So, when my sister and I were very little (like 4 and 7 years old, respectively) my mom created this thing she would do with her friends called “Daiquiri Hour.” I didn’t really understand what that was. I just knew that they would drink slushies (which they totally wouldn’t SHARE) and that they would laugh a lot and tell the kids to go play somewhere else. My mom made her own daiquiri mix and kept it in a tupperware bowl in the freezer so it would be ready when her friends came over. Anyway, one afternoon I took matters into my own hands and waited until my mom was upstairs before opening the freezer and getting the frozen daiquiri stuff out. And I SHARED it with my four-year-old sister. We sat down on the floor with two spoons and the bowl between us and proceeded to get completely bombed. I do remember that it tasted really good and that by the time my mom discovered us I didn’t care about anything at all. I don’t remember the consequences, though. Except one: no more daiquiri mix stored in our freezer.
So, lately the top part of one (or more) of my teeth near the gum line has been hurting whenever anything cold hits that spot. Including air. And when I say it hurts I mean it makes me want to PULL. MY. FACE. OFF. I told my dentist about this and she said something about receding gums and how there’s nothing I can do about this because it happens as you get older. The good news is that it will stop hurting in 6 to 8 months. She actually said that with a straight face. This is how I imagine I’ll look until then:
Imperfect Mommy is on HuffPost Parents again! Go take a look and see (and maybe Like it while you are there)! http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marie-zullo/love-in-its-own-time_b_7286834.html
So, I let the kids decorate the windows on “their” side of the van with stickers. And this is what I recently discovered on one window (I put a piece of paper behind it to make it easier to see):
Do you see it? Here, let me biggerize it:
‘Cause that’s how I roll.
So, my two younger kids and I had an impromptu pillow/sock fight in my bedroom the other night. It started when I came into the room with a basket of clean laundry to put away and found them jumping on my bed. Scott threw a pillow at my head (he hit first) and so, naturally, I retaliated by pelting them with rolled up socks (they were clean). In the middle of this, my oldest son called me from downstairs, and I forgot about the shambles we had made of the room.
Until Mark saw the bedroom and showed me this:
Now that is a move I can respect. She protected both herself and Scott, and threw me under the bus all with one action.
So, one of my kids was taking a bath last night when I suddenly noticed that it was too quiet. I went into the bathroom to investigate and found said kid in the tub holding this:
That’ll teach me to check on a child in the bathroom.
I wrote this post three years ago, but after this morning, I can tell you much of it still rings true. The biggest difference now is that I know the love is in the trying. Just like me, they will never get it perfect, but I know that they keep trying. And, that, that is good enough for me.
I don’t ask for much on Mother’s Day. The only thing I really want is to be left alone. Yes, I know. Today is the day that I should be celebrating my role as mother, basking in the love of my children and the admiration of my husband. And, I do that, at least for the two or three hours that it lasts.
The morning starts out with my sons climbing onto the bed with greetings of “Happy Mother’s Day! Can I use the computer?” “If he’s using the computer than I want to watch TV.”
I don’t even roll over to look up. “Ask you father.”
Today is the one day out of the year that no amount of guilt can get me out of bed before my husband. He sleeps in nearly 364 days of the year. I figure, I deserve this one.
An hour or so later, my boys are back. “We have a surprise for you.” This time I can smell coffee and fresh-baked muffins. The boys are giddy with excitement. They race down the stairs before me and pop-out from their hiding places yelling, “Surprise, Happy Mother’s Day!”
Their faces beam with genuine joy. How could I have wanted to be alone today, I think. I walk toward the table and notice it hasn’t been set, but the boys willingly help set the table. We enjoy our breakfast of warm, buttery corn muffins.
My son, Aaron, can no longer contain himself. He wants to present me with the gift he made at school. I bring over my coffee and set it on a shelf near the couch. The card and gift are adorable, breakfast was wonderful, the boys are excited. This is how Mother’s Day should be. I smile to myself as Nic leans in to give me a hug and sends my coffee flying everywhere. Coffee spatters the gift and card Aaron made at school. It is running down the wall, soaking into the couch and dripping off my chin.
Aaron is yelling because his card is “ruined” (though it really is only a few drops of coffee that will dry). Nic is on the verge of tears because he thinks he ruined his brother’s gift to me. My husband is yelling about the coffee staining the walls.
I get the paper towels and begin to clean up the mess. I reassure each of the boys that it was an accident and everything will be okay. I give my husband the evil eye as he stands over me letting me know that I shouldn’t miss the spot over there and if I don’t dry it quickly the coffee will stain the walls. By the time I am done wiping up coffee, they have scattered throughout the house.
The breakfast dishes are on the table. The bowls and utensils used to make the muffins are piled in the sink. Mother’s Day is over.
I clear the dishes, load the dishwasher, and wash what is in the sink. I put up a load of laundry, sweep the kitchen floor and wipe down the table. I know that this evening, my husband and sons will get some take-out so I don’t have to cook (though setting the table and cleaning up will still be my job). They will present me with gifts that I don’t really need. It will not be my perfect Mother’s Day, but it will the one they planned for me. And, I will love it because I love them.
So, for now, I’m going to mow the lawn so I can have what I really wanted – to be left alone. Happy Mother’s Half-Day!
So, one of our kids has taken to slamming the door to his room when sent to time-out. In order to circumvent this (and avoid plaster raining down on our heads from the ceiling every time this happens) we simply took the door off its hinges for a few days. Problem solved. So the next day, up stomps this child to time-out again (not a steep learning curve, this one) and when he reaches the threshold of his bedroom we hear “SLAM!”
Me: “Mark, did he just yell ‘SLAM’?”
Mark: “Yes, yes he did.”
I have to admit, that was a pretty creative solution. And, no plaster rained down on us from above. Win-Win.
So, this is what happened. I wanted to get my friends, Rita and Donnie (a married couple) an “experience gift” for Christmas. Since they travel from Texas to New York every month to visit their kids and grandkids I decided to make it something they could do in NYC. I found this company where you could hire a female impersonator performer to go clubbing, partying, etc. with you. I figured this was right up Rita and Donnie’s alley since they love to go out on the town and have a good time, and they love to hang out with folks.
That brings us to yesterday when Rita called me:
Rita (on the phone): “Jen?”
Rita: “So I called [that company] a couple of weeks ago to schedule the outing.”
Me: “Hey, great! How did it go?”
Rita: “Uh, Jen, it’s an escort service.”
Me: [pause] “So, did you have fun?”