And the Oscar Goes To.........

I am inundated every day with a chorus of “Mom, watch this!” and “Mom, look at me!”  When I finally turn my precious attention away from whatever it is that I am doing (most of the time after the third or fourth plea, each one growing a little louder, a little whinier, a little harder to ignore) nine times out of ten their urgency is unwarranted.  Just today, a conversation with my husband was rudely interrupted by Tyler who just had to show me how he filled his mouth up with water from the sprinkler outside and spit it on the lawn.  “Wowwww” I said, "That’s cooool!”  Seconds later the conversation was interrupted yet again by Madelyn who wanted to show me how she could take a giant step over a wayward sandbox shovel in the middle of the yard.  “Good job!” I said, pulling from one of the 7 canned responses I use repeatedly throughout the day that also include, “That’s great! Nice work! You’re so silly! and “Oh my gosh” (not to be confused with “Oh my God” which is a no-no in our house).  Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of moments when their excitement is justified and my response is not Academy Award worthy—like the time when Madelyn wanted to show me her first somersault or when Tyler had finally put a difficult puzzle together all by himself.  But this entry is about the hundreds of other times throughout my LONG days at home with the kids where I am forced to act excited, surprised, amazed, and fascinated after a “Mom, WAAATCH!” interruption.  By 4 PM my one-liners have been replaced by mere sounds like “Mmmmm” and if I can summon the strength I’ll even go for the two syllable “Mmmmm Hmmmm”.  If I’m still standing by 8 PM I abandon sound responses entirely and resort to facial expressions with no words.  There’s the raised eyebrows look and the giggle with simultaneous head nod.  And then my personal favorite, the open mouth surprise.  While I may not be earning any Mother of the Year Awards, I’m keeping my fingers crossed there’s a spot saved for me in Hollywood!

Play Dating

We have lived in our house 9 years this September.  When we first moved into this subdivision we did not go out of our way to make friends with the neighbors.  We were one of the youngest couples on the block so when the flyer came around announcing the upcoming block party with a subtext inviting everyone to bring their kids and get to know one another, we immediately felt like the oddballs because we did not have kids yet.  I pictured us standing around the punch bowl on the outskirts of conversations about poopy diapers and sleepless nights while we desperately attempted to add our two cents:  “Yeah, our dogs woke us up early this morning….we’re beat.”  The day of the block party arrived and we pulled our car into the garage and immediately shut the garage door behind us.  “Do you think anyone saw us?” I stammered. 

Flash forward almost 9 years.  We now have 3 children and gone are the days of being anti-social.  Tyler glanced out the window yesterday and saw the kids across the street, ages 5 and 3, riding their big wheels and asked if we could invite them over to play.  I panicked.  This was the first time my 4 year old showed any interest in a “play date” and I didn’t want to let the opportunity slip away.  I quickly glanced around our messy house, grateful that it was a nice day outside and we could ask them to play in the backyard.  The backyard.  My husband was planning to mow the lawn later that afternoon and the thought of the kids trotting through our amazon jungle of overgrown spring grass had me reconsidering.  “Come on, Mom, they’re going back inside, we have to hurry!”  OK, OK, let’s go ask them.

I tentatively approached  their dad who was working on some landscaping. “Hi, um, I was, well, Tyler was wondering if the kids wanted to come play in our backyard?”  Why the heck was I so nervous?  I felt like I was dating again.  What was the protocol for initiating a date….a playdate that is?  Did I have him sign a waiver, what if he said no, was I supposed to provide a snack?  I hadn’t had time to prepare.  “You guys want to play in Tyler’s backyard?” he asked.  My heart pounded in my chest as I waited anxiously for their answer.  “Sure,” they said abandoning their big wheels and walking over to the curb where they waited for an adult to tell them it was OK to cross the street.  Oh, wait, that was me.  “Look both ways, kids” I instructed a little too loudly so their dad was assured that I was a responsible parent.  Then we headed off in the direction of our backyard.  I remembered only too late that we hadn’t discussed when I would bring them back but as I turned around I realized that their dad was gone, probably relishing in his new-found freedom.  Oh well.  I opened the gate to the back yard and the kids immediately headed for the playhouse, the one thing that separated our house from the others on the block.  My dad and my uncle had built it for us when I was pregnant with my second child and I was proud to have something exciting for the kids to do.  “It’s really messy in here,” the older neighbor boy said.  Crash and burn.  The 3 year old girl wanted to play in our sand box so I removed the cover and then quickly started picking out the leaves that must have flown in last fall—she didn’t notice or at least she wasn’t as vocal as her brother about the mess.

All in all the kids had fun and as I walked the neighbors back to their front door and said our goodbyes I wondered if I should wait the obligatory three days before asking them over again.  After all, we didn’t want to seem too desperate.  As I returned home I made a mental note to give the backyard a makeover now that we were “dating.”

Paper Trail

I was going through some old computer files and I stumbled upon a three page document titled “Tyler’s Instructions” that I created for our daycare provider 4 years ago.  My son, and firstborn, was only 3 months old at the time and I couldn’t believe I was abandoning him with basically a stranger.  My instruction sheet detailed the minutia of his every waking minute and included a section on his favorite toys (Come on, he was 3 months old for Pete’s sake!).  I had instructions for how to swaddle him if he was fussy, what position to rock him in, and advice to use a hairdryer if he wouldn’t stop crying.  Keep in mind that my daycare provider was watching 5-6 other kids at the time so I’m sure she was thinking “I’ll be damned if I’m going to leave these other kids so I can go upstairs and run the hairdryer for Mr. Fussypants,” but she just smiled and accepted “Tyler’s Instructions” along with an extra activity mat, a tub full of toys, his favorite blanket, etc, etc, etc.

Well, I returned to work this week after yet another 3 week maternity leave.  As I dropped the three kids off at that same daycare provider’s house I noticed with amusement that absent was the novel of instructions, absent was the extra activity mat, absent was the tub of toys for Baby Gabe (hey, I was just happy I hadn’t forgotten any of the kids!).  It made me reflect on the way many things have changed between my first born and third born.  Tyler’s baby book is bursting at the seams with every nugget from his first year of life.  Maddy’s book is less detailed but existent nonetheless.  I went to Gabriel’s two month doctor’s appointment several weeks ago and had the nurse scribble his stats (height, weight, head size) on a piece of paper!  Unfortunately the stats from his one month appointment (also on a scratch piece of paper) got used to dispose of Tyler and Maddy’s gum on the way home from that very same appointment.

As I pick a few dog hairs off Gabe’s fallen binkie, I have a flashback of boiling Tyler’s binkies when they were dropped and at least rinsing Maddy’s in the sink.  Nap times used to be sacred.  I fondly remember how I wouldn’t plan anything during those precious afternoon hours and laugh to myself as I’m loading Gabe into his car seat for the second preschool run of the day that will be followed by grocery shopping—hey, we have to eat, right?  I distinctly recall bragging about how my firstborn rarely watched TV when he was little (he was too busy being stimulated by the educational activities I planned for him).  When Madelyn was born she ended up being exposed to the few programs that I was letting a then 19 month old Tyler watch.  However Gabe, now 3 months old, practically has his own requests on our DVR.  The one thing that hasn’t changed…my love for them.  Parents of one child will often wonder how they can possibly love another child as much as they do their first.  It’s hard to explain it but you do, you just might not have the paper trail to prove it!

Gabe's "Baby Book"

Cliffs Notes

While I was still pregnant with my third child I had a play date with my friends Tina (who has 3 kids) and Bethany (who has 2 kids).  We met at Tina’s for lunch and I was home for the kids’ naps by 2:00.  Later that night my husband asked me what was new with the girls and I was stumped.  I had just spent over 2 hours with my girlfriends and I didn’t have a single factoid, shred of gossip, or nugget of news to share with him.  How could that be???  Of course it was because there was next to no time between serving lunch, begging the kids to eat lunch, cleaning up after lunch, changing diapers, disciplining, and starting the dreaded 15 minute countdown until it was time to leave (which always takes about 25-30 minutes) to actually re-connect with each other.  I joke that when you become a mother, and especially when your kids become busy toddlers, you must only tell the “cliffs notes” version of stories because of all the potential interruptions.  Below is the same story told first by a woman prior to having children and second by a hypothetical woman who is pregnant and has 2 toddlers.

Woman B.C. (Before Children): 

So I was at the gym the other day.  Was it Saturday or Sunday?  No it must have been Saturday because I slept in on Sunday.  Anyways, that creepy guy was there again.  He was wearing the shortest gym shorts I’ve ever seen.  He was on the Treadmill and I was doing some free weights.  No wait, I had a really good view of him in the mirror so I must have been at the lat pull down station.  I see him checking out this girl that was young enough to be his daughter.  She was wearing one of those super tight halters with her fake boobs and is basically just parading around the gym not breaking a sweat.  In fact, I don’t remember seeing her do one single exercise.  Next thing you know he gets tripped up and goes flying off the back end of the treadmill.  Serves him right!

Woman with 2 toddlers:

So ("Shhh, Mommy’s talking") I was at the gym ("Tyler don’t swing that bat in the house!”) and that creepy guy (“Madelyn Rose do NOT push her!”) was checking out some big-boobed bimbo (“You guys KNOCK IT OFF!”) and he(“Onto the stairs for a time out RIGHT NOW young lady!”).  Anyways, as I was saying he was checking out (“Do NOT use that tone of voice with me or we’ll go straight home for naps”), he was checking out (“Tyler don’t antagonize your sister when she is in time out!”).  What was I saying?  Oh just forget it.

Spring Cleaning

Usually I find such joy in shipping the big winter coats and wool sweaters back to their storage containers (a.k.a. garbage bags stacked in the corner of the basement covered with a giant sleeping bag…..but storage containers had you picturing a much more organized system, you have to admit!)  This year I am dreading it.  Maybe it’s because my 2 month old still has to be carried around all day long making even a simple task like unloading the dishwasher next to impossible.  Or maybe it’s because I now have three children’s closets and dressers to also re-organize and other than the scarce hand-me-downs we acquire each season that means shopping for entire new wardrobes for the warmer weather.  But I think the real reason I am dreading it has to do with me.  I have 4 different “categories” of clothes scattered in various closets, “storage containers” and dresser drawers throughout the house.  First there are the maternity clothes which unfortunately I am not ready to part ways with yet.  And it’s not because I have any sentimental attachment to them but rather because they are the only pieces in my wardrobe that truly cover the 2 month postpartum belly bulge I am currently sporting and my freakishly large nursing boobs.  Then there are my regular sized clothes or “skinny” clothes but that term is relative.  This category is collecting dust….a few more months and I’ll have to bring out the moth balls.  And then of course there are the “I’m too thin for the maternity clothes but still can’t fit into my skinny clothes” clothes (currently receiving a lot of play time).  Interestingly enough there is a wildcard 4^th category that has grown over the years that I call my painting clothes.  In this pile are old sorority T-shirts, T-shirts for running a marathon and a few 5Ks and free giveaway T-shirts that for some reason I can’t get rid of.  Then there are jeans and shorts that are no longer in style but are still of good quality.  So apparently I have invented a category of clothes that will come in handy should I decide to re-paint the living room!  Funny thing is, I haven’t painted a single room in my house—what can I say, my Dad is a handyman—nor do I plan to.  If I were to put on a fashion show with my current clothes it would sound something like this. 

“And the lovely Carrie is showcasing a slightly weathered pewter nursing tank top covered by a maternity cardigan that she is simply swimming, uh, stunning in.  She has paired it with some skinny jeans that reveal a majestic muffin top.  She has accessorized this ensemble with a…..paintbrush???  Oh, this makes sense folks, she is modeling this spring’s painting collection!”

Well, I’m off to Goodwill to part with my painting clothes and I’ve decided to pack away those maternity outfits.  I’ve replaced the sleeve of Thin Mints (damn those Girl Scouts!) with a handful of carrots and I’m out the door on a brisk walk.  Skinny clothes, here I come!

I Love Being a Mother

I love the smell of the kids’ lotion on my hands long after their baths are over.

I love when they crawl into bed with me after a bad dream and the way their tiny bodies fit so snugly up against me.

I love that my daughter says pampakes instead of pancakes and that my son thinks he can fly when he puts on his batman costume.

I love the way my newborn’s mouth forms a perfect “O” as he drifts off to sleep.

I love the vertical, brown line on my abdomen and my varicose veins that remind me of the 9 months I carried them inside me.

I love my grey hairs that remind me of the many more years I will spend worrying about them.

I love falling in love with my husband as I watch him comb our daughter’s hair into pigtails.

I love the fact that there is a sticky skeleton dangling from the ceiling in our bedroom from Halloween two years ago that I will never take down.

I love reading them the same bedtime stories my mother read to me when I was a child.

I love kissing their boo-boos and finding lost toys.

I love checking on them before I go to bed and watching them sleep.  I love their messy hair and sleepy eyes and stinky breath when they wake up.

I love the feeling of their silky hands wrapped around my finger as we cross the street.

I love feeling needed and I need them right back.

I am a mother.

I love.

TMI RE: BMs

When we were potty training my son we anxiously waited for that Big Moment (literally the BM!) when he first pooped on the potty.   We were in Michigan at my parent’s lake house when Tyler tugged on my shirt and told me he “had to go poops.”  We were outside standing in a circle talking with 5 other relatives so I scurried to get the potty seat that was in the trunk of the car (that damn seat went EVERYWHERE with us) and lead Tyler to a private location so he could concentrate on the task at hand.  “No, Mommy, I want to sit there,” he said pointing to the center of the circle of people.  I almost fell over in shock.  For a woman who fears pooping in public, who once left the stall 3 times to turn on the loud hand dryer to muffle the sounds emerging from my stall, who has considered switching shoes in case anyone peeked under the stall to attempt to identify me later….this was insanity.  But sure enough he was successful and was rewarded by applause and “oohs and ahhhs” from  the crowd that had gathered.  Perhaps I could learn something from my son and eliminate my own fear of using the bathroom in public.  I had another chance to be amazed this past winter.  Our DirectTV was on the fritz (insert panicked exclamations from the other parents like myself who depend on a few key TV shows to get through some of the hairy parts of the day).  As the repairman was changing wires and checking switches on the television, Tyler once again “had to go poops” (I am making a mental note at this moment to eliminate this cutesie phrase from his vocabulary as I just pictured a 20 year old version of my son telling me he “had to go poops”).  Keep in mind the toilet was about 10 feet from where the repairman was working.  Once Tyler was comfortable on his throne I started to shut the door to give him some privacy but, more importantly, to rescue the repairman from a front row seat to Tyler’s daily bowel movement.  “No, Mom,” Tyler panicked, “leave the door open so I can see what this guy is doin!”  I reluctantly obliged and watched in agony as the repairman tried to stifle his laughter when a symphony of grunts, farts, and plops began to emerge from the bathroom.   I admired Tyler’s lack of embarrassment at what was just a natural bodily function after all.  I could at least try leaving the door open at home (baby steps, people!)  As I experimented with my new, liberating lack of privacy the kids came barreling into the bathroom fighting about who called who a poopy face first.  At that moment I decided this little experiment was a BM (Big Mistake)!!!

Just to give you an idea of how close the poor TV repairman was to the toilet!