The Best Baby Toy On Earth--Just Ask My 6-Year-Old

Last week marked my little girl’s first birthday. A very, very special day, indeed. But, that day was also Thursday. Which means in addition to celebrating her first full trip around the sun, we also had Kindergarten drop-off. And preschool drop-off. And the weekly emergency trip to the store for more milk and bananas. And preschool pick-up. And…you get the idea. It was her birthday, but mostly it was an ordinary day.

I was feeling kind of bad about having so many mundane tasks to do on such a special day, so I decided to take my little darling to the toy store to buy her a new toy. She’s our third child, so she has never really had a new toy. Don’t get me wrong, she has LOTS of toys, but they have all been used by her brothers before her and many have seen better days. It’s ok—she doesn’t know that the fancy “Ball Popping Machine” she loves isn’t supposed to pop out ping pong balls and the toy lemon from the play kitchen. She doesn’t care. But still, I wanted her to have a new toy of her very own.

So off we went to Toys R Us to buy her a present. First we went to the stuffed animal section and meowed at all the animals. Baby Girl has exactly one “word,” and it’s the sound she makes whenever she sees our cat. So here’s how our animal-related conversations go:

Me: Look, Baby Girl! The neighbor’s cat!

Baby Girl: Meow!

Me: Oooh! There’s Grandpa’s dog, Buster!

Baby Girl: Meow!

Me: Oh my! Look at that picture of a big cow! What does a cow say, Baby Girl?

Baby Girl: Meow!

Oh, who am I kidding. That’s how ALL of our conversations go these days.

Me: Does Baby Girl want yogurt for lunch?

Baby Girl: Meow!

Me: Where do your shoes go, Baby Girl?

Baby Girl: (pointing at her feet) Meow!

Me: Where’s your big brother?

Baby Girl: (pointing at a brother) Meow!

We’re hoping to add a “mama” or “dada” within the next few months, but for now we all just answer to “meow.”

Anyway, when we moved on to the toddler toys, there was one that immediately caught my eye. It looked like fun, and the box said it was good for kids from 6 months to 3 years old, so I figured she’d get years and years of fun out of it. Plus, it featured little plastic balls like the ones that used to be in the “Ball Popping Machine” before we lost them all, so maybe we’d be killing two birds with that one stone.

Not as ominous as it sounds.

(By the way, my husband HATES that we call that toy the “Ball Popping Machine.” He cringes every time we say it. Friends of ours who have the same toy call it the “Ball Blowing Machine,” which I guess is much more appealing. We probably should have thought of that back when we named it the “Ball Popping Machine.”)

(OK, I just looked it up and the official name of the toy is the “Playskool Busy Ball Popper.” So, thanks for that, Playskool. It’s actually a great toy and you can buy one on Amazon HERE or you can look elsewhere, but please please for your own sake DO NOT go and google “ball popping machine” to find one. Trust me on this one.)

So. I bought the new toy, now known as the “Ball Twirling Machine,” got it set up at home and, as expected, Baby Girl loved it. It made me really happy to see her get such joy out of her new toy. Her new toy, that was just for her. Because no one else in the family is between 6 months and 3 years old, so no one else will even want to share it. And she’ll get hours of fun from it, with no interruptions from her 4- and 6-year-old older brothers, who are TOO OLD FOR IT.

Right?

Best. Toy. Ever.

Nope. Not even close. Baby Girl’s older brothers came home from school, took one look at the new “Ball Twirling Machine,” and fell in love. They have spent HOURS playing with this toy together. They have played with it as it’s designed and they have invented complicated games for it using their matchbox cars, their Star Wars guys, even the “Ball Popping Machine.” Poor Miss Baby Girl has tried to get in on the action a few times, only to be shooed away.

The good news is, she’s easy going. She’s happy to watch while she plays with her talking octopus doll that only speaks in jibberish now or the toy we call the “Drunk Letter Machine” because it no longer knows a C from a Q. Plus, karma comes around full circle every morning when the boys head off to school for a few hours and Baby Girl has her run of the place: She likes to sneak into their bedroom to hug and kiss and meow at all of their precious lovies. And sometimes even play with her new toy.

Once Again, I Owned Daylight Savings Time

This is not a humble brag post. You know humble brags? When someone wants to brag but doesn’t want to seem like they’re bragging? They’re all over facebook.

Barf.

Anyway, this is not that. This is just a brag. A straight-up, to-the-point post about how awesome I am. I’m not even going to pretend to try to be humble right now. I’m about to brag your ears off. Get ready.

Here it is:

ONCE AGAIN, I *OWNED* DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME.

I wrote last fall about that jerk Fall Back, who brought me so much pleasure in my youth but then turned on me when I had kids. I spent the last few years feeling bitter about the end of our great relationship, but then I found a way to get revenge…and it felt great.

Things were a bit different last month with Spring Forward. There’s been no love lost between me and Spring Forward over the years. I have pretty much always hated Spring Forward. Every year since I learned to love sleep (so for a LONG TIME now), I have railed against it. To me, Spring Forward is like that mean girl in high school who you *know* you should just ignore but who manages to get under your skin Every. Single. Time. She knows she’s doing it, and she loves that she bothers you, and she loves the fact that you can’t just let it go.

(OK, I may be personalizing this whole Daylight Savings thing a bit too much. Or I have some issues leftover from adolescence to work through….)

But this year, I did it. I just let it go. That mean girl Spring Forward came knocking with some mean stuff to say and instead of getting all riled up, I was mature. I was calm. What did I do? I flat-out ignored her.

Yep, I just pretended like Spring Forward wasn’t even happening. Didn’t set the clocks forward on Saturday night, or on Sunday morning for that matter. We did our thing Sunday like nothing was different. Played outside, watched TV, ate chicken nuggets, er quinoa and kale salad for dinner (is that a thing?), and put the kids to bed. Then my husband and I set the clocks forward, watched tv for an hour, and went to bed.

Of course, it wasn’t quite as exciting as Fall Back, when we found ourselves with an extra hour of kid-free time in the evening. That felt like a victory, like something that deserved a little celebration.

But Spring Forward? It was more like…meh. Whatevs. Talk to the hand, or whatever the kids are saying these days. I mean, we were probably going to go to bed early anyway. So, you know, we just did that. And the next morning? Nothing different really happened. I’ve said before that my kids are like roosters: up at the crack of dawn and noisy about it. So, they got up early. Like always. And they were a bit cranky at bedtime. Like always. Lots of noisy with periods of cranky? Pretty much a regular day for us.

So. Nice try, Spring Forward. I got you beat, and I’m telling everyone who will listen. (And, quite frankly, a few people who I think were trying hard not to listen. Oh well.)

I Used To Be The Best Mom On Earth. For Real.

I used to be the best mom. I’m not kidding—I was the BEST. I knew how to quiet a crying infant, how to get a toddler to sleep through the night, how to teach a preschooler to behave in a restaurant. As I walked through the mall, the grocery store, or the doctor’s office, I watched the poor, unskilled parents I saw and thought about how lucky I was to be such a great parent. I judged parents who were trying to wrangle tantruming toddlers or unruly school-aged kids. I gave out dirty looks like Oprah hands out new cars to those selfish, lazy parents who couldn’t be bothered to raise their kids right. 

But then, something happened that shook my rock-solid parenting self-confidence to the core. My perfect parenting skills slipped, I started losing control, I….

I had kids.

As I stared at my wailing newborn at 2 am on our first night home from the hospital, I realized with a sinking feeling that I actually knew nothing about raising kids. But, I thought to myself, how could this be true? I had 15 years of babysitting under my belt, and I had read pretty much every baby care book published! I was an ELEMENTARY SCHOOL TEACHER, for crying out loud, and I watched Supernanny religiously! Those things made me a freaking expert on kids, right? RIGHT???

Wrong.

Unfortunately, there truly is no way to understand parenthood other than by having a kid. And, there really is no way to know for sure what kind of parent you will be until you’re doing it. If you had described Attachment Parenting to me before my first son was born, I would have nodded politely while screaming in my head, “GET A BACKBONE!” Now that I have kids, I’m mostly a believer. Before I had kids, I thought for sure that I would embrace being a working mother. Now, I’m on my third year of child care leave and loving being a stay-at-home mom.

It turns out parenting is just like any other job. It doesn’t matter if we’re talking about waiting tables or performing brain surgery: You can Google it, watch videos, read books, but you can’t truly understand it until you do it. Parenting is no different—except that many, many, MANY people who have never done it seem to think they know just how it should be done.

One problem, I think, for most non-parents lies in the whole nature vs. nurture debate. Before I had kids, I put a lot of stock in the nurture side of the argument. Kids will always do as they’re told and as they’re taught, I believed. For example, I really believed that my kids would love vegetables because I would tell them that we were eating a rainbow of different colored foods. How fun! Fast forward a few years and my 4-year-old couldn’t care less about rainbows and only eats veggies that start with the letter C. My 2-year-old, on the other hand, will try pretty much anything. They are human beings that come with personalities of their own, not robots to be programmed. Yes, a child’s upbringing plays a major role in who they are, but a big part of who they are is just…who they are.

How I pictured my hubby...before we had kids

So, to all the non-parents out there, I ask you to give us parents the benefit of the doubt. Please understand that the mother of three ahead of you in line at Target probably did not teach her 3-year-old to chant, “Vagina! Vagina! Beautiful vagina!” at top volume. Yes, she can encourage him to use more appropriate language or she can punish him if he refuses to stop. But the wonderful and awful thing about kids is that only they are truly in control of their voices and bodies. They often make good choices about how to act, but sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they choose mayhem. How you react to their behavior says loads more about you as a parent than how they behave.

Mostly, my childless friends, I ask you to remember what I once overheard another parent say: “The only perfect parents are the ones who have not yet had kids. And the only perfect kids are the ones who have not yet been born.”

This post was first published on the awesome blog Daddy Knows Less. You should go check it out.

I Feel Sorry For My Son's Teacher

It’s Back-to-School time, and although our school year hasn’t quite started here, I already feel sorry for my son’s teacher. Here’s why:

For the past couple of years, I’ve been able to ignore the Back-to-School frenzy that seizes the country this time of year. My oldest was in year-round preschool and the only “supplies” we were asked to bring were paper towel rolls and empty milk jugs for art projects, and extra underwear for, well…you know. 

Milk jug Easter Bunny. Duh.

This year, though, I’m in it. My oldest starts Kindergarten next week and we are ALL ABOUT back-to-school here. We’ve been talking about raising your hand and being nice to your friends. We’ve been working to master the essential skill of wiping one’s own butt. My son picked out a Star Wars backpack and some new T-shirts, while I stocked up on Kleenex, chardonnay, and Xanax.

That’s not just me, right?

Academically, he’s ready, too. He’s got mad math skills, thanks to his dad’s genes, and he’s learning how to read and write. See? Here’s a little note he left us taped to the microwave. I do believe that this is the first complete sentence he has ever written.

It says, "NO GO IN BUTT"

 

We are so proud.

Anyway, I’m not sure his Kindergarten teacher will appreciate all the time he has spent learning to write words like “butt,” “poop,” “pee,” and “fart.” She might even ask me why on earth I taught him how to spell those words.

And though what I’ll be thinking is, “Hey, it kept him quiet for a few minutes,” what I’ll say is something like, “Well, I wanted to encourage his emergent literacy skills while also reinforcing his fine motor skills and letter-sound associations.”

And that’s when she might start to tremble with fear. Because, guess what?

I’m a teacher, too.

Which makes my son a teacher’s worst nightmare: Another teacher’s kid.

Though I’m taking a break from the game right now, I spent 11 years as an elementary school teacher—so I know all about how classrooms work. Even “better,” I spent a good many of those teaching years coaching and mentoring other teachers, so I’m really experienced at evaluating other teachers’ techniques.

And by “evaluating,” I mean, of course, “judging.”

As a mom, I’ve really really really tried hard to keep my professional opinions to myself when my sons have been in various classes. I gritted my teeth and smiled at the 19-year-old Gymboree teacher who spoke to the kids in that fakey-fake sing-song voice some grown-ups use. I bit my tongue hard when an “Art for Tots” teacher told my 3-year-old not to use that color on that picture. It took every ounce of self-control I had not to offer “constructive criticism” to the swim lesson teacher who offered my injured son a piece of gum rather than a band-aid for his bleeding toe. “ARE YOU NUTS???” I screamed in my head each time. “What kind of a teacher are you????”

And, though we are lucky to live in a good school district with great teachers, I know there will be times this year when I will question my son’s teacher’s judgment.

But, for the most part, I will keep my mouth shut.

I will do that because…I’ve been there. Almost every year of my teaching career so far, I’ve had another teacher’s kid in my class. At first it intimidated me to know that another, more experienced teacher was looking over the homework I sent home and quizzing her child about the day’s activities. I calmed down about it as I became more experienced myself, but I still got a little nervous for those parent-teacher conferences.

And the fact that I’ve been there is good news for both me and my son’s teacher. I know what it’s like to be in a classroom full of young kids all day. I know what a teacher means when she says with a forced smile, “This is a really energetic group of students!” I know how hard it is to effectively teach a group of students who are all Kindergarteners by name but whose skills may span several grade levels. I know to help my son take care of his homework folder and notebook because there’s a good chance his teacher spent her own hard-earned money to buy it. I know how hard she works every day…and many evenings…and most weekends…and for a good part of the summer, too.

So, next week I will send my boy off to Kindergarten. I may cry a bit, and I’m sure I’ll worry a lot. And, yeah, I’ll probably look long and hard at the homework he brings home each day. But, unless a major problem arises, I’ll let the teacher do her job—without my advice.

If you're a teacher, you'll love this. Check it out:

Be Careful What You Wish For...You Might Get Pregnant

This post is the latest in my "Way-Back Wednesday" series (on the third Wednesday of each month, I revisit one of my favorite posts from the past). Enjoy!

I realized yesterday, thanks to a handy iphone pregnancy app, that I am now 38 weeks pregnant. This came as a bit of a shock, because, of course, it means that technically I could have this baby at any time. Like, even tomorrow. TOMORROW.

(OK, yes. I admit it: I am kind of a bad mom for needing a pregnancy app to tell me how far along I am. With my two previous pregnancies I knew to the day where I was in my gestation. What can I say? I'm older this time around, and I have a 3-year-old and 5-year-old to keep track of. Not my fault. Well, mostly not my fault.)

So. The baby could come at any time. I should be worried, because we are not ready. AT ALL. I haven't retrieved our bassinet from my friend who has been using it, the crib mattress is currently on the floor ready to catch my 3-year-old the next time he falls out of his bed, and I haven't boiled the
nipples for any of our bottles. (And before you get snippy about the fact that this baby will probably be fed formula from early on in his/her life, read THIS.)

So, yeah, if the baby were born tomorrow, we'd have some scrambling to do.

However, I'm not worried. My oldest son came at 41 weeks, and my younger son took even longer than that to be fully cooked. Odds are we have three more weeks. PLENTY of time to get that infant car seat installed. LOTS of time to pick a name. SCADS of time to replace all the newborn clothes I gave away three years ago. No problem! And after all, this is my last pregnancy (for REALS this time) and I want to enjoy it for as long as I can.

On the other hand...I haven't been enjoying it quite so much this time.

While this pregnancy has been easy compared to some women's pregnancies, it's been a rough-ish few months for me. It started when I got shingles, which I really thought was an old person's disease. (It's not.) Then the baby was breech for a while and my dreams of a natural, probably-unmedicated birth were put on hold until he/she got with the program and turned around. Recently, I spent a week with a terrible cold, and just when it started to clear up...I got pink eye, which I really thought was a young person's disease. (It's not.)

I figured the worst was over until I experienced something I'd never heard of before: an ocular migraine. Basically, your vision gets all screwy for 30 minutes or so, and your kids get to watch extra tv while you panic and call Labor and Delivery because you're certain you have a tumor or a stroke or something. If you're lucky like me, you get a wonderful midwife on the phone who explains what's happening and as if by magic your vision returns to normal pretty much instantly. So. Much. Fun.

But, despite those discomforts, I'm pretty excited to meet our baby. I'm excited to start calling it "him" or "her" instead of "it." I'm excited to start learning his/her personality. (Though I just know already that he/she will be a good sleeper. I SAID, I KNOW IT.) I'm excited to see my 3-year-old become a big brother. I know there are sleepless nights and poop-soaked days ahead of me, but I'm ready. I still have doubts about how I will handle being a mom of three, but I figure we'll all muddle through it somehow. It won't be perfect, and at times it will probably be a big ole mess, but we'll figure it out.

So, given all that, I thought this month I'd revisit the blog post that started it all...

Dead Womb Walking?

I wrote it back before I got pregnant, when I was still trying to figure out if we should have a 3rd baby. Enjoy it!

I'm Pregnant and Nesting...Sort Of

This post is the latest in my "Way-Back Wednesday" series (on the third Wednesday of each month, I revisit one of my favorite posts from the past). Enjoy!

It's been a long 34 weeks...

It occurred to me recently that I never officially announced my pregnancy here on my blog. So, let's get that out of the way:

I'M PREGNANT!!

But before you start oohing and aahing and wishing me a happy and healthy nine months, you should know something. I'm not just pregnant. I'm SUPER pregnant. Like, light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel, can't-see-my-feet, 34-weeks-along pregnant. I just kind of forgot to announce it before now. Blame it on hormones.

Anyway, like a waddling, heavy-breathing, not-really-all-that-effective ninja, I've sneaked along to that point in pregnancy where the nesting instinct starts to kick in. I want to dig out the bottles and the baby clothes and set up the all-important baby swing. I want to install the infant car seat and get the Boppy out of storage. I want to set up the baby's room so it actually looks a little like a baby's room and less like the play room that it currently is.

But I can't. I just can't get it done.

Sure, there are the usual deterrents. My two young boys, for one, who will go from happily playing together to trying to kill each other the minute they see me engage in any activity that doesn't involve them. My current physical state doesn't help, either. I'm big, I'm tired, and I spend a lot of time limping around holding on to my butt thanks to what I'm told is a pinched sciatic nerve.

And sometimes this happens.

But the biggest obstacle to me getting everything ready for our new little one is an even more daunting problem: Our house is a godawful mess. It's not that it's dirty, exactly, (as long as you don't look inside the microwave) it's just, well, cluttered. We have a lot of stuff, and no matter how often I put it away it ends up all over. All over the dining room table, all over the living room floor, even all over the tiny counter next to the bathroom sink (WHY do I find Hot Wheels there every morning? WHY?)

So, this time around my nesting process includes what I'm calling "pre-nesting:" the sorting, organizing, and purging I have to do so I can actually nest. Since I'm actually at the "pre-pre-nesting" phase (the one where you look around and think about everything that has to be done then sit down and check facebook), I've been reminded of this post a lot lately:

I Don't Think We Could Charge For Admission...

Enjoy! And step carefully on your way out!

Why I Chose Formula For My Babies, And Why That's OK

I'm in the Top 5! Click here to vote for Crazed in the Kitchen.

Yes, I fed both of my sons formula when they were babies. I have to admit, however, that *I* didn't exactly choose formula so much as my severely under-performing breasts did. But, thanks to formula, my babies survived their infancies and are smart, funny, wonderful little guys today.

But what about women who CAN breastfeed, but choose not to? Are they "bad moms?"

This is what I wrote about for my Blogger Idol post this week: "Don't Tell Me What To Feed My Baby!" It's a topic I am passionate about, given my experience. I hope you'll head over there and read and comment on my post, as well as the other four excellent posts this week. And then I hope you'll vote for me, Crazed in the Kitchen.

In other exciting news, my posts have been featured on BlogHer and Bonbon Break this week! Head over to the Food section of BlogHer to read my post, "The Truth About Wine Labels." And check out the Bedroom on Bonbon Break to read my post about Lung Cancer Awareness. Enjoy!

How to Make Sure Your Mommy Is the Best She Can Be

Are you a little boy? Do you love your mommy? Do you want to make her everyday experiences more enriching while you help propel her growth and development? Well, I am here to help. I’m Matthew, I’m four years old, and I have dedicated my life to improving my mommy. Now I’d like to help you help your mommy. Are you ready? Let’s go!

Before we get started on all the ways you can help your mommy throughout the day, you have to understand one thing: Mommies have a weird and mysterious body part that you don’t have. It’s called a “vagina.” Mommies like to be frequently reminded of this physical abnormality, so tell or ask them about it incessantly. Also, mommies like using cute little terms of endearment like “Honey Bunny” and “Sweetpea.” Use your knowledge of your mommy’s strange anatomy to come up with a cute little term of endearment for her. I like to call my mommy “Vagina Person.” She loves this special little joke that only we share (well, us and everyone at Target after that one day). Take a moment now and think of your mommy’s new special nickname….

Are you done? Great! Now let’s talk about all the learning opportunities your mommy has throughout her day. Don’t forget to throw in your special nickname for her as you go!

Mommies LOVE coffee!

Your mommy wakes up in the morning needing a little mental and physical stimulation. Help her out. I like to use music to ease my mommy into her day. Choose your favorite song and sing it repeatedly as you dance around her while she tries to drink hot coffee. Mommies appreciate loud volume at this time to help them become more alert and awake. If you really want your mommy to wake up and face the day, substitute one or more words of your song with your favorite potty words. One of my favorites goes like this: “Old McPoopy had a poop. Poop poop poop poop VAGINA!”

Lots of days, after breakfast mommy has to do errands like grocery shopping. If you get to go with her, you have an amazing opportunity to enrich her day and stimulate her senses. First of all, and as always, remember your potty words. I’ll never forget the look on my sweet Vagina Person’s face when I declared in a crowded checkout line, “It smells like a PENIS in here!” Her bright red face and stammering voice were a sure sign of brain cells growing and synapses being formed. 

Mommies love grocery shopping!

Mommy is busy at the grocery store, so this is not the best time to ask her questions directly. Instead, ask the other grocery store patrons your questions. Let mommy learn from their responses when you ask that lady, “Why are you so fat?” or that man in the wheelchair, “Why don’t your legs work? Did your big fat Vagina Person sit on them?”

When you get home from the grocery store, it will probably be time for lunch. Lunch should always be eaten naked or, if that’s not possible, wearing just underpants. Did you know that underpants have a little hole in the front so you can check that your penis is still there? It’s important to check—you just never know. Mommy thinks lunchtime is a great time for me to check my penis, so I try to do it often while I eat. I aim to please, after all.

Speaking of aim, keep mommy’s brain working hard by declaring a potty “emergency” just as she sits down to eat. This makes my mommy nervous and excited, as she knows that every trip to the potty for me is another opportunity for her to practice her cleaning skills. See, Vagina Person says it’s important to get all the pee in the toilet, but I say it’s important to see if you can hit that little fly on the wall. She likes to play little games with me like “Float a Cheerio in the Toilet and Hit it With Pee,” but somehow it always turns into “Hit the Fly on the Wall With Pee.” She may act mad, but she needs these learning experiences to grow and develop. Keep it up!

Mommies love facebook!

After lunch, my Vagina Person likes us all to have what she calls “Quiet Time.” She used to call it “Nap Time,” but my little brother Poopy Stinky Butt and I had a meeting and decided that watching an hour of TV is much preferable to sleeping. Sometimes during Quiet Time your mommy won’t have enough to do. You’ll know this is true if you see her on the phone or sitting in front of the computer. Your mommy needs to be stimulated if she’s going to grow, so don’t allow this idleness. I like this mental challenge in particular: Start crying for no reason. When your mommy asks you what’s wrong, cry harder. When she asks again, scream, “YOU KNOW WHAT, YOU STINKY HEAD!!!” It may result in a time-out, but it’s worth it. We’re helping here, right?

Remember, mommies don’t like to be alone. Their least favorite parts of the day are when they have to go to the bathroom or take a shower. Don’t let them be sad and lonely. Find a way to be with them during these troubled times. If you can’t actually physically join her in the bathroom (um, what happened to the whole we-don’t-lock-the-bathroom-door-young-man thing?), find a way to lure her out. The quickest and easiest way to do this is through Little Brother Torture. Poopy Stinky Butt’s screams of distress always bring my Vagina Person running, dripping wet and naked, to the rescue. Be sure to laugh and scream “NIPPLES!” at these times. Again, red face and stammering voice = growth and development. And that’s a good thing!

Finally, since poor mommy doesn’t have a penis like everyone else in the family, try to share yours with her. Pull it out at unexpected times (again, Target is good) and scream “PENIS!!” so she knows it’s out. I also like to put my mommy’s little things in my underpants then run around the house screaming, “Your Chapstik is touching my penis!!!” This has the added benefit of giving your mommy the physical exercise that facebook and Twitter just don’t provide as she chases you around the house.

So, there you have it. As you can see, it’s easy to use your everyday daily activities to stimulate and enrich your mommy’s brain, body, and senses. Next week we’ll discuss sleeping and bedtime with a post called “How to Make Sure Your Mommy Doesn’t Get Too Much Sleep.” Until then, keep your volume up and your penis out!

This story was originally posted as my second weekly entry as a contestant on Blogger Idol. To see the judges' comments, read it again here. And be sure to follow me on facebook and Twitter to find out about the next round of Blogger Idol, coming up on Wednesday!

Arizona Memories, or How I Learned my Grandma is a Stone-Cold Killer

Yes, it’s true. My Grandma is a stone-cold killer. I learned this 25 years ago, when my brother, Alex, my mom and I were visiting my grandparents at their home in Arizona. My mom found a scorpion in her room, and Alex and I watched wide-eyed as Grandma beat the venomous pest to death with a fly swatter. Didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink an eye.

And, at almost 93, the woman is badass to this day. In my opinion, pretty much all you have to do to be badass at 93 is to be 93. But my grandma does even more than that. Not only does she get around, run errands, and visit family in the area, but every year for the past 6 years or so, she has welcomed our large extended family to her retirement home for a noisy party in celebration of her birthday.

And every year as I get ready to shepherd my own growing family to Arizona for the festivities, I am bombarded with bittersweet memories of parties past.

The first year we celebrated Grandma’s birthday, I showed up at the airport giddy with a secret: I was 13 weeks pregnant with my first baby. Only my mom knew, and she and I spent hours together that weekend going over baby names, analyzing my pregnancy symptoms, and talking about my own babyhood. It was one of the times in our turbulent relationship that I felt closest to my mom. At the end of the birthday dinner that Saturday night, we told Grandma my good news. Three generations shared a hug and happy tears.

Mom and newborn Matthew, before she got sick

At the next year’s party, life was both wonderful and awful. My husband and I had a healthy 5-month-old baby. My aunts, uncles, cousins, and Grandma passed Matthew around from lap to lap, giving him as much love as he could take and then some. But when they passed my infant son to my mom, my heart nearly broke. She was two months in to a devastating and failing fight with lung cancer. She laughed and chatted with the group, but she wasn’t quite herself. She wore a wig to cover a head made bald by chemo, and she spent a good deal of time resting. I’ll never forget tiptoeing into the hotel room she shared with Alex to see her and Matthew napping together, their matching bald heads stark against the white hotel bed linens. I didn’t know it then, but I would see her just one more time after that weekend before she died.

Over 20 people from my family made it to Phoenix for my Grandma’s next birthday, but to me, my mom’s absence was even bigger than the crowd of well-wishers who gathered at the party. I was pregnant with my second son, and still not quite able to believe that he would never know his grandma. I sobbed as I hugged my aunts and uncle goodbye at the end of the weekend.  My mom had been dead for nine months, but somehow being surrounded by the love of her family made me miss her more than ever.

My grandma has had more birthday celebrations since then, and each year my family and I were there making new Arizona memories. One year, my younger son, William, learned to crawl on my Aunt Nancy’s living room rug. The next year, I watched Matthew’s face light up with joy as he played with my Uncle Rick in his pool, just as Alex and I did in our grandparents’ pool 30 years earlier. All the time, I missed my mom. I wanted her to see my boys as they grew. I wanted to tell her about my blog, squeal with delight with her about Alex’s upcoming wedding, and share with her my newest journey as a stay at home mom. I wanted her.

Mom and Matthew, 3 months old

This week, we’re getting ready for our yearly trip to Arizona. Both boys are old enough now to swim with my Uncle Rick, and both are eager to spend time playing with their Uncle Alex. Once again, my Aunt Nancy will fill her pantry with apple juice and cookies for the boys, and ice cream and chardonnay for me. My Aunt Martha is planning pedicures for the aunts and girl cousins, who range in age from 14 to 40. I’ll spend the weekend making lots of joyful new Arizona memories with my mom’s family. But most of all, I’ll spend the weekend missing my mom. 

This story was originally posted as my first weekly entry as a contestant on Blogger Idol. To see the judges' comments, read it again here. And be sure to follow me on facebook and Twitter to find out about the next round of Blogger Idol, coming up this Wednesday!

My Son Called Me A Whore

Yes.

It’s true.

A few months ago, my then-3 ½-year-old son called me a whore.

Well, sort of.

No, we weren’t on some godawful tabloid-y talk show like Maury or some equally horrible reality show like “Toddlers and Tiaras.” (“Toddlers and Tantrums” is more like it. Now THAT they could film at my house for sure.) And this wasn’t even an insult hurled mid-meltdown or hissed through gritted teeth during a timeout.

In fact, it probably wasn’t even intentional.

Probably.

Here’s what happened:

Matthew had become occasionally interested in drawing things other than scribbles. He moved into straight lines and circles, then decided he wanted to try writing letters. My husband and I were a bit wary of this. Matthew is, yes, of course, a genius and FAR advanced for his age in all areas—much like your kid, I’m sure. (*ahem*) But he also has a very low tolerance for frustration, and writing letters seemed like an activity RICH with potential frustrations. So we started slow. We taught him ‘O,’ which he pretty much already knew, then ‘M,’ because it’s the first letter of his name. Over a few days we taught him just a few more letters, mostly ones with straight lines.

One day, he came to me with a piece of paper and an insanely proud grin. “Mommy! I wrote something for you!” he exclaimed, as he handed me his masterpiece. Here’s what he gave me:

I oohed and aahed and tried to hide the fact that I was crying just a little bit. My son wrote a word! And not only that, he wrote “MOM!” Together we found some tape and hung the paper up on the kitchen wall where everyone could see it. I went back to trolling facebook, er, researching recipes online, and he went back to the playroom for more writing.

A few minutes later he returned. Same triumphant grin, another piece of paper. “Mommy!” he shouted. “I wrote you another word!” I looked down eagerly. What lovely sentimental message would my son bestow upon me this time? Here it is:

After my initial moment of shock, I oohed and aahed (though without the tears), then I tentatively asked, “Um, Matthew? What made you decide to write this word?”

“Mommy,” he said, “It says ‘ho.’” (That’s what his voice said. His face added, “DUH.”)

“I see that,” I said. “Why ‘ho?’”

“Mommy!’ (another “DUH” look) “That’s what Santa says!”

[Did I mention this happened around Christmas? Kind of a key detail in retrospect, I suppose.]

Before I could respond, he handed me the tape. “Hang it up! Hang it up!” he begged. How could I say no? So, Matthew’s second official written word joined his first in the place of honor on our kitchen wall, where everyone could see it.

. . .

And now, to apologize for using the word “whore” in this post’s title, I give you Matthew’s latest masterpiece.

Hubby and I secretly call it "Mutant Bird" because of the googly eyes.

What’s the latest cute thing your child genius has said to you?

Out of the Rat Race and Into the Poop Race

Two years ago I took a leave of absence from my full-time job teaching 3^rd grade. No more papers to grade, administrators to impress, lessons to plan. I could—and often did—spend all day in my jammies (and by “jammies” I mean “crappy old flannel pants and spit-up-covered t-shirt because SOMEONE around here forgot to do laundry again. Oh wait, that was me.”) My commute went from 18 miles each way to a slow crawl to the coffee pot each morning. In a lot of ways, life became less hectic. But it took me just a few weeks at home with a newborn and an almost-two-year-old to realize I had left the Rat Race—and entered the Poop Race.

Ryan Gosling pix make it ok to blog about poop.

I knew that being a stay-at-home mom would mean that I would end up taking on most of the poop duty (heh heh, I said doody). At first I embraced my role as Head Diaperer. I spent hours and hours researching cloth diapers, and I organized all our diapering supplies in cute little baskets. I had two boys in diapers at that time—and, as it turned out, would for almost another whole year—so keeping track of diapers both clean and dirty took up a decent amount of my waking hours.

(Probably no one needs to know that I have, on occasion, dreamed about those cloth diapers at night—right?)

Anyway, fast forward two years and, yes, my kids are older, but I’m still in the thick of the Poop Race. In fact, I realized not long ago that I am the Primary Butt-Wiper for FOUR out of the six living creatures in our house (4 human, 2 feline). Do the math and you may get worried—do my hubby and I have one of THOSE relationships? No. No no no no no no no no no no. And no. But me and one of my cats apparently do, because she is either too fat or too lazy to take care of business herself and so I have been instructed by my possibly-crazy vet to go after her tushie with a baby wipe once a day.

(Um, that has actually happened maybe three times in the three months that have passed since he suggested it. It just almost never makes it to the top of my priority list, for some reason. Things I would rather do than wipe my cat’s ass: as many loads of laundry as I can possibly find in the house, scrub the kitchen sink with bleach and a toothbrush, read Goodnight Moon 3985239854798 more times—you get the picture.)

One more...

And the thing about poop in our house is that it always seems to happen in a when-it-rains-

it-pours kind of way—one enormous, awful Poop Storm. Here’s how a typical day goes: At some point, my 2-year-old informs me that he has a poopy diaper. This sets off some sort of physiological trigger in my 4-year-old, who then races for the bathroom. Before I can even finish changing William’s diaper, Matthew is yelling from the bathroom, “Mooooooommmmmyyyy!! I poooooooooped!” Translation: “I will sit here screaming about it until the neighbors call the cops or you come wipe me!” I finish up with William, and head for Matthew. As I’m finishing up with him, one of my cats saunters into the bathroom and heads for the litter box—he might as well have a freakin’ newspaper tucked under his arm! That means that within minutes I’ll be scooping HIS poop too if I don’t want all of us to live in a foul cloud of stink.

So. Much. Poop.

The good news is that we have avoided many of the more awful-sounding poop problems that parents of young kids often face. Neither of my children has so much as dabbled in the poop-as-art-on-the-wall movement, and no one poops in the tub anymore. We have so far avoided the stomach flu altogether in our house (though I probably just jinxed it, right?), and…

Special bonus George/Ryan double treat. You're welcome.

And…

Crap. I can’t think of another example. I’m too caught up in worrying that writing about how we’ve never had the stomach flu means we’re now all going to get the stomach flu. And what that will mean for me in terms of cleaning and laundry and my beloved cloth diapers.

Better go. Time to stock up on Clorox wipes and Pedialyte!

All By Myself...

A little less than a week ago, I left my husband and kids.

Well, ok, the truth is somewhat less dramatic: A little less than a week ago, I kissed my hubby and boys goodbye and left for a vacation. Without them.

And, as I sit here on day 2 of my Florida vacation, full of pancakes and coffee made by someone else (the best kind!) and coming off two full nights of uninterrupted sleep (the best kind!), I am struck by the fact that I have managed to pull off the ultimate Mommy stunt—a truly relaxing vacation without my kids.

But no child-free vacation is complete without a little (or a lot of) mommy guilt. The lovely beach that lies before me is peppered with kids of all ages, digging happily in the sand, jumping in the waves, and chasing hapless seabirds. My kids would have loved it. The beach, the pools, the adoring grandparents…how could I deprive my darlings of such delight?

Can't. Stop. Reading.

I thought about bringing them, really I did. But my husband and I priced airfare, and it wasn’t pretty. And the logistics weren’t easy, either: I was flying into one city, staying with relatives who didn’t have children, then driving 2 hours to the beach and a lovely but not-so-child-friendly rental condo with my dad and stepmom. They would have loved to see my kids, of course, but I couldn’t help but think that their vacation would become a little less play and a little more work if all of us showed up. We’re not always an easy crew. Some of us don’t sleep well (Rascal), some of us don’t eat well (Stinker), and some of us realllllly wanted some time to herself to read “The Hunger Games” (um, that would be me).

All of that was reason enough to leave the little guys home for some quality time with their (by now sleep-deprived) dad, but my memories of our last family trip by plane were what sealed the deal:

We were flying to Detroit, changing planes in Chicago. I sat with my then-3-year-old, while my husband and 1-year-old sat in the row ahead of us. Throughout the 4-hour flight, it appeared as if I had gotten the better deal. In front of me, Rascal flat-out refused to nap, and squawked off and on for the whole flight. Next to me, Stinker quietly watched Yo Gabba Gabba dvds for an hour, then fell asleep. I patted my husband’s shoulder sympathetically, half-heartedly offered whatever help I could possibly provide from the confines of my seat, then pulled out a magazine and relaxed for a few hours. But the tables turned as we began a bumpy descent: Rascal finally nodded off, and Stinker woke up extremely unhappy. After a couple of minutes of complaining, the worst happened.

icanhascheezburger.com

The kid began barfing. Like, everywhere. I remember, when it began, grabbing an airsickness bag from the seat pocket. I managed to get it open, then found myself waving it around the poor kid’s face, trying to catch the awfulness as it spewed out in every direction. (Apparently, a kid’s first instinct when a paper bag is shoved in his face is to dodge, leading to a substantial widening of the disaster zone.) Before it was all over, he got both of us pretty well covered in puke. Of course, we were landing and couldn’t get out of our seats for 10 minutes, so there we sat. My husband patted me sympathetically, handed me some wipes, and pulled out a magazine. (He denies it, but I SWEAR I saw him smile, just a little.)

I thought things would get better when we landed. We had packed a change of clothes for the kids in our carry-on bags, so I was able to get poor Stinker wiped off and changed before we even got off the plane. I was stuck wearing puke-y clothes, but figured I could live with it for the quick flight to Detroit, where we’d retrieve our checked bag and a clean outfit for me.

Yep, that’s what I thought. Until they cancelled our flight to Detroit and oh-so-helpfully rebooked us on a flight the NEXT DAY. When asked where we could pick up our luggage, the gate agent tapped at her computer then said brightly, “Oh! It made an earlier flight! It will be waiting for you when you arrive tomorrow!” I gritted my teeth and smiled, sort of, while I nonchalantly waved my shirt toward her, giving her a whiff of the magic that covered the only clothes I had. Lucky for us, my dad and stepmom lived nearby and we arrived on their doorstep an hour later, stinky, hungry, tired (hubby and me), and completely hyper (the kids). I borrowed some clothes, started a load of laundry, and raided the liquor cabinet. 

So. You can see why I hesitated to bring my kids on this trip. Plus, as a stay at home mom, I really looked forward to the idea of having no one to take care of for just a few days. Maybe it was selfish.  But I like to think that after a few days of relaxing I was able to come home refreshed, ready to take on the stinky litter box and the toddler with yet another cold. That is, if I can put down “Catching Fire” long enough to see what’s going on around here…

Did I Marry Mr. Wrong?

I came to an unsettling realization recently: I married the wrong man.

Don’t get me wrong—I love my husband. A lot. He is my best friend, my soul mate, an amazing dad, the whole package. But there’s just no denying that marrying him was a huge mistake. Another man would have been a better choice.

I should have married a pediatrician.

One of my all-time favorite pediatricians.

Think of all the worry I could have avoided! All the questions I could have had answered with no copay or waiting! Like, does my one-year-old wake up 5 times a night, every freakin’ night, because something is wrong with him OR because he’s a pain in the butt? And, is my preschooler hearing impaired or do all kids his age talk so loudly they scare the cats? If I had just married a pediatrician, the whole why-is-my-newborn’s-poop-dark-brown-instead-of-yellow-like-the-books-say-it-should-be fiasco would have just been a sentence in our parenting story, rather than a whole chapter. If I had married a pediatrician, the latest period of our lives—The Ear Infection Epoch—would have involved a lot less time watching Toy Story 2 in 20-minute increments in the doctor’s waiting room. (I think I have now technically seen the whole movie, in jumbled up bits and pieces.)

BUT…on the other hand, we are lucky to have access to good pediatricians. We have health insurance for ourselves and our kids, so seeing a doctor doesn’t necessarily break the bank. I am fortunate enough to be a stay at home mom for now, so we don’t have to rearrange work schedules to get the kids seen.

Hmmmmm….

Never mind. Forget marrying a pediatrician. I should have married a veterinarian.

Chris O'Donnell--hot vet on Grey's Anatomy

Again, think of all the worry I could have avoided! All the questions I could have had answered without paying outrageous fees or having to shove snarling balls of furry fury into the cat carriers! Like, should I worry when my cat sits in the corner staring at the blank wall like there’s something there? And, really truly what is a normal number of times for a cat to barf in a week? If I had just married a veterinarian, maybe he’d have some idea about how to deal with the girl cat—a gorgeous, long-haired calico who is also a raging b*tch who won’t let anyone but me and, inexplicably, just one of my two sisters, get near her. (Since that sister lives about 2,000 miles away, she can’t be relied upon to help with fun things like applying flea medicine and cleaning the cat’s, um, “bikini area,” which the cat is too fat to groom properly. How great is that?)

But wait. My cat hates everyone. She stares daggers at my kids and hisses at my actual husband whenever he dares to get within 10 feet of her. Who’s to say she’d be friendlier to my fantasy veterinarian-husband? He’d still probably have to use general anesthesia to so much as listen to her heart, like my actual veterinarian has to do. While I’m sure we’d get a family discount on the drugs, there’s only so much of that stuff he could give away for free. And I’d still be risking life and limb (OK, mostly just fingers) every time I had to get Her Highness into the carrier.

(Are you thinking right now, “Um, Molly? It’s the 21^st century. Why are you bemoaning the fact that you didn’t marry into all this expertise when you could just as well have become a pediatrician or veterinarian yourself?” Well, you just may have a point there…)

Hmmmmm….

Good news, everyone! It turns out I married the right man! He is funny, tall, smart, kind, and just about all-around wonderful, despite his woeful lack of medical expertise—either human or veterinarian. (Did I say handsome? I meant to say handsome. WOW, is he handsome. I should have said that first. Babe, if you’re reading this—whoo hoo! Are you a handsome devil!) I am a very lucky woman. After all, who else is married to a man who explains to our kids why our toilet clogs by making up a game called “Big Poop, Little Poop?” Who else is married to a man who—thanks to his Xbox and a fervent love of sci fi—could keep us all safe during a zombie apocalypse? Who else is married to a man who has managed to ensure that our sons’ favorite songs are by Creedence Clearwater Revival, rather than Raffi? Turns out I am very lucky, indeed.

Oh yeah. Since I’ve decided to keep him, I guess that means I need to come up with a gift for our fifth wedding anniversary later this month. Anyone have any fabulous ideas to show the man of my life how much I appreciate him?

Chores? More Like, #WINNING!

My kids get to spend most of their days playing. They build marble runs, play hide and seek, pretend to be characters in Disney movies. I get to do most of these activities with them, of course, and I usually have a great time. But I also have a bunch of adult responsibilities to take care of, as well. And frankly, most of those adult responsibilities are downright boring. So, after a glass of chardonnay one recent evening, I decided that some of those grown-up jobs would be more fun if I tried to think about them as games rather than chores.

So, here are some of the “games” I play in the course of my average week:

A solution to my Thursday morning problem?

Beat the Garbage Truck: On Thursday mornings, sometimes as early as 7:30 am, our city’s garbage trucks begin their rounds in our neighborhood. Most of my neighbors manage to get their three cans (garbage, recycling, and lawn clippings) out to the curb before dark on Wednesday night, but sometimes we don’t quite make it. Then the next morning finds either me or my husband—wearing pajamas, of course—racing back and forth between the curb and the gate with the cans as the first of the three trucks lumbers toward our house. (Usually my 3-year-old, wearing nothing but his Thomas underpants, is standing on the sidewalk yelling “Go, Mommy! Go!” while his younger brother screams “GARBAAAAAGE TRUUUUCK!!” as loud as he can.) My very nice, very efficient, and very childless neighbor is often standing on her porch, fully dressed and nicely coiffed, waving politely as I run around in my jammies. She never has to/gets to play Beat the Garbage Truck. And, she always takes each can back to her driveway as soon as it’s emptied, so she never gets to play our next game…

Beat the Street Sweeper: Some sadist in our city government decided that our side of the street should be cleaned on Friday mornings, the DAY AFTER GARBAGE TRUCK DAY. As if it’s not hard enough for us to remember to get those cans out by 7:30 am on Thursday, we then have to scramble to get them back to the gate by the next morning when the street sweeper comes. If we forget, the sweeper passes around them, leaving a wide swath of leaves, sticks, and trash right in front of our house on an otherwise clean street. We might just as well put a huge sign on our house that says, “WE DON’T HAVE OUR SH*T TOGETHER!”

What’s That Smell? Here’s how this one works: Doing chores around the house, I walk into what feels like a wall of stink. I drop whatever I’m doing and hunt down the source so it can be removed/cleaned/doused with Febreze. The problem is that our house contains so many, many potential sources of stink. The litter box, the cats, my toddler’s diaper, the garbage can, the fridge…or any combination thereof. And the savage beauty of this game is that I can play it just about anywhere. Just recently at Mommy And Me I picked up my diaper bag to hunt for a tissue and…there it was. Less a wall of stink and more a cloud of stinky steam rising from the depths of my Bermuda Triangle bag. Horrified that someone else might get a whiff, I smashed the bag into the bottom of my stroller, piled our jackets on top of it, and used my shirt to wipe my son’s nose (not for the first time!). Back at home, the hunt began. The details aren’t necessary; let’s just say this episode of the game ended with my diaper bag in the washing machine (not for the first time!).

Where’s Waldo?: I get to play this fun game when I bring my kids to crowded places like the park, the indoor play place, or the toy store. At some point, I look down to talk to my preschooler and realize he is no longer by my side. When a quick scan of the surrounding area doesn’t reveal his whereabouts, the game begins. Where is he? How far away did he go? Will today be the day some police officer has to test my son’s knowledge of my cell phone number? Fortunately, thanks to a recessive gene or a mix-up in the maternity ward, Matthew has platinum blond hair so he’s easy to spot in most crowds—kind of like Waldo’s striped shirt. Also fortunately, he’s a really good kid who knows not to go too far away. So far, he has always appeared within a few seconds, but that doesn’t mean my heart rate doesn’t go up every time (added benefit—cardio workout!).

Safety device? Or TORTURE device?

Pin the Toddler in the Car Seat: If you have or have had a toddler, then you know that inevitably the day comes when he or she refuses to sit in the car seat. If you’re like me you try reasoning, ordering, even begging and pleading (I’m not proud). But eventually you and your child must actually GO somewhere. And since wearing a seat belt is a no-compromise situation, that’s when you get to play this charming game. Unlike the original Pin the Tail on the Donkey, you don’t have to wear an eyeshade or spin around until you’re dizzy to play. You do need super strength and agility, and having 3 or 4 hands would probably help. I often need one whole arm just to hold my writhing, screaming, hot mess of a toddler in place, then I find myself using my chin, or my knee, or even my teeth along with my remaining hand to snap the belt in place. All while being screamed at. Good times.

Name That Sesame Street Episode: Since having kids, I seem to have lost quite a few brain cells. Once a fairly quick-witted person, I now have trouble remembering such “easy” details as say, my own age or the names of my cats. But, for some reason, my brain has no problem remembering various details of pretty much every single episode of Sesame Street that has aired in the last three years. As soon as Elmo or Zoe or Telly or whoever starts speaking, I can tell Matthew which episode it is. This is important in case it is one of the two episodes that feature the inexplicably terrifying-to-Matthew Jack Black, or the one where the Big Bad Wolf SINGS “huff and puff!” rather than growling it (unacceptable), or the “boring” one about amphibians. These must be stopped, deleted from the DVR, and replaced with another before I can get back to doing dishes/farting around on the internet (so, the sooner the better).

There are lots of other games I play with my kids over the course of any given day.   At bedtime we play Staring Contest (or, Mommy Must Stay Awake Longer Than The Children). Most evenings we play Freezer Roulette (or, What’s For Dinner?). I have really improved my reflexes playing Dodge the Cough/Sneeze. And the ever popular How Dirty is Too Dirty? can be played with food dropped on the floor, hands, clothes, the cats, you name it.