mothermayi

I Yam What I Yam

The kids have gotten into watching Popeye after they take their baths. Kenneth found it at 2 AM and started DVR-ing it.   If you hit the info button on the remote, the description is "Animation; the sailor courts Olive Oyl and gains strength through spinach..."  Not that I have a thing against a life spent courting ladies and eating spinach, but the description fails to touch on Popeye's amazing endurance in the face of Bluto's attacks. 

While the over the top nature of the violence in the classic animation of yore is no longer deemed acceptable for the kiddos, I just don't care.  Maybe Tennessee is a wee bit slappier than he was last week, but that gang of nerds on Nick Jr. was starting to get in my craw.  I know feelings are important, but must we always look out for them?  Always every minute?  What about when a guy just needs a good kick in the shins?  Like what if he is trying to steal your lady by attaching a lighting rod to the rear of your WWII era fighter jet so that it is struck by lightening and explodes while he woos her in French?  Should you talk it out with him?  No!  You eat a can of spinach and clobber him good.  These have been some really great teaching moments between the kids and I since we got on the Popeye train.

"What is Bluto thaying?"

"He is speaking French."

"Where ith French?"

"People speak French in many countries.  France for starters, an area in Canada, in Haiti, and parts of Africa..."

"Huhu, those antth ate Popeyeth houthe."

"Yeah they did baby, did you notice Popeye doesn't have any teeth?"

"Yeah, he ith like a baby."

Raising geniuses people, that is what I do.

ART!!!!

My Lucy is quite the little artist.  She spends hours painting and drawing, but her most prolific work is her collection of uhhhh, sculptures?  And when I say sculpture, I mean that in the most loosey-goosey art school pain in the ass way.  Imagine if you will, four pieces of construction paper folded, glued and taped together into what she is calling a "garage".  There is glue, there are stickers, there is tape (which I buy in bulk) and there may or may not be glitter.  The thing takes up a square foot of space.  That doesn't sound like much, I know, but there is never just one tape/paper/glitter garage.  They seem to come in sets of four and five.  At the moment, every flat surface in my house is covered in paper sculptures.  It is feeling like an episode of Hoarders in here. 

 Do I loose good mommy points if some of them make their way into the recycling?  Will MOMA send art goons after me years from now when they find out I tossed half of the early years of the Pogson collection?  There is just so much of it.  In fact, the collection I am covered in now is just from the past weekend.  I moved and recycled a weeks worth last Friday.  I do save some.  I pick out the things I like best and put them in a giant plastic bin in the basement.  I bought the bin thinking it would hold a couple of years worth, not so much.  It is full.  It has only been six months. 

I have tried getting Lu to pick the things she wants to keep, but it is like watching Sophie's Choice.  Her little face gets so serious.  Her enormous eyes get really sad.  I just can't take it.  I do my dirty recycling deed after she is in bed.  I have even lied and said that I had saved things in "The Bin" knowing full well that I tossed it in with yesterdays newspaper.  It does not feel good, not one bit. 

Seven Whole Years

On this day, seven years ago, I had the biggest spaz attack of my whole life.  I was getting ready to marry Kenneth in that evening.  In a panic I drank too much mini bar Cava and showed up late, buzzed, and scared out of my mind.  He forgave me.  Seven years later, I have gotten mildly less spaz filled. He is still full of forgiving.

We decided to skip the sitter and dinner out for a daytime date.  After the kids went to school, we went out for tasty breakfast.  Then we revisited the site of our first outing together (nine years ago) complete with a snapshot of the deceased dog that accompanied us on that sunny August day. Then we chatted and rooted around vintage stores until it was time to pick up Lucy.  I think it was our best anniversary yet. 

5

It has been a long time since I was home alone with Lucy.  Tennessee has pre-school today and Lucy has a humdinger of a cough.  She watched a little TV, redecorated her doll house, did some coloring, and now she is practicing her numbers.  My only contribution to her entertainment was a brief interrogation session in which I was expected to answer a series of questions about the desert.  What kind of houses are in the desert?  What do people eat in the desert?  What is a nomad?  Is a Yurt a teepee?  Is a teepee in the desert?  Do Native Americans still live in teepees?  Are there dogs in the desert?  I tried changing the subject, but she is getting too old for that trick.  I was forced to pull out the big guns, Kit Kittredge.

After I read her an American Girl book I wandered off to do Laundry.   While I was in the basement, she fished her lunch box out of the fridge (I made her a lunch last night thinking she would be at school today).  I came upstairs to her coughing and eating a pb&j while perusing the comics.  It is more like having a tiny roommate that doesn’t pay rent than caring for a child.  I think 5 is my new favorite age. 

You Get What You Get....

Covet: to feel inordinate desire for what belongs to another.

Birth order can be a real bitch.  My son, was born two years and nine months after his sister and is obsessed with making sure he gets exactly the same things she does, always.  Whether the thing she has is something he actually wants has nothing to do with it.  Be it a piece of toast, a Barbie, or a trip to the doctor.   He is always there, watching with his little measuring eyes.  Did Lucy get more juice?  Did Lucy get more TV?  Why didn’t I get a Barbie for Christmas?  When do I get a Big Girl Bed?

 I vacillate wildly in my dealings with this issue.  Part of me wants the avoid conflict. In the morning, Tennessee tends to be the first one awake.  He is usually two eggs and a bowl of cereal into his day before Lucy hits the kitchen.  When I fix breakfast for Lucy, I now automatically make enough for two kids.  As soon as the waffle hits the table, he is padding his pj’d feet into the kitchen whining “Heeeeey, I want some tooooo”.  He may not be hungry, he may not even like what Lu is eating, but he wants his.

The other part of me, the part that has had her morning coffee, wants to raise people that know how to navigate around the bottomless pit that is coveting.  I have spent enough time aboard the Good Ship Where’s My Share to know what a waste of time and life it is.  Ahoy!  It is me with my rudder stuck, sailing in and endless circle with a crabby ass look on my face.  I know, maritime metaphors are as old as the souls in Davey Jones Locker, but I love them so…

Back to coveting; I am not a big enough jerk to think I can teach the kids not to covet.  I am thinking more along the lines of practicing being graceful when dealing with the disappointment that is not having toast when it seems like the whole world is up to their ears in buttery goodness.  I like how that sounds, now, in the evening when their dad is putting them to bed.  I don’t know if I will have it in me when the morning comes and Mr. Where’s My Piece of the Pie shows up to start his day off wrong.  But I will do my best to pull anchor and set sail on the sea of pissing and moaning.  I just can’t stop!  My heart belongs to the sea! 

Threat

 I cannot lie and say that the children have never ever seen any violent television.  I do my best, and when I am not in charge I try to leave them with only the most thoughtful of babysitters.  You never know, that pleasant college student may turn on Texas Chainsaw Massacre just as soon as I leave on a date with ol’ KP.  But I don’t think so.  Lucy is not only quite sensitive to all things scary, but she is the worst kind of tattle tale.  As far as I know, ninja training is not offered at the preschool Tennessee attends.  They list only music and dance as their special curriculum.  So why he decided that cutting a person in half is a viable solution to conflict is beyond me.  It went like this:

Wally was eating some strawberry yogurt while I read the paper next to him at the table.  He asked if we could go to the park.  I said no, as it was raining pretty hard and we were nearing the napping hour.  He said, “Mama, I am going to cut you in half! after I finish this yogurt.”  Pardon my language, but WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?  Cut me in half?  Is this the same sweet baby boy who I made with my own body, then woke up every two hours for months on end to nurse with milk I had made WITH MY OWN BODY?   The boy who’s diapers I change, who fevers I cool, whose knees I bandage, whose snotty nose I endlessly wipe?  Man oh man this mothering thing is not for weenies, that is for sure. 

After the initial shock wore off, I had to decide.  Do I make a big deal out of matricide, or do I let it slide and chalk it up to the whimsy and word play of a new and agile talker?  I chose halfway in between.  I gave him a time out for threatening me at the table.  In this family, we threaten each other, but not at mealtimes.

Party Foul

I went to my friend Izzy's house last night to watch the Oscars.  What the hell was Sandra Bullock thinking with that lipstick?  There were other mothers there, but there were also plenty of people that are kid free.  I couldn't stop getting into conversations about kids and parenting.  Boring boring BORING!  I have turned into that person who doesn't have anything to talk about but for the kiddos.  I am going to quite talking about kids.  Right now.  I have so many other things on my mind, big things, politics for instance....(there are crickets in the distance). 

Crap.  Nothing.  Why must they be so life swallowing?  Why can't I refrain from steering almost every conversation back to the two most specialist, most cutest, little sweetie pies ever?  That reminds me, yesterday Tennessee was eating some yogurt...damn!  Double damn!  I have read so many books.  Seen so many movies, none since the kids were born of course (what, am I made of free time?)  I have traveled.  I have other things to talk about, I do.  I just can't seem to steer myself out of the small children conversation rut.  So, if we meet on the street, I apologize in advance for being such a bore.

C Word

Many of my parenting decisions, which toys to buy, what sorts of food we eat, have to do with the ever present avalanche of information about what does and doesn't give people cancer or heavy metal poisoning (and I am not talking about the rad kind you catch from Judas Priest).  Cadmium nuggets in the shape of charms from Walmart, bad.  Wooden toys from the Magic Cabin catalog, good....unless they are made in China and covered in lead paint.  Plastic cups, bad.  Ceramic cups, good....unless they are made in China and covered in lead paint.  Plastic sports bottle, bad.  Overpriced Swiss drinking bottle made of stainless steel, good...unless the company lied and lined all their bottles with the same plastic as the afore mentioned plastic cup.  Tuna fish, bad.  Salmon, bad.  Organically grown whole grains, good...unless they are grown in China and covered in lead paint.  It is a bit of a wild goose chase.  

I swing between trying really hard to keep all of the poisons out of our house, to yelling "WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE!" and enjoying a nice tuna melt on a plastic plate while covering my head in hand sanitizer (the bad kind that has the hormone disruptor in it).   To be honest, I had gotten a little apathetic about the whole thing this winter.  I personally purchased no less than a million tiny plastic Polly Pockets.  Off-gassing God knows what all over my little sweetie pie's mitty mitts.  That is until last Friday...

A doctor I had seen for my trick back noticed a shadow on an x ray and wanted to get some more shots of my insides.  I asked why, as those x rays are not cheap.  He replied that the shadow was most likely just some bowel gas (hu hu), but it could be a tumor.  I replied "OK, cool".  Hung up the phone and left the house to pick up Lucy from school.  I got half way there before it seeped into my fat noggin what that Doctor of Medicine was getting at.  I got scared like I haven't been scared in a long time.  Me, I am a worst case scenario type person.  I then had to wait five days.  Five days of imagining what it is like to go through chemotherapy.  Five days of thinking about what would happen to the kids if they lost their mama.  It was nerve racking at best. There was not much sleeping at night.

Lucky gassy girl that I am, no tumor.  But I got to thinking, maybe my cavalier attitude about carcinogens could use some re-tooling.  Maybe I need to get back on the anti plastic train to healthy living.  Polly Pocket, you better run and hide.

A Room of One's Own

While I appreciate the value of a living room camp out, motor skill, imagination, cooperation, and what not.  I really get kind of sick of my sofa being draped in beach towels, ugly sheets from the 90's and sleeping bags.  Whenever a kid asks "Can I make a fort?" I kind of groan my approval. 

I remember loving forts when I was small.  A hidy hole, just big enough for a kid is a real treat.  It feels like it is easier to go to other lands while squatting underneath a folding chair draped with an old table cloth.  I still remember the sting of loss when it was time for tear down, and my mom would let us keep them up for days.  A fort is never the same twice.  Kind of like a snowflake.

This morning, after all the crying over cereal and toast was done, the kids made a fort together.  A really good one.  It takes up the whole living room, involves one of those nylon tubes a kid can crawl through, and has a perch for the  cat built in (that was Lu's idea).  They fit under it together, that is the best part.  After they built it, they sat in there and chatted while I ran around preparing for a visit from Grandma.  I am gonna let them keep this one for a while.  The upheaval makes my eye twitch, but I think I better just avert my twitching eye, and let them have a little real estate.

Team Potty

This morning, all of my hard work and frustrations seem to have paid a tiny dividend.  You see, one child is difficult to care for, two children is insane.  I don't even know what to say about people with more than two, my hat is humbly off to you.  Not only are the basic needs of  everyone at stake, but everything is louder due to the alternating bickering and shrieks of joy.  Having one small child in ones life, one small child who is certain that the world revolves around them (as it does when they are small) is tricky.  With two, there are two little beings jockeying for the one center of the universe spot.  No matter how much I try to show and explain to them that my emotional solar system allows for two suns, they wrestle away over that one imagined sweet spot. 

But not this morning.  Tennessee decided to take a crack at dropping some science on the potty.  I helped him out of his diaper.  Fetched a stack of the most relaxing children's books in our collection, and sat in the bathroom chatting and waiting.  Lucy came in to check on his progress (There is a potential puppy on the line when potty training is completed, so Lu has a big stake in this whole thing.)  After sitting listening to stories for a while, she ran to get more books.  Then she took over "reading", trying to put a less menacing face on Where the Wild Things Are, as Tennessee has deemed it too scary.  They chatted, and read.  I asked if they wouldn't mind if I went to fetch a cup of coffee.  They didn't.  Coffee cup refilled, I sat at the bottom of the stairs while Lucy and Tennessee chatted about the big issues; the mechanics of pooping (which Lu described in remarkable detail), what they will be naming the dog, and read books.  Lucy was very patient and sweet to her brother, and he seemed genuinely enthusiastic about cracking the code of the potty. 

He didn't go, too much pressure maybe, but he did sit there for a long time.  He went around diaper-less for most of the morning, then there was a wetting of the pants incident and he was over those Thomas underwear faster than you can say "Pampers in a Landfill".  He will get it.  The sweet brother and sister interlude has me feeling so good, that I can't get down about changing big smelly toddler diapers today.