Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Sliding in a winter wonderland!

Sleigh bells ring! Are you listening?
I'm a'fallen, the ice is glistening!
a pitiful sight. I'm broken tonight.
Slipping in a winter wonderland!

We have had a crap load of snow dropped on our state in the past week.
It has closed roads, school, and canceled Christmas with family who lived in town.
I have been sliding everywhere I've ventured in the past week.
In my car. On my feet. on my well cushioned arse as it hit the ice and slid down a hill.
I am my own toboggan, thank you very much.
My children love it.
Or they did for the fifteen minutes they were allowed out in it.
After thirty plus minutes of preparation to protect them from the cold and to make bathroom trips an endeavor.
Think of that stupid movie A Christmas Story."
(And, no, honey, mentioning it in this blog does not make it a classic movie, just a pop culture reference utilized to make a point. It is still a stupid movie and a waste of my time.)
Our Giant Schnauzer loves it, but then again, he's an idiot, so it's understandable.
I hate it. I hate the fact that i am now adult enough not to have visions of snowballs fights and snow forts dancing through my head. I hate it that all I can picture is getting stranded with three small children.
I hate it that my first thought was to stock up on food just in case.
I hate it, that when the first snow flake fell, I morphed into an adult with responsibilities who couldn't enjoy the beauty of the snow because I was concentrating on not driving off the road when my windshield wipers froze and wouldn't work.
In short, I really hate the snow.
And getting old.
And "The Christmas Story," just to round out the trilogy.

Saturday, December 26, 2009

Happy birthday Punk!

My daughter, my wee little evil midget, Punk, turns two today.
Seems like only a heartbeat ago that she was in my tummy and I was trying to end our time share arrangement.
She was the surprise baby, the unplanned but wanted child.
She was the last surprise I've really enjoyed in life.
Punk is her daddy's joy, my laughter, and our families only girl grandchild.
She is rotten, spoiled, temperamental, loud, rough, sweet, girly, and in other words, a perfect Punk.
It is amazing, after two boys, how different having a little girl is.
She is definitely feminine, until it's time to get down and dirty. Then she's worse than the boys.
Punk has been practicing her feminine wiles since she figured out if she cooed and giggled, the men in her life would give her what she wanted.
She has perfected it to an art now.
And when someone doesn't capitulate quickly enough, she channels her inner banshee and glass shatters.
Punk is my last baby, the culmination of a family and a dream my husband and I didn't know we had. She is the marichino cherry on our sundae, the Cool whip on our pie. She makes the five of us a whole unit.
She, like her brothers, makes The Man and I laugh so hard we occasionally wet ourselves. And then she curls up and snuggles (once we've changed out pee dampened pants, that is!)
She is Punk. She is Perfect. She is Princess Piss pot.
And we love her.
Whole bunches. (Imagine baby arms thrown as wide as they can reach.)
Happy birthday, Punkin girl.

Monday, December 21, 2009

His and mine

The Man and I have neatly divided our children as though we were King Soloman.
Not by our choice.
By theirs.
Bug has announced with vim and vigor that he is my boy.
Boo has declared his allegiance to The Man.
Punk has been cut down the middle depending on if The Man has food or if she wants to snuggle me.
Boo has declared he doesn't love me--only Daddy--and that he only wants him.
Bug throws a fit when dad picks him up and he's looking for me.
Punk is mercurial. If you have food, she loves you best. If she's tired, she love me best. If she's playing, Daddy's the main choice. If she's sick, Mama. If she's feeling fiesty, Daddy.
Ping. Pong. Ping. Pong.
Truthfully, its bittersweet to watch my now green eyed boy (his eyes change color and have been a very pretty metallic green for a month now) want the Man instead of me.
I birthed him. I nursed him. I have a displaced rib thanks to him.
And I can't even get a hug hello most days.
I know its a stage. I know in time, he'll turn on Scott with the swiftness of a striking snake.
And I'll watch the Man's eye become sad as his boy doesn't want him.
At which time, Bug will throw me over for his dad.
They are consistantly incosistant.
They are passionate in their affections.
And they change their mood more often than their underwear.
And it's fascinating to watch.

Friday, December 18, 2009

P A N T Y!

That one simple word makes The Man whimper and plead for mercy.
And not in relation to my unmentionable undergarments.
But in relation to the fact our daughter will be potty trained very soon and will enter the world of PANTIES.
(I think I just heard him die a little right there. PANTIES! Oh! Dare I say it again?)
He can't stand the fact that his baby girl is taking her fledgling steps towards becoming a woman like her mother.
Who will marry a man like her father.
Who will have the same thoughts about The Man's baby girl as The Man used to have about me.
Used to.
I discourage those thoughts most vehemently now for two very distinct reasons.
1. I know what happens when you let a man have those thoughts. I have three kids and finally figured out how babies are made.
2. The Man is getting older and those thoughts make him excited and that is very hard on an old man's heart.
So I make it a point to respect his heebeegeebee's regarding panties.
I bring it up at every opportunity.
I show him the panties in stores.
And I'm even making up a song to the tune of BINGO to sing.
P! A! N! T! Y!
P! A! N! T! Y!
P! A! N! T! Y!
Panties are what she wears!

Thursday, December 17, 2009

The Generation Gap

The Man and I are currently embroiled in one of our useless, pointless, ridiculous arguments.
Seriously, when were engaged, we almost broke it off because of an argument over whether or not a certain sandwich was on McDonald's menu.
We don't argue about the big stuff. Never have.
We argue about inane things that don't matter at all in the greater scheme of things.
In case you aren't aware, The Man is a stalwart Christian Republican male. I, most definitely, and none of those things.
The Man is seven years older than I am and a veteran of two wars.
I, if I had been old enough to wear a bra, would have been burning it in protest of war. (The first go around. The second time, definitely old enough for the over the shoulder boulder holder.)
The Man is Conservative. I'm of the mind set you reap what you sow, and it will all come back around one way or another.
We vote for different presidents. We have different religious views. We don't even like the same foods.
And, somehow, we have survived fourteen years of marriage.
Go figure!
Anyway, this morning, on my way to work, we were having our normal discussion and The Man admitted that his generation screwed up the country (Vietnam, etc).
And I responded in my normal fashion. Rather than discussing the war and pertinant details of our discussion, I went for the part I knew would make him sputter.
"Yes, honey, you did screw up the world by getting into a 'Conflict' (I'm driving doing quotations with my fingers). But you really screwed up because you enjoyed people who liked to cross dress, wear platform heels, spandex, and make up."
Him: "Huh?" He is so eloquent.
"Yes, babe, your generations started the whole bring the cross dressers and gays out of their closets and into the main stream. Kind of hard to stand tall as a white republican male when you're wearing four inch stiletto's and fishnets."
Him: "Huh?"
"You know what I'm talking about, honey. Your generation supported cross dressers in their infancy. Way to go. You know, honey, with groups like Queen, KISS, and Elton John. You should really be proud that you made it possible for an entire series of generations to come out of the closet and stand proud."
At this point, he began defending his fave all time rock band, KISS, with all the vehemence of a die hard fan.
"Babe, you enjoy listening to grown men who prance around in tights, platforms, make up, etc. It explains why I find you wearing my clothes occasionally. But, you know what, babe. I support your right to cross dress if you want to."
(Just to clarify, he wears my socks, which he stretches out and ruins, my pajama pants, which right now are pink leopard print, and a few shirts. Not the low cut ones. He doesn't have the cleavage.)
Then, being the admirable debater that he is, he comes back with the witty reply, "Well, what about the New Kids on the Block?"
"One of them is gay, they may cross dress. Don't care."
Hell, we have Boy George and RuPaul.
But it all started with his generation, repressed and looking for an outlet.
And they found high heels, make up, and boas.
That's the legacy his generation gave my generation.
For which we all should be eternally grateful.
If, for nothing else, than for the fashion tips.
"I wanna rock and roll all night! And wear high heels every day!"
Rock on!

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Old Man Winter

The Man turns 41 this weekend.
And, true to form, I must celebrate in true wifely fashion.
No, I do not mean sexy negligees and sexual favors. That would require me to do something involving effort.
Nope, I will put pen to paper and celebrate in a more cerebral fashion.
The Man says 41 is much harder for him to accept than 40, so I'm gonna try to help him along.
The Man has much more hair than he used to. Unfortunately, it's not on his head. But what is on his head is turning a very distinguished gray. As it heads south for the winter.
The Man has great stamina. He naps for the longest time, at the drop of a hat. His narcoleptic tendencies are a running joke between us now.
He has a memory like you wouldn't believe. Meaning he forgets what he was supposed to remember as soon as he's told it.
He is a clean fanatic. His OCD tendencies are becoming firmly ingrained, so that, when we are old and gray, I won't have to do any cleaning, because, aside from naps and bathroom breaks, he will do nothing else.
The Man is aging into a terrific father. He's settling into his role with grace and style (and a touch of child induced deafness) and our children are the better for it.
And he might turn into an acceptable husband in time. Might. He's aging well, like a moldy cheese, and, I'm hoping, as he molds more each year, I continue to like that brand of cheese. If I start craving a sharp, young cheddar, there might be problems.
The Man thinks 41 is old. Well, honey, it is. But I think you've still got a few good years left before we start buying Depends and Geritol.
We'll save that for next year.
Happy birthday, honey!
(And watch me run away now!)

Monday, December 14, 2009


I didn't really want a daughter.
Don't get me wrong, I love my baby girl.
After two boys, a girl was a strange and frightening thing.
She still is, but I like the strange and frightening quality of my daughter.
But I've discovered another joy of having a daughter.
I can buy her the toys I had as a child that have come back in style.
Cabbage Patch Kids. Check. One will be under the tree.
My Little Pony. Check. Got two of those.
I haven't been able to find Strawberry Shortcake, but she has a birthday this month, so I'm hoping an aunt will take pity on me . . .er, her . . .and buy her one.
Having a daughter is my own personal accepted way to jog down memory lane and relive my childhood.
She can ask for the toys. I can play with them.
Seems fair.
Heaven help her if she wants something I can't play with and don't have fond memories of.
I don't think she'd be getting it!

Friday, December 11, 2009

It's a bird! It's a plane!

No, it's my child running away!
Bug has developed a new twist on his already twisted and convoluted behavior.
He wants to run away.
To New York.
To school.
To anywhere but here.
And I'm not allowed to go, but The Man is.
I want to go to New York, damn it!
I don't know what the deal is, what the allure is, because we simply key lock the doors and put away the keys when he gets in this mood.
No one escapes from mommy.
And he'll tell us it's not because he's unhappy (unless he's mad--then we are all unhappy!). He just wants to run away.
End of discussion.
His logic is childish and irrefutable.
And we're stumped.
If my baby is packing his bags, it makes me wonder . . .
If home is where the heart is, why does my oldest child ream of Broadway stages and escape?

Monday, December 7, 2009

Bribery and the bad parent

Does bribing my oldest to have a good day at school make me a bad parent?
I weigh the moral pros and cons.
Am I teaching him to expect rewards for behavior he should do as a matter of course?
Am I setting him up to expect rewards for every little thing?
Am I just trying to help him and his teachers have good days at school, without screaming, fighting, and battles?
Am I reading too much into it?
I'm not exactly buying him a pony for these bribes.
I'm using an advent calender and the thrill of surprise and chocolate as a reward.
Bug loves to open the door and see what is hidden there, and last week, he had four out of five great days as a result.
But am I teaching him to associate food with joy?
As I spin in circles, catching myself coming and going with every parenting conundrum, I wonder--how badly am I screwing this child up?
And then I head straight for my chocolate.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

another year older

And not a damned bit wiser am I!
What did I learn this last year?
How to coupon my ass off to feed my family.
How to juggle bills so we have food, electricity, a home.
Patience? (That one earned a big old guffaw)
What have I learned this year that has value?
I have learned that my love of my children has no limits and that I am willing to move heaven and earth to help a five year old acclimate to school.
I have learned that I would cry when my three year old stopped sucking his thumb and suddenly became a big boy.
I have learned that a two year old can win an argument against me more times than i care to admit.
I have learned that, despite days where I want to walk away, walking away isn't an option.
They just follow me.
Asking for milk and telling me they are tired and that their brother is touching them.
Have I done anything worthwhile with another year of my life?
Not really.
I have survived, like the Gloria Gaynor song.
And this year, that was enough.
So pour me a birthday margarita and come sing drunkenly with me.
Because, this year, that is enough.

Tuesday, December 1, 2009


My mother called to talk with me tonight and reminded me of something I'd forgotten.
My birthday next weekend
Seriously. Didn't even register.
I loathe my birthday. who wants to watch the years going by and celebrate that? Who wants to count the days of my mortality? ticking off the days until the end of my time?
As a mom, I spend much of my time worrying about my kids birthdays and holidays to worry about my own.
For example, Punk turns two after Yule, and with the holiday and birthday and normal everyday stresses, I don't think of much else.
Let alone my birthday.
Which seems to surprise everyone.
I often wonder if this forgetting is a protective measure, a sign that I am far too busy, or a sign that I have lost a part of myself to the monster called motherhood.
I suspect its an amalgamation of all three, but still.
It's always puzzling that I forget my birthday, that it sneaks up on me every year unexpectedly.
It's not like its not the exact same date every blasted year after ll.
It isn't like one of those Whack-a-Mole games. I know when it's going to rear it's ugly head.
But every year, it's a surprise.
Maybe the surprise is that I am really another year older.
And not so very much wiser most days.