mothermayi

Snake!

I hate snakes.  Or, to be more precise, I am a snake-o-phobe.  I have an unreasonable fear of snakes.  Officially called ophidiophobia.  The kid's godmother, and one of my dearest friends, brought over a long green and orange stuffed furry snake for them to play with.  I smiled and thanked her, how scary could a polyester stuffed interpretation of a viper really be? Very scary, very, very scary.  Especially when in the hands of a two year old who likes to sneak up next to me and hiss.  Or in Tennessee's case "hiththththth".  Not only are the sound effects scary, but the yellow glass eyes on the thing are very menacing. 

We took a Sunday drive to visit Eugene, two and a half hours to the south of our fair city.  We walked around and saw the sights, then found some burgers and soft serve ice cream.  The drive home was sunny and beautiful, but for the last half hour when the kids bickered and yelled in the back seat.  We got home, rushed to the potty and unloaded a mound of travel garbage from the back seat.  I chased the kids outside to kick the soccer ball at them, er around with them to burn off some of their pent-up back seat energy.  We played for a while, then they went to fetch stuffed animals to put in the trees in order to play imaginary "Jungle".  Snakey the Horrible ended up wound around my dogwood tree, trying his imaginary best to strangle a poor limb to death.  There was much outdoor hooting, running and screaming.  Nothing makes me happier than children yelling in the yard.  Around dinner time, I had the kids bring all of their toys in.  Snakey didn't make it.  I closed the door and hoped for a terrible wind storm/tornado/toy snake destroying monsoon. 

No such luck.  This morning, as Lucy made her way to Daddy's car through the morning mist, she cried "Snakey!  Poor snakey, Mama help me get him!"  Defeated, I trudged in slippered feet out through wet cold grass to fetch my nemesis.  Snake 1 Mama 0. 

Land Grab

The neighbor and her son were over playing with Lucy and Tennessee.  Calley and I chatted and got all jacked up on coffee.  Tennessee and Liam headed upstairs to play something that involved lots of thumping noises.  As there was no screaming or bleeding, I stayed out of it.  Lucy sat glittering the crap out of some Valentines cards. 

After the boys had all of the fun to be had upstairs, they came down to "make a fort".  That is three year old code for tearing all the cushions off the sofa and piling them in the middle of the living room, then flinging your little body off of the naked sofa onto the pile-o-cushions.  I hate "forts".  I let in slide as it is still too early in the year to yell "Go outside!"  Lucy heard the fun and dropped her glue stick like a hot rock.  She showed those boys a thing or two about jumping and flinging.

Then, she went to work building a real fort.  The kind with walls and a door.  At first, the boys were excited about Lucy's engineering skills.  Then reality set in.  They were not invited.  Lucy started moving in.  A pair of silver shoes, an oddly dressed baby doll, a dish towel curtain, and Rody the blue rubber bouncing horse.  She climbed in what she now considered her fort and began squealing loudly anytime one of the boys tried to get in on the fun.  Like a white settler moving West, she employed the "I built a house here, so it's mine!" defense.  The poor natives where out gunned.  Nobody screeches like Lucy defending a hidy hole. 

I came in to the living room all hopped up on caffeine and started bossing and relocating.  Crying like her wagon train was sent back East, she stomped upstairs for a good bawling session.  Poor dear.  She was just trying to bring civilization to the savages. 

Poor Daddy

Last month, around 26 days ago, I was a total mean crazy beeatch to my kids and husband.  That I have to taking care of people when I am in a heightened hormonal state (that's just fancy for PMS) feels impossible sometimes.  Snapping at the kids because they act like children just isn't fair.  I spend a good four days out of every month feeling guilty about being short with Lucy and Tennessee. 

This time I am doing my best to take deep breathes and be gentle and use my words.  I am doing pretty good, but there are side effects.  Apparently, if I hold my tongue with the children, my resentment does not dissipate.  It just balls up and comes out in Kenneth's direction.  For instance, last night he folded and put away three loads of laundry.  For which he was rewarded with no less than thirty seven glaring looks, and three snide comments.  I am trying not to feel guilty about it, as it just makes me more anxious and cranky.  He knew me well before he signed on for life.  I have decided that he is acting as a  human shield for his children.  Protecting them from my hormone induced fits of the hypercritical variety. 

He was called out of town on last minute business (I am sure it has nothing to do with me being a cow) so now the kids are left sitting duck style.  I may have make a Daddy effigy (thanks Rachel) to pepper with snotty remarks, thus saving the children thousands in future therapy bills.  Someday I hope to be post menopausal.  I think I will look good in a mustache.

Doughnuts

Some pals and I escorted our sons to the family doughnut shop this morning for some fat, sugar and pinball.  Thank goodness one of us is smart enough to have a minivan that we could all pile into.  The three young fellows had a bit of a time picking out their victims, but finally settled.  Liam was drawn to the splashy promises of the sprinkles, Tennessee went with his old standby, chocolate icing on a plain cake.  Soren, who is nine months younger went along with the chocolate cake thing, until he realized how delish the sprinkles where.  Liam was nice enough to pick off little hunks of sprinkled doughnut and pop them into Soren's baby bird beak.  

After the eating and the smearing was done, they hit the pinball machines.  Oh the glory of three little boys with wing spans barely wide enough to work the flippers, whacking away at Dracula pinball.  That's right, the one starring Tom and Brad.  Way back in the 90's before that Mormon girl got her mitty mitts on the beloved blood suckers of olde (you saw that "e", that means really old).  Tennessee stuck to the games.  Liam wiggled, danced and bobbed his head.  Unable to hide his inner noodle with that much sugar and white flour coursing through his veins. Soren went back and forth from his mama and the pinball.  The glazed tribe kept tugging my pants asking for change.  Little hobo's.  Three whole dollars later, mama's full of bacon maple bar and coffee, we piled back in the van and headed for home.  Tennessee was so jacked on sugar (his dad showed up mid-mayhem and gave him another doughnut) that he threw a fit when it was time for Liam to go home and only napped for thirty minutes.  It was a morning well spent.

Hour of Power

The hour between 4:30 PM and 5:30 PM is a toughie.  In order to make bath time then bedtime work, we have to eat by 5:30.  Fixing a meal in an hour doesn't seem like that big of a deal.  I mean, it really shouldn't be a big deal, but it is. 

The kids can not resist coming into the kitchen to show me dance moves/have me weigh in on arguments/describe terrible owies that need band-aids/"help" me cook/use a jump rope as a helicopter.  That is also the time of day when my husband likes to stand in the kitchen door and negotiate our schedules/tell me about his day/ask for the location of personal items he has lost...it is a freaking circus if there ever was one.  It takes a monumental amount of restraint for me to not shout "Go away from me NOW or you will have no food to complain about at dinner!"

When my kids grow up, I hope they don't associate the smell of food cooking with pent up rage.

The Growing

This weekend Lucy discovered a loose tooth.  She is thrilled to pieces.  "Everybody" she knows has already lost teeth, and she has been getting impatient.  She made sure to have me check it every hour on the hour to make sure it was indeed, still loose.  I think it is going to be a while before it falls out, but at least she is on her way to catching up with her buddies. Tennessee is insisting that he too has a "loof toof".  I tried explaining the difference in their ages, and that his time would come.  He just yelled at me and stomped off.  I hope he doesn't do anything drastic to get the tooth fairy's attention. 

Lucy is also taller.  She can now reach the ketchup in the fridge if she stands on her tip-toes.  This is a big event, as now she feels free to put ketchup on everything she eats.  Last night I watched in horror as she squeezed that tangy goo all over her mashed potatoes.  Then she picked out the skins I had mashed in making her side dish a big sugar and fat bomb devoid of fiber.  I may need a taller fridge.