Out of the mouths

One thing I fear may be lost forever due to my writing break are the gems that have come out of the mouth of my 3-year old. At the time I swear I will remember them forever, but of course that's not reality. It is the recording of them that gives them immortal life.

So, with no further a-do, I give you Tator Tot:

Knock, Knock
Who's there?
Milkshake.
Milkshake who?
Pickle!

Mom: Everyone safely buckled in?
Tator: Flee buckled in!
(You might have to think about that one for a minute.)

Tator: Something smells like a toot
Dad: I think it's the eggs
Tator: Eggs don't toot

Tator: Where's Dad?
Mom: He's running on ahead
Tator: Dad's running on a head?!

Letting myself go

I have this fear I am going to wake up one morning to discover I have Let Myself Go.

I'll open my closet that day and find only sweat pants, t-shirts, and sneakers. And when I look in the mirror the face reflected there won't have tasted a lick of make-up since the Christmas party (where apparently I wore a dancing snowman-festooned sweater and patent-plether shoes with be-belled toes) and appears to have grown a twin at my neckline. My hair will have morphed into a cross between the giant-banged style of my high school years and the shellacked helmet of my grandmother's. (As unlikely as this hair-do sounds, I actually saw one of my high school classmates with such a style recently.)

My jewelry box will be rusted shut from years of neglect, and my large collection of scarves, handbags, shoes will be languishing at the back of the closet praying for just a glimpse of the outside world from which they have been long-since banished.

I'm a work-from-home Mom, in Blue-Collar Town, Vermont. This is the perfect recipe for Letting Yourself Go. Here, if you wear heels of even medium height people wonder "where yer going, all gussied up?" People wear jeans to weddings here! And don't bother to buy a cocktail dress for that party, you'll stick out like a, well, cock-tail.

When I look in my closet now - while I am still cool... I hope - I stand there surveying my mostly practical (but stylish) clothes and ponder the outfit of the day. One morning this week I picked out a pretty hip ensemble of long colored tank, shorter contrasting sweater, and jeans. But after I had yanked down the sweater and up my jeans one too many times, while shivering, to boot, I returned to my closet to dig out the good old fleece sweatshirt. Ahhh, comfy. And warm.

What I wear to walk to the bus stop and then to drop Tator off at pre-school hardly seems to matter. And in the winter when all you can see are my eyes peeking out from between hat brim and scarf, I could be wearing a hula skirt for all that it would matter. For the 5-minutes I am seen by other mothers (all themselves in varying stages of Letting Themselves Go [or just Vermonticized?]) or at the grocery store, my choice of clothing is really meaningless.

But, then it's not about those other mothers, is it? It's about me and how I feel. If I'm having a nifty outfit kinda day then I'm going to wear what makes me feel good. But when it's a sweatshirt day - well, it's just got to be a sweatshirt (but it will NEVER be a Mickey and Minnie or Puppy-dogs or, god-forbid, a 'I Survived Dollywood' sweatshirt).

But if you ever see me at the mall in pajamas bottoms, please feel free to slap me and send me home (to bed), and if the ensemble is accompanied by worn down slippers, please just have me arrested - for the common good. Thank you.

Conversations in the grocery aisle

As I am trying to find the toothbrush for which I have a coupon while trying to think over the, Mama, Mama, I want the Dora toothpaste! Mama, I want this one. Oooo, watermelon, I don't have watermelon toothpaste. Mama, I need this... what is it?, an old lady approaches me. I think she's going to comment on how cute my kids are or congratulate me on my ability to grab falling tubes while simultaneously remove brightly colored, cartooned products from my children's itchy fingers. Instead she asks me if I know where to find the baby wipes. I tell her the next aisle over. She then proceeds to tell me why she is looking for baby wipes. No, not grandbabies coming to visit. No, not a baby shower. She likes to use them herself, she has Irritable Bowel Syndrome, you know.

Thanks for sharing.

A few aisles on, I run into an acquaintance, an older man I knew from my former job. We say hello and howdy-do and he asks me what I'm doing. I point to my cart crammed with two impatient children and far too much food and reply, Doing the mom thing.

He smiles indulgently and says, I meant, what are you doing with your time?

Oh, yea, nothing, nothing at all. Now, where are those bon-bons?

Eaves-dropping = material

While sitting in a family restaurant trying to convince Tator Tot that sliding under the table and onto the sticky, grimy wasteland he is calling "my house" is not the best way to endear yourself to your mother and may actually jeopardize the dessert course, I overheard this:

You've put on weight too, not 50 lbs, but some...

The stooped old lady in the next booth responsible for these words to her waitress was fork deep in a gigantuan blob of coconut cream pie with a side of orange ice cream (orange? really?).

When the waitress returned looking a little sheepish, certain I could not have heard the original comment correctly, I surreptitiously turned my ear in their direction hoping to snatch more delicious morsels that would either confirm or contradict what I had heard.

I'm starting a diet tomorrow, our chastised waitress says.

But why, honey?, asks little old lady through a mouthful of spray whipped cream.

You said I'd gained weight.

Oh, no!... Just mostly in your face...

What I've learned

1. It's a bad sign when 63 minutes into summer vacation you are wishing for fall.

2. Summer vacation is far from it when you have a six-year old who started missing school precisely four minutes after getting off the bus and decides every toy, art supply, and large, outdoor recreational apparatus is boooorrrrring compared to learning to read with her beloved Mrs. Perkins.

3. At 3pm, you unknowingly pass into another time dimension and the next four hours before bed actually last a whole year (and take that much time off your life.) But, conversely, the next three hours before your bedtime will last a total of 16 minutes.

4. Diapers put on inside out produce the same effect as duck feathers.

5. When you drive an hour to attend a festival which - along with your blossoming headache - will require the full cooperation of a well-rested two-year old, he will not nap in the car despite it being his usual nap time. Instead he and his sister will sing Bob the Builder, WE CAN BUILD IT! fifty times in a row.

6. Modeling clay holds the same temptation to a toddler as chewing gum, but not the elasticity, and when spat on the floor tends to splat.

7. Folded laundry on a couch will be jumped on.

8. A two-year old thinks lugging a massive plastic truck full of blocks up a steep Victorian stair- case (while naked and wearing rain boots) is feasible. It is not. And just as the first two times he tried it, gravity and a rather large head are not his friends. However, rubber bones are.

9. And most fascinating of all, I have learned that slugs, when obliterated between little fingers, cannot be removed with a napkin, soap and water, a dish brush, nay, even a power-washer. So, in the interest of science I will be testing the glowing yellow gloop on a plate that needs fixing.

Singing Chickens

On Tuesday we were headed to the town where my parents live to attend "Concert on the Green." I told Tator we were seeing Grummy (the kid's version of Grand Mummy). He asked if we seeing Grumdaddy too? And the chickens? I told me we weren't going to their house, but we were meeting them at the concert. Tator, with in infallible logic, says, "The chickens are singing at the concert?"

I'm kissing him!

This was my son's response when I asked him why (on God's green earth, child!) he put that giant ant in his mouth.

Well, of course.

Silly Mommy, trips are for kids!

Funny how memory works. We swear we will never take both kids to the grocery store right after school, then we do again... and again. Flying with the children is an absolute No-No until they have full responsibility over their own bodily functions and can run the length of Detroit's Terminal C on their own two legs. But then we book that flight. Road trips and hotels were off the list too, but...

We packed the car and headed for a lovely weekend in Maine. But after we had stopped for the 6th bathroom/poopy diaper break in two hours and the Laughing Game ensued (which would be more aptly called the "Let's See How Many Times We Can Say The Word Poop and Scream With Laughter Game"), I began to realize our mistake. This was no vacation, this was the trip to hell.

What I learned this weekend:

a) You don't need to buy a jungle gym or trampoline when you can just book a hotel room.
b) The number of times a child can ask if she can go swimming increases in direct relation to the lateness of the hour.
c) If there is an alarm clock in your hotel room, it is best to unplug it before bed because it has undoubtedly been messed with by little hands and set to blast you awake at 12:00AM. In the ensuing hitting of said clock you will inadvertently turn the radio on, set to the loudest, heaviest metal available to the listening public.
d) Once you have just drifted off to sleep again, your child will awake just enough to discover "Pappi-dog" has wandered off and alert you at the top of his lungs of this emergency.
e) The air-conditioner will whir loudly back to life the moment you have entered dream-land again.
f) The fact that hotel bed bouncing did not end until after 10PM, 5:30AM is a perfectly acceptable time of day to wake your mother by placing your mouth directly by her ear and announcing you're bored and need to go swimming NOW!
g) No matter how many outfits you pack, they will all get wet, sandy and/or ketchup-stained and you will have to buy something extra.
h) On the journey home you will be so exhausted you won't realize you drove north instead of south until you are arriving in downtown Portland.
i) There is not enough Dunkin' Donuts iced-coffee in the world to make the drive home (which is now an hour longer) go by fast enough.
j) Home and your own bed are the best places on earth.
k) Happy, sand-encrusted, swam-out kids make it all worthwhile... maybe.

Elvis has left the building... hasn't he?

A co-worker recently spent a couple days in Vegas. Another co-worker, an 17 year old on her first job, needed to call the sunbathing supervisor to ask a question. They chatted for a moment:

So, what ya doin'?

Lying by the pool, drinking a martini. I had my picture taken with Elvis a little while ago.

Wow! [big pause] Wait, isn't he dead?

Toddler OCD*

This morning Tator refused to take a bath. After I wrestled him out of his pajamas I lifted him over the water. You'd think I was lowering him into a vat of vipers. He hung there, his little legs in a rigid squat position and voice at full throttle. But I was determined that that stinky butt was going to make contact with water and at least a lick of soap. While attempting to ignore the screams of desperation and dodge the flaying arms, I threw a wash cloth around his privates and called it a wash.

Three hours later as I was preparing to leave the house, I heard a distinctive slosh. I had neglected to empty the tub earlier and now Tator was apparently ready to take bath. In the bathroom I find him with one leg over the side of the tub and his slippered foot and sweat-panted leg submerged up to the knee.

I have noticed something about my two-year old; he likes things done a certain way. (Oh, I know, every two-year old is particular, usually incensingly particular, and of course, only with the things they think are important). The wheel has to go back on the truck even though it is broken and therefore impossible to put back, the bowl has to go back in the cupboard even though it is caked with oatmeal, and the straw has to go back in the cup despite the fact it just fell on the restaurant floor. Well, apparently, if one slipper is wet, it is required that the other one be so.

Out comes one dripping wet red, corduroy bootie, he turns himself around and steps in with the other. Satisfied with the result, Tator then removes the saturated articles and flings them across the room where they slap against, and down, the wall.

The moral: If your toddler suddenly expresses distaste for something he loved just the night before, whatever it might be, just leave it out on the table, in the tub, or on the floor and vacate the premises. Sure as shooting, he will find some way to use the offending something to his own purposes. You can pretend the result was your original intent. This self-delusion is very helpful when attempting to control your anxiety.

Those slippers - and the wall - needed washing anyway.

* The therapists in my family have insisted I put a disclaimer on this post: A child who has to put both slippers in the tub is not OCD and should not be in anyway construed as such.

Can't I poop in peace?

Yes, actually I can... and that was exactly the problem. I should have known. It was too quiet.

"Yay-eee!" From the other side of the bathroom door I hear his cute little sing-songy voice. While I manage to flush the toilet I don't give myself the time to do up my pants - I have a feeling this is going to be a bad one...

"Look, Mama, look."

He holds up this blackness that I can't distinguish as anything familiar. And then I realize it's dripping. Dripping black. A bottle. And it's empty.

Ink.

I grab the bottle and then him, not knowing what to do with either. I plop him on the sink. My hands are now covered in ink... and my pants are still undone.

He stands up, his feet bleeding black down the drain. When I ask him to sit down he grabs my arm for support, leaving a long smudge on my sleeve - thank goodness I'm a drab dresser and always wear chocolate brown. I'm trying to figure out what to clean first and with what. I don't want to ruin my towels. I'm also aware that when presented to me the bottle was empty, which means the contents (that aren't all over Tator, me, or the sink) are somewhere else.

I finally get my hands sufficiently clean to do up my pants and I venture out into the hall. Little black footprints lead me to the scene of the crime. There I am presented with an oil spill of toddler proportions... and a cat... about to walk through it. I grab him, but not before his front paws hit the puddle. I shoo him away and he skitters off leaving a trail of kitty prints along side the human ones.

My house was built in 1870. The floors are oak with cherry inlays. Beautiful. They're one of the reasons I fell in love with this house. 139 year-old floors in almost perfect condition and in less than one minute - big black splat. And I discovered I don't own a bucket. A mop, yes; bucket, no.

All this happens at 8:48AM, two minutes before I am supposed to leave for work... and then I discover T has pooped in his clean diaper...

Honestly, I'd be surprised if he hadn't.

Just asking

Why is it...

1. After you spend 20 minutes stuffing your children into their five layers of winter clothing, hats, mittens, and boots, they stay outside for exactly 2.2 minutes? And then after peeling them back out of it all, leaving a puddle of melted snow and ice on the rug (in which you step in your socked feet), they ask to go back out?

2. Your husband unexpectedly brings home a cheesy, gooey, yummy, pepperoni-free (miracles can happen) pizza half an hour before you leave for a Christmas party that includes food for which you have already (over)paid?

3. Daughter could be playing with anything, let's say something as uninteresting as the can opener, and Son will scream that it is his, so you try to distract him with, say, a wooden spoon; dropping the can opener, Daughter will yell that no, the spoon is hers, making Son once again focus on the spoon; so, you give them both wooden spoons, which they immediately crack over each other's head?

4. A Christmas ornament that somehow did not make it into the storage box last January 6th and has been hanging around all year, its location known even through a move, is no where to be found when you put up the tree? And with 100% certainty you know it will magically reappear once the Christmas box is back in storage, thus starting the process all over again?

5. In the same mail as you receive a surprise Christmas check from your grandmother, you get a surprise bill for the exact same amount?

6. Son's colon decides to empty itself in the most pungent, leak-potential way after you have just wrestled him into a clean diaper, clothes, snowpants, jacket, and boots, and you are already running 10-minutes late?

7. Children sleep like the dead through 1/2 hour of an eee-eee-eeeing alarm clock on school mornings but are awake and bouncing at 6AM on the weekend?

8. Children begin the I-really-need-a-nap-whine three hours earlier than usual on the very morning you were psyched up to go Christmas shopping, leaving you adrift and in denial that you could use the time to finish cleaning the kitchen (and so you write a pointless blog instead)?

Just asking...

Not in Kansas... er, Vermont, Anymore

I just have to say I'm not a huge fan of New Jersey. I'm sure it is a lovely state - in spots; it must be called the Garden State for a reason - but from where I'm sitting, it ain't so grand.

The wind is howling around and right through my 8th floor hotel windows and the gray clouds are making the already gray panorama, well, grayer. All I see from this vantage point is asphalt and concrete; roads, parking lots, and boxes of concrete, with only panels of black windows to break up the concreteness. Cars and trains crawl through this tangled mass of blah and I have to wonder, why would anyone choose to live here?

Last night, after my husband's 11 hour day in a conference and my day of writing (and re-writing and re-re-writing), we took our courage by the hand and ventured out. We knew there was a mall nearby, and after a couple days of over-priced and over-cooked hotel food our budget badly needed a food court. The map indicated we needed to turn left, right, then go straight and the mall would be right there.

Ha!

Turns out you can't turn left in New Jersey, only right. We could see the mall just over there, but could we get to it? Heaven forbid! That big ol' Neiman and Marcus sign was shining bright - a beacon, a north star - but we two kings were lost in the desert. Round and round we go, no left turn, no left turn, NO LEFT FREAKIN' TURN. Eventually, (we ain't too smart at this point, hunger had taken over our senses) we figured out that we had to turn right to go left. Well, duh! And, of course we're cruising along in the left lane (as any intelligent being who wanted to turn left would be) and the Saturday night traffic, which is heavier than the worst Vermont rush hour, is preventing any intention of moving over in time to exit to the right.

By this point we are so far away from the mall, we give up and turn wherever we could and hope any dining establishment would be appear. As luck would have it, we had discovered another mall, a Macy's and Nordstrom mall. But I am so frustrated and hungry by the time we get out of the car (an hour after left the hotel) that the normal little thrill I get from walking into a busy mall is replaced by fear and "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore"-ness. I didn't think I had become such a small town girl but the ugg-wearing, designer bag toting masses, the pre-Thanksgiving Santa, the knock-you-on-your-ass perfume fumes, and the racket of the food court - oh, the noise! - was too much. I, me, who can't pass a clearance rack to save my life, was inhaling my philly cheese steak and racing for the nearest exit, my very un-designer bag flying behind.

Later as B and I were safely back in our dull hotel room, crying with laughter over an HBO comedian, I thanked my lucky stars that tomorrow we go home. Home, where you give directions according to the nearest barn, where you can turn left wherever you like, and the only concrete is the path leading to your own front door.

Utterly random, boring facts

I am sitting next to a basket of laundry which is taking up more room on the couch than me.

I have just put Tater Tot back in his bed for the 6-1/2th time. (The 1/2 time was when he had finally burned off the brownie and put himself back in bed but kept calling, " 'mon Mama" until I followed to give him his 7th set of goodnight kisses.)

Little white paper circles are scattered all over the carpet and coffee table: The entire contents of the 3-hole punch.

My neck keeps spasming.

I am addicted to daily planners, appointment books, and notebooks.

Brownie is still active. Tater showed up again then charged up the stairs in front of me saying, "'eat you, 'eat you..."

I love Obama but I am very tired of seeing his face on TV (although it's still better than that other guy.)

My bag collection may have, for the first time, exceeded the shoes - a malady I must quickly remedy. (I must take this opportunity to state my opinion on designer bags and the ridiculous, sickening amount of money women spend on them - it is ridiculous and sickening. What kind of society are we living in that women feel the need to hang their money (i.e. debt), taste (i.e. unoriginality), and trendiness (i.e. shallow materialism) off their shoulder, and deem it so important that they will actually rent it? The most expensive bag I own cost $45 and that seemed extravagant. I will now dismount my high horse.)

I own one of those stars that everyone has on their houses and garages (I bought mine before anyone else); it is hanging in the stairwell.

Ten times a day I write a sentence in my head that never makes it to paper (or back into my head - or even to the tip of my tongue).

Today I found myself explaining to a young mother that no, the Incredible-Hulk-green "Bug Juice" is not real juice.

Tater will not accept any drink, food, or service from my hand if my husband is within walking distance: "NO! Daddy do it."

My children have been known to fight over whether their oo-ah-ahs are of a monkey or an opera singer.

My name has been officially changed to Tater's and Little Lady's Mom (that's Mrs Tater's Mom to you.)

I still have all my teeth despite the lack of dental intervention.

Clothes don't fold themselves (but do appear to scatter themselves across the floor.)

I haven't drawn a portrait in over 3 years.

I haven't sung with a choir since I was 3 months pregnant.

I have now lived in the U.S. a decade longer than in my homeland.

I'm terrible about downloading pictures off my camera (oh, you hadn't noticed?). (Probably because I can't figure out how to do one or two pictures at a time - it always downloads all photos in the camera. Frustrating.)

I'm running out of fascinating tid-bits (and I really need to go to bed).

A cat, dental hygiene, and $123

If I seem a little absent lately, it's because my writing brain has gone missing. I think it's out looking for a more attentive host.

I've been a little distracted by, well, life. For example, this is how yesterday went.

I awoke with the sudden realization that the cat hadn't eaten or had water for many hours. Due to a feral cat who sunk its fevered fangs into our sweet kitty's foot, said appendage was two times its normal size and can bear no weight. He couldn't get downstairs to eat all night. I had neglected our feline family member because a certain human member had a tantrum - I had the audacity to ask her to wash her hands. (In all fairness to her, this is only her second week of all-day kindergarten and she comes home exhausted; although that rationalization did little to ease my anger at the time.)


I spent the time I should have been getting dressed looking under beds and in closets for - the thought crossed my mind - a dead cat. (He wasn't.) That put the whole morning off schedule. Add an intense storm and missing rain coats and I end up dragging the kids through puddles to where the bus is already waiting at the stop.


From there I go to my first "full day" of work. Despite the short day, the transition from house-work to office-work is surprisingly tiring. Instead of catching up on chores and bills, or just relishing the first hot cup of coffee while Tater Tot is napping, I'm arranging my desk and reading up on grantwriting how-to. Rather than grocery shopping or mediating between my two small anger-management candidates, I'm plugging in network cables and attending my first staff meeting.

I should note here that my children are actually incredibly well-behaved, sweet and loving... when they're apart. When together I spend my every breath and ounce of energy playing referee. Tater is two-years old in two weeks and acting his age with a vengeance. His poor sister suffers his frustrations and constant search for independence at the end of his pinching fingers. Meanwhile she sees the attention he receives (negative as it is) and acts out to even the score.

And, as tired as I am, this is what I come home to (aswell as the bills, the dishes, and the messes). But I digress...

So, I return from work just in time to collect H off the bus. As usual she is staaaarving, mom! As I throw a pizza in the oven - the kind we never eat but very thankful to have on such occasions - invalid kitty limps into the kitchen with a paw four times its normal size, and shaking. He attempts a jump onto the table, scrabbles at the table cloth and thumps inelegantly to the floor. I swear I see his little cheeks flush in shame. Time to make a call to the vet.

45 minutes, a slice of pizza, and a frantic search for the cat carrier later, we are in the car, mewling cat and pizza-sauce covered children along with (who are also mewling along with).

Another 30 minutes later I am writing a check for $123.

ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY THREE FREAKIN' DOLLARS!

FOR 8lbs OF CAT!!

I haven't had my teeth cleaned in three years because it costs $100 each time, but I just paid a vet (who has lovely teeth) more than I earned in my whole first two weeks of work. Because some neighbor couldn't be bothered to neuter their damn cat, one of its hoodlum offspring just cost me another six months of grungy teeth.

And that's why I haven't written...

Just another trip to the grocery store

Every single freakin' time I swear I AM NOT doing this again... and then I do.

Could I possibly still have pregnancy brain two years after the birth of my second child? Apparently, a woman's brain shrinks up to 5% during pregnancy and does not retain its original size until six months after birth. Why would the good lord design us this way? So we are destined to forget every lap-full of projectile vomit, every sleepless night, every "I have to peeeee" in the check out lane. And the greatest trick of all - the amnesia of childbirth. And so we do it again. Very funny.

I should have known how this trip would ensue when I pick the cart with the wonky wheel, the one that makes pushing 10 times more difficult than it should be. This may or may not have been a factor in the Great Tomato Event which occurs a mere 10 minutes into the excursion. As I round the corner from the avocados to onions, an avalanche of cartons and escaped grape tomatoes is suddenly rolling towards me. Red-faced as the offending fruit (yes, tomatoes are a fruit) I gather the cartons from out of the aisle until an angel in a blue apron comes to my rescue. I briskly head to dairy; we had enough veggies anyway.

Now Son, who thinks he is too old for the front of the cart, is bouncing in the basket. This is fine - as long as I ignore the risk of a shopping cart fender-bender which could send him flying - until the groceries start to pile up. Distracted by Daughter who has removed her shoes to slide along the aisle, I don't notice that Son has discovered the plastic containers of spinach and ham make a fun crunch when jumped on. I catch him in mid-stomp just as the creamer carton is about to pop.

Now Daughter is hanging off the side of the cart, making our turning ability that of a tank. I realize I am burning off every ounce of the chai latte I had just consumed, plus some. Hang on, honey. Meanwhile, Son is test-tasting each of the "nanos" and "opples."

By this time I am feeling exhaustion pulling my muscles down where they are massing in my feet. At the last minute I remember I need diapers, which of course, are in the furthest aisle from where I am. I never buy diapers in the grocery store because I can get them cheaper elsewhere. So, I stand in front of the cute-baby-fastooned boxes, attempting to calculate in my head how much one diaper costs if 80 of them cost $18.99 and if the .02 cents I would save by buying them at the other store is really worth the trouble. [Ear-splitting scream from cart.] I grab the diapers.

I swear I am NOT doing this again...