You Know You're a Mom When...

...You find a Dora Backpack and Wolverine claw hand residing in your bathroom.

You know you are a weary Mom of three when you push them aside with your foot and proceed to the toilet without bothering to pick them up.

I Threw My Bottle of Metamucil at Her

I realize at age 40, I am an older Mom. I accept that. I'm okay with it.

But when I am mistaken YET AGAIN for my daughter's Grandmother, well, a girl gets a little self-conscious.

I wasn't even terribly offended when the nice woman at the playground who obviously WAS there with her two granddaughters asked me if Meredith was my Granddaughter.

It was the way she emitted a surprised "OH!" when I said, "No she's my daughter."

Really? Is it REALLY that shocking?

Time to dye the no-longer-prematurely gray hair.

Six

Most of the time I hear from people, "Wow she looks just like you!"

And my girls do look like me. It make sense since they are, in fact, girls, and I happen to be one myself. My husband has often bemoaned the fact that he apparently got very little genetic input when our kids were conceived.

But I have personally always thought that Jamie looks more like me than my girls do. Other than the pink dress, the Kindergarten photos look remarkably similar.


























Happy Birthday Little Man. I am grateful every day that you tell me you will ALWAYS be my little boy.

Lesson of the Day

Despite using half a roll of toilet paper per poop, the boy obviously has not mastered the art of wiping his own bum.

Note to self: Grab lightly from the laundry pile.

I Dreamed a Dream (No Not That One)

Sometimes I think dreams have meaning. Sometimes I think it is our unconscious mind allowing us to work out things while we sleep. Sometimes I think we see things we need to see in our dreams. And sometimes I think they are just our brain's way of entertaining itself while we are busy sleeping.

Last night I dreamed I was learning to drive a big rig in Alaska. Just like they do on Ice Road Truckers. I have never had any particular desire to drive a large truck, but last night I was pretty darn good at it.

And guess who was riding shotgun with me and giving me training as I learned to navigate the roads pulling a heavy haul? The late Phil Harris of Deadliest Catch fame was showing me how to park the enormous truck as we pulled into the parking lot of a Nevada brothel. It just happened to be The Bunny Ranch as featured in HBO's series Cathouse.

Seems he and some of his buddies wanted to get a little action in before we got some rest for the night. So I parked the truck and patiently waited for Phil and his crew to....er, do their thing.

After he was done I joined the girls so I could borrow a shower and catch some shut-eye.

But I spent most of the time trying to shave my legs with a VERY dull disposable razor. And not one of those hookers would loan me a razor.

I conclude three things from this dream.

One, I should not have had pizza for a late dinner.

Two, Maybe, just maybe I watch too much Reality TV.

And finally, Three, I really need to shave my legs.

Three

Three years ago on this day, I gave birth to my last baby. It was a wild ride. Her heart stopped beating, my blood pressure plummeted, and at one point it looked like an operation was inevitable. But as babies have their own ideas about how or when they will be born, she decided to just come on out in a bit of a hurry.

My baby girl turns three today. She's still such a baby to me. It's hard to remember, that at this age both her older brother and sister were already the "big" kids. In many ways she is a big kid. She is completely weaned, she walks, she talks, she has a mind of her own and is not afraid to express it (and does she ever!), she no longer wears diapers (that was one milestone I was not sad to see pass) and can even dress herself.

But today she cried and told me "I don't want to be three! I want to be a baby!"

Luckily, she will always get to be my baby.

Yeah. What She Said.

I love this. One of my friends (thank you Misty!) used this as her Christmas Card this year. You may have seen it before (if you have, DEAL WITH IT!) but I thought it was worth plagiarizing sharing.
Dear Santa,

I've been a good mom all year. I've fed, cleaned and cuddled my children on demand, visited the doctor's office more than my doctor and sold sixty-two cases of candy bars to raise money to plant a shade tree on the school playground. I was hoping you could spread my list out over several Christmases, since I had to write this letter with my son's red crayon, on the back of a receipt in the laundry room between cycles, and who knows when I'll find anymore free time in the next 18 years. Here are my Christmas wishes:

I'd like a pair of legs that don't ache (in any color, except purple, which I already have) and arms that don't hurt or flap in the breeze, but are strong enough to pull my screaming child out of the candy aisle in the grocery store.

I'd also like a waist, since I lost mine somewhere in the seventh month of my last pregnancy.

If you're hauling big ticket items this year I'd like fingerprint resistant windows and a radio that only plays adult music, a television that doesn't broadcast any programs containing talking animals, and a refrigerator with a secret compartment behind the crisper where I can hide to talk on the phone.

On the practical side, I could use a talking doll that says, 'Yes, Mommy' to boost my parental confidence, along with two kids who don't fight and three pairs of jeans that will zip all the way up without the use of power tools.

I could also use a recording of Tibetan monks chanting 'Don't eat in the living room' and 'Take your hands off your brother,' because my voice seems to be just out of my children's hearing range and can only be heard by the dog.

If it's too late to find any of these products, I'd settle for enough time to brush my teeth and comb my hair in the same morning, or the luxury of eating food warmer than room temperature without it being served in a Styrofoam container.

If you don't mind, I could also use a few Christmas miracles to brighten the holiday season. Would it be too much trouble to declare ketchup a vegetable? It will clear my conscience immensely. It would be helpful if you could coerce my children to help around the house without demanding payment as if they were the bosses of an organized crime family.

Well, Santa, the buzzer on the dryer is calling and my son saw my feet under the laundry room door. I think he wants his crayon back. Have a safe trip and remember to leave your wet boots by the door and come in and dry off so you don't catch cold. Help yourself to cookies on the table but don't eat too many or leave crumbs on the carpet.

Yours Always,

MOM...

P.S. One more thing...you can cancel all my requests if you can keep my children young enough to believe in Santa.

We Now Return To Our Regularly Scheduled Programming

Meredith was staying at Grandma's over night for the first time on Monday night so I could chaperon Sabrina's field trip to the Carnegie Museum on Tuesday.

Apparently she did not sleep well. Correction. They did not sleep well. It is a well-known fact that when a two year old does not sleep well the rest of the household is not permitted to sleep well.

I think my Mother-in-Law fussed too much. I told her to put her in her jammies, give her her books and animals, leave a nightlight on and close the door.

Meredith kept telling her she couldn't see and needed a light on. So Grandma, being a Grandma (read: SUCKER) put the dresser lamp on which is a full blown light up the room style lamp.

Well of COURSE she didn't fall asleep with that on! Around 10:00 p.m. Meredith cheerfully announced "I'm all done sleeping now!"

My Mother-In-Law is a bit of a throwback to pre-feminism. She feels compelled to pick up after, cook, clean and generally wait on the males in her life. (My husband tried expecting me to wait on him hand and foot once. He's still waiting.) Therefore when her significant other arises to work in a bakery at 5:00 a.m. my Mother-in-Law feels compelled to go and make him breakfast.

My Mother-in-Law SWEARS she was quiet as a mouse (she slept in the bedroom with Meredith) and she SWEARS she did not wake her up. But it just seems awful coincidental that Meredith also just happened to wake up at 5:00 a.m.

You might say she was a wee bit overtired last night which may or may not have contributed to her antics here at home. She was in bed by sound asleep at 8:00p.m. when I got back from taking Sabrina Christmas Caroling with her Girl Scout Troop (Chaperoning a school field trip AND Christmas Caroling in one day - do I get Mother of the Year Award or what? Where's that Supermom cape?).

At precisely 1:19 a.m. (yes I looked) I was woken out of a sound sleep by Meredith SCREAMING, not requesting, not demanding, not even merely shouting at me: "I WANT MILK WITH ICE!" (This is how Dave drinks his milk and he's inflicted it on Jamie and Meredith).

Dave got up (she even overcame the Daddy Powers of Superhuman Lack of Night Hearing) and offered her a drink of water which she batted away and continued to demand milk with ice. At which point Dave stated (yelled) "NO!" and "BE QUIET!" which of course just made her freak out more. Big help Dave thanks. And why is that? Why is it that Daddies can simply raise their voice and reduce a child to tears but I can stand and bellow at them at decibels to make ears bleed and they all just continue on as if I were merely commenting on the weather?

So he moves downstairs because it's not fair that he got up with them for all the night waking for the past eight and a half years. Oh wait no. That was me.

I just ignored her terroristic threats as best as one can when one is sharing the room with a small version of Mussolini, until she calmed down enough and said "But I'm thiiiiiiiiiiiirsty." I asked her again if she wanted a drink of water and she said yes so I got her one and she laid down and went immediately back to sleep.

She has no memory of any of it this morning that I can tell.

I am currently setting up the IV line with coffee.

And On The Eighth Day, God Created Starbucks

I apologize for the crappy photo quality. I own what is affectionately called a "welfare phone." It is strictly pre-pay and completely lacking in bells and whistles. Which is just fine with me. I've never found the need for a portable phone that can take movies, play music, speak in 5 languages, cook dinner and walk the dog.

Well, the cooking dinner part might be okay.

I promise you I have made the photo as big as possible without losing all resolution.


Meredith loves this water fountain. She adores this water fountain. It's in a beautiful courtyard in a park-like setting. You can take a short walk down a beautiful brick pathway to a nearby trail where you can walk along the river.

All I have to do is ask "Meredith, do you want to go to the fountain?" and she has a Pavlovian response of cheering, smiles and shouts of "Hurry up Mama! LET'S GO!"

I confess I have my own Pavlovian response to thoughts of this water fountain for a slightly different reason. Oh it's a beautiful place and I love our quiet mornings together (I'm starting to get used to this 2 older kids in school thing) and it's so pretty and relaxing to walk along the river's edge. But if you look closely at the background you will discover my true motivation for visiting this fountain a little too regularly lately.

Yes boys and girls, that's a Starbucks. Coffees, and Frappucinos, and Lattes, Oh my!

This morning we pulled into a parking space and as we got out of the car, Meredith told me, "Mama, I don't want to go to the Fountain House first."

I'm thinking this might be an indication we've been there a little too often.

I Can Channel Martha AND The Three Stooges Simultaneously

We love waffles around here. And for Mommy's benefit, they're relatively low-fat and you can add some yummy fruit to them.

I love waffles, mostly when someone else makes them!

But I am positively allergic to mornings and I do NOT cook before noon, so if my kids want something hot, it's frozen waffles popped in the toaster. If I'm feeling REALLY earth-motherly and have had a cup of coffee, I'll boil some water for instant oatmeal (but that's pushing it).

So I think I want a waffle iron. I want to start making my own waffles and stop supporting Eggo frozen waffles. I'd rather just make a batch of my own to freeze. This way I could make them ahead of time and have my OWN frozen waffles. Hell I could even make them all healthy and stuff and add flaxseed and wheat germ and other things that I'm sure would taste disgusting not covered in syrupy goodness.

Did I just say that??? Has Martha Stewart taken over my brain? I told that woman to knock it off. Every time she tries I end up buying expensive gadgets and/or craft supplies that gather dust or get eaten by the dog. Sparkly dog poop decorating the yard just isn't the festive touch Martha had in mind.

Anyway, Martha Stewart Exorcism notwithstanding I still persist in looking at them. However as usual when I research ANY product, I start looking on Amazon, see all the negative (and positive) reviews on all of them and get paralyzed by indecision.

My Dad has a nice one and he makes very good waffles (before you get impressed with the idea of my Dad as Gourmet Chef, I must disclose that waffles is pretty much the extent of his culinary repertoire. Oh, and he can heat up a mean bowl of soup in the microwave.), but it's a round waffle iron.

I don't have one of them there fancy-schmancy toaster ovens, just a standard top loader toaster. I think I need a square waffle iron despite Martha's probable disapproval. Round peg, square hole and all that.

I was looking at this one, but it's EXPENSIVE. However, if it makes good waffles and 6 at a time it might be worth it. As usual, some people love it, some people hate it.

So, what do you love about yours? Hate about yours? Would you buy it again? Oh and of course what kind is it?

Because I still just can't decide on a waffle iron. I'm........................
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.
.
.
wait for it............
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
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WAFFLING

about it.

Nyuk Nyuk Nyuk!

I'm such a comedian.

Loss And Remembrance

September 11th, 2001.

I had a 10 week old baby and was still suffering from the shell-shock of new Motherhood and lack of sleep. Little did I know I was about to receive a new blow on that gorgeous September day.

It was to be my first major outing with my bundle of uncertainty. I had a good friend that was a Landscaper with a Greenhouse in Monroeville. We were driving ALL THAT WAY to the wilds of Monroeville (when you have a new baby, a half mile drive can loom large like a journey of 1,000 miles) to meet for lunch and he was going to let me pick out some lovely chrysanthemums to plant in my yard.

It was the perfect day for such a journey; one of those skies that are crystal clear blue, not even a whiff of a cloud. There was a chill in the air that promised a lovely comfortable dry day that would slowly warm with the sun, allowing you to shed your jacket some time around noon. I barely had time for showering back then let alone television. So when my mother called me from work a little before 9:00 a.m. frantically asking if I was alright, I was completely clueless and still blissfully unaware of the terror about to unfold.

All thoughts of journeys were immediately forgotten and I sat cross-legged on the living room floor cradling my child and saw a sight that was so surreal and so unbelievable that it was difficult for the mind to comprehend what it was watching. Planes don't actually fly into buildings on purpose do they? But the fact that this was the second one began to indicate that this was no tragic accident and that indeed something evil was afoot.

My husband was currently working on a roof on a very tall building in downtown Pittsburgh and this brought a feeling of terror into my heart as the horror threatened to become unbearably personal as speculation flew that yet another plane was headed for Pennsylvania.

My phone rang and it was my best friend Melissa in England. We stayed on the phone. A link, a life raft, stretching over an ocean keeping each other afloat as we received blow after crushing blow of bad news. We often sat simply in silence watching the evil unfold. As we tried to absorb the thoughts and terror of the people inside as we watched buildings impossibly fall to the ground.

I continued to hold my child close throughout that day, doing what mothers do and the only thing I could do to make her world safe at that moment. At that moment it was enough and yet not enough in a world that was surely changing right before my eyes.

Blogland will be filled with 9/11 tributes today I'm certain. Mine is just a tiny piece of our collective whole. But we all went through it together. It's one of the things I was most proud of. We as a nation.

We were, in every true sense of the words - United. States. of America.

Republican, Democrat. White, Black, Purple, or Green. Rich, Poor, Middle Class. Didn't matter. We flew our flags from every car, rooftop, flagpole, window, and skyscraper. We were one.

My flag flies again today from my porch. I will hold my children close and remember.

I Don't Think I Can Clean That Up With The Swiffer

We have survived the first entire week of school. There was a little crying, screaming, kicking, begging, and anxiety.

But hey. That was just me. Jamie's having a blast.

You may recall Jamie has a severe tree nut allergy. It's severe enough that we have to provide an injectable Epi-Pen to the school in the event of an emergency. So as not to ruin his "First Day of School" experience, and because really, the kid thinks riding the school bus is the coolest thing since Bakugans, I put him on the bus, then raced up to the school in my van to deliver all his necessary medications to the school nurse.

I handed her his Epi-Pen, Inhaler and spacer, all properly and obsessively compulsively labeled in Sharpie marker with his name and Grade, contained in a Zip-Loc baggie ALSO labeled with name and grade. And no. I did not sterilize it. Much.

To be able to deliver this little packet of medication I had to fill out several reams of paperwork; signed, dated, approved by his allergist, pediatrician, dentist, mailman, Notary Public, next door neighbor, paternal and maternal grandparents, five references not related by blood, and quite possibly the President of the United States.

But you know, I'm Super-Mom so this isn't a problem. Emily is even making me a cape. Just need to decide on colors and lettering.

The substitute nurse in the office made me a bit nervous when I heard her tell another Mom that she never works at this school and isn't quite sure where to put things, but I cross my fingers and hand it off.

That day Jamie comes home with two envelopes for me.

The first one says, "Your emergency health contact card indicates your child has a severe allergy response to bee sting, food or other allergen. We do not have medication on hand to treat this allergy. Please provide medication and proper paperwork" with all those same REAMS of papers attached.

WHAT THE FARKETY FARKLE??????

(This is a family show folks, I may have used slightly stronger language in real life)

The second envelope has a second ream of paper with all those forms for the allergist to fill out with a happy little sticky note attached saying "We need Jamie's Dr. to sign these so we can give him his inhaler in school."

Excuse me. My brains just exploded all over the floor.

Does anyone have a paper towel?

It's Okay Mom. I Got This.

And off he goes.

Just Off The Face Of The Internet

Okay I'm pulling with all my might. I think I have a handhold.....Eeeeenh...PULL!

Ahhhh. Okay. I've pulled myself up out from under that rock. Ahem. Ready? Here I go.

Tomorrow I'll Just Serve Candy

Did you ever have one of those days where the lack of the proper amount of syrup on the waffles becomes a major tragedy? Complete with tears, snot, and protestations of "But I asked fiiiiiiiiiiiiirst!"?

Honestly those kids would argue over a piece of used chewing gum. The kind you scrape off your shoe and is now gray and has bits of hair and fuzz and grass stuck in it. Can't you just hear it now?

"Moooooooom! It's not faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaair! I wanted a wodge of dirty chewing gum tooooooooooooooooooo! You NEVER let me have what I want!" [cue hysterical sobbing, followed by stomping retreat, completed with slamming of door]

I was thisclose to taking my friend Jackie's advice and sticking three straws in the syrup bottle and telling them to have at it.

But we have averted tragedy and diabetic comas for today.

All in a day's work for SuperMom.

I want a cape. Can I get a cape? It would make the job so much cooler.

My Village Called. They Want Their Idiot Back.

My little boy is registered for Kindergarten in the Fall. *sniff*

No really, I'll be okay. I'll stock up on Kleenex though just in case.

In a previous post I explained how our school district conducts a lottery to determine which school kindergartners will attend. I was especially concerned about the school Jamie would attend due to his life-threatening nut allergy. I wanted to be sure there would be a trained nurse on site to keep his Epi-Pen and (God forbid) administer it if necessary.

When I was told, not so nicely, that this condition did not give him any special consideration, and he would not be exempted form this lottery, I got, shall we say, testy? And when I get "testy", I write letters. To the Superintendent of Schools. Who doesn't like to get letters about how his staff is being unresponsive. And let's just say it makes the staff a bit more responsive when I request they put it in writing that they have complete confidence that my child will be 100% safe should he experience (again, GOD FORBID) anaphylaxis at their school.

Responsive enough that I am now in possession of the Assistant Superintendent's personal cell phone number to discuss any and all concerns at any time of the day or night. Well, she might get a little cranky if I call her at midnight the night before the first day of school to tell her I'm feeling a bit weepy about Jamie starting Kindergarten. But you get the idea.

Tonight was the auspicious lottery. I received my letter over a week ago, on official school district stationery, telling me the Who, What, When and Where of the occasion. I immediately pretended to be the keen, organized Mom that I'm not, and noted the particulars on my official Mom's planning calendar. You know, the kind with a column for each member of the family so I can forget to keep track of all their appointments, and instead spend my life searching through my purse for tiny little handwritten appointment cards.

I dashed out of the house tonight at 5:40 p.m. to be at the local High School Auditorium by 6:00 p.m. I wasn't sure exactly where the Auditorium was, but I noticed a cluster of cars in the parking lot and figured that would be a good entrance to try. A pimply faced kid perched on a handrail trying to look cool kindly directed me to the proper entrance and I walked toward the doors.

When I walked into the auditorium and found it dark I was perplexed. I pulled out my cell phone to check the time but it was switched off. I pushed the button to turn it on. Nothing. When WAS the last time I charged that thing? I walked toward a pay phone, not even knowing how much a pay phone costs these days, dug in my purse for the fifty cents (FIFTY CENTS!!! I am officially a geezer by telling you I remember when it cost a DIME!) and came up with four nickels and three pennies.

Sigh. Walked back to my van and plugged the phone into the car charger only to find that my husband did not take the phone with him when he took the kids outside.

So I of course took the logical step of using the super secret personal cell phone number of the Assistant Superintendent. The one whom I had exchanged several polite and some slightly threatening letters with this past Spring. The one whom I wanted to realize that I was an intelligent adult that knows my stuff and won't be pushed around. The one who informed me that the lottery is being held TOMORROW at the High School Auditorium at 6:00 p.m.

Two out of three ain't bad.

They Know Me So Well

Sabrina: Jamie! Mommy just has to finish her refried bean burrito and then we can go open our Lemonade Stand.

Jamie: Oh no. That's terrible.

Sabrina: Why? She's almost done.

Jamie: Because then she'll fart and chase all our customers away.

How Was That Vacation Anyway?

Like most things in life it can be summed up as "Good, bad, and not long enough." But that doesn't make for a very good blog entry now does it?

The drive itself was not as bad as expected. That's not to say it was pleasant. It helped that Dave accepted that he was handling the bulk of the driving, and I didn't have the anxiety of worrying about possibly driving. Besides, the one time that we switched off, which I agreed to because it was two lane roads, we discovered that he stinks as a navigator and he kept missing turns.

I did not take the Xanax. I didn't get to test drive it before I left. I was far too busy packing up five people's belongings. Everyone had underwear when we got there so we'll call it a success. I did however feel a little better having the Xanax on hand as an insurance policy.

I got through the drive with a few prayers to St. Christopher (thank you Eileen for reminding me) and text messages to my own personal saint, Jeannette, who gave up most of four days to keep me occupied sending messages to and fro. We arrived in Myrtle Beach and back home again, in one piece and mostly sane thanks to my two patron saints. They couldn't really help out with the general tendency toward insanity I possessed beforehand.

The beach was, as expected, fabulous. I adore the beach, the sea, the sun, the sand, the surf, the sights, the smells, the sounds. I sat on a balcony sipping wine at night watching the waves practically beneath my feet. We were THAT CLOSE. I watched dolphins breaking the surface of the water every morning from the living room window. I took a walk every morning on the beach and allowed whim to decide if I should turn right or left that day.

On the third day there I discovered my 8 plus year old bathing suits were beginning to lose their, um, OOMPH. I dragged my eight and five year olds to the Beach Shop under the pretense of getting them body boards while I shopped for a new bathing suit. The suit in question could be paired with a skirted bottom or a regular brief bottom. When I chose the skirted bottom the saleslady agreed with my choice and commented that it looked much nicer, plus, "You've got the baby."

Baby? What baby? I left her in the condo napping. How does she know about..........?

Oh. I get it.

There goes my new found self-confidence in my recent weight loss.

I paid for my suit and skulked out of the store instead of reminding her of that classic piece of advice from comedian Sean Morey,

"I do not assume a woman is pregnant unless I see an ACTUAL LIVE BABY emerging from her vagina in front of me."

Maybe A Little Ragged Around The Edges

Eleven years, three kids, one dog, two cats, one and a half fish, two trucks, five cars, and one waaaaaaaaaay too small house later, we are still standing.


Happy Anniversary Dave!

Eight

We had a rocky start you and I.

Of all the life changing events that have happened to me; death of a loved one, moving, changing jobs, divorce - none of them altered me so thoroughly as the birth of my first child.

I once described the way I felt after having a baby as feeling like I was in one of those fun houses with all the crazy mirrors everywhere and I wasn't sure which one was actually me. In one fell swoop I went from being a person who identified herself by her mate, her job, her age, to being utterly rudderless in an unfamiliar sea of emotions and responsibilities and (literally) constant wakefulness. I was no longer sure who I was.

I tried reaching out to a few people who might be able to help me and felt even further isolated because it seemed the way I felt wasn't the experience they had. Some women seem to take to motherhood like ducks to water. I was sure I was one of those women. I had been waiting for this baby most of my life. So the fact that I didn't only added to my feelings of desperation.

I know now that my experience was not all that uncommon.

But just like forging metal, our trial by fire made our bond that much stronger.


Happy Birthday Sabrina Beena!