Hey Lady, Your Bigot is Showing

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I’m really in the wrong profession.

This whole “Stay-At-Home-Mom” thing isn’t very lucrative and since I obviously have a face or a demeanor that makes every batshitcrazy person on earth feel like they can confess their innermost thoughts to me, maybe I should be a shrink, or a probation officer… or a priest.

Okay, the Priest thing is a bit far-fetched.  Firstly because I’m a woman and secondly because I’m Jewish.

I never thought much of what other people thought of my religious beliefs.  Maybe because I was born into Judaism, maybe because I grew up in a proverbial melting pot of religions and different ethnicities, maybe because I watched a large amount of Sesame Street in the 1970’s.  Whatever the reason, I really believe that a person is defined by their actions, and that is what makes them a good human being.  But as I’m getting older I’m discovering the hard way that more and more people are walking around with bigotry and hate in their hearts and their minds.  And now that I have brought 3 children into this world this fact is extremely discouraging.

My husband’s cousin and I went out for lunch today.  The baby had just gotten some inoculations at the Doctor and was a bit crabby.  When I finally was able to get him to nap I was just super excited to get some girl time with my friend and enjoy some delicious lunch.

I’ve always been friendly and, come to find out, my cute baby is a conversation piece to many people.  I’m always happy to oblige… I mean how can you dislike someone standing with you and complimenting your child?  I can’t.  I’m a sucker for the kid compliments.  And it’s usually a pretty welcome part of life as my days are mostly spent without adult interaction, unless you count the bag boy at the supermarket.  So, when our waitress started with the small talk I was more than happy to oblige…

“So, my daughter has a 2-year-old.  And she wants to have more… but her husband put his foot down and said only after their son is 5.”

Wow, 5? That sounds pretty arbitrary…

“Yeah, I told her, that’s too much of an age difference.”

{My first 2 kids are 5 years apart, but to each his own}

“Well, you know what the real problem with her husband is?”

What is that?

“He’s a Jew… {at this point she must have seen the shocked look on our faces}  You know, Jews are notoriously stingy with money.”

Oh are they?  Well I’m a Jew.

“Oh but you’re a woman… I don’t know, are lady Jews stingy?”

{Shock.  Disbelief.  Is this chick crazy?}

I don’t think so, but then again I also don’t think my religious practices or my lady parts have anything to do with how I spend my money.

{Can she see this conversation is nuts?  She has to know how bizarre this conversation is?}

“Well, he makes my daughter work… and pay for daycare too.  She can’t stay at home and she can’t even drive his new car.”

I hate to break it to you… Louise, is it?  But I don’t think that being a Jew is your son-in-law’s problem.  I think the problem is that he is just… a dick.

And there it is.  The elephant in the room.  Some people are just assholes.  And because they are assholes people will take what they lack in their personality and group them together by the whole of their parts.  And you know what?

I’m tired of it.

Judge me on me.

Judge me based upon my actions and nothing else.

At that exact moment, what I wanted to do was bitch slap this lady and scream in her face, “Hey lady, your bigot is showing!”  What I wanted to do was talk to her manager and have her fired for being such a judgemental piece of shit.  I wanted her to feel as bad as she had made me feel just to show her how shitty it felt.

But that’s not me.  That’s anger.

I haven’t been that person in a very long time.

I don’t need you to feel bad so that I can feel better.

I can feel better just by remembering that I am better… better than this whole conversation.  Because I can walk away and go back to my life filled with love and poops, laughter and tears, food and wine, stitches and skinned knees, laundry and little bickering voices, and baby belly laughs.

I will have pity in my heart for that woman because she doesn’t know any better.  And she’ll never have the pleasure of getting to know me.

Period.

I still tipped her 15% because she did take our order, serve our food, refill our drinks and promptly bring us our check.  I appreciate the fact that someone else waited on me.  There is value in that.  Her son-in-law might be the cheapest bastard on the planet.  But I am not.

She performed her job.

As for her people skills?  She should probably avoid public speaking.  Unless it’s for the KKK.

Tonight I’ll read my sons The Butter Battle Book by Dr. Seuss before bed.

And hopefully, if the time ever comes, they too will be able to turn the other cheek no matter what side of bread you choose to butter.

My Toddler, Chuck Norris

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I cook almost every night.

Sometimes it’s an escape.  I day-dream that I”m a world-class chef about to serve my love on a plate to some A-list celebs.  They rant and rave about the party in their mouth.

Sometimes it’s a freaking chore and a half because in actuality I’m cooking for a bunch of little boys who would prefer frozen chicken nuggets and Velveeta shells and cheese to any of my homemade delicacies.

Back in our heyday… BC (Before Children), the Hubby and I would dine out quite a bit.  At least 5 nights a week.  It was a complete and total waste of money but in BC world, money didn’t matter.  We worked, we ate, we drank.  I vividly remember leaving my job (where I got to wear pencil skits, fitted button down shirts and heels) and going to a bar… ALONE… and indulging in many dirty martinis.  BC was the shit.

Fast forward to now… AD (After Delivery), and dining out is a novelty.  And with 3 kids you have to be prepared that their behavior will quickly go to shit and you won’t even get to eat.  That’s happened on numerous occasions.  One kid will act up right after we order and we will run from the restaurant, to-go boxes in hand.

Saturday night we went out for dinner with the children.  We had a fantastic time, the food was excellent and they were really well-behaved.  It was bliss and completely out of the norm.

We had leftovers from that dinner which our waiter kindly sent us home with.  I’ve been dreaming about this doggie bag for two damn days!  I couldn’t wait to be able to quietly and without interruption enjoy them for lunch today.

But the best laid plans can always go to shit.

The big kids were at camp, the baby was taking a nap and it was just mommy time.  That in itself should have had me on high alert but I was just so excited for my food.  The microwave beep made my mouth water!  I was super hungry.  I hunkered down with a huge plate of food on the coffee table while I sat down to eat on the couch (a big no-no in front of the kids).  I was watching some amazingly mindless daytime television and had just popped the second bite of food in my mouth when the phone rang.  I absent-mindedly answered it expecting to hear a solicitor on the other end.

It was not a solicitor.

It was camp.

My 3-year-old had been running, slipped, and fell (headfirst) into a metal bleacher.  He was fine, but bleeding and they thought he needed to see a doctor.

I put down my fork, packed up the baby, and rushed off to Middle Monkey with speed and focus that I had forgotten I possessed back in BC.

The fifteen minute drive to camp felt like hours.  It was raining and there was a cop behind me.  Sometimes having a wonderful imagination is a bad, bad thing.  This was one of those times. Visions of my beautiful but precocious child bleeding and crying blurred my vision.  When I finally arrived at camp I didn’t even turn off the car or move the baby, I just threw my car in park, left it running and went to assess the damage.

As I met the camp director at the curb she filled me in…

“He’s doing great.  He’s such a trooper.  The cut looks deep.  We have it under control.  He might need stitches.  He didn’t even CRY.”

Wait? What?

“Yeah, he didn’t even cry.  Not at all. He’s unbelievable.”

{Unbelievable is an understatement}

As I walked into the nurse’s office I found my little man, sipping on a juice box with a big gauze pad taped to his forehead.

“Hi Mom.  I fell.”

I heard buddy.  You okay.

“Yeah, I okay.”

Does your head hurt?

“A little.”

Holy shit.

My kid is Chuck Norris.

This little boy, who cries when he can’t have two packs of fruit snacks… This little shit, who annoys his brother to the ends of the earth, where he is finally forced to use physical violence to subdue him (barely) and then he cries like a hungry infant… This MONSTER, who weeps when I ask him to pick up a book/a toy/a sock, or worse, put down the toilet seat… This terror who sobs when he has to finish his dinner to get desert… doesn’t cry when it’s the real-time for tears?

The time when he could really be hurt and everything should be super scary is the time he has decided to be cool, calm, and collected.

Fuckin’ Chuck Norris.

And he really didn’t cry.

Through 3 hours at the emergency room, through 5 stitches in his forehead (right above his eyebrow) he was the biggest 3-year-old badass I’ve ever seen in my life.

When we arrived back home he ate an ice cream sandwich and fell asleep watching The Lego Movie.

I’m just sitting here watching him sleep and counting my blessings that this was our first trip to the ER with 3 boys and it was only for stitches.

My leftovers can wait until tomorrow.

 

The Evil Queen, Chicken and Dumplings, and Snow “One More” Bite

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The boys started asking for chicken and dumplings two days ago…

Asking?  Not really.  More like begging.

But it’s summer and we’re in Florida.  It’s freaking hotter than Hades up in here.  I was hoping they’d just forget about it.  Nope.  Not that lucky.

I get it… shredded chicken, creamy sauce, yummy dumplings. Amazing. I make a mean Chicken and Dumplings.

So tonight (when they were at soccer practice) I began the process.

It’s not that chicken and dumplings is difficult to execute.  It’s not even that chicken and dumplings is super labor intensive… under normal circumstances.  But I have 3 kids.  And there is nothing normal about having 3 kids and trying to make meals from scratch.

The 9-year-old loves and eats everything.  Always with a please and a thank you.  I would travel the world with Boy Wonder.  And my first stop would be Japan or India.  Boy Wonder would make us proud in any culinary situation.  His love of food is the reason I learned to cook.  And he’s pretty appreciative of my skills.

The Middle Monkey isn’t a fantastic eater.  Compared to other kids his age he eats wonderfully… but by our family standards?  He’s a shitty eater.  Unless he wants to eat…  and since he’s been asking for chicken and dumplings for days I thought this was a no brainer.  But now… now??  Not so much.  I get it.  He’s 3.   It’s all about power and control when you’re 3.  3 year old’s are like mini Napoleon.

We are all almost done with dinner and of course, Middle Monkey is starting his normal shit “I don’t like chicken.  I don’t want this bite.  I don’t like vegetables.”  It’s enough to make a sane man crazy.

My poor Hubby.  He is the sane man.  He’s rational, he’s all heart and he loves his family.  And while he’s sitting next to Middle Monkey saying “Have two more bites and then one more bite.”  This is our normal coercion eating tactic with this child.  I’m in the kitchen doing the dishes (already fed up) saying

“Just have him eat.  Stop spooning it for him… Jeez.  If he doesn’t want it that’s fine.  No desert then.” 

I’m not the sane one.  I’ve lost my patience long ago.  I’m the Pink Floyd parent… “If you don’t eat your meat you can’t have any pudding.”

I guess everyone has a breaking point. Cause that’s when Hubby broke.  It’s been awhile since I’ve seen him angry..

“I’m tired of you not eating!  I’m tired of Mommy being mad!  You can just go to bed RIGHT NOW!”

And with lighting speed Daddy hauled Middle Monkey off to his room and put him in a time out.  You could hear the 3-year-old scream as he closed the door.

He saw the look of unhappiness on my face right away…

“What? This is ridiculous! You’re right. I get it.”

It’s not about being right. It’s about us not babying him.

“That’s why I finally said screw this.”

I know that babe, but you blamed it on me.

“I what? That’s insane!”

You said, “I’m tired of mommy being mad!”

“Well, I am. And you most definitely are.”

Yes, you are right on that, I am over this dinnertime bullshit dance he does. A dance that we let him do. But one minute you’re helping spoon-feed him and playing Lets Make a Deal, and the next… the next you banish him.

“Jeez, I did do that, didn’t I?”

Yup. So now I’m the Evil Queen and he’s Snow “one more” Bite.

“Good lord… I get it. I’ll go get the prince.”

Fingers crossed that dinnertime goes a bit better tomorrow evening.

The story of Snow White has been retold a million times over.

I’m not really a fan of fairy tales.

 

Incessant Questions: Motherhood is the Longest Job Interview Ever

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Johnny 5’s got nothing on my kids when it comes to questions.

I almost cracked this morning.

Legit, straight jacket, get thee to a nunnery Ophelia, cracked.

I was depositing a check into the ATM at the bank, an action I have done countless times.  An action that, is so simple, a trained chimp can do it.  Shit, my 3-year-old can most definitely do it.

But there I was.

Depositing a check.

And the machine had so many questions. Pin number? Language choice? Deposit? Withdrawal?

Questions that should have been easy to answer. Answers that I use every day, but this morning, I sat there, dumbfounded. Shocked at the slow reaction time of my brain.

Then it happened.

I started to laugh. And not just a giggle, a full-on, no-holds-barred, belly laugh. I sat in my car laughing for at least 6 minutes. I laughed too long and so hard, I scared the baby.

After 3 consecutive days with all of my children, I am questioned out.

These kids are like little sponges, small but powerful and mighty super computers. They all are little Johnny 5’s yelling at me, “Input! Need more input! Input!!! INPUT!”

I am their Encyclopedia Britannica. The source of the start of all knowledge. And I am tapped out. I’m tired of talking. I’m tired of answering. I’m tired of questions.

Because there is a 5 year age difference between my oldest 2, I’m slowing discovering that the questions asked of me are on 2 different levels of my consciousness. The 3-year-old asks questions of evolution and general ideas about life and science…

“Where do lollipops grow?”

“Will I be big like Daddy one day?”

“Is Daddy your brother?”

“How your ‘gina (short for vagina) work?”

“Where did I grow?”

While the 9-year-old asks questions of fact…

“Do I have soccer tonight?”

“What did you pack me for lunch?”

“Do I have to read every day this week?”

“When does so-and-so get back from sleep away camp”

“Can I play with my cousin on Wednesday?”

This huge age difference forces me to recesses of my brain I didn’t know existed. If the average human only uses 10% of their brain, I’m pretty sure the average mom is forced to use more. Where the hell is Alex Trebek when you need him?

Of course, like every mom, I want my kids to be well-rounded, inquisitive and knowledgeable. I answer all their copious questions with as much of a straight face as I can keep and to the best of my knowledge based upon their level of understanding. But, MY GOD… I feel like I am on the longest job interview EVER!! And I don’t see the end in sight.

No one likes interviewing for a job. Personally, I’d rather have a root canal, it is quicker and less painful. If you are interviewing for a job that means one of two things… either you are out of work (in that case the job interview is really high pressure because you need a job) or you hate your current job and are looking for something else (in that case the dream job just seems to be right there. You can almost touch it… also very high stress).

But here’s the thing about the job interview that is Motherhood,

I ALREADY HAVE THIS JOB!

It’s mine.

My resume has been checked and is on file. Background check?  Done. You little animals have my DNA. References? Ask your father. And your grandma. Ask your other grandma. But the incessant questions will continue, no matter what.

They will always have questions for me.

Maybe about quantum physics or my past, or their future, or what color is made when you mix red and white? And no matter how much I’d like to hide in the closet with my headphones on listening to Prince’s Purple Rain album in its entirety, on repeat… I can’t.

At least not today.

Because they asked for Chicken and Dumplings for dinner and I’m gonna make it.

I just need to ask my mom for her recipe.

The Nap Drop and How I’ve Screwed Myself This Summer

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Parenting doesn’t come with a manual.  Period.

When I’ve tried to describe parenting to people without kids I often use the example of a scientist.  Each kid at each different stage of their life is almost like coming up with a hypothesis and trying to either prove or disprove said theory.  Everyday you suit up in your lab coat (yoga pants), you have your Bunsen burners (microwave) and your beakers (bottles of formula) and you keep meticulous notes (post-it’s piled on the refrigerator door) as to your findings.

Dropping my 3-year-old’s nap this summer was a bad idea.  It was a hypothesis that has been completely disproved by my toddlers personality late in the day.  It is entirely my fault and I will take one for the team on this.

He was not ready.

He is not ready.

But the problem with kids, unlike scientific data… is that they are human beings.  You can only manipulate kids so far, while scientific findings can be skewed to the left or the right.  And this ain’t G.I. Jane. We can’t “un-ring” that bell.  I will never be able to get nap time back now that he has seen the no-nap world.

When we started planning for the summer we decided to send both of our older kids to the same day camp.  The 9-year-old loves this camp and it just seemed like the logical and proximate choice for his little brother as well.

Only problem, camp ends at 3:45… which is 45 minutes after my toddler would usually start his nap.

“No problem”, I said.  “He can handle it”, I said.

Silly mommy, naps are for 3-year-olds.

He’s now a month into camp and although he loves being a big boy and all his new friends he comes home from his day cranky and exhausted.  Trying to get him to lay down and relax at 4 in the afternoon is pointless and futile.  He won’t do it.  A couple of times he’s passed out on the ride home but I can count those instances on one hand.  And when he has fallen asleep in the car he has only once stayed asleep when I brought him into the house.

In so many words… I’m fucked.

The afternoon nap was a win/win situation for everyone involved. The toddler got much-needed rest, and woke up ready to wreak havoc on the rest of us with a smile on his face.  I had 2 much-needed hours of time without him.  I was able to accomplish so much in the afternoon.  I will look back on the time of nap as a peaceful time, before I marred the kingdom with my foolish dreams where I wasn’t a captive in my own home from 3 to 5PM.

All I can do now is pass on the wisdom of my idiocy to you.  Please, please, please… for the love of all things holy, hear my cry (actually, at this point it’s more of a sob mixed with a wail followed by a gulp of wine).

If you are still blessed enough to have a napping child… hold onto this time with a fierce grip. Heed the words of Jack from the Titanic and “don’t let go”.  Screw Frozen… and “don’t let it go”.  I’m telling you this because I don’t want anyone to go through the evenings of crying and whining and complete exhaustion I’m going through right now.  I’m telling you this because no sane person should have to deal with a 3-year-old attached to your leg, crying, “DADDY!!!! DAAAAADDDYYY!! I WANT DAAAAADDDDY!!!” over and over again for 45 minutes as you try to roast a chicken and your Hubby is running late.

I’m telling you this as a public service.

I’m telling you this as a friend.

Learn from my mistake.

Long live the nap!

 

 

 

Introducing Solids: 5 Easy Steps so You Don’t Lose Your Shit

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So your baby is ready… or your pediatrician says your baby is ready for solid food.  If you’re a first time parent… Yay!

If you’re like me, and this ain’t your first rodeo.. not so much.

Ugh.

Starting a baby on solid food is a milestone for sure, it’s also a huge, fat, pain in the ass.  It takes babies much longer to eat solids then it does for them to drink a bottle.  They (and their little intestines) have just gotten used to processing breast-milk or formula… now lets chuck some processed vegetables or fruit into their GI tract, or, if you’re really balls-to-the-wall daring, meat.  As you can imagine, since it’s only taken anywhere from 4-6 months to get to this point, I’m sure it’s going to be a cakewalk.  Keep dreaming, John Lennon.  You will end up with something on your face, but it won’t be cake.

Step 1, Dress the part

I have loads of my friends who do Tough Mudders, Color Runs and the like.  They wear spandex and tutu’s and they are ready to get dirty and look pretty.  Here we concentrate on the former not the latter.  You are going to get dirty, pretty… not so much.  Be prepared.  Be prepared like a Wilderness Girl at the annual jamboree with Phyllis Nefler at the helm.  And I don’t mean Gucci bitches… I mean a shirt you hate and comfy pants, maybe even just underwear. But don’t forget some sneakers in case you need to make a fast getaway from a baby about to projectile vomit.  New textures can do that to a baby.  This is one of the infinite number of reasons every shirt I own is stained with something.

Step 2, Mind your Peas

Some people say cereal first, some say cereal never.  Since I’m on my third and the other 2 have no food allergies my doctor said to start him on vegetables.  On my 2nd child I thought it would be easier and more cost-effective to make my own baby food.  In the end it was neither, and I could never get the consistency right. Just another waste of time to add to the time suck.  This time around I didn’t even try that route.  We began with peas.  Who doesn’t love peas?  Let me take that back, lots of kids hate peas when they are growing up because they are green and similarly named to number 1 in the bathroom.  But babies?  Babies love peas.  Although peas are usually a hit with taste, they also look like the dirtiest food to pass from your spoon into your baby’s diaper.  And that is gross.  You’ll be in hell for the first bowel movement post peas, but they usually eat them up just fine.

Step 3, Have the proper equipment

You need the proper tools to successfully feed a baby solids.  A bib is a must (unless you have them shirtless, which I rarely ever do).  You’ll need one of those little spoons with the a plastic tip (trust me on this) and you’ll need a 5 point harness of some kind as baby is probably not able to fully sit up by himself.  Now you might even want to make sure you have a bucket or garbage can right next to you (especially if you are already pregnant again) while feeding little Johnny because watching him eat, and spit out, and re-eat the spit out, can make anyone nauseous.  If you have a really queasy stomach you might want to have Hubby do all the solid feeding and hide in the bathroom with a bottle glass of wine until it’s over.  It’s not pretty.

Step 4, Know your audience

Okay, so you’ve feed little Johnny twice and he’s done really well.  Next time you are sure to be over ambitious and schedule a meal when other people are going to watch him.  Do not do this.  I repeat, do not walk down the path to show off to the Jones’, Grandma, or even your own older children.  This will not go over well.  Unless you consider Exorcist as movie with a good ending.  Just know your role, stay in your lane and keep feeding time under wraps and during down moments until he’s been doing it for months.  Then you can try to show off.  But I can pretty much guarantee that his first time in front of an audience he will sneeze peas all over grandma, barf on older brother or just refuse anything you offer him outright (thus making a liar out of you).  And as cute as it can be to watch him eat, it’s just not worth the aggravation.

Step 5, Expect failure and deal

Solids will start off bad.  He’ll spit them out, he’ll cry, he won’t want them. But, like it says on the bottle… Lather, rinse, repeat.  Eventually, at some point in his life…. he will be a good eater.  Or at least an eater.  He’s going to get big and learn that he needs food to survive.  Hopefully he chooses something other than chicken nuggets and french fries, but lets not worry about that just yet.  Right now, it’s your job to just keep shoveling things, lots of different things, into his mouth, and take the massive time-suck that introducing solids is, and make it your bitch.

Best of luck moms! Happy Feeding!