Sock Treasures (A Guest Post from Joy Reclaimed)

I have a treat for you! I'm welcoming Laura as a guest to the blog today.  This special lady is a new friend of mine but was once my hubby's Sunday School teacher!  Laura is also a mom who is currently raising her five-year-old grandson.  She recently started a blog, Joy Reclaimed...would you please take a moment to check her out there as well?  Here's just a taste of what she has to offer:

Bedtime at our house is filled with typical five year old antics–stalling, more time in the bathtub negotiations, tooth brushing, water drinking and the ritual of choosing the toy of honor that gets to share the bed for the night.  “No, you can’t sleep with that one, you’ll roll over on it in the middle of the night and wake up!” Then a story, bedtime prayers and lights out.

These are normal activities for households with small children, except that we were supposed to be empty nesters.

Last night, I was helping Zachary get ready for bed when he warned me as I reached for his foot to remove his sock.  “There’s art supplies in there!”  In his sock?  Since school?  Sure enough, carefully peeling his sock off his foot revealed seven  brightly colored broken pencil leads that he had collected and placed there for safe keeping during craft time at school.  I asked the obvious questions.  “Why did you save these?” and “Why did you put them in your sock?”  And I got the obvious answers.  “Because I liked them.”  and “Because I didn’t have a pocket!”  Oh.

Against my looks-like-trash-to-me-so toss-it instincts, each tiny colored piece was carefully placed in a dixie cup and several seconds were spent marveling over how pretty each was in the bottom of the cup.  “I like the red one best!”  And then after prayers and kisses; a moment to double check that the small cup with the treasures inside was safe until morning.

I am blessed to again be able to experience the joy of ordinary moments. The ones that really matter. Once again, I get to see the world through a child’s eyes.  Coming from a place of understanding I couldn’t possibly have known as a young parent, I am amazed by how much of what is really important I missed the first time around and am determined to make the best of this second chance.

The road to last night’s bedtime ritual was paved with the stones of poor choices; resulting in bumps, delays, detours, potholes and heart breaking consequences. But it led to a beautiful place of joy I would never have found any other way.

(Isn't this a great reminder for all us moms?  Again, please take a moment to check her out at Joy Reclaimed, and thank you!)

A Gift For You: Precious Babies on Mother's Day

Photo: Lindsey Turner Photography

If you're a mother, here's my shout-out to you: you are awesome and amazing, even when you think you're not.  Keep up the good work, Momma!

Photo: Lindsey Turner Photography

Whether your baby looked like this just yesterday or forty years ago, you are still a Mother and I hope your day tomorrow is wonderful.

Photo: Lindsey Turner Photography

Do you long for peace and quiet, a still home to rest in for a day?  I hope you get it.

Photo: Lindsey Turner Photography

Do you long for snuggles and games and time together as a family?  I hope you get it.

Photo: Lindsey Turner Photography

Basically, I hope you are celebrated this weekend, and celebrate yourself, too! You are so special because you are exactly the Momma your children need!  Happy Mother's Day!

P.S. Can't get enough of pictures like these?  I really just can't.  Hop on over to Lindsey's blog right here.

Sunday Funnies

Yesterday morning I had the boys upstairs with me to get them out of the Hubs's hair for a while.   Actually, I try not to shower around Biggest any more, ever since he asked me where my penis was.  But Hubs was doing some research on how to save us money (and I wanted to keep that going) so I thought, "Hey, they can play in our room while I shower."

There I was, innocently getting ready to get in the shower, when Biggest blurts out, "Wow, Mommy, you sure have a Big Old Bum!"  Yes.  Yes he did.  My confidence shriveled into nothingness as I said, "Um, okay, that's nice."  After all, we do frequently say things like what a BIG boy he is and how he'll be BIG as Daddy someday, and he should eat his vegetables so he can get BIG.  So big is good........right?

Then he turns to the baby and says, "See!  Mommy has a Big Old Bum!  No, it's a GIANT bum!  Mommy has a GIANT bum!  Mommy has a GIANT bum!"  This last part was actually in the form of a song.

A giant bum. And if that doesn't get me to Zumba this week, nothing will.  That Mommy, over and out.

I Live with a Pack of Wolves

Accordingly, I have said all of these things in the last three days:

"Yucky!  We don't eat trash cans."

"Please stop licking the bench."  This said at the public play area at the mall.  Gross.

"Stop shooting your brother with a grappling hook!"

"Take your face out of the potty!"

"Why are you eating my pillow?"

"It's not nice to hit Mommy in the face with a sword."  "It just isn't, that's why."

"No tackling on hardwood floors."

"No bite!  No BITE!  NO BITE!!!"

Worst. Mommy. Ever.

Dear Diary,

I'm writing today because I can't bear to speak publicly about winning the award for Worst Mommy Ever.  It has been four days and I can only just now speak about what happened.  You see, I was running errands.  It used to be that running errands was kind of fun and felt productive.  I would plan my route according to what really needed to get done, and, four or five stores later, I would get around to the fun stuff.  Then I would come home after six or so hours, laden with bags and happy.

These days, "running errands" means planning one or two stops around snack time, meal time, and nap time.  It means no more than an absolute max of three stores or else I will break my back from lifting two big boys and a double stroller in and out of the car twice per stop.  It means sweating no matter the weather, because it is hard work.  It means making a judgment call based on everyone's mood, and planning on using every public restroom in sight, even if we just got in the car and I just asked "do you need to pee?" and I was just told "No!"  It means coming home with whole milk and forgetting everything else.

So Thursday morning I had two goals: go to the grocery store to pick up some posterboard, then take a longish drive up to a paint store in my endless quest for the perfect beige paint color.  This should not be that difficult, right?  So we go to the grocery store and emerge with a large package of posterboard, two balloons which are free for kids at our store, a Grande Skinny Chai from the Starbucks conveniently (and devilishly) located inside, and I even remembered both children.  We make it to the car even though I have no free hands, and everyone manages to get in.  The posterboard, the boys, the stroller, the balloons.  Even the Chai.  This is like thirty minutes after we go in for one thing.  Littlest Boo has a death grip on the balloons and screams like a banshee when I try and remove them from his fat little hands, so I go around to strap in Biggest Boy first.  And off we go!

Twenty-five minutes, five miles of Interstate, and mucho traffic later we get to our destination.  I go around to get LB first, and he's not buckled in.  He's not buckled in!  My heart dropped in my chest, my thoughts started racing and I just started praising God that he was safe.  Apparently out loud, because Biggest Boy starts saying, "Thank the LORD, Mommy, Thank the LORD!"  Which made me laugh enough to calm down.  But still.  This was not a short drive, and it wasn't just around the block.  I cannot believe that I forgot to strap my baby in the car, and besides compulsively checking his buckle for the last four days, I have also been mentally punching myself in the face.

So, that's how I was nominated for Worst Mommy Ever.  Want to know how I won?

The next day I asked That Daddy to go to the liquor store for some Schnapps.  Biggest Boy desperately wanted to go, so he went along in spite of my husband's protests that he was just going to the "adult store" (Stop that snickering!  Minds out of the gutter!")  So they walk in and BB yells, "Hey!  This isn't an 'adult store!'  Mommy brings me here all the time!"

True, if "all the time" is the same as "once a year."  But still, officially the worst.  Ever.  So Diary, thanks for listening.  And don't tell anybody!

My Life is a Comedy Bit

Some of you told me you enjoyed reading about the "incident" (read: nuclear meltdown) that took place at Bed, Bath + Beyond.  If you missed that little gem, you can read all about it here. And if you liked reading about That Mommy's prolonged auditory "gift" to the fellow BBB shoppers, read on.  Apparently, utter humiliation was not enough for the Biggest Boy.  Nope, last week he decided that Chick Fil-A would be the perfect forum for a repeat performance.

We were there with my dear friend and her toddler daughter.  From the moment we pulled up--nay, the moment I even mentioned we were going--to Chick Fil-A, all Biggest Boy could talk about was the playground there.  You know the one--it is full of really neat climbing platforms and a giant plastic slide, all built to a height of approximately 3000 feet into the air but occupying only about a 20 square-foot footprint.  Yeah, it is vertical.  And also, encased in glass.

So, Biggest Boy wants to go in there right after he eats, which is fine because I can watch him through the glass while I finish my delicious new Spicy Chicken Sandwich.  (Nope, I don't officially endorse Chick Fil-A, but if they come callin', I'm their girl.)  And up he goes, and for two more minutes I sit there chatting with my friend, unaware of impending doom.  Oh, how naive and happy I was for those two minutes.

So when I don't see him after a couple of minutes I go in and start calling to the child.  Five minutes later, after a perverse game of Marco Polo in which I put a cramp in my neck and possibly lose some hearing due to the children screaming at unholy decibels, I finally locate him.  He is stranded on the very top platform, peering down at his ant-like mother and screaming his bloody head off.  Of course my first reaction is deep concern, thinking he is either seriously injured or really, really scared.  So I proceed to yell loudly and repeatedly at him to calm down, which is perhaps not so effective.  Me: "CALM DOWN!  JUST CALM DOWN FOR A SECOND!"  Him: "waaaaaaaaahhhhh..."   After a couple of minutes of this madness, I realize that there is something more going on here.  The tip-off was when he tried putting his feet down to the next platform, came within 1/16th of an inch of touching it, and then pulled up like he just stepped on hot lava and started yelling for me to come up and get him.  Then I remember.  This happened before, and it was with his dear grandmother who I believe did, in fact, go get him.  He wants a repeat, and I will be gall-darned before I teach him that he will be repeatedly rescued while kids half his age lap him.

So for 10 minutes I stand there trying to talk him down, visions of police negotiators talking jumpers off buildings swimming in my head.  What would Bruce Willis do, I wonder.  Perhaps he'd be better prepared.  By now I am sweating and turning red (a common theme for scenes of public humiliation, I am learning).  My friend keeps motioning for me to leave him alone and come eat, which in retrospect was actually a great idea, but a small part of me still felt scared for him and couldn't do it.  He was wailing and carrying on so much that I briefly considered climbing up.  Then I looked through the glass at the 200 other moms watching this fiasco go down, and decided that there would have to be a medical emergency before I'd be willing to snake my fat rear-end up twenty child-sized platforms, much less back down again with a screaming demon in tow.

I am already thoroughly embarrassed at this point, and also missing my Spicy Chicken Sandwich, when another mom comes in.  I think she came in to make sure the weirdo actually had a child in trouble and wasn't just some freakshow ChickFil-A glass-bowl exhibitionist.  Turns out she has the world's most helpful 4-year old. Suddenly Little Dr. Phil is up there coaching Biggest Boy, and gets him to climb somewhere and do something, I have no idea what because I am only catching fleeting glimpses of what's going on up there.  The mom says she remembers this phase, and I am sure she is lying because her ridiculously helpful child obviously never behaved like this.  This seems like a good time for me to go check on my friend and our toddlers (and my sandwich), so I go out there and tell her "what a disaster, he's so scared, yadda yadda."  When the baby sees me he starts to scream his head off.  Bonus points for double humiliation!  So we all go back in together.  Because at least the glass bowl is somewhat sound-proof, so your toddler's screams in there can only bother other kids.  And their Mommies who happen to be stuck in there all afternoon.  And their Mommies' eardrums.  But I digress.

And shortly after we go back in (mind you, after at least 20 minutes of fearful crying for Mommy), we hear...nothing.  Nothing except the sound of my child calmly thanking the boy "for his advice," and then saying, "Mommy!  I'm not crying anymore!"  Seriously, I should have left him in there the whole time and been none the wiser.  Then he comes down the slide like nothing ever happened and says, direct quote,

"That was fun, can I do it again?"

Good thing I was with such a good friend, because we just lost it and started laughing uncontrollably.  And that's the story of how I convinced hordes of moms in the Chick Fil-A that I am a crazy person.

My Profound Apologies

Photo: BB & B

I would like to share with you sweet readers a little story about an unsuspecting Mommy and her darling child.  The story begins with high hopes for a normal outing--you know, a quick jaunt to Bed, Bath & Beyond, and assuming everyone was an Excellent Listener, a brief visit to the indoor playground at the mall.

Things started out okay, there was some general ants in the pants, and some volume issues that reminded me of Will Ferrell on SNL ("I HAVE A DISORDER THAT DOES NOT ALLOW ME TO MODULATE THE VOLUME OF MY VOICE.")  But no biggie.

Then what happened, you ask?  Well, there we were, moments from purchasing the elusive 6" bed-risers, which were strategically hidden in a way that forced us to circle the store 10 times before finding them, when my 3-year old decided to bring it.  Not that he's never had a meltdown, please don't misunderstand.  But through divine intervention his meltdowns have mostly been private.  Until now.  And he's 3 and a half!  Truly, I thought we were past the point where irrational crazed meltdowns could occur in the aisles of our local stores, but I was once again proven woefully misinformed about something Mommy-ish.

It all started when the baby pushed him in the face, repeatedly, and I had to ask numerous times for Biggest Boy to use his superior strength and smarts to stay out of the baby's way.  But Excellent Listening just wasn't gonna happen that day, and BB decided that getting pushed around was ample provocation for chomping down on the baby's little finger.  LB started screaming his head off, and all I could think was "Uh-uh, no he didn't!"  Like it was Jerry Springer and not my own life.  So I calmed the baby down and then told Biggest Boy that when we were done we couldn't go to the playground because he had just, you know, BITTEN THE BABY.  Poor thing-- immediate tears sprung into his eyes, which I expected.  But what he did next I could never have predicted.  My child turned right around and--without a word--stalked off!  Again, like a guest on Springer rushing off the stage.  "Whaaaaa...?"  I couldn't believe it.  There he went, right into the curtain section, where they have roughly a thousand display racks of 12-foot curtains perfect for hiding when you are 40 inches tall.  Its like a misbehaving child's fantasy land in there.   There we played a ridiculous game of Hide N Seek while I whispered his name furiously and he silently fumed and also actually laughed at me.  When I finally got close enough to grab the boy, I confirmed we had indeed failed to be Excellent Listeners, and that's when the fan got really hit.

The child lost all control.  He started screaming loudly in unintelligible words which would surely have been profanities if he knew any, little face getting redder and redder and tears freely flowing down his cheeks, while I briefly considered changing my mind and buying him some ice cream just to get him to calm the heck down.  Instead, I picked him up and carried him over my shoulder, casually hauling him from the far back corner of the store waaay up to the front, pushing a double stroller with my free hand, and refusing to answer the one question he was shouting repeatedly and all of a sudden with perfect annunciation for the whole store to hear: "MOMMY!  WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?  WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?"    I may still have burn marks where the other customers' death stares put holes into my back as we made our escape.

Except we couldn't escape.  I found myself in this weird, lonely corridor leading out to the parking lot, but still attached to the store and thus attached to people's eardrums.  And now I realize why sometimes you can't just leave.  My child is 35 pounds.  I literally could not have kept carrying him, flailing and kicking, over my shoulder.  I also could not redeposit him in the stroller.  And because he refused to walk, I couldn't hold his hand through the parking lot.  So I had to choose between utter, ongoing humiliation and him roaming freely among the cars outside.  Obviously, we stayed put.  FOR THIRTY MINUTES.

That's right, for thirty minutes he tantrumed, lying on his back in the entryway to BB&B, sobbing hysterically.  Thank God Littlest Boo is patient and just sat in the stroller watching this thing go down.  I am sure he was taking notes for fun ways to get Mommy to turn red.  One positive: no one in the store heard a word I said because I refused to contribute by speaking above the tiniest whisper.  I was sweating and my heart was racing as I watched this child rage, and wondered where my sweet boy went and who was this demon in front of me.  To top it all off, an older woman and her grown son walked by at some point, and she looks down at me (she had to, because I was kneeling next to the child begging him to stand up) and says, "He (points to her son) used to do the same thing all the time and he turned out alright!" Verrry comforting, Stranger in the Sheet Store, verrry comforting.

At long last Biggest Boy calmed down enough to choose between holding my hand or riding, and we made it out of there.  On the way home, my nerves got the better of me and I finally shed a few of my own tears.  I would never step foot in there again, that's all there was to it.  And then my child showed me (again) what it is to be a parent.  When we got out of the car I told him to go inside and take his shoes off, and he headed out into the grass instead.  I was seconds away from losing it, when he bent down and plucked a clover flower from our front lawn.  "This is for you, Mommy."

The best apology a 3-year old could give.  And it no longer mattered that I was humiliated, or that we all had a terrible hour, or that countless people wanted to punch me in the face.  What mattered was teaching him.  What mattered was loving him.  And, in spite of my decision to never go back, we went back the next day to try again.  Got the bed-risers and got to go to the playground.  So Moms of the World Who I May Have Judged Because of Tantrums in the Store, I apologize.  (Also, my apologies to any of you who may have been shopping at B3 that day, although I suspect that no amount of apology is sufficient).  From now on I vow to have patience with that Mommy whose child is splitting my eardrums at the grocery store.  I think she's probably trying her best, even if her child is acting like a crazed little demon.

Um, Sorry Babe?

Welcome to my "home office," that is, the place where I spend waaay too much time reading blogs:

I should have dusted before snapping this pic, sorry!

Here is a photo-reenactment of that same home office on Saturday morning, when Hubs walked in to see this:

"Hey Dad!  I'm just chillin on the keyboard, reading some Dr. Seuss.  Care to join?"
By the way, this is not to scale.  The baby is in fact ginormous.

That's right, he was sitting on the slide-out keyboard tray.  On the keyboard.  Perhaps using his behind to type his first novel?  Not sure.  All I know is that recently I've had to push my chair in after using the computer because this crazy little 16-month-old monkey was crawling up and typing dissertations.  Or just closing all my windows, whatever.

Being the very conscientious wife I am, I had warned Hubs about it and asked him (without a hint of nag) to also be pushing in that chair.  Needless to say, he failed to do so on this one occasion.  However, I'm happy to report that finding his 27-pound baby casually seated atop a rickity keyboard tray drove the lesson home for him.  Perhaps even in a way that a nagging wife cannot.  No wonder he wouldn't tell me about this until I promised to "not say anything."  Like, as if.

For the Love of Blueberries

Disclaimer: That Mommy Blog is not responsible for you losing your lunch from reading this post.  Please do not proceed if you are squeamish, nauseous, or easily offended.  Especially by body fluids.  Because its gross, people.

Do you have a toddler?  One of those sweet, chubby, wonderful little people full of joy and laughter and a blossoming personality?  A little girl or guy who loves to explore and practice new skills?  And does your sweet little toddler, like mine, take great pride in feeding him or herself?  And after your sweet toddler takes great pride in feeding himself, oh, say, a pint of blueberries, do crazy things happen...down there?

Don't get me wrong, I'm happy whenever one of my kids takes a liking to something healthy, and blueberries certainly fit the bill.  But WHAT IS UP with a blueberry diaper?  Is there anything more disgusting than a gigantic, blackish-green mess?  And if you're still reading you probably already know where I am going with this, because blueberries, for whatever reason, render poop not just nasty but grainy.  As if someone thought it would be fun to mix poop with sand.  Like, I-need-at-least-25-wipes grainy.  It almost makes me wonder if blueberries should be on the menu.

Oh, and by the way, yesterday I went to check a diaper and stuck my finger directly in poop.