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

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?

 

 

The Keys to the Kingdom

I flipped over my purse, dumping its contents onto the countertop and watching a lip-gloss roll over the edge.

“Where are they?” I muttered for the umpteenth time.

Let me set the scene for you; It’s 15 minutes AFTER we should have left the house to be fashionably late to anywhere and I still can’t find my keys. On top of this, contractors are coming to the house in a few hours to redo our floors and our downstairs is not its usual organized chaos. I have no idea where anything is, let alone where I stashed my keys the night before.

I threw a wistful glance at the key hook by the door as I opened the babygate to dash upstairs and check my night stand one more time.

Nope. Not there.

I’m starting to glisten. I’m late to my crossfit class. The King might miss breakfast at school and I’m resigning myself to waiting for DeconPapa to return home from the fire station to chauffeur our negligent asses around.

“Mama, can I have a banana peas?” the King asked. I nodded absentmindedly in his direction as I broke a banana from the bunch and handed it to him.

EUREKA! I had definitely taken my keys outside when I walked the dog the night before, maybe I dropped them in the grass. I pushed the patio door open  and strode out into the backyard, King at my heels. Somewhere between Sherlock walking the fence line and using a stick to dig through the trashcan, I reached out and broke the banana for my son.

Sherlock

I did it without thinking, the banana was closed so I opened it. Logical, right?

Wrong. He started wailing.

“ I want to do it! Lemme open it!”

“King, it’s open eat your banana. Mama is still looking.”

“Nooooooooo!”

Now I’m  sweating in earnest, well in my armpits and upper lip mostly but at this point, who frickin cares? I can’t find the bloody keys and I’m being followed by a screaming 30 pound menace demanding that I use voodoo to magic his banana closed again. My patience is shot and my eye is steadily twitching. 20 minutes late…and climbing.

I turn back to my discarded purse when I hear the resounding thump of something heavy being thrown away. He had my full attention now.

I cocked my head and gazed at him from the side of my eye like a velociraptor “ Did you just THROW away that banana?”

He sensed that the atmosphere had changed drastically, but stuck to his guns. “ I want a new banana.”

I pounced, “ You don’t just throw away food!”

As I escorted him to his timeout corner, I threw all the cliched-classics at him;

  •  Have you lost your ever-loving mind?
  • There are children in this world who are starving and would give anything for that banana!
  • Maybe some time out will help you reflect on what you’ve done.
  • Wait until I tell your father about this!

No shame in this Mama’s game, I turned to resume my quest for keys and asked him ” Do you think bananas just grow on trees?”

“Yes Mama, on banana trees” He replied. Smartass.

…….I see what I did there.

Seeing me calmer, he asked me if he could bring his toy cars to school.

“Sure, honey go get them.” I told him.

“Cars go vroom. They go fast, but they need keys to drive.”

I muttered “Ain’t that the truth” under my breath, and inhaled sharply as the King pulled my keys out of his toy garage.

“Now we can drive, Mama. I have my keys.”

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in and do not fucking freak. Breathe out.

We rushed to the car and had backed down the driveway when I noticed that my child had no shoes on. Oh for pete’s sake…..

Not sure

 

 

Locks of Love

The minutes after bath and before bed are precious in our house. Everyone is winding down and the King especially, is extra sweet and asks for cuddles.

This evening, I decided to spend some time detangling his tiny mane. We sat, legs crossed, on the floor as I combed a homemade shea butter through his tangles. His little movements sending up wafts of the lavender oil I’d whipped into the balm.

I inhaled deeply, and the King turned around with sleepy eyes;

 “Why you stop singing, Mama?”, he inquired.

It took me a moment to realize that I’d been humming tunelessly into the darkened room as I combed his hair, and resumed my singing.

“Thank you, Mama.”

Staring at his small back, as he flipped through the pages of a Berenstain Bears I was reminded of sitting on the floor with my Mom, when I was little. I remembered her hands deftly moving through my hair and easing the days adventures out of my locks. I remembered the way she praised the very things about my hair that I hated. Where I was embarrassed at the way my hair defied gravity, she extolled its thickness and strength. I felt beautiful under her hands.

Sighing at the decades old feeling, I pushed the brush a final time through his hair and tapped his shoulder.

 “Ok SugarPea. I’m all done.” I told him.

He snapped his book shut, jumped up and raced out of the room. His bathroom door banged open, and I leaned forward to see him standing on tippy-toe, straining to see himself in the mirror. He hopped down and returned to his room.

 “My hair is curly!”, he informed me importantly.

I stifled a smile, and returned his serious look “Why yes, yes it is.”

He looked up at me, with the crinkles his grandmother’s eyes wear when she smiles and told me “It’s curly like your hair, Mama. It’s beautiful.”

It is sweet King. It really is.

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