Like a soldier who goes MIA

Yesterday a friend of mine e-mailed and asked what had happened to the Meanest Mom: why no posts? Was it possible that I was no longer mean? That I was out of material?

Rest assured fine people, that is not the case. The number of stories that have gone undocumented over the past few weeks is criminal. (The acts as well as the fact that I haven’t blogged about them.) And though in many ways I welcome the day when I can abandon my dubious title, the Meanest Mom on the Block is still plenty mean. She’s just on a new block. For the time being at least.

God save the Queen? Yes, and all her subjects, too. Team Murdin has come to town and we’ve got our game on.

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Stay tuned for more on

Expedition to England, Summer ’10:

2 Weddings +3 Countries + 0 Communication = Infinite Chaos

Operation “Toddler Takes Toy Story 3” = FAIL

Today I met a couple neighbors and their kids at the local cinema for a viewing of Toy Story 3. May I just say, Pixar does some fantastic work. This movie does not disappoint: it is adorable and well worth the $$$ that a trip to the movies will run you. But, may I also make one simple suggestion? Please. For the love of all that's pure and good in the world:

LEAVE YOUR TWO YEAR OLD AT HOME.

I was warned by friends: 2 year olds are too squirly. They don’t have the attention. You’ll regret it. But with three kids so close together in age, it hardly seems fair to keep the boys under house arrest while we wait for Midget to develop some (much needed) social skills. So foolishly (and stubbornly) I did bring Mighty with the boys and me. Afterall, she loves movies and watches anything that her brothers do, so why not this show? But again, the subtle-yet-important difference being this: it’s not what you watch, but how and where you watch it. Watching a movie in your own home where you can get up, run around, and generally not worry about making anyone else’s life miserable is a very different experience (for child and parent) than being in a theater.

Let me elaborate:

• 10:00  Enter cinema complex. Tell Midget she must take the stairs instead of the escalator. Experience Midget’s first fit.
• 10:02  Finally get to top of stairs.
• 10:03  On way to theater, pass restrooms. Listen to Midget announce emphatically “NO PEE PEE!”
• 10:04  Step into theater; pick best seats. Switch seats with brothers; switch back. Repeat.
• 10:07  See other friend arrive with Cool-Dad-Who-Buys-Son-Popcorn. Brothers M and Midget demand to know where their popcorn is.
• 10:08  Mom gives in and attempts to take Midget to concession stand. Midget denies Mom. Insists she will sit quietly with Brothers, Friend and Friend’s Mom. “No go! You go! Stay here!”
• 10:10  While Mom is in line buying popcorn, Friend’s Mom appears with Midget. Apparently Midget tried to make a run for it while Mom was out of the theater. Friend’s Mom passes Midget back to Mom.
• 10:12  Back in theater—with Midget and popcorn. All are happy. Trailers start.
• 10:15  Trailers continue.
• 10:20  Trailers are interesting, but Mom worries about losing the kids before the feature film even starts.
• 10:22  Trailers drag on. Midget and Middle Man fight over who gets to use the shared armrest. Much shooshing and placating is done by Mom.
• 10:25  Last trailer and Middle Man finishes the popcorn that was supposed to last him throughout the movie. Demands more. BMoC agrees to share the rest of his if a trip to McDonald’s is in the near future. Mom agrees to shut everyone up.
• 10:30  Movie starts. Mom sighs with relief. All are happy.
• 10:50  Midget jumps out her seat and announces, “Gotta pee!” Mom grumbles something in appropriate, especially given other children are in earshot.
• 10:55  Trip to facilities successful. Mom and Midget settle back into their seats.
• 11:10  Midget announces, “Gotta poo!” Mom ironically less annoyed just comes to terms with the fact she’ll have to watch the movie when it comes out on DVD. Takes Midget back to facilities.
• 11:15  Trip to facilities unsuccessful. (Unless just playing with the toilet paper constitutes success.)
• 11:16  Mom and Midget try to sneak back into the theater. Again.
• 11:25  Midget wants to switch seats.
• 11:30  Midget wants to dance in the side aisle.
• 11:35  Midget makes a run for it. Mom catches her before she can get to the bottom step.
• 11:40  Midget runs up and down an empty row of seats while Mom sits on the bottom step.
• 11:45  Suspecting Midget is becoming too much a distraction for fellow patrons, Mom benches Midget outside of the theater and she attempts to watch movie through small window in door.
• 11:50  Midget’s wails of woe subside with promises that she’ll be good.
• 11:55  Mom and Midget find new seats in theater: on the floor in exit path. New seating allows ample room for Midget to dance, do somersaults, and also provides easy access to main hallway where possible future screams of frustration cannot be heard (well) by fellow movie goers.
• 12:15  Midget settles down and finds a comfortable spot, laying in Mom’s lap.
• 12:20  Mom returns with Midget to original seats (and her two abandoned children, the Brothers M).
• 12:21  Midget spies empty bag and demands more popcorn. Mom placates her with “OK, OK, just hold tight, it’s coming, we'll get some in a minute, hold on…” Mom is actually thinking, “I’m going to beat you with the popcorn if you don’t shut the f#@% up.”
• 12:30  Movie ends. The Brothers M turn and ask Mom when they can come back and do it all again. The answer to which being either “when Hell freezes” or at the very least “when your sister turns 4.”

 I will now be changing my name from Meanest to Dumbest Mom on the Block.

The war for independence

It’s tough letting your kids do things for themselves. While I’d like to pretend it’s because I'm reluctant to let them go, sad to see them moving just a little further from the nest, really it’s just because that learning curve often creates more mess for me in the here-and-now.

Sam (aka, the Mighty Midget) is all of 2 years old. And her favorite word is “SELF!”

“Here, honey, let me help you get those shoes on.”

“SELF!”

“Baby, can Mommy help you put that dress on?”

“No! Go’way! Do it self!”

“Sweetie, let me help you with this bottle of water. No, come on, it’s too full. Let me help.”

“NOOOOOO! SEEEEEEEELF!”

That the shoes wind up on the wrong feet, the dress is inside-out, upside down, and she’s drenched herself with the bottle of water is irrelevant. She’s 2 going on 22, and she knows best.

It just makes me CRAZY! I’m thinking, “For the love of all that’s holy, please let me put the goddamn shoes on your stubborn little feet so that we can get out the door! We are already late!” But I can’t. I let her do it herself because I know that I have to sooner or later. And hey, eventually she will be able to do it all by herself. (I just pray she won’t wind up color-blind like her brothers…who really puts a red-and-blue striped shirt with khaki camo shorts anyway? What Not To Wear? We’ve got a candidate for you right here. His name is Zach.)

Anyway...

Yesterday Mighty announces with a wave of her hand, “Poo! Gotta go poo!” as she prances out of the kitchen on her way to the toilet.

“OK, let Mommy come and help you.”

“No! Self! Pri’cy (privacy). Do it self. Go’way.”

Fine, you little prima donna. Go for it.

Not more than a minute passes and then I hear gagging coming from the general direction of the bathroom. Oh god.

“Honey? What’s the matter...OH MY GOD! What happened?!”

There is poo everywhere. On her dress. On her hands. On the floor. And yes, folks, on her face. Hence, the gagging. Because if you have poo on your face, I’m gonna bet you’d gag, too.

Crying. (From Sam. Not me, surprisingly enough.)

“It’s OK, baby. Mommy’s here. Let me take care of this. You’re OK. Alright. Let’s rinse off your face. Here, drink some water. You’re fine.”

There are just sometimes when asking for a hand is OK. And yes, I guess I should remember that when I find myself in deep shit—it’s OK to ask for help. You can’t always do everything by yourself.

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Hope you have a great Independence Day of your own. Happy 4th, everyone!

Always a winner

I don’t have any trophies. Well, not anymore. I used to have some from ponytail-league softball (like, from when I was 10). I even had a few cheerleading medals—but isn’t THAT a story for another time.

Now: nothing.

As an adult I’ve managed to go without recognition. Some might think this is wise: flying under the radar and all. But my neglected ego (stop laughing) could use a little faux gold bling on the shelves. Something to let me know just how fabulous I am.

And so, I’m creating my own: the Deadbeat Mom Awards.

Being a Deadbeat Mom comes more naturally to some than others. Some probably learn from their own moms. For some, maybe it's just their cultural norm. For whatever reasons, most of the women I spend time with don’t really fit the image (see above). They’re all cute. And fashionable. And super into buying overpriced-organic-anything-as-long-as-it-fits-in-their-reusable-canvas-bags. They do whatever it takes to make sure their kids are healthy! And fit! And ready to take on the 10+ club activities crammed in post-preschool.

Still...I contend that while no one really aspires to be a Deadbeat Mom, we are all part of this group every once and a while. You just get caught off guard and WHOOPS! you drove home forgetting to buckle Junior into his carseat (and you don’t realize it until you are—thank God—safely home). Or YIKES! I totally didn’t mean to throw the baseball that hard, and no I wasn’t trying to give you a bloody nose while we played catch.

There’s the time Liam fell off the top bunk, and instead of racing him to the ER, I nonchalantly informed him that with my Mommy Powers I could “kiss it and make it all better.” Xrays about a week later showed that he did, in fact, have a broken arm. My Mommy Powers: sucky at best.

Then last week I caught Zach watching True Blood. Yeah, he’s 5. And at 5 he really shouldn’t be watching a show filled with violence, blood and frenzied vampire sex. Unfortunately Husband’s series recording picked up the East Coast airing and thus cut off the episode of Dragon Tales Zach had been previously watching. Awesome.

So, come on, ladies, time to fess up. You can put on your Jackie-Oversized sunglasses and hide behind your huge Orla Keily bag all you want, but I know you are out there. Won’t you stand up with me and accept your award with whatever dignity is left? And, yes, while might all wind up in Hell, at least we'll be there together. (I’ll bring the boxed wine.)