Amy's Mama Drama

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?"

The Sun and the Moon

We received an "incident report" from Boo's preschool last night. It read, "While dancing with another girl to a lively Barney song, the girls accidentally bumped heads and she got a red spot on her forehead."

The last incident report we got from that school when her sister attended read, "Misunderstanding what 'Playing Kung Fu' meant, she became angry at the boy for kicking her, so she picked up a long handled sand shovel and hit him across the shoulders."

What, do you think, high school will be like?

Binky Guess Winners & the 4th Dimension

Someday I might find that 4th dimension where Tupperware, single socks and my sunglasses go. In it will also be a pile of binkies.

Yes, it's true. The cleaning ladies found no hidden binkies. Or if they did, they quietly left them where they lie.

And where they do actually lie and how many still exist are mysteries to all of us. The Daddy has confessed to cleaning out some that looked kinda scary, but he reports that there were still a bunch in the drawer before the raid. How many there were and how many still remain tucked away, we may never know. Except for the one by the tree, the one behind the yellow chair, and a new one recently located in a kitchen cupboard tucked between cans of Dr. Pepper, we're at a complete loss as to where she hid them.

As a result, the 5 posters who submitted binky guesses are all deemed winners (since no one guessed zero, and not having a winner is no fun, all guessers win)! Send me your mailing addresses and I'll send you an Amy's Mama Drama mug. UncommonBlonde, Common Mom, ThatMama, Patty & Kimberly.

And thanks for playing the "How Many Binkies did My Daughter Hide" game. Next week tune in for, "What is That in Your Hair?"

It's No Pink Picnic

Since it's the Christmas season, I'd like to give all you Mamas of little boys (and no girls) a present. Especially those that are done with bearing children, but look wistfully at little girls and wonder, "Should we try one more time for a girl?".

My gift to you is to dispel some of the myths of having girls. It ain't no pink picnic, ladies!

Misconception #1: It's So Fun To Dress Them Up in all those Cute Little Girl Outfits
Well, the first one was fun. Until age 2. And then she suddenly sprouted opinions. Lots of them. First it was no dresses; then it was no turtlenecks; then it was nothing with sleeves that tickled her wrists (you just try to shop for that). And we went through one winter where she had to where socks on her hands all the time. Then the colors started to matter - and all the colors that I'd been buying that looked so beautiful on her were no longer acceptable. And since she was three, she's demanded to chose her own outfits. Not at the store - oh no, that would be too easy. I have to do all the guesswork at the store and then bring everything home and see if I guessed correctly. And did I get the memo that said that pants were out and only dresses were in? Of course not. I simply had all the pants I bought one season rejected with one regal arm wave and haughty sniff. And when I do get it right, you must remember that "matching" is a learned skill. How the heck they learn it when they refuse to listen to their mothers I have no idea.

The second girl-child stopped being fun to dress around 11 months. Everything tickled, itched or was just a big, "No!"  As the language skills developed I learned that pretty much everything was "too tight, Mama," except for her big sister's clothes - her sisters favorite clothes; the ones sister didn't want to share. And colors? This one loved black. Do you have any idea how many outfits they make in 18 month size in black? About 2, and only at Christmas time. In summer, you're SOL.

So basically, for the last almost 4 years, I've been toting around girls who wear stripes and plaid together, all black, or ballerina tutus over their favorite sweats. They either look like Technicolor barf or a beatnik poet. And yes, I could put my foot down and insist they wear what I chose, but I'd be deaf from the screaming. That and I really do believe that as long as they're decent (no bathing suits in public or tutus with no underwear) their clothes are their self-expression and should be theirs to choose. But "fun" is not how I'd describe it.

Misconception #2: I Could Buy all those Beautiful Dolls if I Had Girls
My first one, no way. No dolls. The occasional glance at a Polly Pocket doll, but only for about 2 minutes. The beautiful doll house I bought to encourage roll-playing and imagination like the parenting books say? No interest. She prefers tissue and her fingers.

The second one? She loves dolls, it's true. But she prefers them naked. Absolutely starkers. So no nice collectibles for this house. And no doll that can't survive food being shoved in it's mouth or marker all over it's face.

Misconception #3: If I Had Girls, We Could Make Cookies Every Christmas!
I'll let you know when this one becomes viable. So far, cooking of any kind is not that Norman Rockwell scene we all imaged. Unless you found a Rockwell with flour everywhere, a mouth smeared with batter and angry tears on screaming faces because the chocolate chips went into the batter instead of their mouths.

Misconception #4: It's So Much Fun to Play with Girls' Hair - Ribbons and Bows Oh My!
This one is so wrong I don't even know where to begin. I've got one that wouldn't let anyone "style" her hair without a fight for 5 years. The other one has a sensitive scalp and screams like we're killing her every time we even touch a brush - who knows what the neighbors think.

When the older one was three, we had her hair cut in a perfect bob. She was so cute with that haircut it was shocking. Then, when I was distracted with the baby, she climbed on top of the trashcan to get to the drawer where we kept her kid scissors and proceeded to cut all her hair off. To the scalp, from one ear to the other, in the back. Didn't touch the bangs, but ravaged the rest. Took 18 months to grow that out to a pixie cut. Now she's furious that we "didn't let her" grow her hair long like "princess hair". Sigh.

"But now she's older, she lets you style it, right?" you may ask. Oh sure. But again, she has opinions! And I'm telling ya, a sense of style and aesthetics comes much later (I hope). I again subscribe to the rule of self-expression, so I while I try to suggest things, when she's adamant I do it as she wants it, to the best of my ability. I've gotten very adept at several style; the Unicorn, which involves sweeping all the hair I can get and the bangs into one pony tail in the center of her forehead; the Fountain, which is a single pony tail in the center of the head, sticking straight up; and the Tri-Tail, which strategically places three pony tails in a pattern of the wearer's whim. Yes, I could refuse, but don't underestimate the determination of a 5-year old. She'll stick elastic bands in her pocket and do it herself at school - knotting her hair so badly it'll take me 20 minutes to undo it at night. Seems better to let her discover her own sense of style and bear the odd looks of the other mothers.

So, there ya go, Merry Christmas, Boy Mamas. You aren't missing what you think you're missing. I wouldn't change a thing about my girls, but I think it's only fair to tell it like it is.  Mothering girls isn't all  ribbons and bows. It's more like tutus with PJs and turquoise tights under a dish-towel cape topped by Unicorn hair; baby dolls with molding goldfish crackers in their mouths and kitchens covered in spilled sugar and secretly tasted vanilla spit on the floor.

Paint THAT, Norman.

Wassis?

"Wassis, Daddy?" asked Boo.

"That's a can of Dr. Pepper, Boo," replied the Daddy.

"Oh! Here, Daddy, take eht. Eht make you feew bettah!"

Crouching Child, Hidden Binky

The dentist says it's time for the binky to go. "Her teeth are starting to buck," he tells The Daddy. The Daddy nods; it's time for the binky to go.

Mama and Boo are having a tough time with it however. She loves her binky and I struggle with denying my children anything that gives comfort. Which explains why they were both breast fed until they were 2. Sigh. Who knew I'd be one of those mothers - I don't even like granola.

I am making progress, though. Boo and I had a talk and we agreed that we'd save the binky for nigh-nigh only. She was stoic, although she usually asks for it from time to time during the day, just to check my resolve. But I've stuck to the rule.

Which probably explains why last weekend, when The Daddy was busy in the garage and Mama was upstairs putting away clean laundry, the Boo opened the bottom drawer in the kitchen, stood on it, opened the top drawer that holds silverware, sippy cup lids and the cache of binkys, and denuded the drawer of all but one pacifier (her sister ratted her out).

I noticed something amiss with the open drawers, but automatically shut them and didn't think about it again. It was gone from my  mind until after her second tantrum on Saturday. For the second time that day she threw a fit, and then ran behind one of the chairs in the family room and hunkered down back there for awhile. At first I thought she was pooing, which was odd considering she's been potty trained for months. But when she came out she didn't smell, so when she was distracted I looked behind the chair and found a binky tucked next to one of chair legs. Then I found another one under the Christmas Tree skirt.

I commented on it to The Daddy, who looked at me, puzzled. Then Peanut played stoolie and spilled the beans about her sister's binky raid. Sure enough, when I looked in the drawer all but one were missing. They are now, apparently, hidden throughout the house.

So today the cleaning ladies are coming. And I'm avoiding my work to-do list and absently wondering how many little pacifiers they are going to find and patiently place on the kitchen counter.

Any guesses anyone? A free Amy's Mama Drama mug to the one who guesses the closest without going over!