I can’t get enough of her… Amazing!
I can’t get enough of her… Amazing!
I hate to be late.
Tardiness is my number 1 personal pet peeve and now that I have 3 kids, running late is kind of a given. So I usually have to talk myself off a mental cliff when it happens. But this afternoon was just curveball after curveball thwarting every attempt I made to be on time.
The older kids have to be picked up from camp at 3:45.
3:45, 3:45, 3:45… since this is such a difference from our normal school schedule I have 3:45 resonating in a sing-song voice in my head from noon on. I even set my phone alarm to remind me to leave the house at 3:30.
Well, at lunchtime I realized we were out of cold cuts and that would be unacceptable when I went to make lunches for tomorrow. I opted to leave the house early and stop at the grocery store on the way. Of course at around 2:50 the baby was ready to eat, so that was curveball numero Uno.
After a quick bottle (thankfully the baby just pounded 6 ounces, burped and we were off) I headed to the grocery store. Where I grew up in New York we had deli’s… lots and lots of deli’s, and those guys have lightning speed. They can make you an egg sandwich and cut you a pound of ham faster than you can walk into the place. It’s times like this I really miss the everywhere-ness of the NY deli.
As the baby and I approach the deli counter in the supermarket… I sigh. It’s packed. I pick #52 and they are on 49…. shit, I’m going to be late. As I’m checking the time on my phone and anxiously tapping my foot, a friendly old lady asks if she can ogle the baby. Of course she’s adorable and in love with his sweet little face. I can’t resist a conversation as she starts telling me she’s a mother of 7!! SEVEN! And I think I’m outnumbered!! {Headshake} By the time we’re done talking I look up and there are on number 53. Shit. Some evil, redheaded, moo moo wearing troll has stolen my beloved deli clerk. Now I’m going to be really late… and I’m super pissed.
Excuse me, I was 52
“Well, they’re on 53”
{No shit, exasperated sigh}
After I finally get my lunchmeat it’s now 3:46…. Fuck, I’m super late. Anxiety unfurls in my belly and I can feel my blood pressure spike. As I walk to the checkout line I remember a former shrink who told me that chronic lateness is the true sign of someone who is bored with their everyday life and needs to feel that adrenaline that comes with rushing. I don’t really know if that psychobabble bullshit is true or not but yes, my adrenaline has spiked. And I’m not a fan of that feeling.
I get to the express lane and see that the whole freaking store has decided to join me there. Double shit, another curveball and my imagination is running wild that my children are sitting at camp, last to be picked up, with the anxious staff that is probably desperate to get outta there, cursing me under their breath for being late. Ugh, I hate that I’m sending out the vibe that only my time is valuable.
When I finally get to pick the boys up it’s 4:07.
I’m annoyed with myself, annoyed with the redheaded, moo moo wearing troll. Annoyed.
I apologize to the camp director (who doesn’t seem at all bothered by my lack of time manners) and explain the curious circumstances that made me late. He jokes that this could be fodder for my blog. “Yeah right”, I say… “There’s no blog here.”
On our drive home 9-year-old asks me what happened at the deli counter. I explain the whole story to him… The grey haired lady who loved his baby brother, the bitch troll who stole my spot in line (he knows how much I hate to be late)…
“Mom, she didn’t steal your spot, you missed your turn.”
{Lightbulb epiphany} Holy crap, you’re right, I did miss my turn.
“Happens to the best of us.”
Thank you little man. It’s all about perspective.
After many years of avoidance I finally re-upped my Costco membership. These kids eat A LOT! And we eat a lot. And the baby hasn’t even started eating solids yet… so yes, I’m screwed.
Costco is the place where dreams are made and bank accounts are broken. As a new member, you don’t really know what is a one-time-only bargain price and what they stock on a daily basis. So every time I hit that bitch with a list, I buy the items on said list and then some extra shit that I think is a good deal.
While I’m shopping I’m usually thinking “this is a good price” or “oh man, I can’t swing that now, hope it’s here the next time”. And everything seems small when you’re at Costco… because the place is so fucking big. Most items (that aren’t big-ticket) are under $10. Then I get to the checkout line and I die when I see my total. Then I bring everything to the car and die again because I have 2 car seats, 3 kids, a stroller, a soccer bag, and my huge diaper bag already taking up necessary room … and I realize, if I can barely fit this shit into my car, where the hell am I going to put it in my house.
Which leads me to the real point of this blog… I don’t have a small house. Well, maybe it’s small for 5 people, but my house seems so much smaller because I’m terrible at organization, and I don’t like to get rid of things.
We built this house. We’ve lived here 11 years and we still have no freaking clue where to put shit. We definitely need to throw things away. Lot’s of things. But there is always that nagging feeling that you’ll need this obscure thing someday and you won’t have it and you’ll say, “Damn, I had that… now I have to go to Costco to get it.”
I don’t like that feeling.
I bought a Foodsaver at Costco today. You need a Foodsaver if you’re going to have a membership at Costco… unless you are trying to get really fat (which I’m not). But I have no clue how to use it… besides its awesome ability to vacuum suck a bottle of wine. Ironically, we drink wine pretty fast so I really don’t need to store it for long periods of time… but I digress.
So tomorrow the big kids start camp and I’m starting my new project. The Costco project.
Out with the old (please) and in with the new from the big box store.
Or just out with the old.
Hopefully I make the cut.
Macklemore has nothing on my toddler. Except access to Slurpees.
Whelp, summer is officially upon us.
Which means if you’re anything like me, these little animals that we call children are home.
All day.
{sigh}
So after 2.6 million games of Candy Land, breaking out the Play-Doh, countless hours of Lego building, becoming an imaginary superhero, bike riding, baking, cooking, and laundry I have mentally and physically left the building. And sadly, we are only on the second day of summer break.
At this point, I am certifiably insane. You know how I know this? Because crazy people do desperate things. And in my desperation, I did something that I hate to do with all my mind and body. I packed up the family Truckster and took my kids to an Indoor Play Place.
The Indoor Play Place is the final resting stop for all frazzled parents everywhere. You can see the look of defeat on each and every one of our faces. We are screaming it behind our fake smiles “I GIVE UP!”
Because no one with the proper mental facilities would pay $12 for their kid to run around and jump in an indoor bounce house at a strip mall. No one in their right mind would allow their kid to play with a plastic toy that was just in a strange child’s mouth. But Summer Mother isn’t all there. She’s desperate. She’s trying to fill the time void until the next meal, the next nap, the next bedtime. Summer Mother isn’t practical – she’s a crazed lunatic. And where do the crazy parents hold the meetings for their 12 step program? The Indoor Play Place. That’s right.
This, my friends, is one step above the park and one step below maximum desperation – Chuck-E-Cheese. I’m not there yet.
But it’s only Tuesday.
My toddler entered the Indoor Play Place like a little version of Macklemore entering the club… one hand in his Superman underwear, mismatched ensemble he put together himself of a NY Jets Jersey (Johnathan Vilma, by the way, who hasn’t played for the Jets since 2007), a plaid vest and pajama pants with a paisley pattern – Yes, he rocks your Grandpa’s style – His other hand is reserved for the thumbs up sign he’s throwing at the little blond girl in the corner who has lifted her dress high above her head exposing her Frozen undies. I watch his eyes as they dart around the room, sizing the place up, undoubtedly looking for the most dangerous or disgusting thing to play on/with. He cracks a smile from ear to ear and runs off in the direction of the dress up corner. Before I can even form the word, “Wait…” he has placed a plastic Fireman’s hat on his little head. He’s dancing around singing a fire truck song, and I’m putting “buy RID Lice Shampoo” on my shopping list.
The Indoor Play Place isn’t for the faint of heart.
As I begrudgingly hand over my $12 to the establishment, I find a place without gum or Nutella stuck to it to sit down. This is the part of the Indoor Play Place that sucks for parents. The waiting. There are three loads of baby laundry on my bed that I have to fold today. Can’t do that here. I need to marinate a pork loin for dinner and buy a fresh salad but instead I am sitting in a vacuum. No sane person would do this.
I’m tending to the baby, making small talk with another mom who looks about 1 step away from institutionalization. She’s wearing two different sneakers. They aren’t even the same brand let alone the same style or color. I decide to keep this observation to myself. Nothing good can come of her knowing that right now.
My 3-year-old calls, “Hey Mom, watch this,” while he hangs from a rafter, clearly not part of the actual maze the Indoor Play Place has put together.
“That’s lovely honey,” I mutter, not wanting to battle it out here. There will be enough battles when I try to get him to leave.
He finally approaches me with those words no Mom wants to hear in a public place, “I have to go potty.”
I’m starting to think my toddler might actually be reviewing public toilets for Zagat or Yelp! Because he has sat on every public toilet in a 50-mile radius.
I then venture to the restroom with him where he proudly sits on the toilet and sings the ABC’s while his little legs dangle. The last time this happened was at a Golden Corral restaurant (don’t ask), and the whole family was sick for a week. Of course, the baby is now ripe and needs a diaper change too. I whip a gallon of hand sanitizer out of my purse and make the changing table fit to lay my changing mat on. I can’t help think about some of the college bars I frequented back in the day. Considering there aren’t any drunk 20 somethings here, this bathroom could give them a run for their money. I wipe some asses, and we leave that nasty place. A minute more and I might have puked.
After 2 hours I’m finally able to get him to leave without incident promising him the ultimate toddler treat, frozen yogurt.
Make mine a double. With a side of hand sanitizer.
“Mama said they’ll be days like this…”
We all have “those days.”
I’m finding, when you have young children, you have more of the days my mama told me about. Lot’s more. Days where a glass of wine sounds like a good breakfast. Days where all you do is referee the most ridiculous fights (But he won’t stop looking at me {punch, kick} And he touched me first {headbutt} MOM!) but you don’t see the Don King “dolla dolla bills.” Days where you’re wondering how your college educated, brilliant mind, is scooping shit out of a size 5 pull-up. Days where you would pay good money to only have to do this 50% of the time.
Which brings me to my point.
Hubby and I spent our 20’s attending weddings. Everyone was getting married.
Then our 30’s at baby showers. Everyone was getting pregnant.
Now here we are, staring at 40, and EVERYONE is getting divorced.
The majority of my divorced and separated friends seem happy about it. They are out “doin’ it, and doin’ it, and doin’ it well” and I’m reading about it on Facebook while picking peanut butter out of my hair and finding dried snot on my shirt.
I love my family. I wouldn’t change a fucking thing about where I’m at right now. But, when I have an extra stressful day at home of repeating myself a trillion times to deaf little ears… I day-dream about having a weekend free from children.
‘Cause right now I’m on 100% of the time. My husband works 6 days a week and when he walks in the house at 7 pm, you’d think the Ringling Brothers circus just pulled up in the driveway. He’s the awesome novelty act while I am the warden.
“Daddy’s home!! DADDY!!! DADDY!!! DADDY!!”
{and they run to their Father and meet him before he even gets a foot in the door with hugs and kisses and stories about their day}
And I’m standing in the kitchen, making dinner, wearing the baby, hair stuffed into some off-kilter pony-tail.
I’m the Ogre that makes them wash their face, and “grab your backpack”, and “please sit on your bottom”, and “take your hand out of your pants”, and “STOP TOUCHING YOUR BROTHER!!”
And then I hear about all my divorced or separated friends who get their kids at a specific time, a time when they are well rested and the house is picked up, and they haven’t seen them in 5 days so they have super amazing trips planned, and “fun time” on the agenda. They get to have a different relationship with their children then I do.
I’m not gonna lie, sometimes… when I listen to their stories, I’m a twinge jealous.
I used to be super fucking fun.
Before kids, I was the person you called when you wanted to feel better. I was the one who had everyone’s stomach hurting with laughter. I would do stupid, reckless, and hilarious shit. I was a hoot.
But my kids don’t get to see that side of me because I’m too busy. And that kinda blows.
So at night, after an especially draining day and thankless unpaid hours of doing what I do because I have to… I’ll talk to a girlfriend who’s now a single mom. And she’ll tell me all the fantastic stories about the myriad of 22-year-olds she’s out kissing, and how she has her child this weekend and they are going to Disney or a movie or a concert… and I’ll be half listening to her while the other half of me is listening to the baby monitor… where in the other room, I overhear my husband reading a goodnight book to our 3-year-old, while the 9-year-old sits with his baby brother, who is cooing and giggling, and I think about how ridiculously lucky I am that I don’t ever have to share them, or worse yet… miss them.
Although they drive me batshitcrazy, I couldn’t even handle the emptiness I’d feel having to miss one fucking second of their lives.
Not one tear, not one poop, not a single moment.
Full-time Motherhood is a mind numbing siege.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the universe.
Today was the 3-year-old’s last day of school. They had a sweet little show where the kids sang songs and did dances. It was completely adorable and for a tiny millisecond you can almost forget that cute little angel is your psychotic toddler.
This is bad.
Never forget.
Don’t even think about forgetting the fact that in an instant they can go from “Aw” to The Exorcist.
I’m telling you this not to scare you (but lets face it, fear is your friend with a toddler) but to keep you on your toes. The very toes he’s going to pound with his fists during the next tantrum.
In our normal, everyday life I make pretty good choices on what to feed my kids. This usually depends on my exhaustion level. We don’t do a lot of fast or frozen foods, or candy, or sweets. The oldest has juice, but not the 3-year-old. And when they don’t eat shit, you can really see a difference in their personality. At least I can see the difference in my kids. I can probably see the difference in your kids too but they aren’t my problem.
That’s why it is totally my fault what is happening right now. Letting my guard down today was a huge mistake and I’m paying for it. In spades.
It’s to the point of Masochism. I knew what the outcome was going to be but I allowed it to happen anyway. Touche peer pressure.
After the little play they had an Ice Cream Social to end the school year. My very hungry caterpillar had a loaded ice cream sundae, with chocolate sauce, and mini-m&m’s. Then he ate a brownie. And I’m watching him consume all this junk and saying to myself, “he never gets treats like this, it’s only one day. How can I deny him when he’s not allergic, he hasn’t been bad, all his friends are doing it?”.
But I know better.
Then his teacher gave him a lovely end of the year gift… a beach pail filled with toys, and his name on it. So sweet of her. As I loaded the kids into the car I was busy looking at everything and reading her card to me {a tear-jerker for sure}. I missed the fact that a pack of Skittles was also in the pail. 3-year-old didn’t miss a beat and started pigging out on Skittles.
By the time we got home things were going downhill.
“I don’t wanna take a nap, I big boy”
Big boys take naps.
“Not Daddy, not big brother.”
Daddy’s at work, I can assure you if he were home, he would be napping.
“YOU MEAN MOMMY!”
{Oh Hell No! I’m nice Mommy. You’re Fidel Castro with a sugar high. Don’t get it twisted}
I’m sorry you feel that way.
Once we arrived home he seemed to chill out a bit. We watched some mindless children’s programming but he barely took a bite of the sandwich I made him.
As nap time approached I gave him lots of notice. All met with a very specific type of anger that is the true symbol of a sugar crash.
He’s in his bed right now pitching a fit reminiscent of Veruca Salt.
Note to self, stop at one bowl of ice cream and next time, make sure you have enough wine.