Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Let's get ready to rumble!!!!!!!

I almost pity The Man's job.
They really made our attorney mad.
Very mad.
Spitting, swearing, "Oh my God I'm an attorney and I love this part of my job mad!"
And I'm just going to sit here and eat my popcorn and watch the show.

Monday, August 25, 2008

From the bowels of . . . my babies

My children love bodily functions. (Okay, so do their dad and I, but my kids are raising it to an art form!)
Bug is a champion burper. Give him a drink, he'll belch it for you. Repeatedly and with increasing fervor. And he'll say excuse me every time. Every time he does it in your face.
Boo is my stanky child. His poops will not only clear the room but burn your nose hairs off.
It's one of those moments where I yell, "What has your mother been feeding you?" and then I realize I am his mother, I know what he's been eating, and somewhere, in the depths of that small body, it has become toxic goo.
Oh Punk! My sweet baby girl is gas machine. She'll toot when she rolls, hiccups, sleeps, or grins. She lives her leg to let the aroma flow. She even freaked her poor dad out by tooting on his finger when he applied diaper cream.
My children are well versed in their bodily functions.
Bug has to announce every bathroom trip, and, if he does number 2, he yells loudly for us to come see what he's done.
And he describes the size and number of floating nuggets with obvious love and joy.
And if they are really big, he brags.
Boo is currently starting the road to potty trained success. Which means we're in love with an Elmo potty seat and he giggles with glee at the mention of *gasp* underwear!
Punk is hopeless. She laughs at all manner or noises emitted by her body and everyone else's. She thinks the bubble sin the bathtub are cause for celebration and squeals of joy. She doesn't seem to mind the stench her brothers regularly emit.
She thinks it funny.
She's a sick, sick child.
It's times like this where I shake my head and very devoutly place the blame squarely on their father's shoulders.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Sleep. . .the final frontier

I haven't had a good night sleep in over a week.
No, scratch that. I haven't had a good night sleep since I got married thirteen years ago.
And its partially my husband's fault.
The Man snores. Loudly.
He has a rather prominent nose--okay, we'll be kind and called in Romanesque-- and the amount of air needed to pass through it passages is staggering.
That amount of suction creates a lot of noise.
Think about sleeping next to a wind tunnel and you're a fraction of the way there.
I don't blame him. Much. Not everyone can be blessed with cute button noses that don't require their own zip code.
But, with so little sleep, I'm fussy, and looking for someplace to place the blame.
Tha Man's nose can handle it. Believe me.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Whay oh why do they want to go there so badly?

Have you ever noticed your children seem to want to visit the emergency room?
I don't remember it being much fun myself, but my kids all seem determined to go there.
They furniture dive, run amok and into furniture, fall off of beds, hit their heads, you name it, I think they've tried it.
This weekend, Boo decided it would be fun to spin in my office chair.
Until he fell over in it, hitting his head on a metal floor furnace grate and splitting it open.
Out comes Dr. Mom. Looking at it, it may have needed one suture.
So I weigh the options of taking him in, shelling out the copay for them to shave his head, lidocaine him (which burns) and put one suture in his head.
After much deliberation and debate (with myself--The Man left it up to me, feigning faint heartedness at the sight of blood) I opted not to take him in. Then had a sleepless night checking on him.
Why are kids so rough and tumble? Why does common sense kick in so late in life, if at all?
What in God's name is so much fun at the emergency room that my kids all want to go there quickly, not passing go and not collecting the $200 bucks, which would certainly help with the bill?

Friday, August 15, 2008

The mother/daughter dynamite . . er, dynamic?

I've always been on the receiving end of the mother/daughter relationship. You know, the good side--the daughter side.

But I find myself standing on the wrong side of the winners circle staring at my female heathen in awe and horror.

Awe: She's really cute, a great snuggler, and is a genuinely happy baby.

Horror: She's playing me like an old, well tuned violin.

Punk has recently learned to crawl. Or so I've been told by my husband, who has actually seen her crawl. But when I'm around, she lays there, flapping her arms and legs and shrieking until I finally (twenty minutes later) break down and pick her up.

She'll have eaten just a few minutes before I get home, but when I walk in the door, the boobs better be out and in the nursing position or the child is frantic and inconsolable.

When Punk sees me, she must have me. She will lunge out of her daddy's arms, grab handfuls of my hair, and then shimmy over and up any obstacle to reach me, where she will plan full, open mouthed, tongued kissed on my face until she finally finds my mouth. (I hoped we'd be close, but not that close!)

If I'm eating it, she wants it. If I have it, it must be interesting, so she wants it. If I'm doing it, I must stop it because nothing is as important and devoting my entire undivided attention my my own Baby Bin Laden.

I'm not exactly a mama novice. My boys weren't like this. They were happy to see me, but not obsessive, clingy, "oh my God child let me breathe" kind of babies.

I'm being held hostage by a twenty pound chunk of baby flesh that will brook no arguments, will not barter for my release, and refuses all offers of ransom.

If this is the mother/daughter dynamic, I'm in big trouble.

Thursday, August 14, 2008

Just when you think life can't drop another steamy pile on your shoulders, it surprises you with more nuggets of joy. (Sense the sarcasm in that statement?)
The Man's injuries are getting better, but more complications are arising that need to be dealt with. Possibly six more weeks of complications.
Due to the response from his work, we hired an attorney. This was not something we wanted to do, but when its a choice between a crippled, not just maimed, husband and potentially getting a good portion of usage back, we do what we have to.
Now his job wants to play hard ball.
Now I'm mad. The Man is mad. Our kids are even mad, and our attorney's mad. (He's an attorney and he loves his job)
They haven't seen hard balls yet.

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Future exotic dancer

My daughter, albeit a bit young for it, has decided to become a stripper.
At only 7 1/2 months.
Twice today, she has confounded and bewildered her father (which, admittedly, isn't hard to do) by stripping out of her diaper and lounging around naked as the day she was born. (Although distinctly less slimey and much less bloody.)
She has an accomplice in Bug, who carries away the offending diaper each time.
When The Man sees her, she just lays back and grins at him. She knows he won't do anything except fuss and bluster a bit--then call me for help.
I think there is a pole and four inch heels in her future.
I guess a girl's gotta make a living somehow.

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

The Gift of Gab

My middle child has turned into a talker overnight.
Boo went from have garbled strings of nonsensical words that might make sense to full on sentences and phrases that not only demand recognition but an answer--and fast!
And it happened in just an instant.
He went to bed one night talking like a toddler and woke up the Speaker of the House.
Last night, exhausted, foot sore, and ready to collapse, i was greeted by my middle child, who launched into a full soliloquy about his day, my day, the computer, his bear, the printer, the bathroom, his brother, his sister, and anything else that caught his fancy.
I tried to escape the torrent of words by retreating into the inner sanctuary (i.e the bathroom), but he stood outside the door and asked about my well being.
I went to my bedroom and crawled into the closet, surreptitiously looking for silence while claiming I was looking for some lost treasure.
He followed me. And when The Man tried to shoo him from the room, The Man--and here's the irony--shut Boo's middle finger in the door not once, but twice.
So then I was compelled by parental guilt to come out of the closet to handle my maimed, crying son, while laughing at the irony of The Man shutting his son's middle finger in the door when the middle finger is one that he lost 10 weeks ago.
Once recovered, I realized there was no escape. I was treated to a dissertation on popcorn and milk until bedtime.
I simple sat there, nodding encouragingly while trying to focus anywhere else.
Boo certainly has the gift of gab.
In spades.
Oh boy!

Monday, August 11, 2008

Back to school

It's that time again. Back to school.
Fortunately, I'm still a BTS (back to school) virgin. My kids aren't quite old enough. But this is the last year I won't be thrown into the fray of binders, school supplies, and new clothes.
Bug will be four the end of September, so his birthday is too late for him to start school this year. (Although he's big enough he looks like he could whoop a second graders tail!)
But next year, our lives will begin revolving around school days, activities, field trips, etc.
Luckily, The Man will make a great homeroom dad.
(Me? I barely tolerate my own kids most days, let alone anyone elses. You think I'm willingly walking into a class of 20+ 4 years olds?)
Seriously, it's hard to believe that baby I once held in my arms now looks like a school age child.
I found myself holding him this weekend, sniffing his hair.
Which, although freshly shampooed, was most definitely not scented with Ode de Baby. It was just Boy Stank.
As I tried to curl my arms around his long, bony frame, I remembered feeling his soft, squishy weight after he was born.
Looking at those ski's we call feet, I could remember when they were small enough to cup in my hand.
I can also remember when that child didn't look quite so much like his father and looked more like his stunningly hot mama.
Those were the days.
Then i looked at my middle child, my Boo, realizing I only have two years before he starts the same vicious cycle. In the past two weeks, he has ceased to look like a chubby toddler, shooting up and slimming down just like his big brother.
For the first time, I can see the man my boys will one day be.
Let me just say now, they will be hotties.
And the female sex--and the male sex-- better stay away until they have their PHd's and even then, should only sniff around if they want their noses rearranged.
Not kidding.
I'm teaching Punk to hit first and ask questions later.
It's sad to realize that they are growing up so quickly.
It's sad to realize that my body remembers every time I hold them how small they once were.
It's sad to realize that by the time they are in fourth grade, they'll most likely be taller than I am at this rate.
My babies are growing up far to fast.
But not fast enough to pay for some of the groceries they are scarfing down.
Life just isn't fair.

Friday, August 8, 2008

Theological foreplay

It is no mystery that my husband and I have different religious/spiritual beliefs.
Really? You're surprised?
Just to clear the air . . . I'm married to one of those people.
You know the ones. Christians.
(Okay, I'm joking. Not about being married a Christian but with the "those" people comments. Some of my best friends, The Man excluded 'cause he's on the list, are Christians.)
He and I have very different religious views. He's Christian, and, for lack of a better term, I'm pagan.
Before you get your knickers in a twist, that does not involve worshipping Satan. Really, horned guys don't do a thing for me. Now horny guys . . . well, that's a different matter entirely.
While my husband believes the doctrine and creed of Christianity, I hold to a view that doesn't disbelieve in any religion. Instead, I believe they are all parts of a greater whole. I believe that we all take the portion that makes sense to us, because our fragile human minds could not grasp or fathom the entirety of the Divine.
Nope, no disbelief here.
But I am curious why Christians feel the need to do some things.
Tithing? Completely in the dark there. Your God doesn't want your money--He/She could make their own very easily. Nope, the church wants it. Hmmmmm. I wonder why?
Baptizing is another. You want to be dunked in tap water to wash away your sins? In treated tap water, not even purified bottled water. Just straight from teh tap with all the chemicals and stuff? Not exactly what I would call holy water.
And what's with the proselytizing? Can't you be happy in your own spirituality without chasing down innocent people to share the Word of Christ? If we want the word, we'll find you. I promise. Scout's honor.
Truthfully, some Christians remind me of pushy Amway people--always there when you don't want them and they just won't leave you alone.
If someone is happy in themselves, is at peace with themselves, has their own belief system, why do you feel the need to intrude?
We're happy. We're healthy. We have a relationship--or not--with the Divine. Our choice, not yours.
Are you so insecure in your own choice that you have to force it upon others? Or are you so blinded by your own beliefs that you cannot see that, though we are all moving towards the same end point, we're all just walking different paths?
My path runs parallel to The Man's. Hopefully, (be proud honey 'cause this is killing me to type this) I'll meet him in the end zone. He'll be the one strutting like a drunk chicken about to drop dead.
"Yep, that's my man there. Ain't he swell?"
Just leave me to my path and I'll leave you to yours.

Bedroom Wrestling

And not the fun kind.
After The Man's bone- headed (*giggle* bone headed) move two night ago, bedroom wrestling and fun have probably ceased for a good, long time.
Bug woke up in the middle of the night. He decided he wasn't going to sleep in his own bed.
So The Man (insert expletives) brought him to ours.
Instead of realizing that the child would have fallen back to sleep in his own bed if given time, he brought Bug to ours.
Instead of realizing there was a huge size difference, he brought him to ours.
Instead of being the parent in charge, he brought him to ours.
Admittedly, he didn't want the other kids --who would have fallen back to sleep--woken up.
So he brought Bug to our bed.
And the wrestling match ensued.
Bug is not only a bed hog, he's a pillow hog and a snuggler.
I had six inches of the bed and two of my pillow, and I had to kick, scream, and claw for that!
In the middle of the night, Bug rose up from where he was stuck to my side, flopped over on me, and tried to go to sleep. When I reached out to lay him down, he went berserk, flaying, grabbing, and fighting, until I had to wake The Man up for backup.
While he got Bug settled back into bed, I huddled in the corner, pulling out my hair one strand at a time.
If having our oldest sleeping in our bed doesn't give me PTSD, nothing will.

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

Exhaustion--thy name is mother

Have you ever noticed that before you had kids, you were probably tired, but not exhausted?
The difference?

Tired--you can take a nap to catch up.
Exhausted--you're kids can take a nap while you clean squash off of the ceiling fan.

Tired--you still have the energy to fool around.
Exhausted--if your husband so much as looks at you, you burst into tears, threaten to smother him with a pillow, and point at the children in accusation.

Tired-- a Venti Caramel Frappacino is the perfect pick me up.
Exhausted--you don't want to be picked up. the floor, although hardwood and cold, is so comfortable. And the dust bunnies peering out from under the couch don't mind the company.

I was tired before I had children.
Now I'm perpetually exhausted. I find myself fantasizing about sleep, daydreaming about sleep. I crave it. I need it. I want it more powerfully than I have ever wanted anything.
And it is an elusive dream, just outside of my grasp.
Held hostage in the chubby, grubby hands of my three small heathen children.

Monday, August 4, 2008

The power of boys

Did you know boys have power?
It's kind of like the girl power stuff that was all the rage a few years ago.
What power, you ask?
Well, for one, they appear to be indestructible--in their own minds.
My boys have discovered the oh so fun world of furniture diving. Right onto a not terribly full, not so secure bean bag chair positioned in the middle of the living room floor--the hardwood floor.
Bug is smart enough to test drive it on Boo. I guess he figures if Boo breaks his neck, it wasn't a good idea. Boo, being the happy, amiable child he is, goes along--flying through the air and landing with a thump that makes my body hurt just to hear it.
Another power? Superhuman appetites.
When motivated, they can out eat an adult. Bug inhaled four corn dogs and an order of fries--Boo followed with two corn dogs and fries--then begged for desert.
I don't know where they put in on their skinny boy frames. If I ate like that . . . . I'd look like I do right now.
Third power? Glass shattering screams--both of abject terror (aka Mom's Mad and everyone run!) or joy (normally elicited by their foolish father who thinks its funny to hear them screaming as he sits on them and passes gas). Or maybe I had the emotions in those examples backwards, because the second would make me scream in terror.
My children, my boys especially, are amazing in the things they concoct to do, say, think, enact, or even breath upon. Every day is an adventure for which I am poorly prepared.
As a girl, albeit an old one, I never would have considered half the stuff they have already tried.
And the best is yet to come.
Admittedly, I kind of like my boys. When they are freshly bathed, sweet smelling, and asleep. Unfortunately, I most often get them covered in sweat and other substances, yelling, running, belching, and farting.
Sneaking in after they've gone to sleep to watch them is a joy.
Surviving their alert hours is an experience.
The best part of the whole deal?
I still have a daughter to bring up the rear and a whole new set of adventures elicited by another gendered child.

Four going on Fourteen

Before I became a mother, I had visions of pretty, perfect babies who slept through the night and breastfed like champs
I saw early, crawlers, walkers, and talkers.
I dreamed of please, thanks you, yes ma'am and no sir.
And then I woke up to a child taking poop out of his diaper, smearing it around, and advising me that "Mmmmm, Mommy. Tastes good."
I'm made of pretty stern stuff (as evidence by the above anecdote which resulted in a few gags and a ton of disinfectant, coupled with some mutterings about Th Man's hillbilly DNA).
But I m nowhere near prepared for adolescence.
Which my four year old, Bug, has glibly skipped over childhood and landed right in the middle of that steamy, fragrant pile.
He tells everyone no, followed by what he will do. Which normally results in my head spinning around and my inner demon coming out.
The child eyes me suspiciously, but isn't smart enough to whip out the cross and Holy water before things get ugly.
No, he thinks diving beneath the furniture is the solution.
You know those stories about moms who can lift cars off of their children?
Not me.
I move furniture to get to my children.
Often one handed.
Leaving one hand free to grope until it comes in contact with a body part--any body part--while I hear myself snarling and snapping, saliva dripping from the corners of my mouth.
Then, while explaining that his brain has evidently stopped functioning for him to think that he could ever get away with whatever infraction he enacted, we sit in time out.
Yes, we.
It's my cooling off period.
Or at least it would be if he would shut his mouth and do the time for his crime.
Nope. He's his mama's boy. He just keeps talking.
Digging a nice deep hole and making my left eye twitch dangerously.
I've taken to meditating on why killing my offspring is frowned upon.
The list is really getting short,
Main selling points? The clean up and the fact that I look awful in prison orange.
So far, those thoughts are keeping the demon contained.
I don't know how long that will last.
But if this is my precursor to having a teen-ager, I'm submitting my letter of resignation effective four years ago.