Morphing into Mama

Ready for Their Own Place

Last Sunday morning, I awoke to the whisper of small voices and the hopping of tiny feet in the hall. Because the children are now 4 and 2 1/2 years old and fully capable of entertaining each other for a while before the little one fumbles her way through the door requesting fresh underwear and help with taking off her night diaper, I decided to snuggle closer to my body pillow (Husband was on his morning mountain bike ride) and doze for a bit. The dozing actually turned into quite a deep sleep because an hour later, I awoke to two sets of eyes only inches from my face, and I hadn't even heard the door open.

"MOMMY!"

"Yes, Bud?"

"MOMMY! I helped Sis take off her diaper! Then I gave her a wipe, and she wiped her vulva! Then she threw away the wipe, and I threw away the diaper! Then, I picked out her cwothes and now she needs help with her shirt. Can you help her with her shirt?"

I looked over at little Sis. Her left arm was tangled in her shirt, forcing her hand high above her head. After I untangled her so she no longer looked like she was addressing me with a "Heil Mommy!" I had a flashback of Marlene, a girl I knew in 6th grade who was told by our principal to stop wearing a half-shirt that said "Freshmen do it better." Even untangled, Sis's shirt barely covered her chest. When I looked down a little further, I saw that the hem of her pants was at her knees.

"Um, Bud? Where did you find these clothes?"

"I found them at the bottom of Sis's cwoset."

Ah, yes. The pile of 6-12 months clothes I keep meaning to give away to anyone who will take them.

"You did a great job helping your sister, Bud!"

Bud beamed. Sis grinned.

And so Sis spent the entire day walking around in 6-12 months infant-sized clothing because I didn't have the heart to change her.

I have since moved the pile of clothes out from the bottom of the closet. But I still haven't found anyway to take them.

Landshark

[Warning: the music you are about to hear is totally fucking cheese-y.  If you're allergic to cheese, please do NOT push the play button.  The author of this blog assumes no responsibility for the musical choice.  She only assumes responsibility for being lazy and allowing the camcorder software to create the movie for her, which included the un-editable cheese-y music.]

Sharing - Upload Video - Video Sharing - Share Photos[No actual sharks were harmed in the filming of this movie.]This was their favorite Christmas present.(Thanks for all your comments!)

Busted

Yesterday, while in the kitchen, I heard a strange scuffle followed by incoherent frantic Tod-lar whispering coming from the family room. 

I stepped away from the dishwasher and stealthily walked through the back hallway.  When I arrived at the door, I silently surveyed the scene.  Nothing appeared to be too out of the ordinary.  The Legos were all over the floor.  The couch pillows were disheveled.  And both kids were standing in the middle of the room looking at me wide-eyed. 

Hmmm.

"Bah-bie?  Were you standing on the coffee table?"  A trick she likes performing, usually at the urging of her big brother. 

"Noooo," she replied, adamantly shaking her head. 

I looked at Tod-lar.  He smiled back at me but said nothing.

I went back to loading the dishwasher.

This morning, as I was showing Husband the pictures Tod-lar's been taking all week (an exhibition of the artist's work to follow shortly), we found this:

And this:

She was wearing that outfit yesterday.

Beyond Flow

You think that spider's busy?  Huh.  You should see what's been going here at Casa MiM.  Puts that lazy-ass bug to shame. 

I started my internship, Husband is out of town for several days, and the kids have been on break from school since last week, so the wee ones and I have been gardening, building, drawing, train-track laying, market hopping, and bra shopping.

"Mama?  WHY NEED TO BUY NEW BRA?  OLD BRA BROKEN?" 

Ten people turn their heads to stare at the lady with the broken bra.  "Is she wearing it right now?" they ask themselves. 

"Yes, you nosy bastards, I AM," says my return look.

"Yes, Bud.  My old bra is broken."

"Oh.  OLD BRA BROKEN?  Okay."

Gah.

Having the kids home 24 hours a day for the past 10 days, 12 hours, and 45 seconds, with only a 4 hour work break two days a week, has been -- well, honestly, I don't even know how to describe it.  I mean, it's been . . . ugh.  I just don't have words.  At least not words that don't sound like one of those horrible fucking Hallmark cards that make you both nauseated and teary-eyed at the same time.  You know the ones I mean.  That card your mother-in-law sends you for Mother's Day with the computer-generated cursive and the flower on the side.  The card with the kind of  sappy sentimentality that makes your skin crawl, yet it's so sweet you feel like you could cry a river, but you can't because you're slightly nauseated with your own I-could-cry-a-river reaction. 

So, yeah.  The only way I can describe how this time has been is: heaven.  That kind of "you complete me" heaven.  That blissful heaven that fills your heart so full of love you feel like your chest could split open any moment but instead of an alien, Paul McCartney and Wings pop out singing one of those silly love songs.  And following them is Doris Day because you feel as if you're wearing one those fitted and flared dresses, living the perfect life with the most perfect children ever created.  I mean, it's been beyond Mama Flow.

That's not to say we've been without conflict.  Don't forget, I live with 2 toddlers, so life without any conflict would be . . . something other than life with toddlers.  Plus, I'm not raising two compliant little robots -- which would be impossible even if I wanted to, since nature would undoubtedly clobber nurture on that one given the stubborn genes they inherited from their father and me.  But the conflicts, compared to what we experienced this summer, have been easy.

So, rather than managing bastardly punk-ass behavior, I've been enjoying the little people who are my children.  Enjoying their big personalities, stubbornness and all.  Talking with them about trains, bunnies, and babies (Bah-bie's babies, that is).  Watching Tod-lar teach Bah-bie how to build with Legos and run the trains on the track.  Laughing with them as we all run through the house with towels draped on our heads so they're flowing behind us like Superman capes.  Witnessing Tod-lar's creativity with drawing and sculpture. 

Witness Sanford and Son.

And below is one of Tod-lar's water drawings, Dinosaur, otherwise known as Holy Shit!  It Really Looks Like a Dinosaur!:

Next week, the kids return to school five hours a day.  Two weeks after that, I return to school, which means they'll be spending a little more time away from me.  Just thinking about it makes me sick.  In that miss-you-and-wish-you-were-here-with-me-24/7- Hallmark kind of way.

You know what I mean.

The Art Critic

"Wook, Bah-bie!  A giraffe!" Tod-lar exclaims, pointing to his sidewalk chalk drawing.

"Nooo," Bah-bie responds, brow furrowed as she studies the blue hash marks.

"Yes.  Yes, it is, Bah-bie.  Dat's a giraffe.  I drawed a giraffe!"

"Nooo," Bah-bie insists.

"Yes!  Dat's a giraffe, and der's a elephant!"

"Yu-yeee!" exclaims Bah-bie, pointing to the "elephant."

"Dat's not yucky!  Dat's a elephant!"

"Ohhh."

Obviously, Bah-bie's vocabulary is still very limited, but everyday the kids are having more and more these conversations.  Whenever I hear them start talking to each other, I have to stop what I'm doing so I don't miss a single word.  Listening to them interact like this just makes me want to scoop them both up and eat them because they're so sweet. 

It certainly makes up for the times I want to bonk their heads together.

Oh, the Drama

It’s been a long week here at Casa MIM.  The kids started preschool/daycare on Monday, and we’re just starting to recover.

Bah-bie did pretty well her first day of daycare.  She didn’t even cry as I left her sitting at the table eating cereal with the rest of the kids.  We did get a call later that morning, however, informing us some viscous little brute had knocked down our little girl, leaving her with a huge bruise on her forehead.  When I picked her up at the end of the day, I also noticed some lovely red spots next to that green bruise.  These spots, however, were not from the Little Brute’s push but were actually a self-inflicted rug-burn.  According to her teacher, Bah-bie threw herself down on the carpet, forehead first, after she was told she couldn’t do something or other.  I am absolutely sure this is what happened because later that night, Bah-bie nearly added another bruise to her now rainbow-colored brow when she banged her head against the tub in anger after I took the binky away because she refused to give it to me.  The marks just kept coming as I received yet another call from her teacher on Wednesday informing me of another large bruise – this one under her left eye – which surfaced after Bah-bie lost her balance while standing next to a table.  It’s only the first week of daycare, and my baby already looks like a war veteran.

When I dropped her off the second day, Bah-bie did cry.  The teacher later told me she was also fussy and clingy all day.  On the third day, rather than cry, she screamed bloody fucking murder while reaching for me as I left.  I suppose the reality of “oh, you mean I really have to stay here all day without you or my brother” was finally setting in.  I can only imagine how it will be on Monday.

Tod-lar, on the other hand, would prefer to be at school than at home.  On his first day, it only took Husband a whole ten minutes to drive him to school, drop him off, and return.

“You didn’t stay with him?” I asked as I loaded Bah-bie into the car.

“No.  After we put his stuff away, he turned to me and said, ‘Bye, Dada.’  So I left.”

Tod-lar’s school was closed yesterday and today for parent/teacher conferences, and Tod-lar’s been begging to go back.  I keep telling him he’ll return on Monday, but that’s just not soon enough for him.  When we went for our conference with his teacher today, he asked to stay at school.  You’d think we were beating him at home or something.  Ingrate.

Seriously, though, I am really pleased he likes school so much, I’m just not so sure I like it.  He hasn’t been taking his nap at school (though he is “resting”), so when he gets home in the evening, he is just a total fucking nightmare.  The littlest thing just sets him off into a screaming tantrum.

“Mama!  These aren’t my new socks!  I want new socks!”

“Tod-lar, first of all, they are your new socks.  You were with me when we bought them at Target last week.  Second, you picked out these socks to wear tonight, so you’re going to wear them.”

Scream, scream, scream. The world is falling apart.  I’m going to die.  Scream, scream, scream.

“Tod-lar, Honey, I know you’re tired, and I know you feel upset.  I also know that you picked out these socks, not me.”

Scream, scream, scream.  Mama’s an evil bitch.  How could she do this to me?  Scream, scream, scream.

I know he’s overtired from no nap and constant stimulation, but seriously, the dude needs to get a fucking grip.  So, in case you were wondering, Tod-lar did not get to where any other socks that night.

Sigh.

All this drama is going to drive Mama to drink, drink, drink.

This One is for GGC

   

Because she asked.

(And yes, cmhl, these are my "spawn"  -- no doubt!)

At the Pumpkin Farm

A Prelude To A Poo

If I see or smell one more mound of shit, I’m going to claw my eyes and use them as nostril plugs – with the pupil turned inward, in case eyes are like salamander tails and can still function after being detached. 

Take my advice: DON’T EVER CAMP WITH CHILDREN WHO ARE NOT OLD ENOUGH TO DEFECATE IN A TOILET AND WIPE THEIR OWN ASSES. 

Don’t think for a minute I was writing in full caps to emphasize my point to you, dear reader.  I was writing in full caps because I WAS FUCKING YELLING! 

I understand that camping is filthy.  I expected Tod-lar to run head first into a hill of dirt, roll onto his back, do the happy doggie dance, then pour dirt into every orifice, and jam it under his fingernails.  What I didn’t expect was for him to contribute his own “homebrewed dirt.”  Don’t ask me how he did it.  But, that kid managed to poop every single motherfucking hour we were there despite NO CHANGE in his diet.  That’s right.  I’m such an anal (excuse the shitty pun . . . someone stop me, please) retentive mother that I can’t let my kids eat hotdogs even when camping.  But IMAGINE IF I HAD.  IT COULD HAVE BEEN WORSE.  Or, he could have been constipated.  But we'll never know.  Yet, I can’t blame this shitty (someone slap me) weekend on just Tod-lar.  NOOOOOOO.  In-fant was more than happy to SUDDENLY overcome her mild constipation.  Between the two of them, I saw and smelled every color, size, and texture of poo one can imagine.  Did you know that poo can be PURPLE? 

It all started on Friday as Husband and I frantically packed the not-at-all recreational vehicle.  The kids just kept pooing.  I thought they were doing me a favor and getting it all out of their system before camping.  But NOOOOOO.  Friday was merely a prelude to the poo.  After a two hour drive that took four hours, the poo just kept coming.  By Saturday, it was a game.  Tod-lar would say with an evil giggle, “Mama, I poo again!” or “Mama, Bahbi poo again!”  But by Sunday, even Tod-lar was getting bored of this game.

“I sit on knees eat.”

“What?  You want to sit on your knees while you eat lunch?”

“Yes.  Poo poo pants yucky.”

“Are you trying to tell me you have poo in your pants?”

“Yes.  I sit on knees eat.”

“Honey, I appreciate you trying to spare me a close encounter of the poo kind, but you can’t eat lunch while stewing in feces.  Let’s go change your diaper.”

I saw so much poo this weekend, I now have shit for brains.  I couldn’t even enjoy the California desert mountains on the drive home.  They just looked like heaping piles of poo.   

I'm not feeding the kids anything but bananas and rice for the next 48 hours. 

Sweet Thang

This morning I walked out of the kitchen to find Tod-lar on his hands and knees in the middle of the living room.  He was cleaning In-fant’s playmat with a tissue.  In-fant watched as he carefully moved the tissue back and forth.  Then he raised his hand and gently wiped her mouth. 

When I asked him what happened he said, “Bahbie spit-up.”

When it comes to his sister, that boy is sweet enough to eat.