Alma requires me to surround her with 4 pillows. She calls it a circle. Afterward she said, “I’m so happy now I’m in my circle!” O… C…D.
This is a visual representation of my love for my son. It’s 58 baggies of dog poop, mostly fossilized. I used a comp day to clean up crap. He’s gonna play in the yard for his birthday tomorrow dangit! Even if it rains!! Is it possible to neuter a dog’s behind?
I am posting this despite reading a list of things moms need to stop posting today, which included bathtub pictures. The assumption was that perverts would track them down. But, there can’t possibly be anything appealing to even a predator about this picture, right? It was taken just after Huck threw a hard plastic toy right at Alma’s head. I just love that he proceeded to “eat his shark” and act like it was all good.
I could create a life timeline purely using memories involving fast food.
I remember the first Champ Burger I ever ate from Checkers.
The fast food chain had just arrived in St. Petersburg and my mom stopped there while we headed to one of my brother’s soccer tournaments.
It’s not that it was anything amazing, but it’s a moment I relive if I ever have a Champ Burger now.
I can feel my legs itch from the summer grass, the sweaty hair tucked behind my ears and the tingle of the start of a sunburn on my cheeks.
The Filet-o-fish sandwich from Mcdonald’s brings back memories of trips to the dentist.
My mother used to reward me with them after every single trip to get cavities filled or braces tightened.
Now when I eat one, I can feel the numbness and struggle of trying to eat them after getting Novocain.
Subway was the food of choice when my father and I started doing Sunday lunch after my parents got divorced. I would get the 6 inch Cold Cut Combo and we would sit on a bench in a public park, talking awkwardly about the happenings in my teenage life. If I got that sandwich now, it would inevitably bring back the smell of the bread people would toss to the ducks nearby, something I did with my father even longer ago.
It might not qualify as fast food, but I would be remiss not to mention Coke Slurpees. While my first serious high school boyfriend introduced me to them, my relationship with this sacred beverage was solidified with the help of my then best friend, Marisa. We had a deal. When she came to my house to run through lines for plays (we were theatre geeks) she would bring along Coke Slurpees and Reese’s Pieces. I would return the favor when we rehearsed at her house.
Eventually Coke Slurpees were paired with Cheddar Cheese Combos on trips home after the beach.
Then they became how I survived pregnancy sans alcohol.
Comparing Huxley’s size to the Slurpee
Coke Slurpees are my crack. I don’t think I could ever give them up. I’ve tried.
If it wasn’t the worst idea EVER I would consider getting a Coke Slurpee tattoo. It’s the longest love of my life.
Also in high school, nothing compared to ditching for lunch and hitting up the Wendy’s with friends. Those ketchup containers are THE BEST.
Then, there’s my time in Miami, spent working the overnight shift in news, drinking an inordinate amount of alcohol and never sleeping.
We could call that my “Drunkin’ Donuts” period.
I once had a DD and showed up at the Dunkin’ Donuts on Biscayne all slovenly and ordered sloppily, “Can I have a ham, egg and cleeeeeese?” The employee rolled her eyes.
HAM, EGG…
… AND CLEEEEEESE.
There is a point to all of my greasy, fattening, sugary reminiscing.
Why do we try so hard to deny our children these standout fast food memories?
Why are we so hell bent at keeping them from the joy of speedy, nasty goodness?
I know, I know… America is plagued by the morbidly obese.
We’re the embarrassing mu mu wearing midwesterners to the rest of the world.
But, they call it a “Happy Meal” for a reason. It makes… you… HAPPY. I’m referring to the old-school ones.
No kid has ever cheered for apple slices and milk.
Granted, my children are still at the age where they prefer to dismantle fast food so it starts to resemble the REAL food it was made with. Alma wants a slab of meat and a piece of cheese, not a cheeseburger.
But, whether it’s Pizza Hut after football games or Taco Bell for Friday the 13th movie marathons, just about everybody has a memory tied to fast food.
So, give your kid a cheesburger.
Give them a memory to last a lifetime.
Quotes from my 3 year old daughter:
1) She told me she wanted to play superhero and I didn’t have a mask. I put on a headband and she said I look like an “Engine Turtle.” (Ninja Turtle)
2) There’s a white spot on a canvas picture in our bathroom left by a ding during the move. Alma told me, “A bird came in and pooped on it.”
3) Alma on broccoli: “I just like the tree part. Not the stick part.”
4) Bunny’s last name is “Bun” because her name is “Bun Nee.” (tried to correct her on this one, but she was determined)
5) Grandma and grandpa live in Saint Peep. (St. Pete)
6) She refers to her new classmate as “Crammin.” It took me weeks to figure out she meant, “Cameron.”
7) She talked for days about seeing “Speros” everywhere, climbing on everything, dark “Speros.” I thought she was talking about “spirits.” Totally freaked me out. Turns out there is a new wild boy at school named “Speros.”
8) She once told my husband that she was scared because of the “no one” people looking in the window at her in her bedroom. (It was actually me, checking to see if she was asleep after working out)
Have you ever seen those people who walk around at theme parks, grocery stores and zoos with their kids connected to them by a leash? Usually it’s hooked to a fuzzy animal-shaped backpack. Monkeys seems to be a top pick. I’ve often wondered what would happen if a primate at the zoo got loose and saw a tiny person-shaped monkey strolling around backwards.
Oh My God! It actually happened to this blogging mom!
I used to think those parents were ape-shit, pun intended.
It’s a fine line between the leash and duct tape and chains. I work in News. I am not going to do anything that even closely resembles child abuse.
But, I am mother to a pint-sized flight risk. His main goal in public is to race toward danger, whether it’s a parking lot (death trap) or the “big kid” playground (death trap).
Huck escaping to the big kid playground.
We should’ve seen this coming. When we took our daughter home from the hospital, we decided the first song that played on the radio would be “her song.” It was Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer.” Seemed appropriate, especially since her feet are still the size of a newborn’s.
When we took our son home from the hospital, we played the same game. His song… “I Shot the Sheriff” by Bob Marley. Clearly this means he will be a pot head or a cop-killer.
Huxley is going to turn 2 years old this week. It’s his defining moment. He’s about to become a psychopath or an athlete, a good cop or a very bad cop.
My mother-in-law asked me what the theme is going to be for his birthday party. I was thinking, “violence.” Maybe a bleeding red velvet cake, body part streamers and we can turn his sister into the pinata.
Nah. We’ll go with a soccer cake and some traditional “boy” colors.
I will say this about my little man. He knows how to live. He takes risks. (ones that could cause his mother to go into cardiac arrest) But, he loves life.
On the swing the other day, as soon as he got to the highest point he would throw his head back and take his hands off the chains. The kids is insane, but I envy his joy.
I considered the leash, but I think I’ll stick with yelling at him at the top of my lungs in my “man voice,” which terrifies all other parents and children within ear shot.
I am guessing I’m not the only parent of little ones that occasionally suffers from something I call “sleep cursing.”
You’re deeply asleep, dreaming of sleeping in, using the potty in privacy… all things “single” and you hear the cries. You try to ignore it, but it grows louder. Eventually, they spill into screams of “mommy!!”
This isn’t when you start slinging curse words like a sailor. Not yet.
You rub their back, you “shhhhh” and you ask if they need something to drink.
You wrap them in a blanket, ask if they don’t feel well and RELUCTANTLY pick them up.
This happened at 4 a.m. with my son this morning. He probably has an earrache, which makes my reaction even more offensive.
So, I’ve given him milk and he’s cuddled under a blanket with me on the couch and we’re watching Thomas the Train. That’s when I give up and start praying I can fall asleep on the couch next to him.
But, nooooooo. Every 3 seconds he has to shout (with the sippy cup in his mouth) “Choo choo train!” Seriously? It’s Thomas the f&^ing Train. There are nothing but trains, Huck!!
Quit smiling at me you smug little &^%.
At one point he kept asking over and over, “What’s going on?” “What’s going on?”
I mumbled irritably, “They’re looking for Percy.”
Huck: “What’s going on?”
I silently say “f&^k” and say, “THEY’RE LOOKING… FOR… PERCY.”
Huck starts whining and he asks again and I lose it. I’m dropping f-bombs and telling him to just please shut up for the love of God! JUST STOP!
This is called “sleep cursing.” I would never curse in front of my kids while awake. But, something in my brain just snaps when I am in desperate need of sleep and my kid is keeping me up in the middle of the night for NO GOOD REASON.
I usually do self-censoring, falling silent at the opportune moment in the sentence. “Go to *silence* bed!”
So, how did my morning end? With me handing over duties to my husband, him getting me back up a few minutes later because he had to shower, me trying to squeeze in a five-minute power nap before getting up and oversleeping.
I did my makeup at red lights. I have bed head. I will spend too much money on lunch.
But, I caught up on all those Thomas the Train episodes I’d been dying to see. So, there’s that.
Everything looks like a death trap to me.
Perhaps it’s because I work at a job where I write about all of the most unusual, bizarre and tragic accidents.
Girl gets run over by a lawnmower?
Happened twice in the span of a month here.
Toddler drowns in pool?
During the summer, it’s at least once a week.
But, my level of paranoia can’t be normal. I mean, I contain it to a certain degree. At least, I keep it to myself.
While the kids are the backyard, I am thinking about Cottonmouths and Water Moccasins. (people have seen them in our neighborhood)
When we’re in the front yard, it’s coyotes or maybe just an irritable neighborhood dog.
The front yard poses the additional risk of a driveway where someone could easily back over a child. That somebody being me… even though I am super aware of where they are outside at every single moment.
DEATH TRAP
My in-laws have a pool in the backyard. I have envisioned Huck diving in after a soccer ball so many times, it’s almost like it already happened.
DEATH TRAP
The stairs will lead to broken bones someday, I’m sure of it.
A sex offender will move into our development. I already know exactly what street the closest one lives off of even though it’s miles away. Yet, I still check the FDLE site on a regular basis.
It’s not a cold, it’s a sign she has a compromised immune system.
I didn’t even let me kids near a peanut until I had ample time to whisk them off to the ER if needed.
SNEAKY DEATH TRAP
Hot dogs, carrots, grapes and now linguini (see previous post) require extreme supervision.
The bathtub is an “eyes-on” environment only.
Oh, and every time we cover a car accident, which is several times a day, I always check the make and model right away to be sure it isn’t my husband who totes the kids to school and back.
I don’t spend all of my time worrying, but being prepared to react. Which is why it’s hilarious that one of the only times my daughter has been hurt in the past week is when I yanked a Little Bo Peep staff out of her hands and accidentally flung her head first onto the floor. Girl had a death grip on that thing!
How did we ever survive our childhoods? I went door-to-door selling Girl Scout cookies alone. I was nearly mauled to death by a vicious Rottweiler when I went INSIDE A STRANGER’S HOME. I hung out with a weird old lady in her house so she could give me a coaster with a Cardinal on it. I went for a solo bike ride only to see a guy getting all lewd and lascivious in a parked car.
That’s it. Buying a big bubble to keep my kids in.
Valentine’s Day as a parent is Hallmark holiday hell. Screw all of those depressed, single people with their “woe as me, I’m going to have to eat dinner alone and watch a movie solo.” It sounds like HEAVEN.
There is some unspoken competition raging between moms of kids in daycare to come up with the coolest, craftiest Valentines ever. They create cute little cardboard cutout hearts and peanut-free, organic treats. These moms are the reason why Pinterest makes me insecure.
I don’t even know the names of my kid’s classmates. Granted, my husband takes them to and from daycare. How am I supposed to write up their Valentines?
To: the kid who reliably has snot running down his upper lip.
To: the little French girl who doesn’t speak any English, je t’aime.
To: The new kid who bites my daughter on the arm all the time. XOXO
This week, I am signed up to bring cookies to both kid’s classes. I learned my lesson last year and refuse to bring in a batch of burnt crusty brownies again. I’m gonna be that guy that brings in something clearly labeled “Publix.” It won’t be organic, cause that stuff is just plain expensive.
Then, there’s celebrating a holiday centered around romance when there is so very little of it in a household with two toddlers. I have visions of slow-dancing with my husband after getting a little tipsy from the wine over a fancy dinner. Afterward, we will bow chicka bow wow and sleep like babies.
Ahhh, but we HAVE babies.
So, we will get reacquainted over a quick, reasonable dinner, keep the drinking to a minimum so we can pick up the kids from daycare date night without them calling the cops and hope to be sleeping by 10 so we can get up at 6 in the morning with the kids.
Shopping for my husband is worse than pulling teeth. I prefer a root canal to trying to figure out what he would actually like.
He has started providing me with a wish list, which means there are no surprises and I still somehow manage to bungle it. Wrong shoe size, books with clever titles he would never read, coffee cups that were so ginormous they looked like they belonged to Rock Biter from Neverending Story.
They look like big, good, strong hands.
I know all he really wants is a glass of bourbon, his pipe and some privacy.
Every single Valentine’s Day card reads the same these days: “I miss you.” “I can’t wait until…” “Someday we will… ”
I hate Valentine’s Day for a plethora of new reasons.
I love my husband every day.
I love my children immensely.
Got plenty of the love stuff.
I hate candy, crafts, baking, pink and shopping. I just realized that’s everything my daughter loves. Great, I officially hate my daughter’s favorite holiday.
These probably wouldn’t fly with 3 years olds, huh?
I am starting to think no one can be more cruel and insulting than a toddler. I’ve been called a lot of different names, but somehow none sting as badly as the ones spewed from the mouths of babes.
The other night I was lying in my daughter’s bed, reading her a book and she started smacking my stomach and chanting “Fat belly! Fat belly!”
I told her that wasn’t a very nice thing to say.
She responded, “But, you’re belly is big so it’s a fat belly.” I asked her where she learned to say that and she told me from her daycare worker.
(Reason #456 why I wish I was a stay-at-home mom)
It was enough to make me want to do 1,000 crunches immediately and swear off the consumption of beer for the rest of my life.
I’ve moved past showering or bathing in front of my daughter. I’m done fielding the awkward kind of questions you anticipate from a kid at least in the double-digit age range. I learned my lesson when she started poking through the trash so she could point out “pons.”
But, the other day it was unavoidable. I was getting dressed and she looked at me and said, “Mommy, you’re ewwwww.”
My mother tried to make me feel better about the whole exchange, saying small children just don’t understand the way adult bodies look. They think little kid bodies are normal. Nice try, ma. I still feel like getting lipo.
Awhile ago, Alma told me I have “up hair, like a boy.” She means “short hair” but of course it was the “like a boy” part that made me feel butch and brawny. It was enough to convince me to grow out my hair. (which means I will shortly end up trapped in the stage where I look just like Patrick Swayze in Roadhouse)
Then there was the day when she said, “I love Daddy. You love me. But, I don’t love you.” I thought perhaps she was confused. I asked her to repeat herself and she said the exact same thing again. Awesome.
Before my daughter graduated to verbal insults, there were the physical ones. As an infant, she thought it was hilarious to slap me repeatedly in the face, sometimes in public. The only tactic that worked was humiliating. I had to allow her to slap me over and over and over while not reacting at all. It worked, but not before many tears were shed.
Do the Gods of genetics throw me a bone with my son?
No way.
He’s a hitter AND a kicker. If I don’t react at all to his attacks, he just keeps on hitting and kicking. He’s like the long-distance runner of assault and battery. If his skill level in bruising and beating me is any indication, his verbal insults will entail F-bombs.
The worst thing about all of this? There is no satisfying revenge. I can’t fire back at Alma that giving birth to her is what stretched out my belly skin to create a perfect calorie pouch. I can’t kick Huck in the shins, though Lord knows the desire is occasionally there.
I guess I’ll just go cry and do crunches.
Living The American Scream 