Amy's Mama Drama

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.

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.

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.

Observing my Lack of Parenting Controls

Yesterday I started volunteering in my older daughter's Kindergarten class. My job was to facilitate a science project.

They were supposed to put water droplets onto two different pieces of wood and observe what happened. I don't know what they learned, but I learned that it's difficult to facilitate "observing" with Kindergarteners, especially when water is involved. The wood got soaked, the table got soaked, many of the kids got soaked. Oh well. I tried.

As I was mopping up the table, I leaned over my daughter, who was sitting at the next table, "journaling". They were practicing writing sentences using the words they knew. "I like" has been a phrase they've been working on, and most of the kids were using that and creatively spelling other words that came to them.

I caught a glance at Peanut's paper just as she was handing it to the teacher, "I like to shak mi boody but," it said. Oh hell.

I grimaced as the teacher took the paper, wanting to jump in and explain that she meant dancing and that the unfortunate "booty butt" phrase came from a neighbor's older brother who I had always thought was such a sweet, quiet child, but apparently was allowed to listen to more modern music than I would have thought. I wanted to explain that while this looked like questionable parental controls on my part, it was really just us deciding that if we didn't make it a big deal, the unfortunate phrase would go away. And that we really don't condone that kind of thing. Booty shaking. Or even talking about booty shaking. It's just something that we thought went away that pops up from time to time. But I held myself back, took a deep breath and resigned myself to seeing disapproval in the teacher's eyes forever after.

Then I read the girl's paper who was sitting next to Peanut and I relaxed.

She had written, with perfect penmanship and spelling, "I like beer."

Bikini Waxing, Lassie and Sex

Okay, here's something I've got to know.

What's the deal with bikini waxing? Does anyone else yell, "Son-of-a-bit*h" at least twice?

And does the pain memory fade, like it does for childbirth, so that you can actually get yourself to go back and do it again? 'Cause it's time and my memory isn't faded yet.

I realize I might be a little late to this whole experience. And you might wonder why a mother of two, in her early 40s, is just now exploring this world, but it's all about those makeover shows. You know the ones? Where they feature the mother who's gained a few pounds and wears "lounge wear" in the form of flannel pajama bottoms to drop off her kids at school? They take a video of her and then gab on and on about how she's "let herself go"? I HATE those shows. But I keep catching them when I'm channel surfing and, like a train wreck, I can't look away.

And I know they're talking about me. I mean, I do put on "pants" to take the kids to school, but they're often bleach-stained sweats that I've worn so long the seams are fraying. And I have gained a few pounds and I don't really do very well attending to my eyebrows and my criteria for picking out clothes is that they are soft, comfortable and can survive crayon, Cheerio paste and play dough being rubbed into them. Style is rarely a consideration.

And some days I'm so franticly rushed that I only remember to shave one leg.

Sigh. I do try to wear pants and long socks on those days. When I notice. Which is about 1/2 the time.

Here's the other reason I tried bikini waxing: The Man asked if I was having an affair. Really.

It was such a ridiculous question that I whipped around to look at him with hilarity on my face and realized he was serious. I could only choke out a, "What?! Are you crazy?!"

He said, "Well, sometimes I call you in the middle of the day, and you don't answer the phone. And I call work, home and cell, but half the time you end up calling me back. Granted, you usually call me right back, but, well, it's just a little strange." I was incredulous. Do you mean, after all these years, you haven't noticed that I can never find the phone? Ever? If I'm not sitting at my desk, where the work phone is physically attached to the wall, there is a good chance I spend all those rings trying to figure out where I've put the cordless handsets of our home phone or my cell. And if I haven't misplaced them, it's more than likely that the 2 1/2 year old has put my cell in her little princess purse or the home phone in the pantry. Thank God they all have good batteries because the only way to find them is to call the number from another phone and run around like Lassie with my head cocked listening for the ring.

And then he says, "Then there are the showers. You always take one just before I get home. Like you're washing off something you don't want me to smell." Well, of course I'm washing off something I don't want you to smell! B.O. you boob! 85% of the time I don't have to meet with people in person, so I don't shower because I don't have to. But thanks to those aforementioned makeover shows I'm absolutely sure that the first step to not "letting yourself go" is to be clean when your man gets home. Even if you're dressed like hell, you should at least smell nice. They don't actually say that in Cosmo, because they never get that real, but I'm quite sure if I asked them off the record they'd say, 'Yes, Amy, if you can't wear sexy clothes, maintain your makeup, and do lunges every day to keep your butt firm, at the very least you can shower before the poor guy gets home.' So as soon as I can wrap up work, and before I start dinner, I'm frantically jumping in the shower, hoping that Pantene shampoo smell will make up for the un-sexy underwear and raggedy sweatshirt I'll undoubtedly put on after.

"And," he says, "there's, well..." He stops and I give him a "come on, out with it" gesture. "You just don't seem that interested in sex lately. So I was wondering if it was because you're getting it somewhere else."

And then the light dawns. He is on his Man Planet. I am on my Mama Planet. He has no idea what life looks like in my world. And I don't often stop to think of what it looks like from his world.

I wish I could just give him the Vulcan mind meld and have him understand. I love sex. I love sex with him. I remember it quite fondly. In fact, I'm pretty sure we had it a week or so ago. Okay, maybe it's been two or three weeks. But yes, we used to have it more often. It's just that there are so many more complications now! You know? My body just became my own again. In the last 6  years, I've been pregnant for a year & half, breast feeding for 4 years (yes, I'm one of those mothers), and it's only the last 6 months that I've had my body back - but not the same body. Oh no! I now have some cranky, foreign thing that has wild hormone swings, perpetual exhaustion, and way too regular bouts with hemorrhoids! Oh yes, LET'S talk about THAT. A nice detailed discussion of hemorrhoids will really get us in the mood!

But, if I must be honest, it's more about time and just being tired. We're done with the day at 9 or 10pm and I'm pooped! But somehow that just doesn't happen on the Man Planet. They're often too tired to talk, mow, or fold clothes, but sex is always an option. Man, I would like to live on that planet.

So, I look at him. I tell him, quite plainly, that I'm not having an affair, nor do I want one, and that he knows me better than that. I try my best to explain the showering and remind him of the phone challenges, as evidenced by his recent discovery of our bedroom handset in the laundry basket in the garage.

And then we get to the sex frequency issue. What can I say so he'll understand? Oh, I went through the exhaustion thing, the hormone thing, and touched, briefly, on the rest. But I don't think he got it. I know he doesn't really believe I'm having an affair. This was just his way of telling me that our sex life is important and it feels seriously off. Okay, point taken.

Which takes us back to the bikini waxing. Even though he'd take sex any way he can get it, I'm trying to add some details to let him know I care. So any tips about how to survive the waxing experience would be appreciated. Because as painful as it is, I will probably do it again. It's better than abandoning my sweats and doing lunges every day. I think.

Michael Kors is Following Me

Do you know who he is? A Big Designer. He's also been a judge on Project Runway, to which I am addicted! I don't know designers from silly putty, but thanks to the show, I know him. So when one of the Bunco Girls brought us all samples of his new perfume, I got all excited. That and I do like the smell. Which is odd, because I don't wear perfume. The most I can remember is to wear scented lotion and only because I scratch my dry shins off if I don't. So I do have a Personal Scent, it's just provided by Vaseline Intensive Care.

But anyway, back to Michael. He's got this new scent, and I tried it at Bunco. And then dropped the sample in my purse. For the rest of the night it felt like someone was following me, because every time I turned around there was this whiff of scent that couldn't have been me. It was Michael, of course. Not that it was a bad scent, it just wasn't my normal cucumber aloe smell. I tried to wear the perfume again the next day - but same problem, this odd feeling like someone was always around because I could smell them. Try as I might I just couldn't relate the scent to me. So I gave up.

And forgot about the sample.

Now Michael Kors calls me. No, not really, but I did get his smell on my phone and it's pretty trippy to answer your cell phone and smell someone who is not you on it.  And he's been in my wallet, because that smells like his scent too.

I've tried to eradicate Michael, but he eludes me. I know that little vial is in there somewhere, but damned if I can find it.

So now, every time I blow my nose with a tissue from my purse, I think of Michael Kors.

Kindergarten: Like High School, with smaller chairs

Back to School Night. In some areas, it's called "curriculum night". I think I'll call it "The-night-that-reminded-me-of-high-school, where-I-never-learned-to-keep-my-mouth-shut Night."

Because I'm one of those Mamas. You know the ones? They sit in the front row and nod at everything because somewhere along the line they learned to be "active listeners" and they just can't turn it off? The ones that are chatty when no one else is, and volunteer for everything even though they really have a full plate, but they can't help themselves because they want to Be Involved?

That was me. Sigh. I had lots of questions. Brought a list, even. But the teachers were good and they covered everything. Which was a relief because when I did have a question I forgot to raise my hand and started talking without being called on and I got frowned at. And then someone else asked my question.

I introduced myself to other parents, who responded appropriately but with a weird look like, "It's just Kindergarten, honey, we don't have to become fast friends." And by the end of the night, 1/2 the parents knew my name and I didn't have a clue who they were. Even a little girl from my daughter's class knew who I was and greeted me in the hallway - she looked vaguely familiar to me.

It was like this for me when I was in school. I always answered questions, interacted with the teachers, had an opinion. Everyone knew my name, because I was always doing the talking.  But only because no one else would! There just can't be a vacuum of silence every time a teacher asks if you understand! I hate that! Obviously.

It's not so much that I'm pushy, I'm just, uh, well, active. I know that our room parent has twins and an older child, and even though she's a full-time Mom, she's got her hands full, so I volunteered for things knowing she'd need help. When we were all milling around, waiting to go to the cafeteria, I tried to launch a few conversations, encourage volunteers. I'm quite sure I sounded like a dorky version of a cheerleader. Oh well. One redeeming factor is that my last name is different from my daughters' so they won't automatically be branded, "Child of over-enthusiastic-waaaay-too-involved-dork-mother."

And this is only the beginning. I've got 12 more years of this with the older one alone. Well, guess I better just suck it up and come to grips with it. I 'yam what I 'yam. I'm Hall Monitor Mom. Maybe I'll get a t-shirt made...

And Yesterday I Ran Into an Acura - Weight loss story #3

And it had nothing to do with closing my eyes or avoiding a glimpse of my hips.

It had everything to do with the Acura not seeing me and making a left hand turn right in front of me.

Sigh. One minute you're tootling along, the next minute you're babbling to a Patrolman about how you don't need a tow truck because the car actually started, which is how you got it out of the middle of the street, despite the fact that you were confused for a moment because the impact knocked the car into neutral and you didn't notice right away, but you figured it out and now you'll just call your sister for the great auto body shop she used when she rear-ended a Buick... Blah, blah, blah. Adrenaline turns me into an idiot. The Patrolman seemed to understand and just nodded.

No, the kids weren't in the car - I'd just dropped them off. And yes, I'm fine, thanks for asking. Extremely stiff and sore, and driving a rental car like my Great Aunt Mumsie, but I'm fine.

And in case you were wondering, the VW ads are extremely accurate. You know the ones? Where they're having an inane conversation and out a nowhere a car appears right in their path and they have just enough time to say "Oh sh-!" and the rest of the bad language is covered by the sound of the impact? That was me, yesterday.

So all of this is leading up to my excuse...I am still formulating my weight loss strategy, and I think I may have cracked the code. But due to the recent cracking of my car, I'm going to delay a bit before I start banging the "open your eyes and slim your thighs" drum, if you don't mind. But I do believe I have a plan...more soon.

She Repeated Me Again

There is a new teacher in my older girl's class at preschool. She reminds me of an over-the-top Doris Day, so needless to say I haven't warmed up to her yet. It's partly the perkiness and partly a prim and proper vibe that just makes me want to yell "booty-butt, booty-butt, booty-butt" at the top of my lungs just to see if I can crack her veneer. But I haven't.

It never occurred to me that might daughter might have the same urge.

Today this teacher was walking out as we were walking in. My Peanut asked her where she was going, and the teacher bent down to her and shared in a conspiratorial whisper,"well, young lady, I need to change into a fresh blouse! I had to move some things around this morning to get the room ship shape, and got a little glow. So I'm going to put on something not so plucky!"

I think she was talking about sweat and b.o., but my daughter decided to interpret "glow" and "plucky" as something uncomfortable. And, always the supportive child, she commiserated with Ms.Perky. "Oh, I know what you mean," she said in that faux grown-up, matter-of-fact voice she gets when she's imitating an adult, "my mama has the same problem. She's always taking off her bra so that her boobs can run free. You should do that too. It'll make you feel better." And off she skips to her friends, leaving me to face a clearly horrified Doris.

I give a big hearty smile and shrug my shoulders with a 'ha ha ha, kids say the darnedest things' smile and scoot past her into the room after my daughter. I got my little human tape recorder seated at the table for breakfast, kissed her goodbye, and skedaddled out the back door.

And here is where I'm supposed to demonstrate my maturity by admitting to mortification and embarrassment and then vow to never again say anything inappropriate that my daughter could repeat. Certainly nothing about my boobs. But honest to gosh, I can't stop laughing.