Amy's Mama Drama

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.

And then it struck me. We're never happy. We're crushed when they cry without us. We go through elaborate rituals and silly ceremonies to prevent the tearful parting. We employ the methodical, the logical and even the supertitious to achieve goodbye nirvana - the cheerful drop-off. And then, when it finally arrives and they wave distractedly, we're sad all over again because they're growing up.

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. "Sucks, huh?"

She nodded. "Any advice?"

I considered. "Wash the 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.

What We Do for Money

Sometimes it has to be all about the Benjamins when you're a working Mama, I'm afraid. And I've lately been the proud recipient of a very large contract that has eaten my world. And most of my time. Hence the lack of posts. But as I near the end of the first major hurdle from this new client, I'd thought I'd share how far my Mama morals have sunk in the pursuit of the mortgage payment.

- Earlier this week my new client (who is on the opposite coast) called me on my cell during the frantic morning School Drop Off routine. We were in the car and I did the unthinkable. I bribed my little angels to be quiet with candy scrounged from the bottom of my purse while I took the call. Candy! At 8:30 in the morning!! After they've brushed their teeth. Clink, clink. That's the sound of two quarters dropping into the Dentistry Fund.

- Last night I caught my second wind at about 11pm, fueled by Doritos and a Pepsi, and stayed up until 2am working on a big pitch I need to give next week. This morning, the blurry-eyed Mama that I was, I threw on the same clothes from the night before and dragged my darlings to school. Wasn't until I got back to my home office that I noticed the gigantic orange Dorito dust smear on my ass. Maybe I need to layoff the Nacho Cheese variety and switch to Cool Ranch. Less visible.

- And lastly, clink, clink. That's the sound of two quarters going into the Therapy Fund. I haven't told the girls about the business trip I'm taking next week. Why face the drama today when I can put it off until Sunday and leave the fireworks for The Daddy to deal with?

Mama Drama Definition #8: Family Vacation

Family Vacation

fam·i·ly va·ca·tion [/ˈfæməli, ˈfæmli/ Pronunciation Keyfam-uh-lee vey-key-shuhn]  noun

Before kids: A pre-planned, multi-day event without work or responsibility designed to take you away from your everyday life and give you relaxation and entertainment.

With kids: A form of torture where you’re forced to carry out all of the normal day-to-day responsibilities without the benefit of any of your normal tools, toys, or familial support, all of which was left home because it wouldn’t fit on the car/plane/train/boat.

In Honor of Valentine's Day

Have I mentioned that I almost ate my marriage proposal? It's true.

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day, of course, and that's what made me think of it. That and the fact that I'm hungry.

See, The Man proposed on Valentine's Day. It was slightly unconventional though, in that I was 8 months pregnant. It's a long story (and don't judge), but we'd been together forever and just never got around to getting married. Once we bought the house it felt like our relationship was sealed, so there was no urge to spend a bunch of money on a ceremony. We figured we'd get to it eventually. Then we found ourselves pregnant and I refused to get married without a waistline, so there we were.

But I had wanted a ring. It bothered me a bit to be pregnant without a ring. Moralistic code from my mother, twisted with my own consumerism, I think. So, on Valentine's Day, he decided to pop the question so we could go ring shopping.

It was quite unexpected. So much so, I had no idea what he was doing. I came home from work and sat next to him while we chatted about the day. He was clutching a big handful of SweetTart hearts. As we talked he started handing them to me, one at a time. I glanced at the first to see if they were really SweetTarts or that other, old fashioned kind, which I don't like as much. Discovering it was the yummy kind I popped it in my mouth. And kept popping every time he handed me one.

I guess he was so focused on getting the order right, he didn't notice I was just blindly eating them. Until he looked up and yelled, "Don't EAT that! My God, what are you doing?!" He caught me with my mouth wide open and hand poised in the air. I froze in confusion.

"They're candy and I'm eating them. What the hell?" I spat in response.

"You're supposed to be reading them," he wailed. "Let me see that one." He grabbed my hand and pried the candy out.

"I'm hungry, for Pete's Sake. It's 7:30 and I'm pregnant!" and indignant.

He looked at the candy and sighed, "You can have it now. But READ them first before you eat them. Geesh."

So I snatched back the heart and grudingly, still having no clue, looked down at it. Etched (with a paper clip I found out later) was the word, "will". The next one said, "you" and then "marry" and then "me" as you'd expect.

I, of course, said yes. The details after that are fuzzy, but I think I responded appropriately. Although I proceeded to eat the candy, which someone told me later was terrible. I guess I should have saved it. Hell, I was pregnant. I ate everything when I was pregnant.

So here it is, many years and two kids later. We're still not married, but we'll get around to it some day. We feel married. And I have a beautiful ring, and every time I look at it I think of him, patiently etching words onto the little SweetTarts.

Happy Valentine's, everyone.

Now, it's time for lunch...I'm hungry.

I'm Gonna Clock Him with the Pot

There are some rules in life that The Man and I agreed to when we got together. Not many, but they've worked for us:

• The children won't outnumber the parents
• No pets that poop more than we do
• One cooks, the other cleans up

Now, these have served us well thus far. But I've been experiencing some trouble with that last one. I'm actually the one who cooks. It's a well-known fact in our house that The Daddy doesn't cook. He can make toast and Top Ramen. He's pretty good with spaghetti and he can barbecue, but if he's the only one preparing those meals, be forewarned that that's all you're getting - there are no side dishes when The Man cooks. So needless to say, I do 99% of the food prep. Which should mean, given our rules, that he does 99% of kitchen clean up.

And yet, that's not really happening. At least, not when we have pasta.

He won't clean the pasta pot. Drives me friggn' crazy. It doesn't fit in the dishwasher, and God forbid he hand wash it, so there it sits, on the counter, waiting for me every time I make pasta. It's one of those big stock pots with the strainer insert. Very handy. Except for the washing part.

I tried going on strike once, and didn't touch it. It stayed on the counter for two weeks, both of us moving it aside when it got in the way. I vowed I'd hold firm this time, but it didn't work. It drove me crazy and I washed it.

What is the deal? What is so hard, I want to know, about cleaning the pasta pot? Is it he doesn't want to get his hands wet? The man who likes to work on his own car and has special soap so that he can get the grease off won't get his hands wet for a POT? How does that happen?

I asked him once why he doesn't wash it and he said he didn't know how. It gets "filmy" he said, and the sponge doesn't get the starchy-ring off of it. So I suggested he use an SOS pad, like I do. He frowned so ferociously I gave up.

It wasn't until much later that I realized he probably didn't know what an SOS pad was. I betcha he thought I was being a wise-ass and suggesting he wash the pot with maxi pad. Men.

So, here's a quiz for the reading public: How do I creatively get him to clean the pasta pot before I hit him over the head with it? Anyone got any ideas? 

I've Been Wondering...

I have some questions for the universe:

• What do the marker and paint people mean, exactly, by "washable"? Because I think we must be defining that differently.
• Did I do something wrong, karmic-wise, that is keeping diapers in my life?
• Will my daughters survive my menopause? Will I?
• Where do those missing socks really go?
• Why do spots on the carpet reappear the day after the carpet cleaners call to make sure all went well?
• Do my children actually eat the fruit I put in their lunch, or am I just adding organic material to the land-fill?
• What is so wrong with Brussels sprouts anyway?
• How is it that I keep missing one tissue in the laundry when I swear I go through all of the pockets?
• If I feed my girls hot dogs at least once a week, am I ruining them for life?
• Will I ever be able to go to the bathroom alone again?
• Does CALGON really take you away? And does it work in a 3-minute shower, 'cause that's all I've got time for.

Bye Bye Binky

The Age of the Binky is over.

It happened last Wednesday, quite by accident. Boo had hidden her last binky that morning, but by the time bedtime rolled around, she couldn't remember where she'd put it. I couldn't find the extra, so, no binky. There were a few tears, but oddly not as much as I was expecting. But I was beside myself. I would have gone to the store and bought another one, but The Man held me back.

"Would you just wait and see what happens? She seemed pretty okay with it," he reasoned. But I wrung my hands all night. I even woke up and listened in the middle of the night to see if she was crying out for it, but nothing.

I put binkys on my shopping list the next day, but never got to the store. I called The Man on his way home from work and suggested he stop and buy one, but he ignored me. "Let's just see how it goes, okay?" But that night at bedtime, she didn't even ask for it.

On Friday night she opened the drawer she normally keep it in and commented, "there's no binky, Mama." I steeled myself, took a deep breath and just nodded, my heart breaking, "you lost it, Boo. Remember?" She nodded thoughtfully. And then...nothing. She got into bed.

She's not said another word about it.

It took me another few days before I stopped worrying about it and feeling guilty. I still get the occasional pang.

Which just goes to show who really has the hardest time with change. It's me, The Mama.

Threats of Toast

First it was dance class, "I've decided I'm going to quit dance class. I don't want to do it anymore." Peanut announced.

"Oh?" I asked, one eyebrow arched. "But you've just started dance class, and we just bought you all the dance clothes and the ballerina bag."

"I just don't feel like it anymore," she replied blithely.

I frowned. "Peanut, I was very clear when we went to the dance store that if we bought all that stuff, you'd need to stay in dance for at least a few months."

And she had a tantrum. But she went to her next dance class and then decided she'd stay after all.

Two weeks later it was her after-school program, "I'm going to quit Learning Lions," she declared. "I'll just come home with you after Kindergarten."

"And what will you do when I have to go to a meeting?" I asked.

"I'll go with you. I can draw quietly," she explained patiently; the child with all the answers.

"Uh, no," I explained. "That's not going to work. Mama isn't allowed to take kids to meetings. Besides, i think you'll have more fun playing with your friends."

And we had another tantrum. But she's still going to Learning Lions.

But on it went, for days and days. There was always something she was going to quit. I was quite at wit's end. Nothing I said seemed to make any impact, and we always ended in a tantrum. And then The Daddy got involved.

"Peanut?" The Daddy calls. "Where did you go? I thought you were setting the table?"

"Oh, I decided to quit, Daddy. I don't feel like setting the table anymore," Peanut said with a heavy sigh.

"So you just quit?" he asked. "Peanut, you can't just quit something when you don't feel like doing it. Look at Mama. What would happen if she decided she wanted to quit making dinner every night? What if she stopped right now, said 'I quit' and never cooked again? Why, we'd starve! We'd never get any food to eat," he declared.

Peanut looked at him, then at me, contemplating starvation.

I turned to look at him, "Oh. My. God. That is so true." He threw me a quick frown for interrupting, then turned back to me, sheepishly, "Well," he stammered, "I'd, uh, probably cook. You know, uh, toast or something." Then he frowned again, "But hush, that's not the point. Don't get us off track."

"If Mama can cook every night," he continued, "you can set the table. And go to dance class and Learning Lions and everything else you commit to doing."

There was a pause, and then she went to the silverware drawer and resumed the table setting. "Okay," she said, "but only because I don't want toast."

And never again have we heard a word about quitting.

Why I Don't Teach Kindergarten

"No science today!" The Kindergarten teacher told me, as I came in for my weekly volunteer hour. "Today we have "sessions" and your project will be the January calendar. You'll have seven children. Sound okay?"

I was, at first, elated, as I'd always found it a little ironic that I was assigned the weekly science experiment. While I was pretty decent in science, I think of myself as more the artsy or the creative writing type. The cute calendar with the cutout hat and mittens definitely seemed more my speed.

But once again the Kindergarteners kicked by butt, as they do every week. Science, apparently, isn't really the problem.

It started as my seven rushed to my table, full of questions. "Babies put things in their mouths to learn!" Roma announces. I smile, "that's right, honey. Now, are you ready to start your calendar? First we need to write in the numbers."

"I don't like baby poop. It's stinky!" David exclaims, thereby launching what turns out to be a very engrossing conversation about poop.

I had to tap the glue stick on the table quite a few times to pull their attention away from their animated stories of feces and onto the calendar example I kept waving around. I felt quite accomplished when they actually stopped and began to fill in the numbers.

"Oops, wait a second Joellene, let's look at the example again. Notice where the "1" starts? Who can tell me what day of the week the "1" is on?" They look at me blankly. I look back at them and get nothing. "Tuesday. See? The "1" needs to start on Tuesday." Still blank. I sigh. "Put the "1" in the 3rd block. Ready? Count the top squares, 1, 2, 3! There! That's Tuesday, put the one there." Ah, now they get it.

And we had a moment of cuteness as they all had their heads down, faces screwed up in concentration, writing their numbers. But then calamity strikes...

"Oh No! I wrote my "5" backwards. NO! It's  wrong. I HATE IT WHEN IT'S WRONG!" James was going ballistic.

"It's okay, honey, just erase it. See? Here's an eraser, just rub it off and you can rewrite it!" I soothed. James was angry though, so his erasing was a tad ferocious.

"Oh NO. Now it's smearing! Look Mrs. Amy, it's all smeared!"

But as I look over his shoulder, so does Roma, who exclaimed,"it looks like a big poop spot."

"Where? I want to see the poop spot!" My own Peanut chimes in.

"The eraser pooped on James' paper!" screamed David.

And from then on, chaos rained. We were back to poop and we never really got out.

Only one child got to a finished calendar with cut out mittens and a jaunty snow hat. The rest went home with calendars in various stages of completion and stories of eraser poop.

I can hear it now...

"What did you do at school today honey?"

"Well, Mrs. Amy volunteered again and did you know that erasers can poop on calendars?"