mothermayi

Barf

I think I have posted under this title before.  The thing is, I can not emphasize enough how badly barfing effects the life of someone who takes care of small children.  I got up this morning ready for a really productive day.  All I had to do was get those kids dressed and out the door to school, (Tennessee goes to school two days a week for his sake and mine) and then I could get going on my beautiful to-do list.  The list was just covered in great stuff.  There was exercising, and Christmas shopping, writing, and eating a delicious sandwich in a restaurant.  I love sandwiches.  I love restaurants.  But, no, there would be no List for me today.  First there was some complaints of a hurty tummy.  Then there was the sound.  The horrid splattering sound that has broken the heart of parents since humans figured out "floor".

I got little Lucy into a warm tub and did more cleaning than anyone should have to do while wearing slippers and a robe.  Washing machine started, sweet smelling girl in her favorite cozy PJ's, I waited for the other one to start.  The little mean one didn't barf, no he did not.  He did however dump out all of his lego, all of his wooden blocks, and a bin filled with matchbox cars and little plastic animals in less than ten minutes.  There will be a good hour of whining and debating this evening when we pick it up together.  But I will take that over barf any day of the week.

In the movie of my life in my head, this is the part with the dramatic music wherein my list is shredded into a thousand tiny pieces that blow away in a harsh wind as a church bell tolls and ravens glare down at me, squawking in pity at my wretched life.  The pity party I threw myself this morning was a real wing ding.  I had it catered.  There were ice sculptures. 

The thing is, it ended up not being so bad.  I snuggled with Lucy for hours while she watched the ol' boob tube and pecked at saltines and juice.  We had a few chuckles together.  She told me about some of her pals at school, I told her my version of how the US postal service works. (In my mind, there is magic involved, I mean really, all those letters, every day, with that much accuracy?  Amazing.)  It is just a bit before 3:00 in the afternoon and she is up in her room sleeping like the cutest little cutie ever.  I know she is cute because I peeked at her thrice.  I did get this teeny bit of writing done, so that is something from my list.  Maybe I will now go slog through some sit-ups on the floor in the den, do a bit of yoga and cross "exercise" off the list too.

The Pile

Once, long, long ago when Lucy was 2 and a half and I was really grouchy and pregnant with Tennessee, she went through a brief phase in which she created The Pile.  It was infuriating.  She would take every last article of clothing from her drawers and put it in a pile in the middle of her floor.  Along with the clothes there was every last book from her shelf, every last toy from her toy bins and every stitch of linen from her bed.  All of this piled in the middle of her room.  The first time it happened, I found her sitting on her pile triumphantly.  I was a wee bit shocked, not to mention the constant general nausea that accompanied my every waking pregnant moment.  I may or may not have yelled the stupidest question any parent ever asks, "What the heck where you thinking?!"

The second time it happened Lucy was sorry she had done it, but you could tell there was an element of compulsion to the whole thing.  Like she couldn't not make The Pile if she tried.  That Pile, and all subsequent Pile's she was made to help me put everything away.  She got over it after a three week period.  I had put it out of my mind for the most part, other than to regale my poor friends with the story when there is a gap in the conversation large enough for me to cram in a darling factoid about my blessed off-spring. 

Today I cleared the calendar and turned down any social opportunities and we flopped around the house enjoying each others company and bickering.  Well, Kenneth and I enjoyed each other's company and the kids bickered.  At one point, the bickering stopped.  Lucy sat at the kitchen table gluing, or taping wads of paper to egg cartons, or making the tallest glitter tower known to man, or some such glorious craft project she cooked up, and Wally  was quietly playing upstairs.  Quietly, that is, except for the sound of his sisters dresser drawers opening and closing.  After a bit, curiosity won and I climbed the stairs to see what our little rascal was up too.  I will tell you what he was up too (inhale, exhale, live in the moment), that little so and so was making The PILE!  He had the same guilt/thrill look on his face that his sister did two years ago.  I was so mad Kenneth sent me downstairs.  A little vacuuming a' la ipod helped me clear my head and lighten up.  While I was vacuuming I started thinking, what if it is a poltergeist?  What else explains that sort of organized destruction?  I am calling Ghost Busters.  Finally my dream of meeting Bill Murray will come true...

Pee

Tennessee's little buddy from down the street came over to hang out while his mama did some much needed Christmas shopping.  They over-turned every possible thing worth over-turning.  They bickered over riding the rolly horse around the house.  They ate pears and frozen Trader Joe's pizza.  Then they started talking about pee. 

Liam, the guy from down the street, is farther along in cracking the code of the potty than Tennessee.  He wanted to use Tennessee's potty to do a little bit of peeing.  He was happy to find out that Tennessee owns the same potty that he does (a fact he seems to re-discover every time he visits, yet never gets tired of pointing out).  He enjoyed a couple of lemon pez and went back to his business of turning my house into a biohazard.  Tennessee was pretty thrilled with the look of those pez and decided he was going to have a go at the ol' plastic throne.  Liam had to join in the bathroom fun.  He was thrilled to discover that Tennessee's penis is just like his!  He pointed out that his sister doesn't have a penis.  Tennessee confirmed that his sister lacked a penis as well.  He sat for quite some time and the talk got quite potty centric and moved into the blue realm of poop.

All of the sudden Tennessee hooted and hopped off the potty yelling "I peed!  I peed!  I need pez!"  Liam celebrated with him, then demanded more pez.  I restated the pee for pez rules.  He tried really hard to pee again until I worried that he might pop something important with all the straining and pushing he was doing and gave him a pez for effort.  They ran off a few ounces lighter and enjoyed a rousing game of "fort" involving a towel and some chairs. 

Tree Battle Royale

Despite the fact that we are going to Memphis for Christmas, I bought a tree.  The kids are soooo excited.  It is one of those holiday chores that feels worth the work.  The joyous hooting brought on by lights and ornaments is worth wrestling a 6 foot tall spruce into the front seat of a Honda Element any day of the week.  Lucy did a surprisingly good job of decorating the tree all the way up to the three and a half foot mark.  Really, a lovely job, if you keep your gaze low.  The Un-decorator, though?  That guy is a real bummer.

The Un-decorator is about two and a half feet tall and has two and a half years under his belt.  He is ruthless and driven in his mission of removing and scattering all of the ornaments within a tippy toed reach.  I have asked nicely.  I have threatened.  I have yelled.  I have time-outed.  I am not winning.  At 6:15 am I wandered into the living room in the remnants of a Nyquil haze (I have a cold, I swear! Now stop with the Lil' Wayne comments.) to the crinkle crinkle sound of candy cane being unwrapped.  I slipper-ed my way around the side of the tree to apprehend the suspect in the act of eating a candy cane as it still hung from the tree.  Like a little baby goat suckling on it's mother; Tennessee's little chin tilted up toward the star at the top of the tree as he enjoyed his minty morning contraband.  I am stubborn and bossy, but I have to admit that this is a battle I am not going to win.  I am formally laying down my tinsel laden sword.

Daddy's Home

He is home! He's home he's home he's home, after five loooong days away. With that I would like to tip my hat and bow humbly before all those who parent without a partner.  That shit is HARD.  If the laundry is piling up, there is no one to blame.  If a child is howling and screaming and carrying on as though on fire when in fact there is no fire only a younger brother placing a toe over the middle line of the sofa, and you happen to be in the bad mood to beat all bad moods (deep breath) there is no one to be calm and reasonable. 

I think the kids missed him too.  He brings a certain amount of levity to the mix that I lack a 6:30 in the morning.  For example he went to the trouble of hiding under a blanket before the kids came downstairs this morning.  He sat stalk still on the sofa (he probably went back to sleep) with a blanket over his head.  The kids milled about working their way to the breakfast table, passing him twice before Tennessee said, "Is that my Daddy in that blankie?"  Kenneth threw off the blanket and made the appropriate roaring noises to go with the occasion.  I was feeling too fragile to get in on the reunion as I had not made it through cup number two yet.  They jumped on him and snuggled and demanded presents. Kids these days.

Can You Smell It?

I had one of those awful mornings when all signs told me to go crawl in a hole.  In the horror movie of my life, the audience screamed "Ack! Don't go in there today!!"  My back has been very hurty, my husband is out of town, it is cold like the Arctic, the new exotic coffee we bought on a lark tastes like, uh, well, crap and I was a jerk to one of my friends yesterday and woke up plagued with guilt.  Poopety poop poop.  It was one of those days when it would have been great if the kids had gotten along and been reasonable.

That is the trouble with kids.  Not only do they smell fear, but they smell a bad mood.  I think my bad mood gives off some pheromone that triggers the most bickery part of their wee brains.  In order to have a peaceful shower, I put on the sacred electronic beasty of joy.  Cute belly's full of eggs, toast and cider, a little Backyardigans on a Sunday morning...why not relax and let a mother take a shower?  I don't know either.  There was screaming, there was thundering down halls, there was accusations of one kind and another.  I got out of the shower, wrapped myself in a towel and hollered in a way most un-becoming to a mother.  Like all hollering in a towel sessions, nobody took me seriously.

My friend down the street rescued me.  I dropped the kids off at her place and headed out to grocery shop alone.  Who knew sitting in a parking lot alone singing along to the radio could be so relaxing?  After procuring a weeks worth of lunch box fodder and perusing the magazine aisle for more time than is really necessary, I got back down to the business of being a mother.  One pot of chicken stock to cover up my wounded beast  pheromones and an oven full of roasted potatoes (the ultimate ketchup vehicle) later and we are all friends again.  They didn't even give me the biz when I washed their hair.  Tomorrow is another day. 

Kicking and Screaming

I took Lucy to the Doctor for her 5 year check-up today.  She is healthy as a horse, but I knew that.  When we got out fo the car there was a terrible sound filling the air.  The sound of a small child being being harmed terribly, or maybe just not getting his way.  Sure enough a small boy and his mother came walking along the sidewalk.  He grabbed at her pants and hung off her coat, howling as though she had just poked him in both eyes at once.  His mother did her very best to walk down the street, trying not to trip over her frothing flopping son.  She had a smile plastered on her face and I over-heard her calmly say, "You can walk, you are a big boy."  This only made the little guy flop his head back and howl louder.

They had already made it through the adult waiting area of the clinic and up the stairs by the time Lucy and I arrived, but I heard his protesting echo in the elevator shaft.  A middle aged woman said to another woman, "poor little guy".  I wanted to glare and say "My Ass! Poor little guy!  that woman deserves a mother of the year sash and tiara for remaining calm!"  I didn't, but I wanted to. 

I waited in line to check in behind Mr. Yelly McScreamy Pants.  I smiled at his mom.  I wanted to do more to let her know that I am proud of her for standing her ground.  Standing up to a three year year old child (I am a fairly good judge of age of the under five set, beyond that, my accuracy goes down hill.) is so hard.  The old "carry me!" routine is the most tiring and often the most embarrassing because it usually happens in public.  Before you judge me cold and cruel for believing that the little guy should carry himself around, think about this; the average three year old boy ranges between 30 and 40 lbs.  that is a good amount to haul, especially if you are also carrying a bag of groceries, a purse laden with snacks, baby wipes, and emergency pants.  There is a good chance that the mother of a three year old is also carrying a toy or two that the little person insisted on bringing along and promised to carry.  This brings the total up weight up near 100 lbs.  In these days of people delaying childbearing, it is not uncommon for a person over 35 to have a three year old.  A 35 year old spine will likely disintegrateunder the weight of 100 lbs, or at least require immediate chiropractic care.

Having a small child scream at your feet is hard to deal with.  If you happen to be in public when this happens, the horror compounds.  Not only are you being hollered at by the one you love most, there are usually a few strangers around to glare and judge you.  I propose a new universally recognizable hand signal, that remains to be created, that tells the parent of a publicly flopping child "I feel for you, good job standing your ground".  There have been many days when I could have really used a little rooting rather than the stink eye.  I am open to suggestions.

Pinky's Up

Lucy and I went to the Mother Daughter Christmas tea party for her school.  We arrived on the scene  just a little after 3:00.  A pack of junior high school girls met us at the door, and speaking as little as possible, handed us name tags and pointed us in the direction of our table.  There were tables set up in half of the room, the other half of the room was covered in a throng of hooting and screaming little girls in fancy party dresses.  Red velvet abound. 

It was amazingly loud.  The patent leather shod pack moved in a whirling circle.  The most intense play seemed to be at the center of the circle.  The less fear-less of the tots stayed out on the edge of the frey.  Someone started slide tackling/grabbing and Lucy headed for the refreshments.  "That girl with the orange hair tried grabbing me.  I need a sandwich."  That's mama's little comfort eater.  Announcements were made, Christmas carols played, tea cup after tea cup of tea was consumed.  Most of the girls where just mashing up sugar cubes in half and half and calling it good.  I chatted pleasant chats with other moms.  Then it happened. 

One little girl shrieked (and I mean shrieked) "Santa!  Santa! Santaaaaaah!"  The mosh pit ground to a halt and all of the little beauties mashed against street side the windows of the wood paneled Laurelhurst Club.  They jockeyed for the best spot, and pressed their wee faces against the glass.  I was born long after the Beatles hit American soil for the first time, but I have seen the footage.  The Fab Four got nothin' on Santa.  Santa got out of his Crysler Sebring, hiked up his big red drawers, slapped on his hat and made his entrance.  The serious Santa fans attacked him at the door, they pulled his beard, they rubbed his velvety Santa suit.  It was mayhem.  Lucy wanted no part of it. 

I directed her to the "sit on the strange man's lap line".  She lost her basket.  There was trembling, there was crying, the whole nine yards.  I carried her over to the tea table.  Poor thing.  She had a nice cup of tepid water mixed with half and half with two lumps and I enjoyed some jazzy cranberry punch.  Sometimes I wish she was more of a go with the flow kind of gal.  But she is not.  I am not either. 

Stop Right There

Lucy just went off to school with her wee toe pressed up against the end of her shoe.  I just bought the shoes in September, they were a good inch too big for her.  Her uniform pants are cresting the top of her ankle.  Both of them need new coats.  I can see wrist.  If you want me, I will be in the shopping mines.

I am so torn about this thing I can't stop and have no control over.  Well, technically I could do some feet binding and the tiniest bit of mal-nourishing, but that is just not nice.  I am excited for these kids to get bigger and less reliant on me for their physical needs.  On the other hand, every time I buy a bigger pair of shoes I feel like I am getting farther away from the tiny angel baby feet that they came into this world with.