Amy's Mama Drama

The Toothpaste Years

I need a reality check. Anybody out there with kids ages 3-8 feel my pain?

I'm talking about toothpaste pain.

No, it doesn't hurt my teeth, or my children's teeth. It's my walls. And my floors, and my bathroom counter, bedspread, carpet, hardwood floors, hairspray container and, of all things, the toilet.

Is it just me? Or do others with children of this age find themselves redecorated with fluoride-infused, bright blue sticky highlights?

Just last night, as I was lying in bed, contemplating all the things I did not get done that day, The Man asked, "What's this on the carpet?"

"It's toothpaste," I answer, not even looking.

"No, it can't be. It's all the way over here by the window, no where near the bathroom."

"It's toothpaste," I repeat. 

He ignores me, "Is it a smashed bug or a banana or something? Hmm, can't be it's a funny color. Have the kids been playing with Playdough again?"

"It's toothpaste! It's everywhere I don't want it to be," and I start to giggle. Because of the Visa  commercial. I crack myself up and laugh harder. Maybe I'm even a little hysterical. "I can't even leave home without it," and now I'm an out of control hyena, because I worked in American Express and I find this toothpaste-credit card tie in hilarious.

The Man finally stops and looks at me. "Are you okay? Because that's not really that funny. We have goop on the carpet. Really smeared in there. What is this crap?"

"It's TOOTHPASTE!" I hoot. "It's EVERYWHERE. It follows me. It flies from our children like fleas from an infested dog. I got it on my butt last week, after sitting on the toilet without looking first. It's on my best sandals, and I still can't get it out of the wood grain on the bathroom door! My God, haven't you seen it?! We're in the toothpaste phase of child rearing! We're surrounded. We've fallen into the toothpaste years and we can't get out," That does it. I found another cliche and I cackle myself into stomach cramps. 

The Man is squatting at the goop, poking at it with his finger. "Oh my God. It is toothpaste," he looks at me, crestfallen. "That's why the tile grout is looking vaguely blue. That must have what got on my keys a couple of days ago," he says, almost to himself. The pieces fall into place for him. "When does this end? How do we make them stop?"

I finally sober up a little bit, "I don't know, honey. I've yelled, I've threatened. I've monitored them like a prison warden. I've made them wash it out of everyplace I find it. And still I find toothpaste on the door handles. I think we just need to ride it out."

Please, someone, tell me. How long do the Toothpaste Years last? Is it more like Toothpaste Months, hopefully? Is there an END?! 

And if not, any good recipes for getting toothpaste out of the carpet?

Harry Potter: 1, Mom: 0

I spy the first Harry Potter book, with the bookmark deeper into the pages than it was a few days earlier.

Me: Looks like you've really gotten into Harry Potter, Peanut!

Peanut: Yep. I like it. It's really fun. 

Me: Wow. That's great! So, you really like the book and you're not just saying that to make me happy?

Peanut (looking at me, bewildered): I would never say something just to make you happy, Mom. Geesh.

It Has to Be the Armpit, Really?!

So, does anyone else have a child that likes to sniff armpits? Or who likes to sniff people in general? Anyone? Please?

5th Year Shot Parade

The Boo is five, so off we go to the Doctor's for the 5th-year check up and shot parade.

She was not a trouper. She hated it. I did too. 4 shots - two in each arm. It was traumatic for both of us.

Then the nurse told me that it was over. The only thing to watch out for was fever.

And sure enough, not four hours later, I was running a fever.

Alone Time Returns

For all you Mamas of toddlers and wee ones, I thought I'd put your mind at ease...you WILL be able to go to the bathroom alone again one day.

Just last night, for instance, I got to pee all by myself! No one even noticed I was gone. Of course, the downside was the recorded TV show ended just as I went in there, so the minute I sat down I heard, "Moooooom. MOM," from the 5-year old who doesn't know how to work the remote yet.

Boo: MOOOOM! MOM.

Me: Yeeeees?

Boo: Mom? MOOOOOMMMMMMMYYYY.

Me: [shouting from behind the closed door] What is it, Boo?

Boo: Where are you moooooooommmmmmm?

Me: [still shouting] I'm in the baaaaaaaaaathroooooooooooom. Can you wait a minute?

Boo: Can you come here right noooooowwwww?

Me: I'm PEEING! I'll be just a second.

That's when I notice the bathroom window was wide open.

Ah well. I said you'd get to go to the bathroom alone. I didn't say you'd get any privacy.

The Neil Diamond Revenge

So, The Man won't go to the store for me. He refuses to leave his computer game.

I am feeling pissy about that.

So I changed the password on my computer, launched "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" from the Neil Diamond Greatest Hits album, checked that the speakers were just loud enough, locked the keyboard and left.

His computer sits right next to mine.

I'm laughing my shallow, petty ass off all the way to the store.

Mama Milestone #37: First Family Camping Trip

Our first family camping trip. Only the second camping excursion of my 44 years, and the first as an adult. What did I bring to the party? Unmitigated enthusiasm, ridiculously romantic notions, and a staggering lack of preparedness.

Peanut, 8 years old, brought a book and an amazing ability to projectile barf that I thought she'd lost at around 8 months old.

Boo, at 5, brought Barbies, a prophetic concern for wild animals, and about 4,000 questions.

The Man? Well, he brought us, which says a lot for his ability to look disaster in the face and shrug. 

The adventure really began, after weeks of preparing and a 2-hour drive, about 20 feet from the ranger station at the state park. That's when Peanut couldn't take the winding roads any more and erupted like Mt. St. Helens, throwing up all over the backseat, her pillow and my sleeping bag. Did I mention we were literally feet from parking at the ranger station?

We cleaned up, waited for the nausea to pass, and registered at the station.

Darkness was upon us once we reached our site. Literally. We'd hoped to avoid setting up after nightfall, but there we were. Yet the Man managed to pitch the tent, get everything necessary into it, and then ask the fateful question: Where are the matches to start the fire?

Hmmm. Guess I thought that was a Man thing. Didn't even have it on my list. How about a Pop Tart? I had plenty of those.

Luckily, he found a lighter in his emergency car bag (along with flares, jumper cables, etc.) and we bought wood from the camp host. The Man set about trying to make fire.

Meanwhile, the questions...

Boo: Why is there dirt? What does it do? Are there worms? Why did you put the tent there, Daddy? Can the bears get us? What are you doing Mama? Can I have a Pop Tart? Do bears like Pop Tarts?  Where is the fire? Can we have s'mores? Is that a bee [it was a moth]? Will the bee eat our Pop Tarts? I hope bees don't like tents. Do bees like tents? Are there wild hoars here? Miss Tiffany [the babysitter] said there'd be wild hoars.

"Boars, Boo. Like big pigs. No, honey. There are no wild boars here."

Back to the fire. Or rather, no fire. The wood had been rained on for weeks, and we had no tinder or fire starter. The man looked at me. I looked at him.

"Plan B!" I announced cheerily! "Weenies and beans over the propane stove."

And it all went according to plan (B), until the actual eating part. No utensils. Hmmm. Definitely not a Man thing. Should have been on my list. But just never was. Ah well.

"Plan C!" I announce cheerily! "We'll use the measuring spoon I brought for my coffee." The only catch being we had to take turns. So while one of us ate, the other three hovered there, in the lantern light, watching each bite. Which was a slow process, of course, because the measuring spoon was only about 1/32nd of an inch wider than the sliced hot dogs, and you had to tap the measuring spoon over your mouth to get the hot dog to come out. It took the kids awhile to get the hang of it.

And meanwhile, more questions...

Boo: I think I see a wild hoar! Do hoars like hot dogs? Do we have buns? Are we going to have a fire? I'm cold. Do hoars get cold? That hoar doesn't look cold. Are we going to have s'mores? I LOVE s'mores. Do you like s'mores? Can we start a fire now?

Keep in mind, I'm not really accurately portraying the stream of questions. I'm making it sound like the occasional burst, but it was more like a steady flow, blending into the background noise like the roar of the nearby river, and largely ignored. So the whole "wild hoar" thing didn't register until she shrieked and pointed:

"The hoar wants my weenie!"

It was a raccoon, we discovered once we shined the lantern on him, and he probably would have been happy with a Pop Tart. He was the size and demeanor of a badly trained pit bull. Boo's shriek didn't phase him, or Peanut's "Shoo!". He showed some confusion when three of us shot up on top of the picnic table like we were on pogo sticks. But the Man's baritone shouting and waving of firewood (it was finally good for something) seemed to dissuade the beast and he ran off.

Once it was clear he was gone, I climbed down off the table and considered the ramifications of Boo's shriek on our neighboring campers. I loudly proclaimed something about raccoons after hot dogs, just so everyone was clear, and then went about the obvious next step of packing up all the food back into the car and getting ready for bed.

So ends the first night of our first camping trip.

I did redeem myself the next morning by shaving some of the firewood into sawdust so we'd have enough tinder to actually make a fire. I was motivated by coffee, you see. The propane being depleted on the weenies and beans. It worked and we had a lovely breakfast of bacon and pancakes - which could all be eaten without silverware.

The rest of the weekend was really non-eventful - hiking, cooking on an open fire, eating with our fingers, exploring, sleeping outside, etc.

I loved it! And I can't wait to go again. But I do wonder if we'll ever have a camping trip that will rival that first night. And really, would I want to?

The Darker Side of Kid Birthdays

It is dark and quiet on my suburban street. There is no moon, but the streetlights cast an eerie shadow on the asphalt. I am silent and stealthy as I steal down the block to my neighbors' recycling bins. I look left...then right. No one. I open a bin and quickly deposit my overly stuffed bag of debris.

Wait! There is barking! Like a ninja, I crouch in the shadow of the green bin, melding with the big squareness.

The yapper stops, and it is quiet again. I quickly slink to the next neighbor's bin. 1 bag down, 2 to go. I bless my big black fluffy slippers that muffle my footsteps. I wish my robe was not pink. I open the bin...

Oh no! Disaster! They had a birthday,too, and their bin is overflowing with the unmistakable detritus of wrapping, packaging, and more packaging. I must make my way even farther down the street to complete my mission!

I debate going back and waiting another week, but I know that the next neighbor is a retired couple with no young children. I calculate the odds that their recycle bin has room, and decide to go forward. What luck! Nothing but the TP tubes and used (but clean) tin foil. There is plenty of room for my remaining 2 bags.

But in my zeal, I accidentally let go of one bag handle too soon, and a Barbie box goes flying beyond the bin! The bits of cardboard box, plastic ties, and little packaging bits rain down between the garbage can and the recycle bin. Silently swearing I move in front of the cans and bend down to gather up the clutter.

Another neighbor, a teenager, is driving home late and sneaks up on me, slowing down as he spies my gigantic pink rump poking out between the dark plastic wheeled cans. [And can I just take this moment to give a big "WTF?" to the electric car makers who don't have any sound in their automobiles?]

I pop up as I finally hear him, once again flinging barbie box bits hither and yon. I turn and smile. He smiles at me vaguely, no doubt confused by my presence at this particular house. I lean nonchalantly against the garbage bin. It moves and I stagger drunkenly. His expression changes to one of dawning comprehension. What he thinks he comprehends, I'm afraid to know. I can't imagine for a second he could guess the recycling nightmare that drives my late night escapade.

I angrily bend down again and pick up the fallen bits once more after the boy passes. I stuff it all into the bin, and stomp down the street back to my house. No longer caring if I wake up my neighbors. By mid-day tomorrow the teenager's chatty mother will have informed them all of my tipsy dumpster diving anyway, so why waste my energy on stealth.

I sigh. I know a few of the neighbors, those with children, will suspect the true nature of my midnight travels. They, too, have hosted birthday parties that resulted in mountains of gift debris too high for even the most gigantic of recycling bin. They might frown at my laziness - opting to sneakily distribute the fallout into my neighbor's cans, rather than buy the "Extra Recycle" stickers. But they'll at least understand what drives me - not vodka, but Mattel, Lego, Fisher-Price, Crayola, and whoever makes Polly Pockets, and all the others who's attempt to sell toys results in a packaging backlash of staggering proportions.

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.