Parent’s Night In: Bedtime Bingo

Hi there Moms & Pops! Bedtimes at our house are quite the event. I’m sure  that like me, many of you have to limber up for the countless negotiations that will inevitably take place during the course of getting a little one … Continue reading

Dust off the hate….and the actual dust

PopTart Cat

I have a confession to make…but first, some background information; Every morning before school, my son has a PopTart. I use the phrase ‘has’ liberally as he takes about 5 toddler sized nibbles out of the damn things and the … Continue reading

DeconMama Dictionary: Threenager

The Threenager

three·nag·er  /θriˌnedʒər/  (n.) A person aged from 36 to 47 months old. The threenager is quite fond of contradictory phrases such as, ‘but’, ‘no’ and ‘I don’t want to’. You will often hear all of the contradictory clauses smashed together to … Continue reading

Conversations with a Preschooler #1: Miyazaki Edition

Kiki first delivery

I love the films of Hayao Miyazaki. I’m not alone in this, his films are adored by millions. I’ve shared my interest with the King and up until the other day, I figured he was just watching the movies and not really connecting … Continue reading

Is that a KitKat? Cause I need a break.

It's Alive

I haven’t written in over a month. Which has been my longest stint of silence since I started this Mommy-Fail-Blog journey.  Has anything of import happened….Let’s see…I just can’t think if anything…hmmm…..Oh yeah, I remember! DeconPapa wrecked his 2 month old … Continue reading

Potty Envy

I am not a sentimental person by nature. There are things that tug at my heartstrings (videos of people falling off swings, every death ever in Harry Potter, Miyazaki films), but for the most part, all that mawkish shit does nothing for me. I am the type of person who when cleaning my craft room and  finding a printed napkin from my wedding, doesn’t bring it to my face and hope to catch a whiff of the day I became a ‘Mrs.’ I think;  1) Why do we still have this? 2) I’m sure the damn thing has spores! 3) Why the fuck did we spend money on custom NAPKINS? And 4) Where’s the trash bin?

Maybe it’s from being raised the quintessential Air Force Brat, or perhaps my innate cynicism allowed me to thrive in the Military-transientesque environment I was raised in. Either way, the end result is that I have a hard time mustering two fucks about most things overly maudlin.

You can imagine my confusion then, as I clutched my son’s changing table to my chest and my eyes began to spill all the tears ever.

Let that sink in. I was standing in the early morning light, bawling over needing to remove a perpetually piss & shit covered padded rectangle from the dresser in my son’s room.

…..Sooooo, what gives?

The King will be 3 next month. I don’t have diapers to change or buttpaste to apply and I’m frickin sad about that. What kind of screwed up Stolkholm mess is parenting?

I have had poop in my face, on my hands, on my shirt, and in my hair. I have had to hand wash accidents so many times that the skin on my hands has cracked from dryness. I have posted about infantile explosions of feces that left poo devastation in our home, and now, you’re telling me that realizing I that I will not have to do it again will turn me in to a blubbering pile of the feels.

So fine.I am a sentimental schmuck now. The clichés of how quickly children grow have pervaded my life and left me hollow and wanting.

I can see the pieces of who he is becoming, stitched together with the threads of my soul.

But seriously,  as I continue to give and give, will I find more shit to cry over?

Raisin in the Bun

I love breakfast. Love it. Cereal, pancakes, donuts, deliciously fatty foods in bright colors usually doused in syrup. Please and thank you.

My child on the other hand, hates food in general, breakfast in specific. So this morning when he asked for a ” warm cimmaman bagol”, I was surprised but happy to oblige.

Let’s fast forward about 10 minutes to The Emperor standing beside his toddler table, furiously pointing at his bagel and yelling ” Gremlins on my bagooool” at the top of his lungs.

Let’s also fast foward a few more mintures to me, sitting at a Lilliputian table staring into the soulless eyes of a Dora the Explorer placemat at as I pick all the raisons out of a cinnamon raisin bagel.

All of the raisins out of a bagel with  the word ‘raisins’ in its fucking description.

Yeah.

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Things That Go Frump in the Night

12:33.

5 hours and 3 minutes after bedtime and I’ve been onto the King’s room no less than 8 times.

The first time was to pee.
The second, it was too dark in his room.
The third, fourth, fifth and sixth times were because certain items around the room were scary.
The jackets hanging on the wall hooks. The wall hooks that look like puppy dog tails. The still fan. The lotion bottle….
The seventh time was a request to cover cold toes after the blanket moved.
And the last time was the oh so cliched glass of water.

There will come a day when this is all funny.
It’s not today and it sure as fuck isn’t looking like tomorrow.

Go. To. Sleep.

Imitation is the highest form of Parenting

My son has a delightful new habit. Well, he has lots of new habits, like asking a painfully drawn out “Whhyyy?” after I answer any of his questions, but although annoying at times, it doesn’t tend to get me into trouble. This other quirk, on the other hand, landed me some serious side eye at the grocery store.

We were out of bananas, cheese and yogurt. In our house, this is DEFCON Level: Extreme.  If tiny dictator should look up and not see potassium packed fruits hanging from the rack, he will immediately ask for  ‘a piece o cheese, please”. In the event that Mom has completely given up on maintaining a peaceful domicile and kept either stocked, the King will then ask for strawberry yogurt.

I use the word ‘ask’ liberally, because this isn’t so much a request at that point, as it is a frantic utterance exploding from his tiny vibrating hyperventilating person. 9 times out of 10, we don’t get to Yogurtaclysm. I can stave off the insanity at the initial request, but this time it is appropriate to say, Mama lost her damn fool mind.

I had none of this in the house, and since toddlers develop the uncanny ability to sense weakness I just knew that he would soon pick up on my distress and go in for the kill. I maneuvered my purse in front of the barren banana hammock and asked him to go put his shoes on so we could go on a ride to the store.  I held my breath as he furroughed his brow at my out-of-place purse, and sighed loudly when turned to put his flip flops on.

A few minutes and a grocery cart load later, I was feeling pretty darn good. We maneuvered into the express checkout lane and I was about to unload my three meager items when I noticed the 5 million purchases of the person in front of us. I stood with my yogurt-filled hand frozen over the belt.

“Can you count?” I muttered under my breath.

The King turned towards me and loudly exhibited his new habit “Mama, why you say “can you count?”

I frantically whispered, “Shhh Shhh Shh, I was just saying that this line is for 10 things or fewer. She has more than 10.”

He nodded his head solemnly, “She has more than 10.” I relaxed into myself until I saw him swiveling his body around “Hey you, Lady! This is spress lane. You have more than 10.”

The offending shopper and cashier turned to look at us, the King with his finger extended accusingly and me with all the fucks given ever written plainly on my face. I offered up a beatific smile and dropped the yogurt onto the belt.

Meh.

Meh

 

Wished Connection

You were the blond in a green top who was watching me with a judgey face as I continually tried to keep my toddler from leaping off of tall playground equipment, to his doom. I was the red faced sweaty mom running helter skelter begging my son to “put on his ‘listening ears’ or we’d be leaving the park.”

Our eyes met as you and your friend walked your children over to the slide to calmly play. You whispered something to your friend, you both snuck glances and snickered.

Firstly, fuck you very much. Secondly, as I know your kids are too young to be able to run yet, I have several hopes for your tiny tots.

I hope that they are smart. Like really really smart. So smart that they continually call you on your shit, as you seem to be chock full of it. 

I hope that they are healthy and active.; Usain Bolt-Active. It will bring me immense pleasure imagining you chasing after them as they run pell mell away from you as you attempt to corral them. 

I wish them captious appetites, and inquisitiveness, and stealth, and dramatic flourish and impromptu artistic urges, and light fingers and so much more. 

Children are a gift, and I sincerely wish that as they grow, your children continually give and give and give until you can’t take any more...love.

Oh, one last thing.

I hope your children grow up to be kind,because although you haven’t set a very good example for them, children aren’t born hateful judgmental sweatpant wearing shrews. They become them.

But you know that already, don’t you?