Someday

            My youngest is not an easy baby. She came into this world early, and instead of spending those first few days snuggling with her, I whispered to her over the beeps of her many NICU monitors, pumped around the clock in her sterile hospital room, and struggled to hold her despite the many tubes and wires sustaining her tiny body. She has reflux and colic and cries more than any baby I’ve ever known. She nurses incessantly then spits up most of her feedings. She doesn’t smile or play like other babies her age because of her prematurity.

The challenge of the past twelve weeks has been overwhelming and exhausting. At times like this, it can be hard to find the goodness in life, but as a mom to four children, I know a secret: It won’t always be this way.

            Someday she won’t snuggle against my stomach for a peaceful nap after nursing.

Someday I won’t be able to strap her to my chest while we shop.

Someday her cries won’t remind me of a bleating sheep.

Someday she’ll talk instead of coo.

Someday she won’t need me to hold her all day.

Someday she’ll stop pooping so loudly she wakes herself from a deep sleep.

Someday she won’t let me kiss her tummy after every diaper change.

Someday she’ll be too big to squeeze inside my coat on cold mornings at the bus stop.

Someday she won’t let me kiss the top of her head and breathe in her perfect baby scent. Someday she won’t even have that perfect baby scent.

Someday she’ll outgrow her miniature baby tub. Someday she’ll outgrow baths altogether.

Someday I’ll nervously wait for her to return home late at night instead of rocking in a dark nursery with her.

Someday her hair won’t rest smoothly across her tiny head like the fuzz on a peach.

Someday her cries will be less frequent but harder to soothe.

Someday she’ll insist I sing the same song fourteen times in a row. Someday she won’t let me sing to her at all.

Someday these tiny moments will be distant memories I’ll recall with a smile and a tear as I flip through photo albums. 

I refuse to wait until that day to treasure these precious moments. When it’s three a.m. and I’m covered in spit-up, pacing the room with a screaming baby and counting the minutes until the other kids wake for the day, it’s hard to appreciate the moment. So I take a deep breath, kiss that sweet baby’s head, and remind myself that someday, I’ll miss this day.

Stuck in the Middle without You

                Yesterday I met with a group of moms for the first time this school year.  The group was the same, but most of the moms have changed over the years.  I’ll admit it- the change is hard for me to accept.  I stink at transitions anyway and this one seemed particularly personal.  You see, many of the moms who are no longer in that group were there when I first joined in 2009.  Those moms hugged me when my oldest climbed out of her crib and changed her own diaper on the white rug.  They reassured me when we were expecting our second and I was so sure I’d never love another child as much as my first.  And they patted me on the back and told me I wasn’t a terrible mom when my daughter pulled the hair of every other child she met. 

                I’ve shared many a bottle of wine with those moms as we compared potty training tactics, preschool curriculum, and naptime woes.  I cried with these moms when our oldest children started kindergarten and again, although with much fewer tears, when the next school year began.   I know the friendships I’ve formed with these moms will last a lifetime, but after years of sharing so much common ground with these moms, they’re moving on, and I’m not.

                These moms are now in the trenches of elementary school, dealing with PTO meetings and homework battles, navigating more independence and later bedtimes for their kiddos.  They are camping out on soccer fields on weekends and driving to scout meetings and dance classes on weeknights.  I’m there too, sharing all those experiences with those moms.  But I’m also back at square one.

                I’m back in the world of potty training, pacifier-weaning, baby-wearing, spit-up cleaning, nap schedules, diaper blowouts and colic.  From 8:35-3:54, my life now strongly resembles my life from 5 years ago.  During those hours, I’m a little kid mom—a mom with a baby and a toddler.  And the new moms in my beloved group can relate to that.  But at 3:55 each day, I’m still a mom to a toddler and a baby, but then I’m also juggling the big kid things, and the group of moms that can relate to both of those shrinks.  That’s when I feel stuck in the middle, like I’m not a part of either group of moms—the big kid moms or the little kid moms.

                Part of the reason I so desperately wanted a fourth child was so I could relive the glory days when my oldest two kids were a newborn and toddler, but it’s painfully obvious now that I can’t go back.  My experience as a mom of two elementary schoolers necessarily impacts my parenting of the toddler and baby, and vice versa.  When my first two kids were little, I didn’t interrupt their naps to get to the bus stop on time.  I never kept them up past bedtime because of a gymnastics class or Back to School night.  I also don’t see many other moms nursing a baby during the second grade class play.  It's clear I'm an outsider on both levels.

While most of my mom friends can’t relate to my parenthood journey on both levels, some can.  The rest can get me through the ups and downs of mothering either the big kids or the little ones.  I don’t feel as wholly connected to any of my friends now as I used to since we’re now only sharing part of the experience, but I do have twice as many moms to listen to me vent or brag or just to share that bottle of wine with me. 

                For now, instead of mourning the fact that many of my mom friends have moved on to the next stage of life with their kiddos and no longer need our morning get-togethers and playgroups, I am going to work on embracing change.  And that starts with getting to know all these new moms that I’ll be leaning on when my toddler gives up naps or my infant has her first nursing strike.  Because while the ages of the kids changes with time, the mommy mentality really doesn’t, and that’s what forms the basis of our lifelong friendships. 

Just Another Manic 'Mom'day

                Being a mom is hectic.  No matter how many kids you have, those quiet mornings sipping coffee and reading the paper are gone.  I’m in awe of everyone who manages to get the kids out the door and fed every day, and seriously impressed with moms who do that and get themselves to work on time.  At our house, no matter what day of the week it is, it’s a manic day.  It’s a happy chaos, created by our four wonderful children, but it is a LOT to deal with.  I am by no means a parenting (or any other kind of) expert, but I firmly believe that laughter is the best way to deal with daily stress.  I am lucky enough to be able to laugh at myself and my situation most days, and I now invite you to laugh at my daily grind too, with this play-by-play of a random manic morning in our house. 

7am:  Lay in bed nursing baby and pumping, wishing the breast pump doubled as a coffee maker and trying to calculate how much sleep I actually got between night feedings.  Pull out phone to read any important news (i.e. Facebook) that has been reported since the 5am feeding.

7:02: Listen on the baby monitor as toddler sings happily.  Wondering why my two kids that don’t attend school wake up earlier than the two that actually need to be someplace soon.

7:05: Realize toddler’s song has turned dark as she sings “I’m still here in my bed all alone in the dark because nobody loves me.  Yes nobody loves me.”  Turn off the pump and slide out of bed while still feeding baby.

7:07: Greet toddler warmly.  Dodge stuffed dog chucked at my head while toddler insists she’s still sleeping.  Retreat to my room, still feeding baby.

7:10: Finish feeding baby.  Set her in bouncy seat and get dressed.  Attempt to insert contacts and brush teeth while bouncing bouncy seat with my foot.

7:11: Drop contact somewhere.  Curse and then get out a new one.  They’re disposable anyway.

7:12: Pick up frantic baby and apply multiple layers of cover-up under my eyes.  Attempt minimal makeup and maximum deodorant one handed.

7:13: Notice baby has spit up most of her feeding into my hair and shirt.  Remember to brush hair while dabbing at the vomit with a damp cloth.

7:14:  Return to toddler’s room.  Realize I left bottle of pumped milk in her room and that she has now spilled it.  Cry.  Explain why she can’t wear a swimsuit all day when it’s not yet 60 degrees out.

7:25: Carry baby and toddler (still in Pjs) downstairs.  Practice origami skills by folding baby into Moby wrap.

7:30: Pour two sippy cups of skim milk and one of lactose free milk.  Pour self coffee.  Start to take sip of coffee when baby spits up down my shirt again.  Try to blot at clumps of spit up with rag but can’t reach it with the Moby wrap on.  Give up and make mental note never to wear black again.

7:35: Wake big kids, make beds, open blinds, instruct kids 11 times to get dressed.

7:45: Referee wrestling match over which episode of Monster High to watch. 

7:50: Slip in pooled spit up on the hardwood floor while packing lunches.  When did that happen?

8:00: Serve breakfast to toddler and big kids as they sit like royalty in front of the TV.  Bounce baby in Moby in hopes that she’ll stop screeching before we all go deaf.

8:10: Beg toddler to get dressed.  Give up quickly and persuade kids to brush teeth and hair instead.

8:15: Put toddler’s hair in ponytail to avoid combing through weird matted clump in the back.

8:20: Load dishwasher.  Realize I forgot to change baby’s diaper.  Allow toddler to “help” with this task.  Spot baby powder and shake some down my shirt in hopes of masking the stench of spit up. 

8:25: Throw now-damp changing pad and baby’s pajamas into washer.  Attempt to squeeze the stupid bento boxes into the lunchboxes.  Fold baby back into the Moby wrap.  Reach for coffee to take a sip but knock it to floor with baby’s foot instead.  Contemplate lapping it off the floor but decide I should sweep the glass up first. 

8:28: Look at clock and realize I don’t have time to sweep.  Turn off TV and tell kids to get shoes, jackets, and backpacks.

8:30: Grab shoes that kindergartener forgot when she raced out the door. 

8:32: Subtly wipe big kids’ mouths on side of Moby wrap.  Really look at their outfits for the first time and wonder who told my kids that stripes and polka dots match.

8:34: Wave as ½ of my kids board the bus.  Feel moment of relief.

8:35: Baby wakes and spits up again.  Toddler runs over my foot with tricycle. 

8:40: Tell toddler we need to go inside so mommy can eat breakfast.  Insist we will play outside once she is dressed. Watch as epic tantrum ensues.

8:50: Start to worry nearby construction workers will call CPS if they witness any more of the tantrum.  Pick up screaming toddler in one arm and carry her off to side of my body so she doesn’t clock baby strapped to my chest. 

8:51:  Accidentally bump baby’s head on doorframe.  Strip toddler naked in hopes that she’ll use the potty or get dressed.  Turn on Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood.

8:53: Reach for coffee cup and remember it broke.  Grab broom and sweep.  Pour coffee into new cup.  Microwave oatmeal. Remove baby from Moby wrap and pat her while swaying back and forth until she falls back asleep.

8:57: Realize house is eerily calm and see that toddler has escaped out the back door and is blowing bubbles on the back step.  Naked.

8:58: Fetch naked toddler while still carrying naked baby.  Wave to concerned-looking construction workers.

9:00: Slice banana for toddler.  Drop knife on my foot and curse loudly, waking baby.

9:05: Carry oatmeal and baby to couch and start nursing baby while attempting to eat without dropping oats on her head.

9:10: Remember I left my coffee in the kitchen.  Set down oatmeal and go to kitchen to retrieve it, still nursing baby.

9:12: Sip coffee.  Realize it is cold.  See dog eat my oatmeal.  Chug remainder of cold coffee.  Glance at clock and attempt to calculate hours till bedtime…

9:13: Laugh so hard I cry.  Or maybe I cried so hard I laughed.  It’s hard to say. 

9:15: Decide that a nutty morning might make for a funny blog post.

That's my morning.  How was yours?

Don't Poke the Bear

            I have a confession to make, and it’s not related to the expired Xanax stashed in the medicine cabinet.  Here it goes: my happiness is entirely dependent on my kids’ happiness.  Yes, I realize that sounds pathetic and psychologically unhealthy, so let me clarify that this was not always the case.  At one time in the not-so-distant past, I was a lawyer, a writer, a friend, a wife, a runner, a baker, a reader, and many more things.  I had hobbies, relationships, socks that matched and pants that zipped.  I hope, someday, to return to that normalcy, where my happiness and self-worth are based on a myriad of things, largely within my control. 

            Today is not that day. 

Today, I have a newborn.  And a toddler.  And a kindergartener and a second grader.  So while I am still theoretically a lawyer, wife, writer, etc., I’m sure you understand that I’m not able to focus my attention on those aspects of my identity.  I sleep less than six hours a night, survive on sandwich crusts and stray Cheez-its from the diaper bag, and spend more time extracting milk than a dairy cow.  I stumble around in clothes covered in spit up and a ponytail disguising the lack of shower.  In other words, I am in survival mode.

            One thing has the ability to make my days infinitely easier or drastically harder—my kids’ happiness.  One toddler tantrum can rouse the baby from the first nap she’s taken all day that wasn’t in my arms.  One meltdown from an overtired kindergartener over the playroom she just doesn’t want to clean can wipe out the fifteen minutes I could have spent eating the cereal I never finished at breakfast, and one dramatic tirade from a 7 year old who lost too many teeth to eat the apply I absentmindedly packed in her lunchbox can distract me from the diaper I’m changing just long enough to get pee all over the only pair of shorts that currently fit me.

            What’s my solution to this?  I don’t poke the bear, no matter which of my kids is being the bear at the moment.  That means I cut the crusts off the sandwiches before I’m asked, let my toddler carry her pacifier and vast menagerie of stuffed creatures wherever we go, put the baby down for (supervised) naps on her tummy so she’ll sleep longer, and look the other way when the big kids “sneak” an extra episode of Jesse.  Am I concerned that this overindulgence will result in overly demanding and spoiled kids?  Slightly.  But mostly I’m just tired.  And besides, it’s temporary. 

            At the end of the day (which incidentally is a hard time to pinpoint when you’re feeding a small but very loud human every 2 hours around the clock), I’m happiest on the days where we had the fewest tears and tantrums and the most giggles and hugs.  I know someday soon I’ll take joy in writing a killer appellate brief or hitting a PR on a 10k, but for now, I’ll measure my success in the quiet happiness of four really cute girls. 

Today’s Pet Peeves

*** This post was supposed to be published in mid-June, but for some reason (pregnancy brain???), it never uploaded.  So here it is, better late than never, my last blog post as a mom of three.

 

 

            If you’ve ever been pregnant or trapped in the vicinity of a pregnant woman, you may recall that one of the nasty side effects of third trimester is extreme crankiness.  So as not to burden you all with my recent irritability, I haven’t posted for over a month, but I just can’t hold it in any longer.  So here you have it, my top pet peeves, in no particular order.  Please feel free to add your own in the comments…misery loves company!

 

1.       Drivers who don’t use turn signals.  Equally annoying are drivers who use turn signals but then leave them on indefinitely after lane changes

2.      Long toenails.  I mean, ewww.  Get some clippers!

3.      Hashtags, acronyms, abbreviations and other ways you people try to make me feel old

4.      Drivers who speed through school zones  when kids are obviously present

5.      Drivers who slow down for school zones when school isn’t in session

6.      Unattended children at swimming pools

7.      Dandelions

8.      Drivers who stop at yellow lights

9.      Drivers who run red lights

10.   People who pay for checks at the grocery or retail stores

11.    Parents who let their kids touch things on restaurant buffets

12.   Varicose veins

13.   Drivers who go the speed limit in the far left lane

14.   Drivers who go under the speed limit anywhere.  It’s possible I’m not the most patient or tolerant driver on the road.

15.   Programmable thermostats

16.   People who bike slowly on narrow roads at rush hour when there is a sidewalk right there

17.   Teens who drive golf carts down sidewalks

18.   Teenagers in general

19.   Dog farts

20.  People who take forever to tell a story.  Get to the point already!

21.   Drivers who text while driving

22.  Cigarette butts

23.  Special News Reports.  If I wanted to see the breaking news, I could check it on my phone without interrupting whatever show I actually want to watch

24.  Homework for elementary schoolers that obviously requires parental participation

25.  Short cell phone battery life

26.  Humidity

27.  People who back into parking spaces.  Unless you’re robbing a bank, this is pointless.

28.  Drivers who wait for someone else to get into a car and back out so they can have the parking space even though the lot isn’t full.  Stop making the rest of us wait so your lazy butt doesn’t have to walk ten extra yards!

29.  Expired coupons

30.  Newspapers thrown over the sprinkler head

31.   Sleet.  Either rain or snow, Atmosphere.  Make up your mind!

32.  Wasps.  The stinging kind.

33.  Comments on online news articles.  Don’t you people have friends you could discuss these topics with?  Why do you assume random strangers care what you think?

34.  Expired packaged food.  Who has time to check those dates at the store?

35.  Strangers who ask if I’m having twins

36.  Finding unflushed poop in every toilet in the house

37.  Cat litter

38.  Drivers who don’t wave thank you after you slow down to let them in your lane

39.  Dog poop at playgrounds.  Pick it up you lazy SOB!

40. When my phone autocorrects certain words to “duck” and “ducking.”  As if anyone ever has intentionally written either of those words in a text.

41.   Stores that email you multiple times a day to inform you of a short-term discount.  One notification is enough, thanks. 

42.  Tiny font

43.  People who use their cell phones during movies, even if not talking.  That light is distracting!

44. Mostly empty ketchup bottles

45.  Mosquito bites

46. Cursive handwriting.  Unless you’re signing your name, just print and spare the rest of us the pain of trying to decipher your scribbles.

47.  Commercials when you’re watching a show online

48. Parents who leave children who are obviously sick at preschool

49. Organic food.  The sheer fact that it exists increases my guilt about the hot dogs and pop tarts my kids just ate.

The Glamour and the Glory

                Didn’t you get the memo?  Motherhood is glamorous.  I’m sure by now you’ve all seen the photos of Princess Kate in her high heels and panty hose with perfectly coiffed hair mere hours after her delivery and I’m equally sure that you’re all sick of bloggers ranting about it.  But come on—I wasn’t even able to stand upright unassisted eight hours after my last delivery and no amount of professional makeup artists could’ve crammed my swollen feet into flip flops, let alone high heels, that day.  And panty hose?  I’m now 2+ years post partum and still wouldn’t wear those unless you paid me.  A lot.  But I digress…

                I imagine a lot of you, like me, once envisioned yourself in some glamorous job.  As a child, I wanted to be Madonna (not the Christian version, the pop star/stripper one).  My five year old wants to be a professional dancer (she claims ballerina but watching her move I have suspicions she too would be more talented at the stripper variety).  Lots of little kids I talk to want jobs where they explore outer space, dive to the depths of the ocean, travel the world, or star in movies.  And most preschool girls still seem to want to be a princess when they grow up.  Not sure if we should blame Kate or Disney for that one.  All of these career aspirations have one thing in common—they’re all pretty glamorous. 

                I predict the majority of these kids will someday abandon these dreams for less glamorous jobs—sales people, lawyers, accountants, nurses, etc.  I bet at some point, many of these little girls will undertake the least glamorous job out there—motherhood.  If you think motherhood is glamorous, you’ve obviously never wiped another human’s butt, caught vomit in your bare hands, or scraped someone else’s boogers off of your purse at the end of the day.  With Mother’s Day looming in the near future, I started thinking about this after a conversation with my sweet, thoughtful husband.  Here’s how that dialogue went:

Husband:             For Mother’s Day, I decided we are going to do something special for you every day of the month.

                Me:                        That sounds awesome.

Husband:             Great.  Some days, we’ll get you flowers, other days, a sweet note, or chocolates, or…

Me:                        Sorry to interrupt…but am I allowed to give suggestions?  What if, instead of picking up flowers on your way home, you swing by Target and grab a bottle of dishwasher detergent?  And the next time Katherine tries to change her own diaper—you can clean up the aftermath.  Actions speak louder than words, so that would be way more powerful than a note of appreciation.  And chocolates?  What if you address the kids’ random mid-dinner requests one evening so I can sit the entire meal instead?

 

                I think my response surprised him, because he was envisioning this glamorous and romantic TV-style Mother’s Day where my perfectly coordinated children surround me with tokens of love and I’m swept off my feet by his traditional gestures of love.  But the reality of my Mother’s Day is that I’ll probably look like a sleep-deprived pregnant lady whose hairbrush went missing days ago and my kids will all be wearing mismatched dresses with random stains and equally iffy-looking hairdos.  And I’m okay with that, because my life isn’t glorious.  It’s a lot of dirty diapers, dirty laundry, dirty dishes, dirty bedrooms, dirty floors, and overflowing trash cans.  There’s nothing glamorous about finding a cheerio in your bra at the end of the day and struggling to determine how long it’s been there or where it originated.  There’s nothing glamorous in packing lunchboxes every morning only to unpack them each evening.  And there’s definitely nothing glamorous about scrubbing out the potty chair after every tedious attempt by your toddler.

                But despite the total lack of glamour in motherhood, it’s definitely full of glory, and I think, in the end, that’s what we all really wanted when we wished to be princesses or pirates.  Seeing the look on your toddler’s face when the pee actually goes INTO the potty for the first time is truly glorious.  Knowing that you are the only person who can make your preschooler feel better after she runs into the wall for the fourth time is a glorious feeling.  And nothing is more glorious than your first grader patting your belly and reading the new baby Goodnight Moon.

                So if you’re celebrating you tomorrow on Mother’s Day, don’t get hung up on the lack of Kate-style glamour in your day.  Just appreciate the glory, and try to sneak away long enough for a nap.

First-World Problems

                Today, my middle daughter asked for another Barbie.  There is nothing spectacular or blog-worthy in that request, as I hear it most days.  Nor was my response (“sorry but we already have every Barbie ever produced and even if I did buy you another, you’d strip her naked in a matter of minutes, break off an arm a week later, and leave her shoes out for your sister to choke on or drop one down the sink drain”).  Okay, maybe that isn’t my actual response, but you get the idea. 

As she launched into her calm (ha!), level-headed (double ha) tirade about the gross injustice of my refusal to purchase her yet another toy for absolutely no reason whatsoever, I noticed my front lawn.  It’s a sickly shade of brownish green.  Clearly, it’s time to start watering for spring.  But this realization led me to wonder when the landscapers come and turn on the irrigation system for the spring.  Or even what the company name is.  Or whether I have to be home when they do it.  It only takes a nanosecond (including the elusive backwater flow test, which admit it, you have no clue what it does or why it’s needed either), and then like magic my lawn essentially starts to water itself without any effort on my part. 

Somewhere between this Barbie conundrum and my panic over the scheduling of the landscaper, I started to worry that our HOA would send a letter about the horrid neon green duct tape my husband stuck all over our swingset canopy to repair the rips.  And it occurred to me that I have a lot of first-world problems right now.  I’m pretty sure I don’t have a single actual problem at the moment (and trust me, with the pregnancy insomnia, I spend lots of hours trying to dream up one), but real problems aren’t nearly as funny to blog about as first-world problems.  So I quickly informed my delightful child that kids somewhere in the world have to walk like ten miles a day just for clean drinking water and that she should take her Barbies and be grateful she has filtered water to bathe them in. 

Since I’m a list-maker (moderate OCD—is that a real problem???), here’s today’s list… First-World Problems:

1)      Figuring out what all the abbreviations used in texts are.  LOL and WTF I get.  SMH or ROFL—no one says those in real life, so why abbreviate them?  And as for the rest, I have no clue and never care enough to Google it.  And unless you’re younger than the hashtag (which if you are, stop reading now—I’m highly inappropriate at times!), you know you’re as clueless as me.

2)      Finding a dual-screen DVD player for the van that saves the kids’ place on the DVD when the engine is shut off.

3)      Cleaning hot pink Hello Kitty nail polish off of upholstered furniture.

4)      Needing to reorganize your toddler’s closet, but only being able to do that while she’s asleep.

5)      Wanting to maintain only one Twitter account but feeling guilty when your kid’s principal starts to follow you since everyone you follow is a 25-30 year old male celebrity. 

6)       Figuring out how to set the thermostat before bed.  This one kills me.  Several of us have nasty spring allergies, so sleeping with the windows open doesn’t work.  On spring nights, the house gets too hot for my swollen, hormonal self to sleep at bedtime, but by 2am, it’s icy cold.  Don’t tell me to get a programmable thermostat—those things are evil.  When I change the temperature, I want it to do what I say, not to revert back to its pre-programmed temp at the next scheduled time.  What I need is a thermostat where I can tell it to keep my house between 66-68 degrees overnight, whether that means that it needs to use A/C, heat, or both at different times. 

7)      Remembering to stay up till midnight 90 days before our Disney trip to try to reserve Fastpasses to meet Elsa, my least-favorite EVER Disney princess. 

8)      Gluten.  BPAs.  GMOs. 

9)      Determining the best way to store all my kids’ crap.  I mean, toys.  When you have three+ kids, figuring out where to arrange all the stuff so the kids can play with it but can also theoretically put it away independently requires something akin to an engineering degree. 

10)   Deciding if the upright Dyson or canister one will be less likely to scratch hardwood floors.

11)   Realizing you should buy your kids organic fruit but refusing to pay $40 a day for their uncontrollable raspberry-eating habit.

12)   Reconfiguring my Pandora stations after my preschooler gave a thumbs down to all songs not by Taylor Swift or Katy Perry. 

13)   Trying to sync my ipod playlist with the laptop without accidentally getting any of my spouse’s Radiohead songs.  If you question the dilemma here, you’ve obviously never tried running while a Radiohead song plays.  You might as well try taking Unisom before a race.

14)   Finding maternity pants that aren’t too big in the morning but still fit at night.

15)   Determining if the dishes in the dishwasher are dirty or clean or mid-cycle when you have a ridiculously quiet dishwasher with more buttons and controls than a space ship.

16)   Remembering to put the food you’re trying to cook in whichever oven you actually preheated.  TIP-  it won’t cook if you choose incorrectly.

17)   Deciphering the Barbie Dreamhouse construction manual.  And no, that’s not a typo.  It’s not an instruction manual because it’s useless and requires you to literally construct the house out of a million plastic pink pieces.

18)   Preparing a nut-free, dairy-free, gluten free snack for preschool that your kid will actually be excited about.

19)   Finding a case for your smart phone that fits in your skinny jeans pocket but still protects the phone when your toddler drops it in the toilet, your preschooler throws it at you, or your first grader runs over it with her bike.

20)   Determining which silver-blue Honda Odyssey is yours in the sea of identical minivans at Super Target.

 

As always, thanks for reading and PLEASE SHARE!  If you haven’t already signed in as an actual follower, please “follow” me.  I’m also on Twitter as @elizabethmallov and there you can get all of my snarky humor without the long-windedness.  And in other big news, I’ve officially signed with Serendipity Literary Agency!  Hopefully soon I can share details of a publishing contract for The Brothers’ Band and start pressuring you all to buy copies J

The Things We Do For Love

                Today, I ran over a small puppy in the name of love.  Before you panic and call PETA, please note that it was a stuffed pink puppy.  I also stepped on it with snowy boots and dunked him in the dog’s water bowl a few times.  Did it work?  Nope.  How did I find myself behind the wheel of my Honda Odyssey carefully steering towards the tiny creature, ensuring the tire rolled squarely over his squishy head?  Let me start at the beginning.

                When my oldest was born, I bought her an adorable stuffed blankie with the head of a bear attached.  It was your typical lovey.  I stuck it in my daughter’s crib and carried it around as instructed by child-rearing experts in hopes that she would become enamored with this stuffed critter and let me sleep for a solid four hours on occasion.  Fortunately, she did eventually attach to a lovey, but unfortunately, it was a gift, and not the one I purchased for her.   The only problem with this is that once your child has a lovey, you need a backup.  I searched on amazon, at target, babies r us, walmart, and even posted photos of the little animal on Facebook in hopes of finding a suitable duplicate, but to no avail. (As a sidebar, when my daughter turned 5, I spotted her exact lovey in the checkout line of Kohls.  Of course, she no longer needed a duplicate at this point, and of course, I lacked the self-restraint to refrain from cursing out loud at the stupidity of my five-year younger self not checking Kohls).

                Until your child turns two, the duplicate isn’t critical, but once your darling little one begins to play more independently, she will leave her lovey in the oddest places.  Some places to search when this happens to you include: the drawer where you store the fancy silverware you’ve never used, the bottom of the trash can, inside the dog’s kennel, wedged inside a sippy cup in the back of a cabinet, inside your printer (which also explains why the paper wasn’t loading properly), inside the winter boots you never wear because they have a 2-inch heel and who would ever wear that in snow?, and in the crisper drawer of the refrigerator.  You won’t realize the lovey is missing until bedtime, and when you come up empty-handed after a cursory search, your child will throw all substitutions you offer back in your face, then scream at an ear-piercing tenor throughout the next hour while you and your spouse frantically tear the house to pieces before finding the dang toy.  And by that point, your toddler will be so worked up that she won’t fall asleep for another two hours.

                As an experienced mom, I opted to avoid this drama with my third child by only offering her a lovey when I already owned an identical substitution.  I rotated the loveys weekly, or more often if the laundry-situation permitted, keeping both copies of the stuffed animal in identical shape, form, and faded color.  Unfortunately, one day, I made the mistake of letting Katherine “help” me with the laundry, only to see her eyes light up like it was Christmas a moment later as she spotted the clone. 

                “Two doggies!”  She shrieked happily, clutching both versions of her animal.  Before I had a chance to explain, she sprinted out of the laundry room, giggling maniacally and running consecutive victory laps around the house waving her two dogs in the air.  I conceded the loss quickly and set about finding a third clone.  I eventually found one on Amazon, but it apparently had to be shipped from the amazon, because it didn’t arrive for another month. 

                Today, I had the brilliant idea to throw one of Katherine’s doggies into the laundry shortly before nap, intending to offer the brand new doggie fresh out of its plastic shipping bag as a replacement.  Despite the fact that the nursery was dark and I waited until she was half asleep to offer it, Katherine immediately noticed the swap and, without going in to details, suffice it to say she was NOT okay with it.  So I dragged her old dirty doggie out of the laundry, blasted him with the hair dryer for a few minutes until he was no longer sopping wet, and stuck it in the crib with her before beginning my work on the new doggie clone. 

                I’ve commented countless times on how hard it is to keep things clean in a house with three small children.  But apparently, it’s equally hard to get something dirty.  I tried to envision exactly what it was Katherine does to these poor stuffed dogs daily to give them that dullish grey film rather than the glossy pink fluff coating the new doggie, and that led me to the dog’s water bowl and a muddy boot.  But when those ideas failed, I realized that the grime on her primary doggies was cumulative, and not completely erased by our regular washings.  Hence the road-kill experiment with the minivan.

                Did it work?  I sure hope so.  But we’ll find out for sure tonight when Doggy No. 3 sneaks its way into her crib.