Monday, April 12, 2010

Like mother like daughter

We've all the seen the photos of Katie and Suri, Jen and Violet, Angelina and Shiloh…the list is long and strong. All these celebrity moms absurdly dressing their kids—2 year olds—like miniature versions of themselves.

Unthinkable.

I mean, it’s so ridiculous.

Really, who would do that?

(Coughs.) Really.

OK, so here’s the thing. The Midget and I do often dress the same. But I’ve got to chalk it up to the fact that I’m just lazy. When I get dressed in the morning, I have a hard enough time coming up with one non-garish combination, let alone doing it again for my daughter. So guess what, she winds up wearing something pretty damn similar. It’s not intentional, I swear. It’s even kind of cute at first, but does quickly move towards the embarrassing when the 4th and 5th person of the day comments, “Oh how adorable—Mommy and Baby out in the same clothes.” (Mighty’s gonna just LOVE hearing that as she gets older because Katie Holmes or Angelina Jolie I am not.)

At the crux of this I fear are my own issues with getting older. Because why on earth do I have clothes that look like my 2-year old daughter’s?! Yes, I know the fashion for even toddlers these days mirrors teen looks. Buuuuuuuut…should my mommy wears be doing the same? Is that normal, or maybe just me in denial about my age?

When I was in my 20’s I shopped at Ann Taylor because it made me feel stylish, sophisticated and like a grown up. In my 30’s I now shop at H&M because it makes me feel young, hip and less like an old bag. Honestly, at the rate I’m going, you’ll find me searching for deals at the Gymboree sale rack once I near 40. And with the invention of the Slanket, my adult onesie should keep me comfy as I move into my golden years.


Husband looks me over in my ballet flats, skinny jeans and tee shirt. He shakes his head and I know is wondering if there’s some 80s party he hasn’t been invited to. Sometimes he is wise and recognizes it’s best to let me have my midlife crisis in silence. But I smile when the Midget races in and he comments on her cute she is…in her ballet flats, skinny jeans and tee.

Sunday, April 11, 2010

Circle of life

This is a small, pretty little bird known as the Cedar Waxwing. This is what it looks like when daintily perched on the branch of a berry bush from which it happily feeds.

Or perhaps here resting in one of the trees on the edge of a serene wood.


This is what it looks like after the worse end of a window vs. bird incident.


THWUNG! THWUNG!

“What on earth was that?” I asked, moving toward the front door. Perhaps UPS is getting cavalier with the way they deposit our packages, I thought.

“Mom, look! There’s bird poo on the window!”

“That was the sound of bird poo? That must have been a lot of poo.” Sure enough, a splat across the front window. “Gross! Was the bird flying sideways? How did it manage to do that?”

“MOM! LOOK! There are two birds are on the ground in front of the house!” exclaimed BMoC. The mixture of horror and fascination was palpable. Here was fresh kill, literally right on his doorstep.


“Wha… OMG. OK, stay here. No, you can’t go outside and check them out. I’ll go and see how they are doing. Yes, I’ll call for back up if needed.”

After not so close inspection, I pronounced our winged friends DOA.

Crap, I thought. Now comes the time when I need to explain why I can’t fix the birds. Why sometimes no amount of tape will do the trick. Why I’m not going to take the feathered ones to a special bird hospital. Why I’m not going to even consider putting stickers on our windows like the ones at Grandma’s house, I don’t care how cute they are. I even thought that maybe more theological ponderings about bird heaven were about to be explored. And fair enough: all this is just part of the mom-job—navigating the sensitive topic of the circle of life.

But as I collected the bird remains, moving them to an eternal resting spot that was not our front walkway, I was caught off guard by the actual exchange between Brothers M.

“Hey Mom, why don’t you just leave them for our cat to eat?”

“Good idea, Bro. I’ll bet they are better than cat food.”

Sometimes boys are the easier—if not grodier—sex.

****
Oh, and BTW, the window splat was nothing more than berries that didn't fair well upon impact. I'm pretty sure our feathered friends broke their necks and were gone instantly. :(

Saturday, April 10, 2010

The view from 10,000 feet

Today I got some sobering news about family friends and their baby. So, here’s a small break from my typical ranting.
 
Do me—and yourselves—a favor. Take a minute, grab your kids, and give them a squeeze—the really good kind. Breath in their sweet (or maybe funky) smell. They are the loves of your life and you would fight like tigers to protect them. Because, even us mean moms know when we’ve got it so, so good.

Friday, April 9, 2010

Random acts of malice, pt. 2

I believe that it is better to turn to PBS Sprout (or your favorite Pixar movie) than to drinking in the afternoon. Unfortunately there have been times when I've turned to both.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Shares well with others

For three days straight we’ve seen sun, so it was of paramount importance I get the kids outside again to run off the remains of Easter candy and pent up energy. To the park we headed.

Now once upon I time I used to pack for the park like a sherpa trekking Mt. Everest. I’d have snacks, lunch, sand toys, diapers, wipes, anti-bacterial liquid, sunscreen... a mall’s-worth of goodies in my multiple diaper bags. Today I’m much more of a minimalist. I bring coffee for myself and if the kids want to bring toys, they have to convince me they are worth the extra effort, and they have to carry them.

“Can we bring our swords?”

“No.”

“Why?!”

“Because you beat each other with them, and I like to reserve that experience for when we are home and the neighbors can’t see.”

“We promise we won’t hit other kids.”

“No.”

“Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeease.”

“Why don’t you take your squirt guns,” I suggested, thinking that at least those would be harder to use in maiming another child.

“No, we want the swords.”

“Fine, but the first sign of aggression, and I’m taking them.”

Insert irony: as soon as we got the park, the boys didn’t want anything to do with the swords anyway. What did strike everyone’s fancy was playing in the sandpit.

The sandpit is the bane of my existence. While it at least keeps the kids contained, thus allowing me a chance catch up with fellow moms at the playground, it is the messiest, dirtiest place in the whole park. God only knows what other animals use the sandpit for, but I don’t want to go there.

Additionally, some architectural genius also decided to put a “fresh water” fountain in the middle of this play area. So, not only can our kids get sand in every pocket, cuff and crevice, but they can also get themselves sopping wet in the process. Always interested in pushing the envelope, the Mighty Midget today decided sopping wet wasn’t good enough, and proceeded to actually drink from one of the water-filled communal buckets left for all the neighborhood kids. To cover for my poor parenting, I plied her with oranges announcing loudly and awkwardly to mothers looking on in disapproval, “Oh well, what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger!” and “I’m sure the vitamin C in these oranges will counter any pathogens.” A few moms scooted themselves and their young a few feet further from us.

After a while, that embarrassing moment passed and everyone was having a grand ol’ time. But all good things must come to an end, and the owner of most of the toys started collecting her buckets, rakes and spades to take home.

“Um, excuse me, sweetie, can I have that?”

I turned to look and see what was going on.

“Here you go. Can I trade this watering can for that scooper you have?”

There was a mother trying to bargain with my two year old, hoping the Mighty Midget would willingly give up the shovel she had been loving so for the past 10 minutes. And the Midget seemed to be the one controlling the situation.

“Sweetie, it has to go bye-bye. Will you give it to me, pretty please?” this mother further cajoled.

“Ummm…you know, you can just take it, especially if it belongs to you. That’s so nice of you to give her other toys, but you don’t have to negotiate with my daughter. You’re the mom,” I good-heartedly laughed, still unable to believe that this was what was actually taking place anyway.

“Well, I just don’t want her to think we're OK with grabbing. Or worse! That I don’t want to share with her! Learning to share is so very important, isn’t it?!”

It was actually more of a statement than a question.

“Oh, right. Ugh, thanks,” I mumbled as I extracted the coveted shovel from the Midget’s mighty grip. Yet, I think all this episode might have taught my daughter was that she was the one wearing the (albeit wet) pants in that situation.

Ummm, WTF? When did our kids become the boss of us?

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Kids nite out

One of the restaurants in our neck of the woods does something crazy-yet-brilliant: they feature a kids nite. I think their marketing literally goes a little something like, “We're here to help kids learn proper ways of eating in nicer restaurants.”

Upon reading this the first time I immediately I started daydreaming of something akin to ski school…where we might leave our young diners with a professional, maybe dressed as a lion tamer, tackling the job of teaching table manners. Imagine my disappointment when I found out it was the restaurant’s position that parents were still responsible for their children throughout the dining experience. They were simply willing to open their doors to the vertically challenged, and they weren’t a Chuck-E-Cheese.

Even so, here was our opportunity to go out as a family and enjoy a meal that wasn’t eaten in the car.

Not wanting to take any chances, I managed to rope about six other neighborhood families into also taking their brood to the restaurant. “Come on,” I cheered, “it’ll be fun and the kids can hang out with each other while we throw back a few!” My secret plan was that with the extra families there, someone else’s kids might actually be worse behaved than mine. I needed to stack the odds in my favor.

I went so far as to over-stimulate my three with a trip to the zoo in the morning followed by ferocious play in the afternoon that involve hurling Wii discs like ninja stars at one another. I got them good and wired and tired so that everyone collapsed into a nap by 4. I let them sleep until 6:15, when I attempted to dream transfer them to the car for our 6:30 reservation. My hopes were that they’d still be comatose for the first half of dinner.

Husband would be joining us directly from work, so I had the pleasure of bringing the three into the restaurant by myself. As I entered I got a heart-warming mix of looks that said either “how sad” or “oh no.” When someone says to you, “You are so brave to come out by yourself with the kids!” what they are really saying is, “Your kids are obnoxious and you are crazy to leave your house without back up. Please don’t sit by me.”

The quote of the night came from our waiter who joyously announced, “I don’t have kids and these family nights make me want to drink.”

The rest of the evening progressed with far less drama than I expected. Eventually the cavalry (Husband) arrived, and though he only got to eat the leftovers from a kids meal barely touched, I think our outing was a moderate success. Our kids behaved relatively well, ate a fraction of their dinner, and we made it out of the restaurant without the assistance of a boot in our collective ass. Yes, what we consumed still amounted to nothing more than hot dogs, chicken tenders, fish & chips and apple juice. But it cost us about $80, so it must have been good, right?

I dunno. Maybe the drive thru isn’t so bad after all.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Random acts of malice, pt. 1

Sometimes when my kids are bugging me, I eat their Easter/Halloween/Christmas candy in front of them, saying I'm not going to stop until they shape up. Rarely does their behavior improve, but I've satisfied my sweet tooth without being sneaky.

Monday, April 5, 2010

Spring break

So far, spring break 2010 is the biggest misnomer on record.

Spring? There is no spring. We’ve had nasty rain and cold temperatures that rival most SF winter (or—OK—summer) days.

Break? Absolutely not. My kids have been out on break since Wednesday afternoon, and today is the toughest day yet. All three home for 11 consecutive days, all day long, and the inability to mix in park/playground/outside time is making for a very rough “holiday.”

Mix in the ill-conceived Easter candy, and it’s the perfect storm: they are bouncing off the walls. Sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally.

Maybe it’s time to mix in a play date.

Heh, heh, heh.


Sunday, April 4, 2010

Thank you, Easter Bunny

Shocked that the Easter Bunny paid us a visit. Inspired by his message of forgiveness and redemption. Hopeful it makes an impression on the kids.


Based upon the fights already ensuing over who gets which Pez dispenser, doubtful it will. But have a Happy Easter anyway!

Saturday, April 3, 2010

The real meaning of Easter


Easter at the House of M includes timeworn traditions such as hunting for eggs, fighting over chocolate, stealing candy from your brother’s and sister’s baskets, sneaking treats when your parents have explicitly told you that you’ve had your quota, and watching the Arsenal football match on Fox Soccer Channel. As if that isn’t enough to fill a day, I’d like to add to it something novel: going to church.

Raised in a moderately Catholic family—parents Catholic, their parents Catholic, everyone attending Catholic school, but all doing so more for the tradition of it rather than the fervor—I feel that the legacy should continue with my children. The fly in the ointment is that I’m married to a non-Catholic who is allergic to organized religion.

Husband has made it clear that while he will not oppose my need to expose the kids to religion, he is not prepared to become a “happy clapper” and thus will not be joining us at Mass. (For the record, I haven’t actually come across many happy clappers over my years and still hold hopes that he’ll accompany us. But so far, no dice.)

So that leaves me with the challenge of taking the kids to Mass solo.

I have managed this plenty of time in the past, but it’s such a major drag, and I’m fairly certain defeats the whole spiritual benefit of our going in the first place. Usually what happens is I show up, loaded down with my young, a sippy cup or two, and some books or toys to keep them happy. On the occasions I forget toys, a missalette (book of hymns and readings) must be sacrificed for the greater good.

Then we get about 10 minutes in before one of them wants to know when we can leave and get donuts. Occasionally I’ll get a runner who takes off down the aisle. Always I have someone announce rather loudly, “This is soooooooo boooooooooring.” (That’s always a crowd pleaser.) And before we’ve even made it through the first reading I’m breaking the Third Commandment and through gritted teeth swearing at the kids.

“For the love of G*d would you PLEASE pull it together or I swear to Ch***t I’m going to beat you right here and now!”

I mean, really can’t understand why Husband doesn’t want to mix this into our holiday traditions.

But with all the things that Easter does represent—a fresh start, new life—maybe this year will feature some positive change for our little pack, too. Stay tuned…and Happy Easter!

Friday, April 2, 2010

Taggers

Living in San Francisco presents some challenges that all my suburban friends know not of. For example, we don’t have an easily accessible back yard into which I can banish my kids when they are getting rowdy. We do have a back yard—and for that I’m very grateful. But getting there requires trekking down two flights of stairs, and is not conveniently located off the kitchen (where we’ve already established I spend every waking moment of my day.)

So my kids get to play in the front yard. Which also means that they are basically playing on the street because our yard is little more than a 6’x6’ patch of green space. To keep children amused in such a lush and inviting environment, there is side walk chalk. The toy of choice for children of the concrete jungle.

My kids love their chalk, and why not? They write their names, draw trains, play hop scotch, even outline each other’s bodies (so that it looks like our house is a perpetual crime scene).


The only real rules I have with regard to the chalk are 1) you may only deface the sidewalk in front of our house, and 2) no drawing on the house itself—only the actual sidewalk.

“OK guys, here you go. You can draw, but remember: not on the house.”

“Got it.”

10 minutes pass, and while I can’t hear anything disturbing, I stick my head outside to see what they are up to.

“Umm…what is this?! Did I NOT just tell you that you may NOT draw all over the house?!”

I’m met with blank stares.


Apparently my children don’t speak English very well. (Had I realized this, I would have marked accordingly on our SF Unified school application form. Maybe then we would have been placed in a school of choice.)

Thursday, April 1, 2010

Breakfast for dinner…for breakfast

I find that one of the great joys of motherhood is wearing the hat of short order cook. Not only do I get the pleasure of making at least three meals a day, but it’s often three different meals at each seating, not including the adult courses that I lovingly prepare for Husband and myself. So I guess that’s about 10+ plates I’m whipping up on the average day. Pepper in the snacks and ill-timed requests for beverages, and it’s no wonder I never leave the kitchen to do other fun jobs, such as laundry, cleaning bathrooms, etc.

What makes this facet of motherhood particularly delightful is when each version of each meal prepared for each child is rejected with a “what’s that?” and “looks gross.” As I mentioned yesterday, I’ve been somewhat under the weather. So while under normal circumstances I smile like Donna Reed and ask my little darlings to suggest something more to their liking, last night I was in no mood to mess with them. More to the point, my offspring were not using their best judgment in messing with me.

“Moooooooom! What is this? It looks weird.”

“It’s scrambled eggs with cheese, heavy on the cheese. If you recall, you cracked the eggs, put in the cheese and whisked them together not a minute ago.”

“Really? I thought we were making a cake.”

“You can call it whatever you want, but it’s what’s for dinner.”

“Smells yuck.”

“That’s because it’s marginally healthy. Now dig in.”

The Mighty Midget, bless her heart, tucked in and devoured dinner. Her brothers, however, were not sold; my attempt to get away from another night of dinosaur chicken and macaroni & cheese was failing. Yet still, I never raised my voice. (The fact that I’ve lost my voice to tonsillitis is beside the point.) Very quietly, but quite gravely, I looked each of my angels in the eye and told them they had 5 minutes to finish their dinner or else they were going straight to bed—no bath, no stories, no cuddles.

When 5 minutes passed, I tried again and told them that whatever they didn’t finish they were getting for breakfast the next day. Plus the whole straight to bed threat. Backfire! To this they jumped with glee, ran from the table, brushed their teeth and jumped into bed.

Fast-forward to this morning when I pulled out the remains of their egg-n-cheese omelets.

“What?! Are you kidding? That’s not breakfast?!”

“Yes, it is. In fact, it’s what many people have for breakfast everyday. And last night you chose to have for today’s breakfast instead. Remember…?”

“Moooooooooooom. There’s no way.”

“Way.”

Currently there is much crying and desperation in the House of M.


To be honest, I’m not too sure how long the Mexican standoff will continue. Even with focused resolution my Depression-era grandmother would be proud of, I’d rather just throw a bowl of Cheerios at them then listen to these howls of woe. Because who am I kidding—even the Meanest Mom can’t outplay, outwit or outlast her own kids.