a minute to check out the new addition, and maybe even share it with your friends. I would love it if you would sign up to follow it!
The new blog can be found at familymattersmom.blogspot.com, and it deals more with my thoughts and experiences as a therapist, as opposed to my thoughts and experiences with diapers, temper tantrums, and tequila.
Yes, I said my new blog. Why, what did you think I meant?
As always, thanks for reading!
P.S...Happy April Fool's Day. (But yes, there really is a new blog).
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