Mom’s Vocab

No, you aren’t imagining it: You do sound exactly like your mother. Okay, a few of the vocab words change from one generation to the next, but it is amazing how consistent these things are. Check out this YouTube Video in which a mother condenses everything she says to her kids in a day into about two and a half minutes. Sad, but universally true. And funny too.

I owe my mental health and $45 to E-Bay

I should’ve known better.  I did know better.  I tried anyway.  I attempted to make my son’s Halloween costume.  I learned nothing from my dear friend Michelle’s plight.  I simply had to give it a whirl.  I am not claiming to be a seamstress, I know my own limitations.  It’s just that my youngest decided he wanted to be Snoopy.  Snoopy costumes have been out of production since Snoopy stopped being a lovable entertainer and started trying to sell us life insurance (a sure way to lose fans).  So, I thought the only way I could turn my boy into a beagle would be to create it myself.  How foolish I was.  I purchased roughly $25 dollars worth of white fur and sat down to start my creation.  Approximately 7 minutes later I decided I needed a cocktail.  About 10 minutes and 340 swear words later I decided what I really needed was e-bay.  How could I have forgotten about e-bay?  The worlds largest and best organized garage sale.  Surely someone would have a spare Peanut hold-over from 1964.  Did they ever.  There it was, in toddler sized glory, plush, “new in box” Snoopy.  Priced exorbitantly for a person just in my last minute predicament.  “Forty five dollars,” I roared, “I’ll just try to make it.”  I fell right back into the do-it yourself trap.  As I sat in a sea of flimsy fur, I decided $45 plus shipping and handling was a cheap price to pay for my sanity.  The costume should arrive just in time for Halloween.

A Public Service Announcement

I would like to take a moment to present a public service announcement of sorts.  I’m sure most of you with children probably already know this, but in case you, like myself, are a little slow, here it is:  CHILDREN LACK THE CAPACITY TO CARE ABOUT YOU.  That’s right, those little angels that you shared your body with for nine months, birthed, fed, and nurtured, all the while putting thier needs before yours, could care less about anything but themselves. 

Last week, my kids asked me if I would take them for a wagon ride.  The request seemed innocuous enough and even sounded kind of fun.  Once the battle over where everyone would be seated was over, we started off on our way.  We happily started the adventure, pointing out birds and flowers along the way.  Then, as we started down the hill of our driveway, the wagon started to pick up speed.  By the time we reached our mail box, we were going at a pretty good clip.  Seeing a car coming down the street, I stepped infront of the wagon, effectively acting as a human doorstop.  Obscenities came to mind as the wheels scraped my calves.  “Why are we stopping?”  “Let’s go Mommy!”  The tiny ingrates did not even care that I may have just saved thier lives.  Nor did they care that my legs were now missing a layer of flesh in the middle of prime shorts season. 

Once the danger had passed, we continued the ride.  All the while picking up speed as we raced down the hill.  Sometime around the third house, I had to start jogging to keep  up with the wagon which was trying to pass me.  By the fifth house, I had to start running to stay in control of the wagon that was racing down the hill.  By the time we reached the bottom of the hill we must have been clocking 4 mph.  Now, you may be saying that’s not that fast, but for an out of shape housewife who enjoys  vacations to Marlboro country, that’s beyond the laws of physics. 

In order to stop the wagon, I had to perform a derailing manuver I once saw on Cops.  The children cheered thier good fortune, a ride and a show.  My lungs heaving, I wondered how in the hell I would manage to climb the hill to get us home.  I briefly considered thumbing a ride from a nieghbor, but at the urging of the children, I started to treck back up the hill.  With every step, the wieght of the children began pulling at me.  As I started the incline, my breathing became labored and I started to wish I hadn’t cancelled my membership to the gym.  I was secretly relieved when I had to pull over to stop a fight between the two boys.  I continued up the hill to chants of, “Faster.”  I was becoming quite tired as we passed a storm drain.  Thankfully, a storm drain is a world of wonder to toddlers and they were all too happy to look at it and ask atleast 39 questions about it.   For once, I was happy to answer the same questions over and over again, because the more we stopped to talk, the better my chances of catching my breath. 

Of course, the break was short, and we began again up the steepest part of the hill.  I considered stopping at the neighbor’s house for a drink.  I envisioned myself on all fours lapping water from the sprinkler.  But, I decided this was not the best way to meet my new neighbor.  Finally, we reached our driveway and as I bent down to kiss the pavement the kids asked if we could do it again.  “No.  Mommy is tired, she needs a break, go play.”  “Then can you push us on the swing?” 

As I crawled to a lawn chair, I had to laugh at their complete disregard for my well being.  They truly don’t care how I feel as long as they are entertained.  Oh well, I suppose its normal, children don’t actually have the brain capacity to feel empathy.  The ability to care about the needs of others does not develop until a sometime around adolescence.  So, even though your kids don’t care about you, they really can’t help it.  Not that that keeps me from thinking they are ingrates.

Surfing Moms’ Club

Nothing like a bit of retail therapy. Particularly if your three year old isn’t throwing a fit or telling you they “need” every item you pass in the store. (But I need a toy chainsaw. No I need an 80-inch plasma. Oh wait, that was my husband.) So since the olden days–of not having to share a fitting room with a three foot human who thinks it is fun to open the door when mommy is finding that yet another pair of jeans doesn’t fit–are gone, I frequently find myself doing a bit of therapeutic web surfing.

Turns out I’m not alone. Most Mom’s Research Products on the Web, according to recent research done by DoubleClick (an online ad metrics company) and Microsoft.

I do love the euphemism “research,” which classes the whole thing up a bit. But seriously folks, I don’t know how I’d shop for my child without it! Pre-web I relied on a network of friends to test products for me and faithfully report on their worthiness. Post-web, I find myself living in the middle of the woods, only commuting to a job two days a week in an office populated almost entirely by childless youths. Praise-be for Amazon’s user-reviews. I swear that every product I have purchased based on the reviews of fellow mom’s has turned out to be a good one. Viva the virtual mommy network!

Can’t We All Just Get Along?

I have been reading a lot of articles lately about working mothers versus stay at home mothers.  Working mothers think stay at home moms are wrong, and vice versa.   I’m not quite sure what all of the commotion is about.  There are many rules that come with parenting.   Rule number one is: There is no perfect.  It doesn’t matter wich side of the fence your on, you don’t have the answer.  No one does, it doesn’t exist.  Let’s cut out the drama and agree that parenting is a bitch.  (and so are all moms that don’t agree with me.)

Alternative Fuel

Over the past few weeks the cherry tomatoes have been mysteriously disappearing from my garden.  As soon as they get red, they vanish.  I have been quite perplexed about this since I really love the little things.  Well, the other day, I couldn’t help but notice a viscous red liquid coming from my two year old’s tot wheels (a pedal car for toddlers).  I immediatley panicked thinking someone was bleeding.  Upon further inspection of this fluid, I discovered small floating seeds.  I searched the car for the source and found that the offensive particles were coming out of the pretend gas tank.  Once I flipped open the pretend tank I discoved at least a dozen rotting cherry tomatoes shoved into the hole.  Perhaps my toddler is a genius, trying to solve the worlds gasoline crisis.  Most likely though, my little one is just a vegetable klepto.  The whole event reminded me of the time I turned on my central vac only to have an entire Fisher Price Little People farm come shooting out of the wall.  I will never understand why shoving objects into holes is so entertaining.

Am I raising a serial killer?

I stay home with my children and try to do a good job raising them.  I  don’t quite know exactly what I’m doing at any given moment, but I swear I’m doing the best I can.  I am confronted with turmoil atleast three times a day. The source of all of this drama, my 3 1/2 year old.  I am quite certain that God sent him to destroy me.  The child is ridiculously stubborn.  He has been known to go on hunger strikes, vomit on que and quit drinking (sometimes for days) in effort for me to give in to his terrorist demands.  He really is a sweet kid, until the world strays from his plan.  If things don’t go exactly as he feels they should,  he has a total emotional meltdown.  I have tried everything to correct this behavior, and I am simply at a loss.  I refuse to give up, but I have to wonder if this is the way Mrs. Hitler felt.

Mommy Mush Brain

In keeping with the theme of Michelle’s last post, I must admit that having children made me dumb.  I’m not claiming that I was ever a MENSA member, but I wasn’t always the bumbling idiot that I am today.  Years ago, I kept up on all the news, I enjoyed the science and psychology of politics.  I was familiaar with all of the government officials holding office.  I kept up on local happenings as well as world affairs.  I was well read and frequented museums.  I could hold up my end of a conversation.

Now, I am what people refer to as slow.  My husband  is a very brilliant man.  Often times, I am expected to go places with his collegues.  The playing feild is not level.  It is true that I have always considered my husband and his compatriots to be super geek nerds.  But I could at least keep up with them.  Now, when a discussion involving the market comes up, my only input is that I need eggs.  When the topic shifts to celebrity news, I tell them that Bob the Builder has a new machine named Zoomer.  In fact, I once excused myself from the table by saying that I had to go to the potty.  Thank God I had the sense not to mention I had to go poopie. 

I am not just socially crippled, my vocabulary has taken the worst hit.  A few months ago, I was at Linens and Things looking for a coffee carafe.  I went to the coffee section and my mind went blank.  A young girl came over to ask me if I needed help finding anything.  “Yes,” I said.  This was followed by a long pause in which drool dropped down my chin.  The girl waited patiently while I blankly stared.  “What is it you need?” she kindly continued.  “I need one of those things you put coffee in.”  “Okay.  What kind of thing?”  (She really was quite patient.)  “You know a coffee thing” I insisted while miming pouring coffee.  The girl, assuming I was special tried to verify the item by asking yes/no questions.  “A pot?”  “No.”  “A cup?”  “No.”  “A mug?”  “No.”  “A grinder?”  “No.”  (Girl is now visibly irritated while I dumbly stare)  Finally, after naming everthing on the shelves, we come to the carafe.  “Yes!”  I shout, “that is what I need!”  The girl then walked me to the front where she checked me out being sure to speak extra slowly.  I tried to explain to her that I simply forgot the name of the item, but I know she watched me walk into the parking lot to see if I got onto a short bus, and I can’t blame her.

Doll Surgery

My son loves “Postman Pat.”  “Postman Pat” is a Brittish childrens show centered around a lovable  mail carrier.  The show is actually quite cute.  My son’s love for the show is so great that he often pretends to be Pat himself.  You can imagine my glee when I discoved an e-bay store that sold “Postman Pat” paraphanelia.  I was able to find a plush Pat in time for my son’s birthday last year.  That gift was deamed the “bestest thing ever.”  Every night since Pat has slept with my son.  Even when we go on vacation, Pat comes along.  Recently, Pat’s glasses were broken.  Despite my best efforts, I was unable to reglue Pat’s spectacles.  My son was heart broken.  “What will I do without Pat?  Whaaaaaaa”   I was able to pry the doll out of my son’s hands and use my sewing kit to remove the broken glasses.  Unfortunately, I did not know that Pat would no longer be Pat with out the glasses.  Like a baby bird touched by human hands, Pat was rejected and I was ostracized for thinking he was good as new.  Then, brilliance struck, I pretended to put contact lenses into Pat’s eyes.  Immediately, I was praised for my optamalogical genius and Pat was back to being the bestest thing ever.  Forgive me for gloating, but it is not often that I think quickly enough to outwit the harshest critic I have ever known.

Take Pride

I read with much empathy the My Turn column in the July 23 07 issue of Newsweek, entitled “Stop Setting Alarms on my Biological Clock.” Carrie Friedman tells of woman aggressively recruiting her womb to their way of life–the mommy way. One woman actually reached under her shirt, placed a cold hand on her abdomen, and asked that charming question, “Why aren’t’ you pregnant yet?” Having had the gall to wait until I was 37 to procreate, through eight wonderful years of marriage, I know what my girl Carrie is talking about.

I can’t say how many times this question arose. Almost as bad were more veiled approaches, like my mother referring to the dog as her grandchild. I had women say I was “wise not to have kids” since I was so committed to my career. Oh the various jabs and snarks I endured. Most vividly, I recall the funeral of my grandmother, a working mom from another era who was my most powerful role model and influence. A younger cousin and her friends (all more than 15 years my junior) were following me in a wonderfully flattering way. They formed a circle near me, when the well wishers shook out into chatting groups. In my circle, a woman said she liked what I’d said about my grandmother’s influence in my life, about how she’d shaped my desire to succeed. But, she asked in a knowing voice, wasn’t having a baby the most important thing I’d ever done?

The silence from the 20-somethings was deafening. My cousin’s look said, “okay role model, how you gonna answer this one?” I took a deep breath, as one should in these situations (lest one’s unfiltered thoughts about the likely emptiness of this woman’s head, and life, spew forth) and I replied: “I have been lucky enough to have a great many accomplishments. I have worked hard, and done many things I am proud of. My daughter has the potential to surpass me in all things, but frankly, giving birth is a function of nature. Raising a good person, well, that would be an accomplishment.” Seeing my cousin’s smile, and proud nod to her friends, may well be on my list forever.