Attack of the Were-mom

Have you ever had one of those days where you just aren’t your self? A day where you turn from mild mannered mom to mean ogre at the drop of a hat?  I spent yesterday in just such a state.  The day started out well enough.  I woke up on time (for a change) and even managed to get a cup of coffee before the kids woke up.  Then, my oldest started complaining that he wasn’t feeling well.  Two moments later, my youngest was vomiting all over the couch.  As I scoured the cushions my head began to beat. 

The morning rolled on, my kids fighting like wild dogs, my head thumping.  For children that didn’t feel well, they were expending a lot of energy pummelling each other.  They were kind enough to take breaks from fighting to make a mess of my house.  This is when the ogre first appeared.  “For kids who claim to be sick you are acting like animals!!,” I shouted.  My headache continued and my anger grew. 

I started cleaning the house.  The kids destroyed each room as I finished cleaning it.  I yelled, my anger grew.  I found myself shouting at them.  They continued to test me.  My shouting turned into screaming.  I was in full on ogre mommy mode.  My headache had reached a level of intractable pain. 

After sending my children to their rooms, I began to vacuum the floor.  Mysteriously, halfway through vacuuming the living room rug, the vacuum stopped working.  “Not my Dyson!” I cried.  I loved that vacuum, I couldn’t believe that we had managed to destroy yet another vacuum with our filth.  Then I heard the familiar giggles from around the corner.  My little “angels” had escaped their bedrooms, unplugged the vacuum and begun laughing wildly at my disgust.  That was it, I could handle no more.  I screamed, I yelled, I shouted profanities until I was hoarse.  My head hurt so badly, my vision was blurred and I considered the possibility that I was having a stroke.  I lost it.  I lost my mind.  What kind of adult would yell at a child that way?  To top it off, I was probably having a stroke.  I sat my kids on the couch and walked out the back door.  I know I shouldn’t have walked out of the house, but I needed to get away for a minute.  I walked to the mailbox and collected my thoughts.  I really felt like an ass.  My kids might suck, but they were just being kids, I shouldn’t have lost my cool like that, I was acting worse than they were.  I went back inside and my kids were sitting right where I had placed them.  (I must have really been scary for them not to have scattered the second I turned around)  I had no choice but to apologize to them for my ghastly behavior.  “Mommy shouldn’t have yelled like that.  I’m sorry I was acting like a big mean ogre,” I said.  To which my youngest replied that Shrek was an ogre, but he was nice.  So there you have it, I’m yet again, an ass at least ogres are nice.

Artfully Disasterous

In effort to entertain my brood and perhaps manage to take care of getting some gifts, I took my kids to the local paint-your-own-pottery place.  I would like to caution all mothers of toddlers against attempting to take their children to these places with less than a 1 to 1 adult to toddler ratio.  While the children had a riot, I am still reeling from the experience. 

Trouble started when we began to pick out the pieces of pottery we wanted to paint.  Unglazed pottery is exceptionally fragile and therefore should not be touched by anyone, let alone children.  I found myself swatting little hands away from the merchandise left and right.  Then, we couldn’t agree on what to paint.  One wanted to paint a plate while the other wanted to paint himself.  Once I picked the item to be painted the fun really started.  My two year old had to sit on my lap in order to be tall enough to reach the table.  This doesn’t sound bad except paint began to fly and considering my position, I was subject to getting my own new coat of paint.  By the time the painting was done, I had ceramic glaze in my hair, on my face, and in my ear.  My two year old had painted a moustache on himself, and had painted his brother from fingertip to elbow.

I thought we looked awful!  Of course, that was before I saw the mug we had just made.  That was awful.  My children had taken turns painting with their own color choices.  One part of the mug was orange, another part was yellow with teal swirls and the background was purple.  I thought I was coming up with a great grandma gift, a coffee mug made by the grand-kids.  What I ended up with was a mug covered in psychedelic vomit and a lot of stained clothing. 

How I Got My First Grey Hair

The most frightening moment of my life happened yesterday.  I would have blogged about it then, but I had to spend the rest of the day in a bleary, xanax induced catatonia.  My youngest bolted on me.  There I was, ordering some fast food, asking about the soup of the day, when I looked down to see that my baby was gone.  Not only was he not next to me, he was no longer in the store.  He had run out the door and into the parking lot.  Thank God, a very quick man ran after him and grabbed him moments before he would have been flattened by a delivery van.  I ran out the door leaving my purse and everything at counter and met my escaped child and my hero in the parking lot.  There were no words to thank the kind and quick man.  Thank you did not seem to be enough.  I clutched my youngest while shouting at him never to run away from me again.  I was able to hold myself together long enough to get home where I began to sob uncontrollably.  I sobbed until I vomited, then I cried a little more.  My husband wanted to know why I was so upset when nothing happened.  How do you explain fear, dread, gratitude, embarrassment, shame and relief in one emotion?  I’m not sure, but I think ten years came off of my life.  The worst part is, I know that this is just the tip of the fear ice-berg that is parenting.

Dinosaur Doody

My youngest just turned two.  To celebrate the occasion, I baked a ridicoulously elaborate birthday cake.  My children get to pick the theme of thier birthday and I bake a cake to match.  I’ve always fancied myself somewhat of a second rate pastry chef, so this is a big deal at my house.  I simply will not be out done when it comes to my children’s cakes.  Martha Stewart herself would have to pry the piping bag out of my cold dead hand before I would admit defeat on a birthday cake.  In my own sick, warped mind, the birthday cake is a symbol of my love for my children, and my devotion to motherhood, so every sprinkle must be perfectly assembled.  (I don’t think I have to remind anyone that I am not right)

Anyway, my son is crazy about dinosaurs (cliche, I know, but laugh and I will cut you).  So, I searched all of my local party supply and craft stores for a cake that could be converted to a dino.  Finally at one store, a very friendly elderly woman suggested that she remembered Wilton making a dino last year.  I ran home to my computer and scoured the Wilton site.  Last year, no.  The pan of wich she spoke was taken out of production in 1987. 

Now, I was a woman on a mission.  “Partysaurous aka Groomasaurous” would be mine.  I must preface this by saying that I can not be trusted to ebay responsibly.  Ebay combines two of my weaknesses, shopping with competition.  DANGER!  For example, lets say there is a certain gold plated howler monkey key chain for sale.  I say to myself, “Damn, look at that howler monkey, I could use something like that.”  While running for my walet, I decide that $10.00 is the MOST I will spend.  I place my bid and then I am notified that I have been outbid at $11.  It’s ON now, I now must one-up the person who dared stand between my and my howler monkey.  On and on it will go until I have spent twice my own limit and I have that little monkey in my hand only to discover that that gold plated howler monkey is just a plastic baboon with an orange Cheeto residue on it.  But I’m not bitter or anything. 

So, anyway, I brave the ebay jungle and find a Wilton collector who is willing to part with “Partysaurous” for the right price.  I place my bid.  Moments later I am notified that I have been outbid.  I will not stand for that, this is for my little boy!  I now stand a two hour computer vigil for “Partysaurous.”  Finally, the auction is closed and “Partysaurous” is enroute to my house.  Panic ensues as to if the reptile groom will make it in time for the big day.   Angels sing when I find him on my doorstep.

I start the dino the day before my son’s birthday.  The cake itself comes out perfectly.  “Partysaurous” comes out of the pan like T-Rex dream.  Then I began making the frosting.  Again, perfect.  I continued to color the icing.  Reptillian green seemed like a good choice.  Wrong!  There is absolutely nothing appetizing about a reptillian color scheme.  By the time I finished frosting the cake it looked terrible.  It looked like a dinosaur, but nothing about it said “Happy Birthday.”  In fact, I can’t think of an occasion where such a dark cake would be appropriate.  Olive drab and black, yum.  Maybe I could pass him off as Corpse-asaurous and serve him for a funeral meal, but not for a second birthday.

 Although I wasn’t in love with the cake, I moved it off of the table so it wouldn’t be ruined while the kids had lunch.  I placed it on the counter behind the sink and infront of the window.  Where I forgot about it for five hours.  Five hours.  In a window.  On a sunny day.  In August.  By the time I remembered  it, all of the frosting had melted.  His eyes ran down his face like a prehistoric Tammy Faye.  His scales ran down off of his tail and he looked like a T-Rex with explosive diarrhea.  I became angry.   At 8:00pm I started the oven to begin again.  Four hours later, I had a perfect dinosaur with a new color scheme and my little boy got to blow the candles out of a cake I wasn’t embarrassed to serve.  In the end, I was never so happy to have completely ruined the first cake, because, I would never have been happy serving it.   

They can put a man on the moon, but…

Ihave just completed a task so vile that I am still retching a little.  Considering that we are the blog equivalent of Lifetime television, I know you have all done it too.  I just finished changing a diaper baby living room.  This particularly offensive diaper contained no less than a quarter pound of partially used corn kernels.  The mess was indescribable.  Some how, the contents of the diaper flowed through all barriers to reach my sons shoulders.  I had to take a step back to asses assess how I should approach this problem, but I found my best bet to just jump into the task.  I grabbed the box of wipes and removed the offensive gear.  It was then when I discovered that the wipe box was empty.  Luckily, I had a wipe refill in the closet, but how would I get to it?  This is when disaster struck.  I was forced to go get the wipes even though I was knuckle deep in poo.  I ran to the closet careful not to touch a thing, all the while yelling for my son not to move.  I’m sure you all know how well that went.  Now, forty-five minutes, a mid-day bath, and a bottle of bleach later, I am left to wonder why hasn’t a bottomless box of wipes been invented yet?

Smelly Acres

Norman Rockwell, perhaps one of the most famous artists ever to paint American life.  Idyllic country scenes, charming downtowns and cherubic children.  Norman Rockwell was a filthy liar.  I have yet to witness any of these heart warming scenes in real life.  The country has proven to be less than charming for me.  I moved to a house on a lot that abutts the woods a few years ago.  Nature, while it may be beautiful is not that great to live amongst.  We have had mice, the bain of my existence.  Spiders large enough to carry off the children.  Woodchucks, deer, rabbits, coyotes, and wild turkeys (not the kind you drink) all frequent my yard (okay, also the kind you drink).  With the exception of eating my garden or chasing me from the mail box, all of these things have been rather benign.  That is of course until the skunks moved in.  The skunks have been terrorizing my family for a while now.  It all started when one became trapped in our garage.  I left the door open while I went to pick up some take out.  Upon the opening of the house door, the stowaway crept out from under the step where it was hiding and met my husband at the back door.  My husband, after first screaming like a girl dropped the take out, thus creating an oriental buffet for the smelly guest.  I believe this was when the vermon moved into the neighborhood.  Since this time, I have been sprinting from the car to the house and making sure the children play in open areas where we could at least see the beast coming.  Last night, however, I think my problem was partially solved.  I woke this morning to an extremely pungent stench.  After  blaming my husband, it came to my attention that every room in the house stank.  The dining room made my eyes water and the garage made me nauseus.  I stepped outside for some fresh air only to find a stench so vile I ran back into the house for cover.  As I vehemently slammed all of the windows closed I noticed a the dead skunk a few feet from my front door.   Now, I don’t have to worry about it invading my home, I just have to figure out what to do with the nasty festering carcass. 

Over the Falls in a Barrel

My children are insane thrill seekers.  I know I have alluded to this in the past, but today’s events seal the deal.  Picture it:  an average afternoon in suburbia, mom ironing the laundry and the kids playing together in the clothes basket.  Is there a more idyllic scene of the American family? 

 Follow this with a soundtrack of thumps, thuds and a crash so loud it shook the house.  I immediately sprinted out of the bedroom and down the hall to see what all the commotion was.  The scene I came upon was a gruesome one, and one that as a parent with a two story house, I had always dreaded.  Both of my children lay in a heap at the bottom of the steps.  I ran down the stairs panicked and quickly assesed the children for injuries.  You could imagine my surprise when the kids started to giggle.  “What is so funny?  You could’ve broken your necks!,” I yelled.  I actually saw red when they told my that they were riding down the stairs in the clothes basket.  My mind quickly went back to my own childhood when my brother and I used to play a game called “stair luge” which was strikingly similar to this and actually elicited the same response from my own mother.  So, I guess the insane thrill seekers didn’t fall that far from the insane thrill seeking tree, after all, I do have two toddlers and if that isn’t death defying, nothing is. 

Welcome to the Dark Side

You all hate me, I know.  I see your disapproving stares.  I can feel your hateful glares.  I don’t care.  You see, I know how you all feel, I used to be one of you.  I used to go to the grocery store and see all of those thumb prints in the hamburger and smashed up bags of chips and think of what kind of horrible mother would let her tiny minion run free to destroy my groceries.  I used to hate seeing those little rug rats running up and down my local grocer’s aisles, molesting the merchandise three feet high and below.  But that was back when I played for the other team, the I’m single and young and I have a right to buy pristine merchandise team.  Now I am the starting pitcher for the I’m tired and I just want to get my tater tots and get the hell out of here team.  Now, I do the best I can to keep the kids contained while I purchase my wares, but I know that when I reach over to pick up my ramen noodles they are pounding the marshmallows flat.  I know this and I am powerless to stop it.  I’ve tried, but then a whole new problem arises, I’m stuck with screaming, fit throwing children.  Children who young, single shoppers can not stand (old married ones aren’t that fond of them either).  Children who cause all people with in 20 yards to chase me from the store as an angry, torch wielding mob.  So, what can I do.  I have to go to the store, it is a necessity.  So, the best I can do is make my trip as short as possible and try to calm the beasts the best as I can.  However, that may involve letting them sample the grapes in the produce aisle, or letting them molest the marshmallows.  So please, the next time you see a kid doing something that makes you cringe, don’t give his  mom the stink- eye.  Try to resist the urge to judge and know that the poor woman used to play for your team and she is doing the best she can to cope with her new position.