Amy's Mama Drama

Of Turtle Pools and Caramels and Teeth Grinding

I was reclined in the chair, studying the scowl on my dentist's face. "Boy you are really grinding your teeth. Do we need to get you a night guard?" he asked.

"I'm pretty sure I'm grinding them 24/7," I replied. In fact, I'm reminding myself right now to relax my jaw.

He shook his head. And with all the wisdom and insight that a successful, 40-something, religiously single, male dentist can muster, he said, "That's what kids will do to you, I guess. Grind you down into nothing."

I looked at his largely unlined face, freshly tanned from a fishing trip to some exotic location with his dentist buddies and I sighed. How could I make him understand?

"No, you don't get it. Sure, I've nearly pulled my hair out getting three sets of valentines AND a whole big batch of birthday invitations ready this week. And yes, I have Tinker Bell stickers permanently affixed to my antique library table. And I often fall on my bed at the end of the day exhausted from juggling my own business, cooking for the family, and being a wife and a mother. But when I look at the big-ass brown patch on my otherwise beautiful lawn, I smile at the memories of the kids playing all summer and most of the fall in that stupid turtle pool my in-laws bought. I remember their outrageous laughter and silliness, and the world feels lighter. I know grinding is bad, but hell! The economy sucks, everyone's grumpy, and I can't seem to beat my potato chip addiction. Can you imagine how bad off I would be if I couldn't look at a brown patch on the lawn and laugh? The kids make it BETTER. Not worse!"

As I caught my fevered breath I gazed into his eyes, looking for that moment of enlightenment. Instead I got, "Potato chips, huh? Well, I guess it could be worse. Caramels are terrible for your dentin."

Ah, well. I gave it a shot. The turtle pool imagery doesn't work for everyone.

Ze Fronk will be the death of me

I am in my home office. It is Friday afternoon. I have killer deadlines, and a major party to host tomorrow. My shoulders are sore from stress, I've had a headache since I woke up, and I'm almost to the breaking point.

But it's not the work or the party that's killing me. I bumped the mouse on my daughters' computer about 10 minutes go and now Ze Fronk, the animated french dog on Disney, is talking to me. 

"Click heah to wahtch ME make mahi tazty treats!!"

"Click heah to wahtch ME make mahi tazty treats!!"

"Click heah to wahtch ME make mahi tazty treats!!"

ARRRRRRRG.

Okay. Getting off my ass and powering the damn thing down.

OCD Mama

At a restaurant a few weeks ago...

Me:  Peanut, you want me to cut that hamburger in half for you? It'll be easier to eat that way.

Peanut (gazing off): Uh, no Mama, I'm good.

time passes...

Me: Honey, why don't you start eating. Would it be easier if I cut that hamburger in half for you?

Peanut (focusing on the burger for a sec): Nope, I'm fine. Thanks.

more time passes...

Me: If I cut that in half it'll be easier to eat.

Peanut, restructuring her disassembled burger: Okay, Mom, that'd be great.

Me: Really?! Okay! (I cut)

Peanut, looking me right in the eye: You feel better now, Mom?

Me: Huh? Oh...Yeah, I guess I do. Thanks for that.

Reminiscing About Boob

Boo's reminiscing, very loudly, at a restaurant with family last weekend:

"Mama? Remember when I was a baby? When I was a baby I used to eat from your boob. Your boobs had milk in it, and I used to eat it. It tasted like milk. When I was a baby."

Breastfeeding. Even when it's over, it's not forgotten. And when it is forgotten, they remind you. And everyone else in hearing distance.

Warning Label

All 4-year old second children should come with this warning label:

WARNING: I am a 4-year old second child. I am prone to enormous tantrums, followed by incredibly sweet moments. I love to sing, except when you want me to. I love the feel of toothpaste, peanut butter and mud between my fingers, and sometimes between my toes. I refuse to be logical, except when it suits me. And I firmly believe that Christmas is just next week and therefore I must keep my gift list current at all times. Time outs don't phase me and cleaning up is boring. Don't touch my hair, pick out my clothes or tell me my shoes are on the wrong feet - see tantrum warning above.

Bloody Mary Mornings

In my work email today I found an exchange between two folks I'm working with discussing a problem with an ad I'd directed. One had a problem with it and the other was making suggestions. They're both on the east coast, and I'm in the west, so the one trying to fix the problem wrote, "I'm sure Amy is getting kiddies up and dressed right now and will weigh in a little later," not wanting to set changes in stone without my input.

Actually, I was washing toothpaste from a frustrated 4-year old's hair. And from the floor, toilet, the wall, and two door handles.

After the toothpaste removal procedure, I ran to the kitchen to finish lunch boxes. I dropped the last yogurt in just such a way to break it open and dump all the contents on the floor.

In the car I realized we forgot family pictures for a pre-K project that were due on Tuesday.

Then I stepped in a massive puddle getting out of the car to sign my very late Peanut into school.

Now I'm back in my Home Office, and facing the ad problem. And while part of me wants to yell, "Who the hell cares about which shade of green we use?!" The other part of me feels like this is small potatoes compared to the conversation I'll undoubtedly face this afternoon with my 7 year-old when she discovers I frantically threw dried prunes in her lunch instead of the yogurt.

The answer to the ad problem was "avocado". The rest of it? I'm not sure...vodka?

Take THAT, you snobby seamstress!

QotU at Little Lagniappe inspired me with her post from June. I can't begin to top it, but I can't help but comment on the theme - fun with people in the grocery store line.

I had my girls with me again. Not my favorite way to visit the grocery store, but sometimes it can't be helped. They were actually calm that day, in their sun dresses, goofing relatively quietly with each other as we waited in an endless line.

And then a voice said, "Oh my! What cute daughters you have."

I turned and smiled at the older woman.

"Did you make those dresses? They're lovely."

"Oh, no," I replied, "I believe those were gifts from Grandma."

"Oh," she sniffed. "I made all my children's clothes, you know."

My eyebrows were raised at that point, but just in case I'd misread the tone, I replied politely, "That's impressive. How did you find the time?"

"It's not that hard really. I could whip out a dress while they were at school. And some after they went to bed. I don't know what mothers do with their time now."

"Well, when my girls are at school, I make the mortgage," I replied dryly.

I got a happy wink from the woman in front of me, and that warm fuzzy feeling you get when you actually have a sharp answer exactly when you need it.

4-Wheeling on the Road of Parenthood

She is frowning at me. It is an intense, energy-radiating frown. A precursor to the explosion. The daily spelling explosion. I try to find my inner calm. I am the grown-up, I tell myself. I will do this differently today.

"I HATE THIS! I'm not going to do it." Peanut yells.

I am a calm rock in a turbulent sea.

"I'm NOT going to write my spelling words. You're MEAN. You CAN'T make it into a fun game. I DON'T WANT TO IHATEITIHATEIT. I HATE YOU!" The homework papers fly into the air and she stomps off.

I am not speaking. Look how good I am. Good mama. No angry words. No threats. No frowning. No stress. Just calm understanding. I remind myself it is not about me. Today I'll try it another way. I hum Amazing Grace in my head.

The stomping gets louder and she returns. She grabs the papers from the floor. There is a new frown. With a tinge of chagrin. I hold my breath.

"It takes too long!" she wails. I nod understandingly.

"And it makes me feel stupid," she mumbles.

"But you're not stupid," I finally speak. Then, with tremendous effort, I shut up.

"But I'm not very good at spelling. The words are hard. I get them all WRONG." And I see her fear this time because my eyes aren't closed in frustration. And I try a new course.

"Me too. But smart people know when they need to practice. I always had to practice my spelling. Math - not so much," I try.

And am rewarded by a hopeful voice, "you had to practice spelling too? Do you practice now?"

"Yep. You heard me ask Dad how to spell something just yesterday. But I get better all the time."

"Okay," she sits again. I dare to hope.

"But can I only write them two times each? Not 5?" Ah, the negotiator is back. Relief floods me.

"How about 4 times? Then it'll be twice as easy tomorrow."

She smiles because she gets the math. And she nods, and I sigh. 

Practice is good for lots of things.

And then Daddy, previously hiding in the other room, makes a grand entrance.

We look up, and he executes a huge fart.

Riotous giggling ensues.

Not exactly what the parenting books suggest, but we're an innovative people.

Mama Milestone # 18

They're growing up, I've realized. Peanut is 7 and Boo is 4, and the really little kid years are gone. No diapers, lots of uninterrupted sleeping, the occasional logical conversation...it's been nice. Occasionally melancholy, as I realize my babies are growing up, but it's good. And fun. These ages really are fun.

So I actually believed we were in the easy zone. The frantic baby/toddler years and all the exhaustion and anxiety behind us. Smooth sailing until the teen years. WaaHooo!

Silly Mama.

We're headed up the stairs for bedtime last Tuesday when Peanut turns to me, "Wait Mama, I can't go to bed yet! My "100 things" is due tomorrow!"

Already?! Already we're going to jump into the homework procrastination dance?! Is there no REST? Not one little phase of peace and order? Must it always be something??????

In a word?

Yes.

But I'm Wearing My Lucky Socks!

I had a bittersweet Mama moment today.

I dropped my Boo off at preschool this morning. She sat down at the puzzle table and I went to hang up her jacket. By the time I turned around, she was laughing with her little girlfriend and having a great old time.

Then I went over for my kiss goodbye.  She absently turned her head to kiss me, keeping her eye on the puzzle. I said, "See ya later alligator,"  and she just gave me a, "bye Mama" without looking up, totally engrossed in what she was doing, having fun.

And I was sad. Teary-sad. She was such a big girl now, sitting there with her friends. All of 4-years old, and independent enough to not make a fuss when I leave.

I walked out a little melancholy - happy that my leaving didn't make her sad, but also mourning the loss of my little baby.

And then I heard the wail and reality and practicality came sharply back into focus.

It wasn't my Boo screaming, it was a 4-year old from anther room. I knew this because his mother was standing there, backing away from the closed door, white faced and teary. "But I wore my lucky socks!" she emplored, turning to me. "I did the goodbye dance and snorted. That ALWAYS works."

I nodded, suddenly remembering. We used to do a secret handshake, and on the bad days my secret weapon was a silly butt wiggle.

"I haven't washed these socks in a month! It should have been okay," she groaned.

The crying stopped and she peeked in the window.

"He's laughing now," she smiled, watching him for a bit. "He's forgotten all about me," and then she gave me a sad face.

"Yep," I nodded. "I know. Me, too."

She nodded. "I guess I'll get used to it eventually."

I smile, "In the meantime, you might wanna wash those socks."

Thank You NORAD!

It is the night before Christmas, and all through her mind, are doubts about Santa, putting the Parents in a  bind.

Peanut is 6 1/2 after all, but Mama isn't yet ready to let go.

But Daddy is a Geek! And therefore well acquainted with NORAD Tracks Santa (www.noradsanta.org). And thank goodness for that. Because, there it is, on the Internet (isn't everything true on the Internet?), Santa's path across the world. Difficult questions are sidestepped, technical questions are avoided, and we can proceed through what will probably be her last year of Santa.

Now only if NORAD could sing them to sleep...

And wrap presents...

And make banana bread for Christmas morning...

And remind me where I stashed that gift for Grandpa...

Quality Spinning Time

"What happened at school today, Peanut?" I try to engage her as she breezes through the kitchen one night as I'm making dinner.

"Nothing," she answers, not missing a step on her way to the other room to draw.

A few minutes later she comes back in to root through the junk drawer for her kid scissors. "Want to put the spaghetti into the pot?" I ask, trying to have quality time and get dinner on the table.

"No thanks," is all I get.

It's a challenge to get stuff done around the house and have "quality time". I happily abandon plenty of chores so that we have time to play together, but there are certain things, like food and laundry that just can't be ignored.

I've read that it helps to involve them in the chores. Huh. How the heck does that work? Some are good at it, apparently; but me, not so much. Especially with Peanut, I just couldn't find a way to get her involved in laundry or cooking. Getting her to talk about her day alone is nearly impossible. And during the weekday, there just isn't enough time before bed to pry school-day tidbits out of her AND make dinner.

But recently we had a breakthrough. I dumped fresh lettuce into the sink to wash it, and pulled out the salad spinner. Peanut breezed through the kitchen and caught sight of it.

"What's that, Mama?" she asked.

"It's a salad spinner," I replied. Since she still stood there, staring at it, I decided to see if I could hook her in. "Do you want to try it?"

She grabbed the step stool as I loaded wet lettuce into it. I demonstrated. She tried it. The spinner was a hit!

She spun that lettuce for all it was worth. And chatted away! I learned that the boys wanted to play the kissing game at recess and that she thought chasing them was fun, but kissing was gross so she tried not to catch them. I was told that Jonathan still hasn't learned to cover his mouth when he coughs and Kaitlyn got cool new black boots. It was quite revealing. And I thought a salad spinner was a dumb use of non-biodegradable plastic!

And now, we have the driest lettuce on the planet. Gobs of it. And dry little Barbies, marbles, and a sock. I know that kissing and boy-cooties are still icky, boots would make a good Christmas present and my continual harping on covering your mouth when you cough has taken effect.

Unfortunately those little insights produced enough salad for a month. We're eating it as fast as we can, but I still bought two more heads of butter lettuce today. I want to make sure I stay on top of that kissing game. 

The Powder Family

"Is that the baby powder, Mama?" my Boo asks me, pointing to the little travel powder container on the bathroom shelf.

"Yes, Boo. That's baby powder," I reply.

She nods and looks at the big powder container, "then that's the daddy powder!"

Cantaloupe Issues

My girlfriend sits next to me glumly. We are at her step-daughter's wedding, waiting our turn at the reception buffet line. She'd been so cheery up to that point.

I give her a questioning look and she sighs, "You worry so much that you're doing the right thing when they're growing up," she explains. "You catalog every little thing you did wrong and wonder how much you scarred them. Then they're grown and happy, functioning as productive members of society and you think, 'Whew. I did okay.' Then they freak out over cantaloupe and you realize that you didn't even have fruit on the radar screen of therapy fodder!"

I nod sagely. Oddly enough, I understand what she's talking about, even if I'm not exactly clear on the cantaloupe reference.

It turns out that my friend was building a plate for the bride so she wouldn't spill on her wedding dress. But when they got to the fruit plate, the dark side of her parenting was revealed to her - she gave the kids a complex over melon.

She doesn't even remember being hard-core about fruit. But apparently the kids both agree that she and their father were a little over-zealous with the cantaloupe and neither one can stand the sight of it now.

She looks at me glumly, and I decide a little tough love is in order.

"You are just gloating. Fruit issues? Hell. My younger girl is obsessed with having a penis and the older one still  zones out on us -  focusing on her fingers having conversations with each other. I would pay big money to know that their worst parenting story will be about my dedication to healthy produce!  Not a day goes by that I don't buy an expensive avocado and think that the money would probably be better spent going into the therapy fund."

She looks at me. "Boo wants a penis?"

"It isn't clear that she wants one, exactly. She just likes to pretend that she has one. Because it shocks people, I think.  You don't expect that word to come out of her mouth, so people ask her to repeat herself and then she yells, clear as a bell, "I have a penis!" with her jacket between her legs, and they're startled. Naturally."

My friend nods and thinks about it for awhile. "Thanks," she says, "you're right. The penis thing is a lot worse than cantaloupe. That really helped."

Uh, yeah. No problem. So glad I could be of service.

Look Out - Mama's Improvising

Did you see me driving the kids to school today? I was the one with the naked Rapunzel Barbie standing up through my sun roof. People seemed to notice, so I thought I'd ask. You don't see many Barbies getting their hair dried that way. I'm not really a big fan of sticking things out of the car while driving, but it was me, not the girls, who was holding on to Barbie's arched feet - making sure she was face into the wind so she could see where we were going (Boo's idea on the facing forward part).

It was a "whatever works" morning. And this morning, for my unhappy Boo, running to get Rapunzel out of the bathroom (where she was drying from last night's bath/swim) for the car ride to school seemed a small price to pay for a calm ride. And when Rapunzel's wet hair and dripping body only produced more tears, Mama improvised.

I had to improvise last week too, while running errands with the girls. I did a "I'm Not mad" dance in the middle of the strip mall parking lot. I'm sure the folks and the nearby coffee shop got a kick. Too bad they didn't hear my song (because the "I'm Not Mad" dance does come with an accompanying song). It was a tad bit embarrassing if I thought about it too much, but it was better than the Mama Will Wear Stickers on Her Forehead for the Sake of Peaceful Grocery Shopping day. 

My favorite thing though, is to make The Daddy improvise. You know how you say, "Oh, Daddy will do that," right in front of the kids and then Daddy feels committed? That can get pretty fun. So far, Daddy has been volunteered to improvise the "No Monsters in the Closet" bedtime jig, the "No Rain Today" ceremony, and the "Ants!Out of My Pants" wiggle walk.

Anyway. I was just wondering if you saw me. Thought I'd let you know that it was just a Mama trying to improvise the day better. I don't normally drive with naked Barbies sticking out of the car. I wanted you to know that.