Today I looked up the quote "All is fair in love and war." Did you know it's a paraphrase from
Don Quixote? The full quote reads: "Love and War are the same thing, and stratagems and polity are as allowable in the one as in the other."
How appropriate that the full quote derives from the tale about that hopeful but silly windmill chaser, trying to outsmart all obstacles, but experiencing folly at every step. If you don't know already; I am a windmill chaser. My windmills have names: Laura, Julia, & Elizabeth. Sometimes I think I can outsmart them. Today during naptime when Julia slept a meager 40 minutes, I immediately worked up a strategy. I'll bring her to bed with me. If I don't talk and avoid eye contact during transfer from crib to bed, I'll win! Alas, the moment I snuggled my little windmill next to me in bed--the wiggling of baby limbs began. Must keep eyes closed. If she thinks I'm sleeping, she'll sleep too. Little hand smacked against my face. Keep eyes closed. Baby doll with rattle inside smacked hard on my face. Keep eyes closed. Eruption of baby laughter. Forget it--I've been Don Quixoteed.
When will I learn? I can't outsmart the windmills! The oldest and most challenging of my windmills--the toddler of all toddler windmills, is usually best at it. She sneaks out of her room seconds after being put to bed. "I can hear you Laura," I holler in my stern voice from downstairs. Thumpety, thump-thump upstairs as tiny Flinstone feet paddle back to her room. An hour goes by and I seep in the victory of my all powerful Mom voice, until I hear the distant clink, clink of the baby gate at the top of the stairs. "Laura!" Thumpety, thump-thump, back to her room. For the sake of full-proofing my magnificent strategy, I always do one last check to make sure she's in bed and not sleeping in the middle of the hallway (a new favorite Laura strategy). All is well and Mom feels sound in her outsmarting ability--until that is, Mom and Dad find Laura in a flowered summer dress with gray sweatpants at 5a.m., with her discarded pull-up and purple footy pajamas downstairs in the living room. Mom's strategy to keep windmill safely in pasture=failure. Toddler's success at outsmarting Mom=success.
It appears that all will remain fair in love and war in the Davis household, although I abandon any thoughts of outsmarting my little windmills. Poor Don Quixote refused to let go of his delusions of grandeur. Perhaps had his windmills took the form of twin babies and a toddler, his ego would have been beat into submission before his fateful end. Word to the wise...if you chase my kind of windmills--don't ever, ever take them to bed with you thinking they will go back to sleep, or think they're really asleep in the first place; you will be fooled at every turn!
Happy chasing.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Monday, December 21, 2009
It's Been a Great Hard Day's Night
Dedicated to my friend Cindy
I like to wear my Beatles shirt. "Mommy whose on your shirt?" Laura asks each time I wear it. Then inevitably follows the second question asked every time I wear it, "Who are the Beatles?" Together she and I point to each sepia colored face on my under $10 t-shirt: John, Paul, Ringo & George. "What are they doing?" is the third and final question regarding the Beatles shirt, before we are on to more pressing topics like "what's for snack?" or "can I do some coloring?" Hmmm, "what are they doing?" Well, currently the Beatles are stretched across my bodacious tata's but instead of saying that aloud, I settled for, "They were a singing group." To which Laura usually finds satisfactory and goes about her business of snacks and coloring. But today, I decided to switch it up for a change. "Would you like to hear some music by the Beatles?" "Sure!" (her new favorite response to anything good).
Laura and twin sisters accompanied me to my CD cases--rarely opened these days--who needs music when you have your own constant soundtrack? Amid the music of my teenage and early twenties years of angst, was a "Hard Day's Night" tucked beside the likes of "STP," "No Doubt" and "Green Day." As I pried the CD from it's dusty plastic cover, surrounded by fussy babies and a rambunctious toddler, I thought back to the days before my Mom passed away, when the Beatles filled our living room. I often wondered why my Mom, ill and bedridden with ALS chose to listen to those "bowl haired" dudes so much. I enjoyed the songs well enough, but was too young to appreciate the the wider scope of the Beatles revolutionary contributions to music.
When I pushed play on the Bose in our living room, the cranky, tired, and bored aura that previously consumed my domain, began to transform into something a little more peaceful. "It's been a hard day's night...and I've been working like a dog"--Laura began to bounce softly on the couch, smiling from ear-to-ear. "And when I get home to you, I find the things that you do will make me feel alllriiighhhttt," Elizabeth let go of the toy she was desperate to confiscate from Julia and shook her little baby body in time with the music. "When I'm home everything seems to be right--right," Julia reaches up for me to pick her up. I put her on my hip and take her pudgy baby hand; we take turns around the living room together. For at least a song--we were all happy. Something foreign was taking place in my living room--peace. As I spun through the song, switching out a baby from time-to-time, I finally felt mature enough to really appreciate the Beatles' gift to the free world.
No wonder my mom, trapped in a body that didn't work anymore, wanted to listen to those floppy haired men so much. I guess I felt a little grateful for not only the peace in my living room, but the peace in my heart for having the opportunity to dance with my girls--even if only for a single song. "You know I feel alllrriiiggghhhttt!"
I like to wear my Beatles shirt. "Mommy whose on your shirt?" Laura asks each time I wear it. Then inevitably follows the second question asked every time I wear it, "Who are the Beatles?" Together she and I point to each sepia colored face on my under $10 t-shirt: John, Paul, Ringo & George. "What are they doing?" is the third and final question regarding the Beatles shirt, before we are on to more pressing topics like "what's for snack?" or "can I do some coloring?" Hmmm, "what are they doing?" Well, currently the Beatles are stretched across my bodacious tata's but instead of saying that aloud, I settled for, "They were a singing group." To which Laura usually finds satisfactory and goes about her business of snacks and coloring. But today, I decided to switch it up for a change. "Would you like to hear some music by the Beatles?" "Sure!" (her new favorite response to anything good).
Laura and twin sisters accompanied me to my CD cases--rarely opened these days--who needs music when you have your own constant soundtrack? Amid the music of my teenage and early twenties years of angst, was a "Hard Day's Night" tucked beside the likes of "STP," "No Doubt" and "Green Day." As I pried the CD from it's dusty plastic cover, surrounded by fussy babies and a rambunctious toddler, I thought back to the days before my Mom passed away, when the Beatles filled our living room. I often wondered why my Mom, ill and bedridden with ALS chose to listen to those "bowl haired" dudes so much. I enjoyed the songs well enough, but was too young to appreciate the the wider scope of the Beatles revolutionary contributions to music.
When I pushed play on the Bose in our living room, the cranky, tired, and bored aura that previously consumed my domain, began to transform into something a little more peaceful. "It's been a hard day's night...and I've been working like a dog"--Laura began to bounce softly on the couch, smiling from ear-to-ear. "And when I get home to you, I find the things that you do will make me feel alllriiighhhttt," Elizabeth let go of the toy she was desperate to confiscate from Julia and shook her little baby body in time with the music. "When I'm home everything seems to be right--right," Julia reaches up for me to pick her up. I put her on my hip and take her pudgy baby hand; we take turns around the living room together. For at least a song--we were all happy. Something foreign was taking place in my living room--peace. As I spun through the song, switching out a baby from time-to-time, I finally felt mature enough to really appreciate the Beatles' gift to the free world.
No wonder my mom, trapped in a body that didn't work anymore, wanted to listen to those floppy haired men so much. I guess I felt a little grateful for not only the peace in my living room, but the peace in my heart for having the opportunity to dance with my girls--even if only for a single song. "You know I feel alllrriiiggghhhttt!"
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Teething Troubles & Only One Ark
The days of my little five pound babies snuggling side-by-side are over. I remember how sweet they were nuzzled in their pink pack-n-play together.
Those days are over. Enter the days of squealing, screeching and fighting. How can two little people be so angry--at each other! This is the moment I learn that having two of certain things, does come in handy. Variety in teething toys for example, have become a huge liability in the Davis household. Fresh out of the freezer one day, I handed Julia a blue double ringed teether. Her red puffy face softened, as she shoved the chilly object into her mouth. Immediately, sister Elizabeth's own tear-streaked face became even more reddened upon seeing sissy with an icy cold treat. Okay, mom's on top of it, I cleverly congratulated myself re-opening the freezer. "Here you go sweetie," I cooed, handing over another icy blue teether to Elizabeth. And yes--into the mouth it goes. But no sooner had I done the happy dance at solving the teething dilemma, did Julia toss her teething ring aside and make a beeline for Elizabeth. With the determination of a lion going for the kill, Julia bulldozed Elizabeth over and snatched her teething ring in seconds. The next five minutes were filled with high pitched protest and guttural sobbing. Julia grinned victorious--Elizabeth crumpled on the floor defeated. I picked up the discarded teether and with some persistent tugging, pried the "prize teether" from Julia. What was so special about this teether to cause twin WWF wrestling in my kitchen? Both teethers were blue, and the only difference I could find was a little yellow worm on the prize teether. Really? A worm? Now, the worm teething ring can only be alocated to a twin, if the other is sleeping, in a different room, or on another planet, otherwise I can count on another fullscale wrestling match.
My second favorite battle of the twins has a fun little twist. On this particular occasion, I sat on the couch in the living room while Julia and Elizabeth pleasantly played on the floor next to me. Out of nowhere, the serenity of the afternoon was broken by howling and bashing of toys. I slid down from the couch to inspect the commotion below. Julia and Elizabeth sat opposite one another, and were aggressively playing tug of war with a toy boat. Ah, but not just any boat. The object of desire this time, was in fact, Noah's Ark. I had to laugh at the irony of two creatures pulling and bashing each other with a biblical item. I ended up having to hide Noah's Ark, to shelter it from anymore abuse from twin babies. I'm tempted to buy another Ark, but that just seems counter intuitive. I wonder if Noah had this much trouble with his doubles.
Those days are over. Enter the days of squealing, screeching and fighting. How can two little people be so angry--at each other! This is the moment I learn that having two of certain things, does come in handy. Variety in teething toys for example, have become a huge liability in the Davis household. Fresh out of the freezer one day, I handed Julia a blue double ringed teether. Her red puffy face softened, as she shoved the chilly object into her mouth. Immediately, sister Elizabeth's own tear-streaked face became even more reddened upon seeing sissy with an icy cold treat. Okay, mom's on top of it, I cleverly congratulated myself re-opening the freezer. "Here you go sweetie," I cooed, handing over another icy blue teether to Elizabeth. And yes--into the mouth it goes. But no sooner had I done the happy dance at solving the teething dilemma, did Julia toss her teething ring aside and make a beeline for Elizabeth. With the determination of a lion going for the kill, Julia bulldozed Elizabeth over and snatched her teething ring in seconds. The next five minutes were filled with high pitched protest and guttural sobbing. Julia grinned victorious--Elizabeth crumpled on the floor defeated. I picked up the discarded teether and with some persistent tugging, pried the "prize teether" from Julia. What was so special about this teether to cause twin WWF wrestling in my kitchen? Both teethers were blue, and the only difference I could find was a little yellow worm on the prize teether. Really? A worm? Now, the worm teething ring can only be alocated to a twin, if the other is sleeping, in a different room, or on another planet, otherwise I can count on another fullscale wrestling match.
My second favorite battle of the twins has a fun little twist. On this particular occasion, I sat on the couch in the living room while Julia and Elizabeth pleasantly played on the floor next to me. Out of nowhere, the serenity of the afternoon was broken by howling and bashing of toys. I slid down from the couch to inspect the commotion below. Julia and Elizabeth sat opposite one another, and were aggressively playing tug of war with a toy boat. Ah, but not just any boat. The object of desire this time, was in fact, Noah's Ark. I had to laugh at the irony of two creatures pulling and bashing each other with a biblical item. I ended up having to hide Noah's Ark, to shelter it from anymore abuse from twin babies. I'm tempted to buy another Ark, but that just seems counter intuitive. I wonder if Noah had this much trouble with his doubles.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Adding Color to my Cube
Dedicated to Lauren, Natalie & Tanya who add color to my cube on a daily basis.
Last night a friend shared her trepidation of taking a new job that would land her in a cubicle. "I just don't know if I can work in a cubicle," she groaned, "How depressing."
"It's not so bad," another friend chimed in, "In fact, I can actually listen to radio, e-mail people (now looking right at me) and read an occasional story." We had also just discussed a recent writing/publication victory of mine--reason for the purposeful glance in my direction. "I don't know why she worries that sharing her stories will bother me, or make me think she has an ego" she addressed the group, "When Erin sends me e-mails and stories she has written, it adds a little color to my cube."
Now what kind of writer would I be if I didn't snatch up that image and run with it--color to my cube? I'm not one to get overly sentimental--at least not on a blaaag for us folks who aren't supposed to be taking ourselves too seriously...but bare with me while I take just a small sentimental tributary. The idea of me adding color to my dear friend's cubie, got me thinking about my relationships with my women confidants. I became grateful at the thought of being able to add something pleasant to their world. Especially through my words on paper...or blaaag...or website...or they get the point now Erin. I thought about how, in another life when I was not the healthiest of human beings, I blackened my friendships--taking, rather than giving. What a blessing to be able to make someone smile with my goofy analogies, similes, big words, words used in the wrong context (Lauren, that's for you), and stories of life and three trippy, but adorable kids.
More important than the warm fuzzies of hearing that I add color to one's cube, is the fact that these women friends of mine--these intelligent, beautiful, crazy women friends of mine, add infinite amounts of color to my cube. True, I don't work in an actual cube...but with twins and an almost three-year-old stuck in a 20x20 living room most days, it certainly feels like one. True too, that I experience plenty of color in my day from my little people. But, phone calls from my girlfriend on the eighth floor of her office, sharing disasters of project management, or from a friend managing a department store in the throws of Christmas season, and from my friend trapped in her cubie...add a different kind of color to my cube. I'm addicted to their voices, stories and laughter. I'm addicted to the color they bring into my days filled with crazy, crabby, and wonderful children. I'm hooked, and must keep up my daily color fix.
To all the ladies in my life--thank you for adding color to my cube.
Last night a friend shared her trepidation of taking a new job that would land her in a cubicle. "I just don't know if I can work in a cubicle," she groaned, "How depressing."
"It's not so bad," another friend chimed in, "In fact, I can actually listen to radio, e-mail people (now looking right at me) and read an occasional story." We had also just discussed a recent writing/publication victory of mine--reason for the purposeful glance in my direction. "I don't know why she worries that sharing her stories will bother me, or make me think she has an ego" she addressed the group, "When Erin sends me e-mails and stories she has written, it adds a little color to my cube."
Now what kind of writer would I be if I didn't snatch up that image and run with it--color to my cube? I'm not one to get overly sentimental--at least not on a blaaag for us folks who aren't supposed to be taking ourselves too seriously...but bare with me while I take just a small sentimental tributary. The idea of me adding color to my dear friend's cubie, got me thinking about my relationships with my women confidants. I became grateful at the thought of being able to add something pleasant to their world. Especially through my words on paper...or blaaag...or website...or they get the point now Erin. I thought about how, in another life when I was not the healthiest of human beings, I blackened my friendships--taking, rather than giving. What a blessing to be able to make someone smile with my goofy analogies, similes, big words, words used in the wrong context (Lauren, that's for you), and stories of life and three trippy, but adorable kids.
More important than the warm fuzzies of hearing that I add color to one's cube, is the fact that these women friends of mine--these intelligent, beautiful, crazy women friends of mine, add infinite amounts of color to my cube. True, I don't work in an actual cube...but with twins and an almost three-year-old stuck in a 20x20 living room most days, it certainly feels like one. True too, that I experience plenty of color in my day from my little people. But, phone calls from my girlfriend on the eighth floor of her office, sharing disasters of project management, or from a friend managing a department store in the throws of Christmas season, and from my friend trapped in her cubie...add a different kind of color to my cube. I'm addicted to their voices, stories and laughter. I'm addicted to the color they bring into my days filled with crazy, crabby, and wonderful children. I'm hooked, and must keep up my daily color fix.
To all the ladies in my life--thank you for adding color to my cube.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Ode to the Rachels
Amidst the naughty Jack's and Jill's of the world, lay a few sparkling diamonds in the rough of rudeness. If you missed the last blaaag--Jacks' and Jills' are those folks completely oblivious to social etiquette and courtesy (although we will forgive them, because that's what nice and healthy people do).
When you have infant twins and a toddler, or any combination of more than one child, asking for help is not something to consider--like, should I purchase those snowmen socks; asking for help is a necessity; yes, purchase those white ankle socks instead. I have learned this on more levels than a Mario Brother's video game (sorry, I'm from the old school Nintendo days). I recently however, experienced a whole new level of beseeching help from persons of the world at my local Sam's Club.
I had just picked up my almost three-year-old from preschool with a hopeful plan of running by Sam's Club on the way home. A tired toddler and two adorable, but precocious twins close to nap time--this could get scary. So I did what any savvy mother does: baited toddler with soft pretzel from Sam's food counter and milk and "puffy snacks" for babies. Once safely transported from minivan to lovely big-twin-toddler-perfect-sized-cart, I held my breath and prayed for limited meltdowns (praying for no meltdowns is unrealistic).
To my surprise, all was going quite well once in the club. Twins were happily cooing in their double, front compartment of the cart, toddler happily munching on pretzel--wait--uh-oh, toddler is wiggling--toddler is wiggling uncontrollably. "Laura sweetie," I ask in fear of answer, "Do you have to go potty?" "Noooooo," she growls, meanwhile giving the Wiggles a run for their money. Ugggg, I think looking at my present condition. Two babies not able to walk yet, and a toddler well potty trained, but not quite a pro without assistance in public potties. This is where mom must take a deep breath and ask for help.
I quickly grabbed my wholesale club necessities: diapers, toilet paper and paper towels (what else?) I raced to the checkout with the speed of a contestant on one of those grocery shopping game shows. Of course at the noon hour, Sam's was hoppin'--but I didn't care this time. More people = more register help=more help for mommy. That is the moment I spotted Rachel; a cute young supervisor with her hair pulled back. "Excuse me, Rachel?" I ventured, "My daughter needs to use the restroom, but isn't old enough to go by herself, and this cart won't fit in the bathroom, could you just watch my twins right out side the door for a minute?" "Sure!" Rachel replied without skipping a beat. Now you might ask me at this moment if I was scared of Rachel wheeling my twins out the front door and selling them on the black market. Not really. The door of the bathroom was open for cleaning, and since the store was busy, I had plenty of witnesses if Rachel made a run for it.
The point is, I could have fretted about how I would logically unload all girls from the cart, get them into the bathroom, and help Laura with the potty process without dropping babies on their heads...or I could take a chance on Rachel. Asking for help turned out to be the best avenue here. Laura and I were in-and-out of the bathroom in about two minutes. The twins were giggling and playing, Rachel steadfast holding the cart in front of them. "Thank you Rachel," I said. "I know it's not technically in your job description to watch children, but you sure helped this mom out," I added. "No problem," she replied, "I consider it part of customer service."
Just remember...for as many weasels we mommas encounter out there in the real world--those shifty Jack and Jill types, we'll find a few Rachel's to help us along the way. We just have to reach out a little bit. I intend to send Sam's a shout out on Rachel's above and beyond customer service, although this happened going on two weeks ago. Eeesh, guess my next blaaag will be about procrastination.
When you have infant twins and a toddler, or any combination of more than one child, asking for help is not something to consider--like, should I purchase those snowmen socks; asking for help is a necessity; yes, purchase those white ankle socks instead. I have learned this on more levels than a Mario Brother's video game (sorry, I'm from the old school Nintendo days). I recently however, experienced a whole new level of beseeching help from persons of the world at my local Sam's Club.
I had just picked up my almost three-year-old from preschool with a hopeful plan of running by Sam's Club on the way home. A tired toddler and two adorable, but precocious twins close to nap time--this could get scary. So I did what any savvy mother does: baited toddler with soft pretzel from Sam's food counter and milk and "puffy snacks" for babies. Once safely transported from minivan to lovely big-twin-toddler-perfect-sized-cart, I held my breath and prayed for limited meltdowns (praying for no meltdowns is unrealistic).
To my surprise, all was going quite well once in the club. Twins were happily cooing in their double, front compartment of the cart, toddler happily munching on pretzel--wait--uh-oh, toddler is wiggling--toddler is wiggling uncontrollably. "Laura sweetie," I ask in fear of answer, "Do you have to go potty?" "Noooooo," she growls, meanwhile giving the Wiggles a run for their money. Ugggg, I think looking at my present condition. Two babies not able to walk yet, and a toddler well potty trained, but not quite a pro without assistance in public potties. This is where mom must take a deep breath and ask for help.
I quickly grabbed my wholesale club necessities: diapers, toilet paper and paper towels (what else?) I raced to the checkout with the speed of a contestant on one of those grocery shopping game shows. Of course at the noon hour, Sam's was hoppin'--but I didn't care this time. More people = more register help=more help for mommy. That is the moment I spotted Rachel; a cute young supervisor with her hair pulled back. "Excuse me, Rachel?" I ventured, "My daughter needs to use the restroom, but isn't old enough to go by herself, and this cart won't fit in the bathroom, could you just watch my twins right out side the door for a minute?" "Sure!" Rachel replied without skipping a beat. Now you might ask me at this moment if I was scared of Rachel wheeling my twins out the front door and selling them on the black market. Not really. The door of the bathroom was open for cleaning, and since the store was busy, I had plenty of witnesses if Rachel made a run for it.
The point is, I could have fretted about how I would logically unload all girls from the cart, get them into the bathroom, and help Laura with the potty process without dropping babies on their heads...or I could take a chance on Rachel. Asking for help turned out to be the best avenue here. Laura and I were in-and-out of the bathroom in about two minutes. The twins were giggling and playing, Rachel steadfast holding the cart in front of them. "Thank you Rachel," I said. "I know it's not technically in your job description to watch children, but you sure helped this mom out," I added. "No problem," she replied, "I consider it part of customer service."
Just remember...for as many weasels we mommas encounter out there in the real world--those shifty Jack and Jill types, we'll find a few Rachel's to help us along the way. We just have to reach out a little bit. I intend to send Sam's a shout out on Rachel's above and beyond customer service, although this happened going on two weeks ago. Eeesh, guess my next blaaag will be about procrastination.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
A Tale of Naughty Jack & Jill
Whatever combination of multiple children you have...let's say one-year-old twins and an almost three-year-old for example, you learn to distinguish the dirtbags versus the good Samaritans real quick like.
Take for example the time when you had no other choice than to lug all three of your children to the doctor's office. And let's say for example, that the double stroller you have at this juncture in life is a piece of doodie. You are therefore forced to carry your (then) infant twins in their two-ton car seats, while simultaneously trying to firmly explain to your (then) two-year-old how important it is NOT to leave your side without sounding like "Mommy Dearest." Upon your arrival to the double doors of the doctor's office you are pleased to learn that the pretty blue disability button you have come to adore, is not operational, hence no magic opening of double doors for you. Now you really are starting feel like you might be channeling Joan Crawford. Arms about to detach, two-year-old en route to meltdown, your own urge to throw a tantrum is temporarily halted by two individuals inside the double doors--let's call them Jack and Jill.
But what's this? Jack and Jill continue to talk amongst one another despite the fact of you being in spitting distance of them...with two-ton car seats...with two fussy babies...with a sweet but exhausted two-year-old. One minute--two minutes--three minutes and Jack and Jill are still pleasantly chatting away. Realizing that your importance to Jack and Jill is somewhere between 0 and -10, you are forced to set down the car seats, wrench one double door open, awkwardly squeezing and intermittently getting the overstuff diaper bag smashed in the dang thing, corall your two-year-old through first, and one-by-shoulder-popping-one, carry each car seat inside the doctor's office. Wiping sweat and hair from your windblown forehead (the wind another fun obstacle of prying double doors open), you celebrate the success of managing a preposterous situation on your own.
Still, you have one last hope of being acknowledged by Jack and Jill, who continue to idly chat about God knows what. After all, there is one more door to open to get inside the actual doctor's office. What's this? Jack and Jill look at you! They see you and your crazy matted hair, unruly children and exploding diaper bag. And then... (insert let down noise here) waaaa--waaaa, Jack and Jill merely send a half-hearted smile your way, not even taking a mili-second to halt their precious conversation. Again, you repeat the harrowing process, this time with an even smaller door, and even more sore limbs than prior to the double door experience. All the while Jack and Jill remain oblivious to you, your screaming kids, and diaper bag (which now resembles a geiser showering diapers in the air).
On the way out from the doctor's appointment, you pray you don't see Jack and Jill. You try to make excuses for their shortcomings: maybe they were a couple in the throws of passion (although by the look of Jack, it probably wasn't the good kind of passion), perhaps they were discussing top secret FBI matters (really, in a doctor's office lobby?), or maybe they have never had children...or at least not as many as you and just don't get it. Because how on earth could two human beings with reasonable intellegence NOT OPEN THE FRICKN' DOOR FOR SOMEONE CARRYING TWO TWO-TON CAR SEATS, A DIAPER BAG, WHILE ESCORTING A RAMBUNKCIOUS TWO-YEAR-OLD?
Take for example the time when you had no other choice than to lug all three of your children to the doctor's office. And let's say for example, that the double stroller you have at this juncture in life is a piece of doodie. You are therefore forced to carry your (then) infant twins in their two-ton car seats, while simultaneously trying to firmly explain to your (then) two-year-old how important it is NOT to leave your side without sounding like "Mommy Dearest." Upon your arrival to the double doors of the doctor's office you are pleased to learn that the pretty blue disability button you have come to adore, is not operational, hence no magic opening of double doors for you. Now you really are starting feel like you might be channeling Joan Crawford. Arms about to detach, two-year-old en route to meltdown, your own urge to throw a tantrum is temporarily halted by two individuals inside the double doors--let's call them Jack and Jill.
But what's this? Jack and Jill continue to talk amongst one another despite the fact of you being in spitting distance of them...with two-ton car seats...with two fussy babies...with a sweet but exhausted two-year-old. One minute--two minutes--three minutes and Jack and Jill are still pleasantly chatting away. Realizing that your importance to Jack and Jill is somewhere between 0 and -10, you are forced to set down the car seats, wrench one double door open, awkwardly squeezing and intermittently getting the overstuff diaper bag smashed in the dang thing, corall your two-year-old through first, and one-by-shoulder-popping-one, carry each car seat inside the doctor's office. Wiping sweat and hair from your windblown forehead (the wind another fun obstacle of prying double doors open), you celebrate the success of managing a preposterous situation on your own.
Still, you have one last hope of being acknowledged by Jack and Jill, who continue to idly chat about God knows what. After all, there is one more door to open to get inside the actual doctor's office. What's this? Jack and Jill look at you! They see you and your crazy matted hair, unruly children and exploding diaper bag. And then... (insert let down noise here) waaaa--waaaa, Jack and Jill merely send a half-hearted smile your way, not even taking a mili-second to halt their precious conversation. Again, you repeat the harrowing process, this time with an even smaller door, and even more sore limbs than prior to the double door experience. All the while Jack and Jill remain oblivious to you, your screaming kids, and diaper bag (which now resembles a geiser showering diapers in the air).
On the way out from the doctor's appointment, you pray you don't see Jack and Jill. You try to make excuses for their shortcomings: maybe they were a couple in the throws of passion (although by the look of Jack, it probably wasn't the good kind of passion), perhaps they were discussing top secret FBI matters (really, in a doctor's office lobby?), or maybe they have never had children...or at least not as many as you and just don't get it. Because how on earth could two human beings with reasonable intellegence NOT OPEN THE FRICKN' DOOR FOR SOMEONE CARRYING TWO TWO-TON CAR SEATS, A DIAPER BAG, WHILE ESCORTING A RAMBUNKCIOUS TWO-YEAR-OLD?
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
One Woman Circus Act
I may not be the Bearded Lady (although I do have a surprisingly visible mustache if I don't wax), I am not the Elephant Woman, nor am I a lion-tamer. I am however, a one woman circus act. This occurred to me the other day as I held a twin on one hip, the other twin wrapped tightly around my leg, and was putting pots and pans back into the cupboard with...drum roll please...my free foot. And I didn't drop or maim either baby! I never thought I would brag about using my feet for anything other than walking, but they have proven quite multifaceted. I can also bathe and dress a baby while on the phone, although this sideshow has resulted in me acquiring smooshed baby poop on the bottom of my multi-talented foot (the cause is still a mystery); hey, I didn't say my circus acts don't always escape downfall. I can also brush my toddler's teeth and my own while holding a baby or two, carry two babies up and down stairs at alarming speed, and have Dora & Mickey conversation while areobicizing and formulating blog ideas in my head all at the same time. Oh--and I'm sure observing me load three children under age three in a minivan is definitely circus act worthy...especially the part where I run back and forth between vehichle and house at least ten times before actually going anywhere.
And the cost to witness my one woman circus act? I'm happy to say--it's free of charge...purely provided for your entertainment. Enjoy.
And the cost to witness my one woman circus act? I'm happy to say--it's free of charge...purely provided for your entertainment. Enjoy.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Oh that Man!
If my writing took human form "it" would certainly be a man. When I first set eyes on him, it's love at first sight. I want to be with him all the time. He's beautiful, baffling, and mysterious, and he is way out of my league. He is McSteamy, I am McDorky. He is Shakespeare, I am Danielle Steele. He is chocolate cake, I am chocolate cake made with Splenda. I show him off to all my friends and family. "Look at my lovely Mr. Writing," I brag. "Oh, he's nice," people say. Or, "He is so funny!" But soon things get out of control. I become obsessed with him. I find myself neglecting laundry, cleaning, and other household chores. I commit the cardinal sin, and put my children in front of the TV for two hours, just so I can indulge him. I can't sleep at night because he inserts countless ideas into my brain. Before I know it, I am resentful at him. "You take up all my time!" I scream at him. "And for what?" I cry out, "It's not like any of your stinkin' ideas make me any money!" He thinks he's so clever, I think to myself, he and all those books said, that if I spent all my available time with him, I would receive some kind of payoff-- phooey! I finally decide something must be done. No more piles of laundry, zombified TV children, and sleep-deprived me. But for all his inadequacies, I just can't leave him. I decide, our relationship has to be on my terms; kids nap time and maybe an hour or two in the evenings during the week. Okay, and maybe a little time on the weekends. But it's no use, we both know I will fold eventually. After all, he made me write an entry for my blaaag at an unspeakable hour. I wish my writing would take on the form of a dog instead--maybe then I could be the dominant one in the relationship, but with my luck it would be a rabid Pitbull.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
End of the Day Conversation
In the very, very few days my husband and I had together before children, end of the day conversation sounded like this: "How was your day honey?", "Great, it was a long day at work, but I got a lot accomplished."
In the days with twins and a toddler end of day conversation sounds like this:
Me: "Guess what I found in Julia's mouth today?"
Husband: "What?"
Me: "A toenail."
Or
Me: "How did Laura do while I was gone tonight?"
Husband: "She hid a turd in her toy box."
Me: "Ew!"
Husband: "It's still there."
Me: Why? Why did he wait for me to dispose of the hidden turd?
Or
Me: cricket, cricket
Husband: cricket, cricket
In the days with twins and a toddler end of day conversation sounds like this:
Me: "Guess what I found in Julia's mouth today?"
Husband: "What?"
Me: "A toenail."
Or
Me: "How did Laura do while I was gone tonight?"
Husband: "She hid a turd in her toy box."
Me: "Ew!"
Husband: "It's still there."
Me: Why? Why did he wait for me to dispose of the hidden turd?
Or
Me: cricket, cricket
Husband: cricket, cricket
Friday, October 23, 2009
Sleepy Awards
Announcer: Welcome to the 3rd Annual Sleepy Awards--celebrating the sleepiest Moms in the nation. Please give a round of applause for second-time winner Erin Davis!
(Crying) First, I would like to begin by thanking everyone for joining me at this obscene hour of 5a.m. I would also like to thank the Sleepy Academy for accommodating all sleep deprived mothers by having this ceremony at such an unpleasant hour. Last year I accepted my first Sleepy on behalf of my firstborn, Laura Cecilia Davis, without whose indeterminable spirit, colic and 100mph personality, I would not have been so sleepy. This year I would like to thank her for her continued uncanny ability to wear my behind out. But really, I have two little people I must share my gratitude for this most esteemed award. Thank you Elizabeth and Julia Davis for your tireless dedication for keeping me tired. Especially in your first 6 months of life when you refused to sleep through the night, but by no means limited to recent nights (like last night) when for no apparent reason, you screamed your little heads off for the majority of the night. I can honestly say, I deserve this honorable slee---aaa---ooo---ppp----yyy...zzzzzzzzz.
Announcer: Uh, it appears as though Erin has passed out on stage. Here to help her finish accepting her award is her husband, Paul Davis - Oh, excuse me...it appears that he too is passed out and will not be joining us this morning. Thus concludes the 3rd Annual Sleepy Awards. To all sleep deprived parents of the world...Good morning--or goodnight, and may you enjoy your sleep whenever you are fortunate enough to get some.
(Crying) First, I would like to begin by thanking everyone for joining me at this obscene hour of 5a.m. I would also like to thank the Sleepy Academy for accommodating all sleep deprived mothers by having this ceremony at such an unpleasant hour. Last year I accepted my first Sleepy on behalf of my firstborn, Laura Cecilia Davis, without whose indeterminable spirit, colic and 100mph personality, I would not have been so sleepy. This year I would like to thank her for her continued uncanny ability to wear my behind out. But really, I have two little people I must share my gratitude for this most esteemed award. Thank you Elizabeth and Julia Davis for your tireless dedication for keeping me tired. Especially in your first 6 months of life when you refused to sleep through the night, but by no means limited to recent nights (like last night) when for no apparent reason, you screamed your little heads off for the majority of the night. I can honestly say, I deserve this honorable slee---aaa---ooo---ppp----yyy...zzzzzzzzz.
Announcer: Uh, it appears as though Erin has passed out on stage. Here to help her finish accepting her award is her husband, Paul Davis - Oh, excuse me...it appears that he too is passed out and will not be joining us this morning. Thus concludes the 3rd Annual Sleepy Awards. To all sleep deprived parents of the world...Good morning--or goodnight, and may you enjoy your sleep whenever you are fortunate enough to get some.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Strange Happenings in the Universe
As I was being projectile puked on at the pediatrician's office by eleven-month-old Elizabeth Tuesday night, I wondered what part of the cruel universe picks up on the fact that my husband is out of town? And what other part of the universe then decides it's okay for at least one if not all of my children (or self on occasion) to be sick every time he is gone? I think it must be neighbor to the section of the universe that always leaves an unmatched sock behind in the laundry pile. Or perhaps it's next to the cosmos that makes a depressing song come on the radio whenever your already in a bad mood. Which by the way, is just a light-year away from the galaxy that hides car keys, jump drives and money. And somewhere nearby is a particularly annoying portion of space that informs all three of my girls that I am writing, and despite the fact that Daddy is in the room...magnetically pulls them all to me; babies claw at my back and toddler climbs up next to me and yells a series of undecipherable sentences into my inner ear.
I am holding out for the part of the universe that gives me infinite time to sleep, write, and whatever other bloody thing I want to do. To my calculations this great phenomenon will occur either when all the planets align or at least approximately 18+ years from now.
I am holding out for the part of the universe that gives me infinite time to sleep, write, and whatever other bloody thing I want to do. To my calculations this great phenomenon will occur either when all the planets align or at least approximately 18+ years from now.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
Husband leaves town at 6a.m. Monday morning. All four Davis females wake up grouchy. Mommy starting to regret coloring hair so dark. Looks like Winona Ryder circa Beatleguise. Chiropractor/Wellness appointment at 11a.m. Takes two hours to get ready for appointment. Takes 5 minutes for actual appointment. Babies scream approximately 41/2 out of five minutes at appointment. Takes ten minutes to reload babies into minivan. Back home and lunch is usual messy lunch, accompanied by crying, mostly from Elizabeth. Mommy takes Elizabeth's temperature - 102.6. Everyone down for nap. Laura refuses nap and remains manic for remainder of afternoon. Mommy takes two-minutes to check e-mail. Receives rejection letter from magazine editor. Babies still screaming. Too late to start day over. Not too late to bitch about it.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Long-neck Cranes and Other Fun Childs Speak
Our family passed a field the other day on the way to church. My husband pointed out a skinny, long-neck crane standing gracefully at its center. "Look at the bird Laura!" he exclaimed. I turned around in my seat to observe her reaction. "Daddy, that bird looks just like my Mommy," she said. So I don't know much about cranes, other than they are skinny with long necks. So I'll go ahead and take my two-year-old's statement as a huge compliment. Especially considering the nearby cluster of plump cows that went unnoticed. In addition to the little warm fuzzies I received from such a sweet comparison, I marvel at the uncomplicated honesty of the way children view the world, and then transpose into uncomplicated, honest sentiments.
A few weeks ago when I was suffering from hormallergies (the worst case of hormones combined with allergies), I was crying in the kitchen while Laura ate her lunch in the other room. She couldn't see me, but she must have heard my sniffling because her little munchkin voice piped out, "Mommy? You feelin' kind of poopy?" To which I responded, "Yes, I guess I am honey." To which she in turn replied, "It's okay Mommy eat a piece of chicken and you'll feel better." Uncomplicated and honest.
Sometimes I think we'd do better as adults to communicate in childs speak. Especially when we're really trying to convey a deep emotion or sentiment. I don't know about you, but I'd love if my husband gave me an Anniversary or Birthday card inscribed with, "You are my graceful long-neck crane...I love you." Uncomplicated and honest. Or how about receiving a get well card that reads, "Sorry you're feeling down. Eat a piece of chicken and you'll feel better." Uncomplicated, honest, and funny, not to mention refreshingly absurd.
I'm just saying...maybe we muck it all up with all our deep, introspective, overthought, run-on, overly descriptive nonesense. Okay me done now.
A few weeks ago when I was suffering from hormallergies (the worst case of hormones combined with allergies), I was crying in the kitchen while Laura ate her lunch in the other room. She couldn't see me, but she must have heard my sniffling because her little munchkin voice piped out, "Mommy? You feelin' kind of poopy?" To which I responded, "Yes, I guess I am honey." To which she in turn replied, "It's okay Mommy eat a piece of chicken and you'll feel better." Uncomplicated and honest.
Sometimes I think we'd do better as adults to communicate in childs speak. Especially when we're really trying to convey a deep emotion or sentiment. I don't know about you, but I'd love if my husband gave me an Anniversary or Birthday card inscribed with, "You are my graceful long-neck crane...I love you." Uncomplicated and honest. Or how about receiving a get well card that reads, "Sorry you're feeling down. Eat a piece of chicken and you'll feel better." Uncomplicated, honest, and funny, not to mention refreshingly absurd.
I'm just saying...maybe we muck it all up with all our deep, introspective, overthought, run-on, overly descriptive nonesense. Okay me done now.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
A Case of Hormallergies
Sometimes I like to diagnose myself with various conditions, both real and fictional; ADD (but only in certain areas of my life), "Thrombosis something-or-other" (when I was pregnant), and most recently Hormallergies. What is this frightening condition you ask? It is the worst of all possible combinations...hormones and allergies; working together to unmercifully torture its victims. Individuals with Hormallergies usually exhibit symptoms akin to five out of the "Seven Dwarfs": sneezy, sleepy, grumpy, dopey and occassionally bashful. Additional attributes found in Hormallergy victims may manifest in the following ways: Throwing small objects accross the room (sometimes big if no one is looking), chafed nose from using generic toilet paper in place of kleenex, enough bags under eyes to take two week vacation, lack of patience with everyone but mostly kids and husband (disclaimer: this may be a pre-existing condition and may not be entirely blamed on hormallergies), exagerated irritability...duh, and sleeping discomfort due to puffy eyes, nose, throat, and abdomen.
There is no known cure for Hormallergies at this time. Unfortunately allergy medication only increases sleepiness and object throwing. Hormone medication seems to produce similiar results. Do not take both medications simultaneously as the following drug interactions may produce the unwanted affects of: vomiting, diarhea, more diahrea, cotton mouth, cotton head, cotton sheets...(no wrong interaction sorry), hysteria, madness, hysterical-madness, thinking the world's against you, thinking the world will end in 2012, and coughing.
To help those afflicted with Hormallergies you can donate large amounts of money to Erin Davis who will take fellow victims to tropical location devoid of allergens, also housing pretty pink padded rooms in the event of hormonal object throwing episodes.
There is no known cure for Hormallergies at this time. Unfortunately allergy medication only increases sleepiness and object throwing. Hormone medication seems to produce similiar results. Do not take both medications simultaneously as the following drug interactions may produce the unwanted affects of: vomiting, diarhea, more diahrea, cotton mouth, cotton head, cotton sheets...(no wrong interaction sorry), hysteria, madness, hysterical-madness, thinking the world's against you, thinking the world will end in 2012, and coughing.
To help those afflicted with Hormallergies you can donate large amounts of money to Erin Davis who will take fellow victims to tropical location devoid of allergens, also housing pretty pink padded rooms in the event of hormonal object throwing episodes.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Brawny Mom or Always Save Mom?
Dedicated to my good friend Laura McDavitt who like me, strives to be the Brawny mom
Have you ever considered motherhood in terms of paper towel brands? I hadn't, until my friend Laura reminded me of those great Brawny commercials. You know, the one; perfectly groomed mom and child are having a pleasant full-cooked breakfast in their immaculate, sweet eat-in kitchen. when...DUH DUH DUH...Bobby accidentally catapults his full glass of deep Barney purple grape juice onto the marble tile. Bobby looks at mom with perfect glistening baby blues. And just when you think mom is going to flip like an overdone pancake... she flashes Bobby a smile and coos in her best June Cleaver,"Oh, Bobby, it's okay!" And then she does the unthinkable and wistfully tears a single ply of Brawny paper towel and soaks up that entire glass of spilled grape juice. Mom and Bobby spend the rest of the day doing scheduled craft time, a tambourine duet to twinkle twinkle little star, bake perfect Betty Crocker cookies, and nap together in a field of Daisies before Pop comes home to the four course meal they prepared together.
Now, let's consider Always Save Paper Towels. Wonder why you've never seen one of their commercials? Because this is what would happen ... Enter mom and Billy both still in pajamas and unruly hair. They sit at a table donned with papers of every kind, last nights dinner scraps, and holy smokies...is that a dead spider - no make that live spider? Mom and Billy ignore the trash pile that was once a table and continue to devour generic Happy O's cereal with questionable/possibly expired milk. Billy, startled by approaching spider, slings grape juice on spider and all over white carpet. Mom immediately screams, "Dog nabbit Billy!" (or worse) and takes one entire roll of Always Save and beats it on the juice pile. Mom's still screaming and now splashing residual grape juice against the wall with paper towel roll while Billy starts throwing Happy O's at her. Mom and Billy spend the rest of the day alternately in time out, eating last week's leftovers, watching hours of TV, and have a frozen dinner waiting for Pop, who is home an hour late.
Have you ever considered motherhood in terms of paper towel brands? I hadn't, until my friend Laura reminded me of those great Brawny commercials. You know, the one; perfectly groomed mom and child are having a pleasant full-cooked breakfast in their immaculate, sweet eat-in kitchen. when...DUH DUH DUH...Bobby accidentally catapults his full glass of deep Barney purple grape juice onto the marble tile. Bobby looks at mom with perfect glistening baby blues. And just when you think mom is going to flip like an overdone pancake... she flashes Bobby a smile and coos in her best June Cleaver,"Oh, Bobby, it's okay!" And then she does the unthinkable and wistfully tears a single ply of Brawny paper towel and soaks up that entire glass of spilled grape juice. Mom and Bobby spend the rest of the day doing scheduled craft time, a tambourine duet to twinkle twinkle little star, bake perfect Betty Crocker cookies, and nap together in a field of Daisies before Pop comes home to the four course meal they prepared together.
Now, let's consider Always Save Paper Towels. Wonder why you've never seen one of their commercials? Because this is what would happen ... Enter mom and Billy both still in pajamas and unruly hair. They sit at a table donned with papers of every kind, last nights dinner scraps, and holy smokies...is that a dead spider - no make that live spider? Mom and Billy ignore the trash pile that was once a table and continue to devour generic Happy O's cereal with questionable/possibly expired milk. Billy, startled by approaching spider, slings grape juice on spider and all over white carpet. Mom immediately screams, "Dog nabbit Billy!" (or worse) and takes one entire roll of Always Save and beats it on the juice pile. Mom's still screaming and now splashing residual grape juice against the wall with paper towel roll while Billy starts throwing Happy O's at her. Mom and Billy spend the rest of the day alternately in time out, eating last week's leftovers, watching hours of TV, and have a frozen dinner waiting for Pop, who is home an hour late.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Laundry is the Devil
Indeed, laundry is the devil incarnate. Its pointy horns and staff are cleverly disguised as ten-foot piles of dirty, stinky, despicable clothing. Ahhh, the treacheryery found in spit-up on shirts, jeans, balled up underwear, and yes, even the cute little onsies too! All gathered together in a sinister mountanous pile; they tell you..."It's okay, you can go watch Ellen, don't worry about us," or "Update your blog," or "Stare at the ceiling." Anything to keep you from dispelling their evil into the open recesses of your waiting washer. And of course you listen, because you want to believe the lies of the laundry devil. Soon you catch yourself saying things like, "Oh, I can wait another day, week, or month," or "I'll just buy some new underwear." And then, "Yeah, I owe it to myself to watch Ellen, update my blog, and stare at the ceiling. Heed this warning here oh fellow afflicted ones..."DON'T BELIEVE THE LIES." Take the dirties from their firey abyss and clense them in the good waters of your washer. For if you don't my good friends...the piles will only haunt you all the days of your life - or at least until you do a load of laundry.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
How do I do it?
When people learn that I have three kids under the age of three (and that twins are part of this package), I then receive one of the following two remarks: "Wow you sure have your hands full," and/or "I don't know how you do it." And the really brave ones, who don't know they are opening Pandora's box will ask me, "How do you do it." HAAAAAAAAAAA. Well...for those of you who are really prepared to see what's inside that tricky box...here goes:
First of all, I just do it. I get up at 6a.m., sometimes later if the Baby Gods are smiling down upon me. I carry one eighteen-pound baby in one arm and a nineteen-pound baby in the other. I switch em' up to make sure one arm isn't more buff than the other. I may or may not be accompanied by my two-year-old, who is already chanting "I'm hungry, I want to eat, I'm hungry, I want to eat." Once downstairs babies are screaming for bottles, Laura's mantra is still going (now louder), "I'm hungry, Canna have some waffles, canna have some waffles." All this at 6a.m. and I haven't even had my coffee yet!!!!
Repeat scenario in the afternoon around lunchtime, and again at dinner. In between, I break-up fights between twins, fights between Laura versus twins, and Laura versus Laura. I do some cleaning, usually half-ass surface cleaning, because who really cares if you can see baby hand prints on the entertainment center? And swiping excess chunks of food from the baby chairs, and trays insn't cheating in my book. They'll just get messy again later. I spend a large portion of the day trying to keep my obsessive compulsive self from panicking over the mine-field of yesterday's (sometimes last week's) crumbs and dog hair clumps on the carpet and hardwood floor. Occassionally the OCD gets the better of me and creates a cleaning monster - but not often enough. Of course theres the laundry, diapers, dishwasher, necessitated run to Target for formula with all three kids, keeping little fingers away from dangerous sockets, keeping permanent markers away from bigger fingers, practicing not screaming just because someone said Mommy for the ten-thousanth time, etc.
I'd like to say that I "do it" all with grace. That I do it with that huge cheezy smile you all know I can do. Sometimes I do! And I cherish those days. More often than not, I probably don't. At least not all day. But cheezy smile or no...I love it! Yeah, I said it...I love it! It ain't gonna be forever, and time will suck these years up a lot faster than my OCD vacuuming. For those of you who do whatever it is you do...have fun...write cynical blogs...put on your cheezy smile...and here's my HOLLA to you all!!!!
First of all, I just do it. I get up at 6a.m., sometimes later if the Baby Gods are smiling down upon me. I carry one eighteen-pound baby in one arm and a nineteen-pound baby in the other. I switch em' up to make sure one arm isn't more buff than the other. I may or may not be accompanied by my two-year-old, who is already chanting "I'm hungry, I want to eat, I'm hungry, I want to eat." Once downstairs babies are screaming for bottles, Laura's mantra is still going (now louder), "I'm hungry, Canna have some waffles, canna have some waffles." All this at 6a.m. and I haven't even had my coffee yet!!!!
Repeat scenario in the afternoon around lunchtime, and again at dinner. In between, I break-up fights between twins, fights between Laura versus twins, and Laura versus Laura. I do some cleaning, usually half-ass surface cleaning, because who really cares if you can see baby hand prints on the entertainment center? And swiping excess chunks of food from the baby chairs, and trays insn't cheating in my book. They'll just get messy again later. I spend a large portion of the day trying to keep my obsessive compulsive self from panicking over the mine-field of yesterday's (sometimes last week's) crumbs and dog hair clumps on the carpet and hardwood floor. Occassionally the OCD gets the better of me and creates a cleaning monster - but not often enough. Of course theres the laundry, diapers, dishwasher, necessitated run to Target for formula with all three kids, keeping little fingers away from dangerous sockets, keeping permanent markers away from bigger fingers, practicing not screaming just because someone said Mommy for the ten-thousanth time, etc.
I'd like to say that I "do it" all with grace. That I do it with that huge cheezy smile you all know I can do. Sometimes I do! And I cherish those days. More often than not, I probably don't. At least not all day. But cheezy smile or no...I love it! Yeah, I said it...I love it! It ain't gonna be forever, and time will suck these years up a lot faster than my OCD vacuuming. For those of you who do whatever it is you do...have fun...write cynical blogs...put on your cheezy smile...and here's my HOLLA to you all!!!!
Monday, September 14, 2009
Mexican Potty Finale
MPS - The Grand Finale
Days four and five of MPS over weekend produce atypical but positive outcome. Big girl panties stayed dry and two-year-old exhibits big girl behavior (at least where potty is concerned). Laura actually asks Mommy to use potty of own volition. Even willingly poops on potty without wiggling for hour first. WHOA. Two-year-old saves up four whole dollars in piggy-pee-bank. Special trip to toy store is scheduled for week's potty achievements. Mommy spends extra sixteen-dollars of own money for toy only worth four-dollars saved by two-year-old.
Conclusion of Mexican potty standoff - partial victory for all parties involved...because if you remember...no side actually really wins in a Mexican standoff.
Days four and five of MPS over weekend produce atypical but positive outcome. Big girl panties stayed dry and two-year-old exhibits big girl behavior (at least where potty is concerned). Laura actually asks Mommy to use potty of own volition. Even willingly poops on potty without wiggling for hour first. WHOA. Two-year-old saves up four whole dollars in piggy-pee-bank. Special trip to toy store is scheduled for week's potty achievements. Mommy spends extra sixteen-dollars of own money for toy only worth four-dollars saved by two-year-old.
Conclusion of Mexican potty standoff - partial victory for all parties involved...because if you remember...no side actually really wins in a Mexican standoff.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
MPS - Day Four
Day four of confrontation:
Mommy full of trepidation sending two-year-old to friend Amy's with nothing but big girl panties and HOPE for the morning. Mommy fears phone call from Amy informing of potty disaster, or even worse...lack-of potty-in-the-panties/shorts-disaster. NO -refuse to be sucked in by usual pessimistic vortex. Instead, save half of delicious Starbucks blueberry muffin as reward for good potty conduct at pick-up time (Ah, the sacrifices we make as mothers!). Mommy puts on brave face to long trek to Amy's front door from mini-van. Sees Laura in small window shortless. Uh-oh. No, no stay away from the vortex. Mickey (Amy's husband) reports: "Laura had a good day. She peed in the potty twice. She did have a little juicy poop in her pants...but I think she thought it was going to be fart." Mommy deliberates next move...Cite turd incident as accidental and praise two-year-old for using potty outside of house? Or deem turd as intentional and devour rest of Starbucks muffin? Allright, allright...Mommy decides on first option. Laura devours muffin instead, stays dry remainder of the day, and even poops in the potty after wiggling around the house for over an hour.
Conclusion of day four Mexican standoff - Mommy's taking this one as a win!
Mommy full of trepidation sending two-year-old to friend Amy's with nothing but big girl panties and HOPE for the morning. Mommy fears phone call from Amy informing of potty disaster, or even worse...lack-of potty-in-the-panties/shorts-disaster. NO -refuse to be sucked in by usual pessimistic vortex. Instead, save half of delicious Starbucks blueberry muffin as reward for good potty conduct at pick-up time (Ah, the sacrifices we make as mothers!). Mommy puts on brave face to long trek to Amy's front door from mini-van. Sees Laura in small window shortless. Uh-oh. No, no stay away from the vortex. Mickey (Amy's husband) reports: "Laura had a good day. She peed in the potty twice. She did have a little juicy poop in her pants...but I think she thought it was going to be fart." Mommy deliberates next move...Cite turd incident as accidental and praise two-year-old for using potty outside of house? Or deem turd as intentional and devour rest of Starbucks muffin? Allright, allright...Mommy decides on first option. Laura devours muffin instead, stays dry remainder of the day, and even poops in the potty after wiggling around the house for over an hour.
Conclusion of day four Mexican standoff - Mommy's taking this one as a win!
Friday, September 11, 2009
MPS - Day Three
Day three of confrontation:
Aye Carumba! No mas potty training (too lazy to look up Spanish translation for potty training). Mommy es muy cansada. Mommy is so tired in fact, that she forgets about potty training entirely. Two-year-old has not been prompted to use potty all morning. Mommy pays dearly for this infraction when Laura hollers, "Mommy I'm peeing on the floor!" "Ahhhhh," Mommy replies with freshly bathed naked twin in arms...other twin headed straight for quickly accumulating pee puddle on floor. Meanwhile two-year-old still peeing. Mommy sets naked twin on family room floor, pushes other twin farther away from pee puddle. Two-year-old still peeing. Naked twin already inches from pee puddle. Laura still peeing. Other twin has broken through living room barricade...almost to pee puddle. Mommy grabs two-year-old covered in pee, puts both twins back in living room, re-enforces barricade. Cleans up two-year-old, puts clothes on naked twin, mops up pee, and congratulates self for not loosing sanity.
Rest of afternoon yields one more accident, this time just a small occurrence (in big girl panties, not floor). Two glorious evening victories at friend's birthday at Fun Run when Laura uses big potty (once even, informing Mommy on her own).
Conclusion of day three Mexican standoff: Undecided.
Aye Carumba! No mas potty training (too lazy to look up Spanish translation for potty training). Mommy es muy cansada. Mommy is so tired in fact, that she forgets about potty training entirely. Two-year-old has not been prompted to use potty all morning. Mommy pays dearly for this infraction when Laura hollers, "Mommy I'm peeing on the floor!" "Ahhhhh," Mommy replies with freshly bathed naked twin in arms...other twin headed straight for quickly accumulating pee puddle on floor. Meanwhile two-year-old still peeing. Mommy sets naked twin on family room floor, pushes other twin farther away from pee puddle. Two-year-old still peeing. Naked twin already inches from pee puddle. Laura still peeing. Other twin has broken through living room barricade...almost to pee puddle. Mommy grabs two-year-old covered in pee, puts both twins back in living room, re-enforces barricade. Cleans up two-year-old, puts clothes on naked twin, mops up pee, and congratulates self for not loosing sanity.
Rest of afternoon yields one more accident, this time just a small occurrence (in big girl panties, not floor). Two glorious evening victories at friend's birthday at Fun Run when Laura uses big potty (once even, informing Mommy on her own).
Conclusion of day three Mexican standoff: Undecided.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Mexican Potty Standoff - Day Two
Day two of confrontation:
Mommy waits to confront two-year-old until masses of liquid and morning cartoons have been consumed before mentioning potty. Mommy asks nonchalantly, "Laura are you ready to use the potty?" Two-year-old screams in response, "NO." Mommy beginning to lapse into defeatist mode. Battle ensues at snack time between fruit versus fruit snacks. Mommy seizes opportunity for potty persuasion. "You can have fruit snacks if you pee in the potty." Two-year-old, "Okay!" Mommy feigns composure, while inwardly rejoicing at successful bribery tactic. Afternoon in question when Mary Green, family friend comes to watch the children so Mommy can momentarily escape. "We had a battle," Mary Green reports upon Mommy's return. Sh**! "Laura screamed at me when I asked her to use the potty, but when I asked her why she was screaming, she suddenly stopped, then used the potty." Phew. Big girl panties remained dry all day!
Conclusion of day two Mexican standoff - Mary Green wins
Mommy waits to confront two-year-old until masses of liquid and morning cartoons have been consumed before mentioning potty. Mommy asks nonchalantly, "Laura are you ready to use the potty?" Two-year-old screams in response, "NO." Mommy beginning to lapse into defeatist mode. Battle ensues at snack time between fruit versus fruit snacks. Mommy seizes opportunity for potty persuasion. "You can have fruit snacks if you pee in the potty." Two-year-old, "Okay!" Mommy feigns composure, while inwardly rejoicing at successful bribery tactic. Afternoon in question when Mary Green, family friend comes to watch the children so Mommy can momentarily escape. "We had a battle," Mary Green reports upon Mommy's return. Sh**! "Laura screamed at me when I asked her to use the potty, but when I asked her why she was screaming, she suddenly stopped, then used the potty." Phew. Big girl panties remained dry all day!
Conclusion of day two Mexican standoff - Mary Green wins
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Mexican Potty Standoff
Mexican standoff - a confrontation where neither side wins.
Mexican Potty standoff - a confrontation where neither side wins, pee ends up on your carpet, and Mommy is a basket-case by end of day.
Day one of confrontation:
It was explained to Laura by Mommy and Daddy that diapers would only be worn during nap and night time. Big girls wear big girl panties and use the potty. Explanation was accepted with passive nod of two-year-old's head. Tuesday A.M. things look promising as Laura uses potty after being enticed by the last orange peanut M&M found at bottom of junk bowl (desperate times call for desperate measures...don't judge). Standoff digresses mid-morning when Laura pees in big girl panties and refuses to use potty. Further digression pre-nap when Mommy asks her to use potty for umteenth time. Laura responds to said request, "absolutely not." Afternoon has ended completely in the toilet, no pun intended, and no potty used.
Conclusion of day one Mexican standoff - two-year-old wins.
Mexican Potty standoff - a confrontation where neither side wins, pee ends up on your carpet, and Mommy is a basket-case by end of day.
Day one of confrontation:
It was explained to Laura by Mommy and Daddy that diapers would only be worn during nap and night time. Big girls wear big girl panties and use the potty. Explanation was accepted with passive nod of two-year-old's head. Tuesday A.M. things look promising as Laura uses potty after being enticed by the last orange peanut M&M found at bottom of junk bowl (desperate times call for desperate measures...don't judge). Standoff digresses mid-morning when Laura pees in big girl panties and refuses to use potty. Further digression pre-nap when Mommy asks her to use potty for umteenth time. Laura responds to said request, "absolutely not." Afternoon has ended completely in the toilet, no pun intended, and no potty used.
Conclusion of day one Mexican standoff - two-year-old wins.
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