Milestones

 The girl is aging before my very eyes. This weekend has brought about some realizations. I know I have said it a thousand times before but she is such an independent girl. So few times does she seem to need to reassurance and comfort that is “mommy”. I should be proud of that and knowing that in years to come she will look to me for advice and an unwavering ally. On the rare occasion she does need the safe spot that I provide it is so bitter sweet for me. How many times will this little life cry on my shoulder? Teenage girls can be so cruel to one another.

This weekend we bought her a very grown up gift. We bought her a set of diamond earrings for her Sweet sixteen and a diamond pendent for her graduation gift. Looking even further into the future I saw myself on her wedding day giving to her, her something old. My Nana gave to me an earring/necklace set and that is what I will give to my MD. 

I cry at these thoughts of milestones. I cry for many reasons, like all mothers everywhere I hope these milestones are meet with a happy healthy girl. A girl who has all that she should. A girl who on the day of each milestone, is looking at the future with open eyes and an open heart. I cry for the loss of my baby but overjoyed at the thought of the young women that will be standing before me on those days.   

But for today I cherish the baby that still is. Her milestone today? She has learned to slide off the bed. Now after the lights go out and all kisses have been given, there is a new sound that can be heard from downstairs; a thud followed by the pitter patter of baby feet running to the hallway and then back again at the sound of daddy’s voice. Upon retiring for the night, after we thought the children were long asleep we found them both asleep on the upstairs landing. I can only assume they drifted off to sleep listening to mom and dad discussing the things grown-ups discuss. What were they thinking? Will they remember that moment in time when their own children are found in a similar way?

I can only hope I cherish enough these times, as fleeting as they are.

So he slipped me the tongue!

WOW how has that statement has changed over the past couple of years. Much like the statement “oh you’re so funky” no longer means your cool, it just means one of the kids shit their pants. So today I am parenting from my computer chair again and saying over and over “JM please clean up your toys so we can nap” and then again about ever five minutes to which my request is met with typical three year old behavior when being parented from a computer chair~ he ignores me~ So after about 45 minutes of this fun little game JM and I were playing I decide in true Martha Stewart fashion enough is enough and begin to yell.  He runs off to just clean in record time *I think* when I turn around and he is literally straining his tongue it is sticking out so hard at me. I have never in my life wanted to rip a tongue out of ones head as bad as I wanted to at that moment. But fortunately that was not necessary, I must have been panting heavily and budging from the eye balls because without even a word he manage to clean up the playroom in one “Tasmanian devilish” swoop and up the stairs we all went to sleep it off. 

go away now

I am so sick of this house being sick. I have abandoned my cleaning technique of water and vinegar and broke out bleach! I have let my ever faithful cloth cleaning rags have a rest and bought a container of Lysol disinfectant wipes and ran the Dyson daily. Ok so that last one is for my pleasure but come on virus leave my house! We have been sick for almost three weeks now. I have wash more pukey sheets and poopy underwear then I care to share and my poor son’s response to his own coughing is “don’t worry I’m not puking, just coughing this time”. The girl is an overnight puker and everyone is just over tired from this bug. Everytime I think we are “all better” and  we escape the house someone has an “accident” of some sort. So I publicly beg you virus leave! Please leave my kids alone! 

Mothers Day

These days, I call my mother almost everyday, somewhere amid the chaos of waking, washing, breakfasting, and remembering to get everyone dressed, of tackling the e-mail, voice mail, and snail mail. Every time she answers, I’m struck by the unmistakable delight in her voice at the sound of mine. There probably isn’t anyone else in the world who is as glad to hear from me, who is as sincerely interested in the details of my life, in my firsthand reports of what I have to do that day, or even in my secondhand account of what my young children are involved in.

What are we doing, my mother and I, with all these phone calls? Staying in touch, letting one another know that another day is here and all is well — no small thing anymore, in the world we live in. We are establishing our places, too: Whatever else I may be, I’ll always be your daughter; whatever else you are, you’ll always be my mom. But we’re also becoming friends, both of us adults, independent of one another, yet deeply connected.

I have to reach back a long way to remember another time when every day began with my mother’s voice -MOOOOORNING! In a high pitch squeak- all the way to my early teens, when the two of us lived under the same roof.
Our Changing Relationship

When I think about my relationship with my mom, I laugh a little. I was consistently rude to her as a teenager — I was the kind of kid who often responded to some innocuous comment like, “Good morning, dear!” with a snarl. A heartfelt, somewhat pained question like “Why are you doing this?” was met with “Get off my back!” I was by turns sullen, needy, and resentful. I had an arrogant certainty that I’d arrange all aspects of my life in ways that would absolutely leave my mother in the dust. Forgiving as she is, my mom insists that I was a “complicated but interesting” teenager, occasionally challenging, but always intriguing.
Mom Understands

As you grow up, you learn and relearn something you knew as a very young child — that sometimes, only a mom will do.
For many, having children of our own changes and deepens our understanding of who our mothers really are, and why they did the things they did. I had kids of my own, and began suffering from the anxiety that comes with motherhood — you know, fretting about things happening to my children, or things not happening when they should. Now I understand her completely.

My mother is someone who loves me without limit. The same love I have for my own children.

Happy Mothers Day Mommy. I love you!

* from a coupon sense post* 

oh look at the waterfall….

So the stomach bug has made it’s way to each member of our home. It started with daddy then me and finally the girl. We all had it one right after the other each for about 12 miserable hours.

Then the boy gets it.

He. had. it. the. worst!

From wet farts to puke he had it all and it was gross! So today being 24 hours normal I thought we were safe. Today we go to McDonalds for some well deserved playtime for both kids and mommy.  So there we are kids playing, moms chatting everyone is happy and I look at my happy to be around other humans son, who is at the tippy top of the indoor play structure when AHHHHHHH he tossed his cookies!!! Now I know what you are thinking… Is she crazy? McDonalds would make anyone sick but really we had been normal (whatever that means) for 24 hours.

Anyway picture this; my child is crying, I am trying to coax him down as calmly as I can with all the other moms (most of whom I do not know) are scurrying to get their children down as puke free as possible. These poor children are climbing down the play structure as it is raining puke on their heads. OMG it has to be one of the worst experiences to date for all involved. My poor son is crying “mom I spilled all over” I am apologizing to anyone who will listen with all the other moms franticly trying to gather their children and the workers just standing around in disbelief….   So all in all a great day!!! 

did you say splash?

I didn’t write this but I could have, yes momma you are this crazy and someday MD will be telling the same kind of crazy stories!!!

My mother was a fanatic about public restrooms. When I was a little girl, she’d take me into the stall, show me how to wad up toilet paper and wipe the seat. Then she’d carefully lay strips of toilet paper to cover the seat. Finally, she’d instruct, “Never, NEVER sit on a public toilet seat. Then she’d demonstrate “The Stance,” which consisted of balancing over the toilet in a sitting position without actually letting any of your flesh make contact with the toilet seat.

That was a long time ago. Now, in my “mature” years, “The Stance” is excruciatingly difficult to maintain.

When you have to visit a public bathroom, you usually find a line of women, so you smile politely and take your place.  Once it’s your turn, you check for feet under the stall doors. Every stall is occupied. Finally, a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman leaving the stall. You get in to find the door won’t latch. It doesn’t matter.

The dispenser for the modern “seat covers” (invented by someone’s Mom, no doubt) is handy, but empty. You would hang your purse on the door hook, if there were one, but there isn’t – so you carefully but quickly drape it around your neck, (Mom would turn over in her grave if you put it on the FLOOR!), yank down your pants, and assume “The Stance.”

In this position your aging, toneless thigh muscles   begin to shake. You’d love to sit down, but you certainly hadn’t taken time to wipe the seat or lay toilet paper on it, so you hold “The Stance.”

To take your mind off your trembling thighs, you reach for what you discover to be the empty toilet paper dispenser. In your mind, you can hear your mother’s voice saying, “Honey, if you had tried to clean the seat, you would have KNOWN there was no toilet paper!” Your thighs shake more.

You remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday – the one that’s still in your purse. That would have to do. You crumple it in the puffiest way possible. It is still smaller than your thumbnail.

Someone pushes open your stall door because the latch doesn’t work. The door hits your purse, which is hanging around your neck in front of your chest, and you and your purse topple backward against the tank of the toilet. “Occupied!” you scream, as you reach for the door, dropping your precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle on the floor, lose your footing altogether, and slide down directly onto the TOILET SEAT.  It is wet of course.

You bolt up, knowing all too well that it’s too late. Your bare bottom has made contact with every imaginable germ and life form on the uncovered seat because YOU never laid down toilet paper – not that there was any, even if you had taken time to try.

You know that your mother would be utterly appalled if she knew, because, you’re certain, her bare bottom never touched a public toilet seat because, frankly, dear, “You just don’t KNOW what kind of diseases you could get.”

By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so confused that it flushes, propelling a stream of water like a firehose that somehow  sucks everything down with such force that you grab onto the toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in too. At that point, you give up.

You’re soaked by the spewing water and the wet toilet seat. You’re exhausted. You try to wipe with a gum wrapper you found in your pocket and then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks. You can’t figure out how to operate the faucets with the automatic sensors, so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and walk past the line of women, still waiting.  You are no longer able to smile politely them.

A kind soul at the very end of the line points out a piece of toilet paper trailing from your shoe. ( Where was that when you NEEDED it??) You yank the paper from your shoe, plunk it the woman’s hand and tell her warmly, “Here, you just might need this.”

As you exit, you spot your hubby, who has long since entered, used and left the men’s restroom. Annoyed, he asks, “What took you so long, and why is your purse hanging around your neck?”

. .This is dedicated to women everywhere who deal with a public restroom (rest??? you’ve got to be kidding!!). It finally explains to the men what really does take us so long. It also answers their other commonly asked question about why women go to the restroom in pairs. It’s so the other  gal can hold the door, hang onto your purse and hand you Kleenex under the door.  

Are you perfect?

I just came across this and it made me smile. I wrote it about a year ago and it is still sooooo true!

What makes a perfect mom? I was so sure I was going to be perfect. Perfect hair, perfect nails, perfect children, never behind on laundry or housework… I could never imagine how any organized thoughtful woman could be a stay at home mom and not have her stuff together…

let me stop myself from choking on a chocolate chip and push my unwashed hair out of my face and pick up a dirty tissue off the floor with my toes cause if I bend over one more time today my back is liable to snap in two. Wait, not before I clean the toilet with spit and toilet paper and over stuff the trash and the dishwasher yet ONE more time. Did I mention that I think I have barely enough gas in my van to make it to the gas station simply because I have been putting off filling it up now for a week…” oh, Ill do it tomorrow” or DH will do it.
And excuse me while I shove some more dirty laundry into a pretty basket someplace in hopes that the laundry fairy will come and do all my washing. ironing? sheesh what ironing… I dont even know how to iron! Perfect mother…. you must have me mistaken with the mom that feeds her children lunch at lunchtime and not at 3:30pm when I realize I forgot, so I quick give them an apple with peanut butter and 3 slices of sharp cheese and some raisins and say here have a picnic on the playroom room floor. Or when DH says when was the last time the children ate I end the sentence with a question mark.
And I would never ever spank, say no or stop my children from freely expressing themselves. Lets just say “hush up and eat your dinner” has been said at our house.
Oh yeah I stomp on their creativity as well by giving the boy a question quota, he hits his limit and hes done for the day. You dont even want to know what happens if they dares changes the places where a toy belongs.
And did you know that McDonalds and Peter Piper are both randomly closed for painting? Yeah cause I would never lie to my children either.
Wonder what delightful things JM and MD will bring out in me in the years to come.
I am a good mommy and I know it. I know it because I otter the words because I’m your mother and I said so and you will do as I say!” at least once a day.
And I wipe my kids’ faces with my spit.   What the hell does perfect mean anyhow?

Plus I already own the uniform: a shirt with spit up on it, jean shorts and a scrunchy.

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