It's a new year and this is my last whine

Years back, a friend loaned me a book titled, "The Bitch in the House." Whether or not she was trying to tell me something is completely irrelevant. The book is a compilation of short essays about being a woman ...

And I think when I first received it, I was all "Girl Power" -- like I was so cool reading this. But I feel differently now ... It's no joke dude. Sometimes I feel like the Bitch in the House ... Tired. Stressed. Cranky. 

Mainly it's because watching kids all day is TIRING, having a constantly messy house makes me STRESSED out, and when the kids go to sleep and my cat (& husband) want me all to himself, I get CRANKY. (Well not always!)

Why does everyone need me? And why does everyone think I belong to them? For instance, why do I have an audience when I'm in the bathroom or getting changed? Even when I say, "go play, mommy wants privacy," they answer, "no we wanna be here with you." Touching, I know. But I still want my privacy.

My son the other day pointed to my stomach and said, "What are those lines?"  I'm wondering why he's in my room and not playing with the 3,000 Legos he got for Christmas.

My daughter, 2-1/2 yrs old, still puts her hand down my shirt -- she was weaned at 14 months old!! ("Can I touch your chet," she asks. She says the word "chest" super cute and we're trying to stop her from saying the "B" word someone taught her.). 

They're good 87% of the time. Here they are as Doctor & SuperMan taking care of Baby.

  

Lately, I've been doing everything wrong. "Mom," cries my 4-year old, "you didn't do this riiigght!!" This being a pseudonym for about 1,000 things that I have done that day, none of them meeting with his approval.

"Mom I want yogurt in my oatmeal," I start spooning out the yogurt for my son. "Noooo, not thaaaat kiind!!!"

It's not just my son.

"La La La La Mommy's World," I croon on the way home from preschool drop off.
"NOOOOO, ELMO's World!!!!" screams my 2-year old in a voice that reminds me I really did have Rosemary's Baby.

After much thought, I have came to the conclusion that I'm not the Bitch in the House, but rather, I'm everyone's Bitch. Do this, do that, wipe this, clean this, kiss this... Sometimes I'd like to just be a huge middle finger telling everyone to "kiss this!"

So because one of my New Years Resolutions (at least as far as this blog is concerned) is to be less whiney (and bitchy), I felt this post was good therapy. Like, "Gosh that felt good to get off my chet."

Thanksgiving 2014

The new AllState Commercial ... did they read my blog?

Innocently watching some TV the other night -- which is so unlike me because at 8:30 p.m., once the kiddos doze off, I'm usually on the computer or dozing off myself -- I see an AllState Commerical called "Off Day" and I couldn't believe I was watching myself on TV!

Vacuuming up the hamster? 
OK, so no I've never done this but I have vacuumed up socks and my son's Spider-Man Lego this morning (note to self: fish it out of the vacuum canister). And I do intentionally vacuum up the kitchen table after a messy breakfast (a little nod of the head to 1983's Mr. Mom).

Street clothes on your daughter for Ballet?
Um, so me! Except in my case it was gymnastics class. All the cute toddlers were in their cutesy leotards and my daughter shows up in her street clothes like Biff (I dunno why I use this term, a nod of the head to the bully in 1985's Back to the Future maybe?). Were we supposed to dress them like Mary Lou Retton? Does it really matter what she was wearing because I spent the entire class chasing after her as she expertly dodged tumblers, vaulters, and legs of all kind. I, on the other hand, chased her onto a mat (that she sprinted across like Legolas -- Lord of the Rings reference here) but that I sunk into like quicksand and sprained my ankle (reminding me that I weigh just a tad bit more than everyone else there.) The sad thing was that I did this about 3 times before yelling, "Uncle!"

My favorite Biff line, "Now make like a tree and get outta here."

Ripping apart fluffy Teddy in the washing machine? 
I haven't done this but my husband has just asked to take over Laundry duty. What man, unless he's Ryan Gosling or Crazy, asks to do the household laundry? This should give you a picture of how laundry is done around here when it's on my watch. Crummy.

itsblogworthy.com

Smashing your car into a lampost?
Well no, but I did smash my car into another mom's minivan after a playdate in a fake parking lot. I say Fake, because it's a dead end street used as a parking lot which right there should absolve me from any smashing of minivans, but hasn't because our rates went up anyway.

"I should totally start a Blog"
OMG! I have!

Did they read my post on how great a MOM I am and make this commercial in my image?  We even have the same hair! Ok, where are my royalties!?

Putting an ad in the paper for Mary Poppins

My daughter fell off of her chair last night at dinner.

The whole thing took place in slow motion, and yet I'm still not sure how it happened. Her entire chair fell to its side, taking my daughter down and her dinner plate up in the air. As my luck would have it, we were having quinoa so the airborn plate created a quinoa rain shower over the dinner table. As the person nearest to her, I reached out my hand and clutched her leg just in time so that her fall was a little softer. Nevertheless she still ended up face down, belly down on the floor covered in quinoa and chicken. 

In this house, I would expect nothing less than for a tumble off a chair to create a mess the size of the tri-state area.

I only have 2 children, but everything in this house seems to be louder, messier, crazier than a house full of Dugans (they have what, like 19 kids?)

One day my aunt stopped by after an acupuncture appointment.  She could only stay for a few minutes. Now my aunt's house is so clean and quiet it's like visiting Jefferson's Monticello. I'm pretty sure she she attaches velvet ropes across all her rooms and only allows her family to occupy 3 rooms in the house. You can drop by without notice and it looks like no one but a curator and people dressed up in period wear pretending to stoke a fire live here.

So my aunt visits and probably spends about 15 minutes with me and the kids in which they run around, play with toys all over the floor, messily eat lunch, and probably have a tantrum over what color their plate was.  To which my aunt looked and me and says, "You need Mary Poppins."

"I thought the mom in Mary Poppins was a suffragette," I began, "not just plain suffering?"

My aunt also has 2 children and claims that they both took 3-hour naps until they were 7 and never played with dirt and never got food on the floor and ... Well, we all know that parents suffer from amnesia when it comes to their kids. So I'm enjoying my messy house, my messy dinners, and my messy kids knowing that one day I'll be telling them, "I don't know why your children are Gila Monsters? You guys were so quiet and played so nice and never made a mess or threw your food."

One day.

Kids for Hire

What I've learned from watching Disney's Cinderella is that washing your floors on your hand & knees is the best method. Singing while washing, however, does not make it more enjoyable -- nor does it summon birds and mice to my aid.

-------------

Today I was on my hands and knees wiping the bathroom floor because, according to the Cleaning Schedule of my role as Household Sanitation Director (AKA the unpaid maid), this should have happened on Tuesday.

My son walks in, "Can I help?" (Queue the theme song from Chariots of Fire)

Never one to turn down cleaning help and a firm believer that misery deserves company, I hand him a rag, point to the bathroom sink full of soapy water, and put him to work.

I expected -- well what I expected was for him to act like how I did as a kid which was to pretend I didn't see my mom cleaning and walk the other way. But no, he helped me clean the whole floor (which is quite small but nonetheless) and then asked if he could clean the cabinets too ("of course!"). From there we moved to the bedroom floor because I had a captive audience and I was not against exploiting the moment. Plus, they were really dusty.

Capturing this once in a lifetime moment.

 My daughter stayed away for the most part. When she did pop her head in, my son told her, "I have so much work to do!" Believing this to be a party she wasn't invited to, and being a known party crasher even at her tender age of 23 months, she grabbed the nearest thing (a bath towel) and got down on her knees and started to clean too.

Looking at my two pride & joys, I felt just a wee twinge of guilt -- and a lot like Cinderellas Evil step-mother -- but what the hell, my floors are clean and I didn't have to pay bribe anyone to do it.

Land lines still work

As hard as I wish I could, I just can't make this shit up.

My toddler -- who is now almost 22 months old -- loves to play with our phone. The house phone. (Yes, we still have one of those things called a "land-line.") And I let her. Why not? We're so cheap here the "land-line" can only dial our own area code so it's virtually useless. It's more for looks, or nostalgia, or because I just need one more thing on the kitchen counter.

So she's playing with the phone and I'm cleaning up the kitchen for the 17th time that day when she comes in saying, "Dada. Dada. Dada."

"Awww, isnt she sweet? She wants to call her dad! I can't wait to tell him this tonight, but I'll probably forget." --This is what's going through my head as I take the phone from her and ask, "Do you want to call Daddy? Ok, let's call him."

I put the phone to my ear and realize someone's on the line, "Hello?"

"Yes this is the [our town] police. We're about to dispatch a car. Is everything okay?"

"What?!?!?" That's exactly what I say and it sounds a lot like the skit that Dave Chappelle did on his old show where he just says "What? What?"

"You dialed 9-1-1, so we're going to dispatch a car."

"What?!?!" I get a hold of my senses here, "Oh my god, that was my daughter. She's a toddler. She must have dialed 9-1-1. I didnt even think this was possible on this phone!"

Before we hang up, I tell my kids -- in my nicest voice here because I don't want them dispatching a car -- "No more playing with the phone!"

Two seconds later we get a call from 9-1-1 making sure we're okay because "we received a call and heard two small children..." I can only imagine what they heard.

Thank goodness I found "Aha! Parenting" and I don't yell anymore.

M-O-M Taxi at your service

My preschooler gets in the car after 2-1/2 hours at school and asks, "Where are we going now?"

I look around to see who he's talking to, and realize it's me. When did this car become a taxi-cab? 

I know, I'm just like every other mom complaining about being chauffeurs to their kids, but I feel like a cabbie. A chauffeur gets to wear a hat and the passengers are drinking champagne in the backseat. A cabbie, on the other hand, can't wait to close the bullet-proof partition.

In the Flinstone car, not mine.

Is a SAHM-life a life of carting kids to & fro? Was that in the fine print at the bottom that I ignored forgot to read? 

Despite having small kids (as in, my daughter is still a toddler and doesn't do anything) , I still haul buns around town with a son who goes to preschool 4 mornings a week for a mere 2-1/2 hours. I am spending way too much time in my car and I'm getting "bucket-seat ass"  -- a very close but less glamorous cousin to the famed "secretary butt." I can't even imagine what life will be like when I have to haul both of them to school (because we live 1/4mile away from the bus zone).

Ahhh sleeping kids in the car

I turn around and look my angel in the face and answer, "We're going home." 

Caligula emerges and screams "I don't want to go home!!!" and wakes up his sleeping sister who then starts to wail and now M-O-M Taxi  -- who right now would love to slam the plastic partition and crank up WXRT -- has to haul home 2 screaming passengers.

And they don't even tip me. 

There's a greatness to her lateness.

As hard as I try, I can never manage to be the last parent in line for preschool drop-off or pick-up. What gives?

Frankly, I didn't even think I needed to try: genetics should be against me. 

I was always the last kid waiting to get picked up and chauffeured to her next event. One by one cars would arrive and friends would leave until I was the last man standing. It. Totally. Sucked. I assumed my kids were in for the same fate.

One time -- I repeat, one time -- I was not the last to get picked up. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief as our "poop-brown 2-door AM-only rear-wheel drive 1979 Buick Regal" jumped over a curb and screeched to a halt in front of me and my friends. I was beyond ecstatic: like those people jumping up and down when they win that Publisher's Clearing House (am I dating myself here?).  I yelled out -  "Goodbye! I'm leaving! So long suckers!" Yep. Only happened once. 

The car that got us everywhere

 Amazingly, I'm not that crazy-late chicken-with-her-head-cut-off mom! It must skip a generation (sorry, daughter). I usually find myself hovering in the middle of the pack -- unless it's work-out day and I have to haul buns to the Gym to make my class. Then I'm usually MOM #3 in line. (Oh I have priorities).

Although we all have those mornings when nothing goes right: the kids don't want to wash/brush/dress/eat (fill in the blank here), my toddler has a blow out just as we're walking out the door, or... I start doing laundry and time just melts away as I'm engrossed in this glorious of all domestic tasks. Whatever it is, there's that morning (and I've had plenty) where I say, "This is it. This is the morning where I get crowned Queen of the Late!"

Nope. 

Even on those tantrum-filled, poopy-butt, laundry-lovin' mornings, there's always some car that pulls up behind me --- some mom whose morning was just a little more crazy. God bless her!

Not one of my finer MOM moments

They say that with your second child things get easier because you've BTDT -- "been there done that." I agree in the case of, I know how to change a cloth diaper in record speed and sling a Moby around my body like I'm tying a shoe. But I'm still stumbling here because my daughter is an entirely different beast baby.

Tops on my "What is up with this kid?" list is the oral fixation. She puts everything in her mouth from crayons to cat food to books to a piece of spaghetti stuck on her foot from lunch an hour ago.

Blue Mouth - probably paint.

 I didn't have this problem with my son -- the only thing he ate was what was on the end of a fork. We gave him crayons at 18 months and a dirt box at 2 years old and I never looked to see if he would put it in his mouth. 

My daughter ... everything is fair game. Not only would she eat the dirt, but she'd come up to me, open wide and show me that she prefers northern Illinois clay soil over my tuna casserole she gagged on the night before. As I write this post she has just turned 21 months old. Aren't we done with this BS yet?

Eating paint is fun.

So this leads me to my story 

One morning before leaving for preschool -- during the segment I call "Playtime" which is really a pseudonym for "Mommy-Time"-- I hear my son calling "She's eating the litterbox!"

Yep. My precious youngin' was eating the cats finest -- and we have 2 cats so there was extra yummy goodness to be had.

It totally beats that beef stew you made last night, Mom.

 After throwing a massive Knip-shit, I cleaned out her mouth, tried to impart on her any words of wisdom knowing it was useless, and then promptly called the doctor in what felt like the walk of shame: the terrible mother who let's her daughter eat cat poop because she wants to sling on some yoga pants and maybe check Facebook.

I was put on hold after I told the operator what happened -- apparently she felt like this warrented immediate attention -- then the nurse got on the line and her first words to me were, "So, you're having a great morning aren't you?"

"Well, it beats the four tantrums my son had yesterday morning over his socks. So is my daughter going to get lockjaw or what?"

So this post may end up being rather informational in case you find yourself or a loved one has fallen face-first mouth-open into a litterbox. It's gross and nasty, but unless you start: vomiting, crapping your brains out, or developing mouth sores, you should be fine.

And she is. Although I'm trying not to take it personal when she spits out my food at dinner. 

Why I currently love my preschooler more

When my daughter was born, and my son was 23 months and running around like a wind-up monkey with the cymbals (the Energizer one that doesn't slow down and eventually stop), I fell in love with my quiet, nursing, swaddled infant. Love just poured over me every time we gazed into each other eyes, blur of 2-year old boy creating mayhem in my peripheral vision. Nevertheless, my newborn and I were in love.

Mommy's little stinker

Fast forward!

My newborn is almost 21 months and I no longer feel that warm glow as she screams "NO!!", rolls away from me as I change her diaper, and screams at the top of her lungs at approximately 2 a.m. because her water cup is an inch away from her hand and she need ME to grab it and place it in her mouth.

I currently love my preschooler more.

1. You ask me in your sweet voice, "Mommy, can you read me 4 stories tonight? No wait, 5 stories!"
2. You're inquisitive and bright - and you love it when mommy explains things to you.
3. You love to help me cook & bake, pulling over your chair to the counter.
4. After lunch you say, "Mommy you make the best ham sandwich ever."
5. You love when I sing songs to you and make requests that change regularly.
6. When you ask where Dusty Crophopper is and I say, "Upstairs?" You answer, "Yeah, I think you're right!" (I've recorded that to use for the future).
7. When I say, "Smile!" You do.
8. When I stepped on Scoop from Bob the Builder and hurled myself across the room, you brought out an ice cube for my toe 
9. When you wake up in the morning, you feed the cats (not eat their food), then go play quietly with your toys until we wake up (instead of vice versa). 
10. When I pull up to pick you up at preschool and you see me, you're face lights up and we smile at each other. I look forward to that part all morning.

    

    At Papa's 80th Birthday Brunch -- "smile!"

    
    

Celebrity Mom

I've decided I want to be a ________ Mom (fill in the blank with either Celebrity or Politicians Wife or CEO).

These are the moms who like to brag that they've raised six kids but who we really know has hired a nanny to referee all the fights and a maid to clean all the mess. If I could remove my job as "Referee" and "Maid" I might like being a parent a whole lot more.

How I get a pedicure these days

With every job, there's bound to be some tasks that you wish someone else would do, but that's what the job entails and you slosh through them. Somehow these _______ Moms have discovered how to turn those "Job Descriptions" into "That I'll do, and that someone else will suffer through while I take the glory."

 The biggest problem is that we tend to idolize these ______ Moms because they are surely doing it all and we are a bunch of slobs who wear flat shoes with our jeans. I once read a quote about a ______ Mom that said "This is where she _______ (fill in the blank with some fabulous project no godly person could ever do with a child) with a toddler underfoot."

NO. That toddler was NOT underfoot. That toddler was with the Nanny. Someone else was cooking dinner, and someone else was cleaning the house so this fabulous task could get done!

And guess what? That's okay that ______ Mom has all that help and can do her fabulous projects in silence. She's very lucky. But why can't the magazines just say that. "She is a working mom." That means when her children are being looked after, she goes to work and does her fabulous project. Why can't they just be real instead of fabricating a lifestyle that can't exist. (And on another topic - why do we never call men "working dads?")

Because then the regular mom would have no one to try to be like, no reason to feel bad, no need for stupid magazines that say how someone lost the baby weight in 3 days.

The middle-class mom is really screwed.