Monthly Archives: August 2012

Aug 31 2012

Is It Over Yet?

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My hands cover my face.  I can’t bear to look.  I can hear the screaming.   I know that if I take my hands away from my face whatever I see will not be as bad as what I imagine.  I am not one who likes blood and guts.  All, I can think is, is it over yet?  Summer vacation that is.

Oh, course, the boys are fine.  The blood curdling screams were not because one of them was hurt.  There is no blood, no guts.  They are not sprawled out on the floor, bones protruding from the skin, blood coming from the mouth as I had imagined.  Instead, they are sitting on the bed.  The pillows, sheets, stuffed animals scattered everywhere.

“I told that would get her up here.” Aaron says to Nic.  I, as my husband would say, have apparently fallen below the 100% full attention to the boys expectation.

My heart is still pounding in my chest from the certainty that I was walking in on an ambulance call worthy injury.  Now, thinking that I am the one who may need that ride, I turn and walk away.  I will not even give Aaron the satisfaction of a scolding.

You see, I had been doing laundry.  Blissfully lost in the sounds of running water and the tumbling clothes.  The laundry room is separated from the rest of the house by two doors, a small entry way and the whirring sounds of machines.  In the summer, it is my favorite room in the house – even with no air conditioning and 92 degree temps outside.  It is the only room that drowns out everything else.  Since I was doing laundry, the pounding and crashing of re-enacting videos from American’s Funniest Home Videos had not drawn my attention.  That is until, I came back into the house and heard the blood curdling screams. 

This is not an unfamilar scenario in my house.  In fact, it is probably the third time we have played through this scenario today.  First, I feel the fear.  Something must really be wrong, that sounded like an actual scream.  Then, I feel the guilt.  After all, if I had been with them instead of doing whatever I was doing, I could have stopped the injury before it happened.  Next comes the relief that no one is actually hurt because with every scream I am convinced that this time it’s going to be bad.  Finally, I am filled with frustration and anger.  How many times a day can we repeat this?  When are you going back to school?  WHY ISN’T SUMMER VACATION OVER YET?

Sure, I could ignore them when they scream.   That might solve the problem.  But, what if the one time I don’t respond, because I am trying to teach them a lesson, is the one time it’s real.  I know, I know.  What are the odds?  In my case, pretty good.  I’m not a very lucky person.  It would be just my luck that the one time I don’t respond, one of the boys will be laying in the yard with a limb torn off – or the limb of a tree on top of him. 

There I’ll be.  In the house, sipping my coffee, humming loudly to drown out the screams.  I’ll be thinking to myself, “They are not going to get me this time.  I am not going to fall for it.”  When the neighbors start running into the yard, I’ll be embarrassed.  “I can’t believe they are so desperate to get my attention that they are calling the neighbors.”  When I hear the sirens for the ambulance and police, I will run outside thinking I better put a stop to this.  “Seriously, officers, they are just trying to get my attention.”

Then, I will see them laying injured on the lawn, crying, “We kept calling for our mom but she wouldn’t come.”  The neighbors will look at me with scorn.  The paramedics will shake their heads. As the police put me in handcuffs to take me away, I will be shouting, “I was only trying to teach them a lesson.  Really, I’m a good mom.”

And, Aaron will look at Nic and say “I told you that would get her out here.”

So, I think I’ll hedge my bets on having a heart attack.  I will keep running to them when they scream and keep waiting for it to be over.  Summer vacation, that is.

Aug 30 2012

How the other….tiny fraction of humanity lives

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This has 2,600 calories. PER SERVING.

I used to meet my friends Kate and Carolyn on a monthly basis for lunch, usually at a mall that was located within driving distance of the three of us (who are scattered a couple of hours apart from one another). I took my youngest son to one such lunch when he was 3-months-old so that Carolyn could meet him. After lunch we went for a walk through the mall.  Kate, who had just learned that she was pregnant, also wanted to stop by GNC to get some prenatal vitamins. While she was browsing the pregnancy-related items I continued pushing the stroller with my sleeping son in it around the store, just wandering aimlessly really.

Then, I entered an aisle of products I had not previously heard of.  I, still with 30 extra pregnancy pounds to lose, waddled over to take a closer look. Apparently, there are actually products on the market for people who are desperate to gain weight as quickly as possible. And I’m not referring to Ensure for folks who are struggling with serious illness or disability. No, these products were for healthy people who wanted to get bigger.

Whaaa?

Had I slid down some rabbit hole? Was this for real? As I was pondering these questions and wondering about my mental health, an employee came over to ask if he could help me.

Me: This product says that it is for weight gain.

Employee: Yes it is.

Me: And people take it on purpose? To gain weight?

Employee (looking amused): Yes. Weightlifters use it to put on muscle.

Incredulous, I put the bottle back on the shelf and thanked him. I walked out in a bit of a daze, feeling like I had discovered a new species. There is a subset of humans who eat mega-calories in order to get bigger.

Huh.

If there’s a zombie apocalypse and we run out of food, I am totally eating the bodybuilders first. I bet I can run faster than they can. Until that time, I will restrain myself from rage-punching them in the face while I am torturing myself at the gym.

Aug 28 2012

Part 1 in a Series: Things That Have Taken Years off My Life/ The Seatbelt Incident

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Every parent has had those nightmarish, heart-stopping, makes-your-blood-run-cold moments with their children. Whether you’re in a store and lose sight of your toddler for a few seconds because he wandered out of your sight while you were reaching for a box of cereal, or when they make a sudden dash for the street or get away from you in a busy parking lot. It’s happened to all of us, multiple times. Most of the time everything turns out ok, thank goodness. My grandfather (who I called Papa) used to say, “99 percent of the stuff you worry about Jen, never happens.” And he was right. (I don’t even want to think about the other 1%).

Shortly after my first baby, David, was born my mom made plans to fly up to Boston from Houston to visit for a few days. Traveling was no easy task for my mom, who had advanced multiple sclerosis. Because she traveled with her caregivers she chose to stay in a hotel in Boston which was about a 30 minute drive from my home. My sister, her husband, and their 10 month-old daughter were coming in from Minnesota and staying at the hotel as well.

As soon as everyone arrived and got settled Mark and I bundled up the baby (it was January in Boston) and packed all his supplies for the short trip to the hotel. We were still in the early days of new parenthood so we probably took a week’s worth of stuff. On top of that we were blearily exhausted because David never slept for more than two hours at a time. Anyway, we arrived at the hotel, parked the car, and transferred David (in his carrier) onto the stroller. Once we got to my mom’s room I hugged my sister and my mom and then took the blanket off of David so that I could get him out of his carrier. And to my instant horror I realized that I had never buckled him into his car seat. The straps were still tucked underneath his body. I looked up at my sister feeling absolutely horrified, with a jaw-dropped, wide-eyed expression. She looked at me calmly, and very kindly said, “Everybody does that at least once, Jen. He’s fine.”

I wish I could say that that was the only time I have ever forgotten to buckle my kids it, but it wasn’t. Once they reached toddlerhood though, they would remind me if I forgot. Page’s words have stayed with me all these years, I think, because they are what every parent needs to hear. Every parent makes mistakes, and most of the time it turns out just fine. My mom used to say that God looks after children and drunks. I’m not sure where she got that from (it may have been a Southern-ism that has since lost traction), but I am mighty grateful for the ‘looking after children’ part.

 

Aug 27 2012

Welcome to Marie’s Kitchen, Special Orders Only

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My first solo venture in the culinary world was not so successful.  At ten years-old, my mom let me make biscuits for dinner.  My family tried to be kind as they nibbled the inedible pucks.  I quickly learned that baking powder and baking soda were not the same thing, and the latter did not make tasty biscuits. 

I was not to be discouraged; I wanted to cook.  I poured over recipe books. (When I was kid we had to do it the “old-fashioned” way.  No FoodNetwork or Internet for aspiring cooks – just cookbooks and Julia Childs on PBS.)  Determined to prove to my family that I could cook, I continued to try my hand at baking, broiling, and sautéing. 

In my early teens, my mom went back to work.  I picked up the cooking duties.  I was in my glory!  I was making appetizers, dinner and dessert every night.  Sometimes, I would even make baking powder biscuits - this time, they were good!

My dad started to encourage me to consider a career in the culinary arts.  He and my brother promised to help me out if I wanted to start a restaurant.  I already had a part-time job with a caterer and knew this was not what I wanted to do all the time.  I would tell my dad, “I love cooking.  If I have to do it all the time, it will be work.  I don’t want to ruin it.”   No, I envisioned myself as hosting wonderful dinner parties where I could show off my skills and enjoy the meal with my friends.  I did not want to spend my life in a hot kitchen, managing employees and annoying customers.  I wanted to maintain my love for cooking, baking and recipe creation.

Fast forward to today.  There are no lavish dinner parties, no show of my culinary prowess and entertaining expertise.  Instead, I am a short-order cook in a hot kitchen, cranking out meals while managing children who annoy me.  My day starts with the breakfast orders.

“What do you want for breakfast?”

“What do you have?”

“We have cereal, bagels, waffles, English muffins, and toast.  Which do you want.”

“I’ll have a bagel.”

“What kind of bagel.  We have sesame, plain or onion.”

“I want onion.”

“What do you want on it?”

“What do we have?”

“We have chive and onion or garden vegetable cream cheese.  And we have butter.  Which do you want?”

“Do we have anything else?”

“Sure, we have strawberry cream cheese, peanut butter and grape jelly.”

“Yuck!  Those would be gross on an onion bagel.”

“I know.  That’s why I didn’t mention them in the first place.  Now, what do you want on your bagel?”

“I don’t know.  What did you say we have?”

I repeat the list.  A decision is finally made.  I will have this exact conversation, or one very similar to it, two more times before breakfast is over.  At last, the boys and my husband have all had breakfast.  About the time I am finishing the dishes, I get the first request for lunch.

Again, it starts.

“I’m getting hungry.  Can I have lunch?”

“What do you want?”

“What do we have?”

“We have bologna, turkey, ham, tuna fish or peanut and jelly.”

“Can I have a hot dog?”

“We don’t have any hot dogs.  Besides, bologna is just a cold hot dog.  If you want a hot dog, have bologna.”

“Nah.  I’ll have a peanut butter and jelly.”

So, I start to make the sandwiches.  As I am putting on the final smear of jelly, I hear.  “Mom, I changed my mind.  Can you make me a tuna fish sandwich instead?”  Nic walks by and asks if he can have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  I hand him Aaron’s lunch and start to make tuna fish.

When the lunch rush is over, I clean-up the dishes and prepare for the dinner shift.  I stare blankly into the freezer.  It is hard for me to believe that there was a time that I viewed this as a creative challenge.  Now, it is a moment of dread.  Not another dinner, I think.  “Oh, hell, I am just going to make pasta.”

That evening, I boil the water for pasta.

“What are we having for dinner?”

“Pasta.”

“What kind?”

“I don’t know. Do you want to pick?”

“Can you make gemeli?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t like sauce on my pasta.” Aaron reminds me.

“Can I have pesto on mine?” asks Nic.

Pastais supposed to be a simple meal.  By the time I finish making dinner, I will have prepared pasta three different ways:  butter sauce with a sprinkle of mozzarella cheese, pesto with extra romano, and tomato sauce with romano and parmesan.  We finally sit down to eat.

“How did you know I had pasta with red sauce for lunch?” my husband asks.

I was right all those years ago when I told my dad that cooking all the time would make it work.  It is.  And it has ruined it.  Maybe, my dad was right,too.  I should open a restaurant.  At least then, I would get paid for all the meals I make, even the special orders.

 

Aug 25 2012

Does anyone else remember these germ-dispensers?

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“Did you just wash your hands? Silly rabbit…”

When I was in elementary school we had these cloth towel roller things in the bathrooms. It was actually one towel that just spun around on a roller so you’d have to try to find a dry spot on it to dry your hands. Usually it was gray-ish and damp from frequent use.

Gross.

You can practically see the Norovirus crawling on this thing. It probably would have been cleaner for folks to dry their hands on the bottoms of their shoes. Actually, it may have been better just to skip hand-washing altogether.

How did we survive the ’70s?

I think my classmates and I must have developed super-powers from constant exposure to contamination from germs. After much consideration, it is the only logical conclusion.

I. AM. INVINCIBLE WOMAN! (*washing hands and looking for Purell after touching the keyboard)

Really, though, the experience of living through the much-less-safe ’70s makes me much more tolerant of this experience for my kids:

I’m not sure whether these are balls or actual germs themselves. But thousands of kids play in this ball pit everyday

 

Aug 24 2012

What Do We Have To Eat?

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Like most moms and wives, I do the grocery shopping for my family.  When I do it, I try to make sure that I select things that are a) healthy, b) reasonably priced, c) foods my family will enjoy, and d) foods they will actually eat.  It is nearly impossible to find foods that meet all of these criteria, so I focus mainly on d).  Hopefully, some of it will be healthy.  It doesn’t matter how reasonably priced it is if I end up throwing it in the trash.  And, if they eat it, I assume they must enjoy it.  (Although, as a family, we tend to regard food much like a mountain climber regards a mountain.  We eat because it is there.)

In an effort to stretch their culinary horizons, I will occasionally buy something new.  Translation, I have a coupon.  So, I buy something at the grocery store because I have a coupon.   With in two days, it is all gone.  My husband and sons keep asking me if we have anymore and when will I be getting more, because they really like it. 

A few days later, I go to the big warehouse store (you know BJ’s, Costco, Sam’s, etc.), I buy the super-sized bag of the same item.  When I get home, the bag is opened within minutes.  Five days later, the three-quarters full bag is still in the cabinet.  When my husband or boys ask, what do we have to eat?, I tell them we still have the big bag of stuff you said you liked. 

“I don’t really like those.”

“But when I got them the first time, you kept asking me if we could get more.”

“Yeah, that’s because I liked them.”Snack Cabinet

“You just said you don’t like them.”

“I don’t like them, now.  I liked them before.”

“So, why did you ask me to get more?”

“Because I liked them.  Before.”  Pause.  “So, do we have anything new to eat?”

“No.” 

At this point, I am starting to fume.  I have had this conversation with my husband and sons too many times over too many different foods.  Right then, my husband or one of my sons (whoever happens to be messing with my sanity at the time) comes back into the room with a big bowl of the stuff he just told me he didn’t like.

“You just told me that you don’t like that anymore.”

“I don’t, but the bag was already opened.”

Still not understanding any of the conversation I have been having, I satisfy myself with the thought that at least I won’t be throwing the rest of the bag  out.  That is until two weeks later when I am putting away some groceries and find the half full bag at the bottom of the cabinet.  It is crushed under some other items.  The contents are now mostly crumbs.  They are never going to eat these, I think, and I throw them in the trash.

The next afternoon, my husband or one of my sons is looking for a snack. 

“What do we have for snacks?”

“Go look in the cabinet.  I went to the store yesterday, but I don’t remember everything I got.”

I hear packages being shuffled around in the cabinet. 

“Where is that bag of stuff you got last time?’

“The stuff you told me you didn’t like?”

“Yeah, that stuff.”

“I threw it away.”

“Why did you do that?  I was going to eat them.  I like those.”

“But, you weren’t and you told me you didn’t!”

“Never mind, I’ll just eat these chips.  Next time you go to the store could you please get some of the other stuff.  I really like those better.”

I think next time I go to the store, I will drive home to a different family.  Maybe they will be happy with what I bring home.

Aug 23 2012

Morbid and creepifying

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This is a tomato hornworm. A parasitized tomato hornworm.

Doesn’t this want to make you rip out your eyes?

Apparently, this intergalactic beast grabs onto the tomato plant and slowly devours all of the leaves, ultimately killing the plant. Kelly and I found this one in the tomato garden for the first time yesterday. I’ve been growing tomatoes for years and have never encountered this. I had to look it up on Google and watch a YouTube video by a guy who explained that the white things all over the worm are wasp eggs (GAH!). And that when the wasps hatch they eat the insides of the caterpillar (happyplace happyplace). The guy suggested that to deal with the parasitized ones (i.e. with wasp eggs), you should pick a sacrificial tomato plant and put it on that plant so it can continue to eat until its killed by the wasps (which would then presumably populate your backyard). As for the non-parasitized ones, he simply cut those in half with garden shears (Shudder). If it were up to me I’d much rather die quickly than get eaten from the inside by a wasp!

As for the critter above, I cut the branch above it and triple-bagged it with 3 plastic grocery bags. I’m hoping that it suffocates along with the wasp eggs. I DO NOT need any more wasps in my backyard. I can hardly get my oldest outside as it is.

Aug 22 2012

Who’s the Boss? No, Really?

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Growing up, there was no doubt about who was in charge at our house.  Dad and Mom ruled.  Especially, Dad.  During the day, when Mom was with us, we knew that we had to do what she told us to do.  If we didn’t, there were definite consequences. And, if Mom got to the point of saying “Wait until your father gets home!”, we were on our best behavior for the rest of the day. 

Things are definitely not like that at my house.  From what my friends tell, it isn’t much like that at their houses, either.  Somewhere between the time we were children and the time we became parents, everyone seems to have forgotten who’s the boss.

My boys seem to have no concept of who is in charge around here.  Funny thing is, they get it when they are at school.  They would never think of talking back to a teacher the way they talk back at me or my husband.  When I ask why that is, Aaron tells me it is because he doesn’t want to go to the principal’s office. 

“So, are you telling me that you are more afraid of going to the principal’s office than you are of Mom or Dad getting mad at you?”  I ask in disbelief.  We are his parents.  Who on earth could it be more important to please than us?

“Well, duh!” comes Aaron’s ever respectful reply.  “First of all, if I get in trouble at home, none of my friends know about it.  Second, the principal can kick me out of school.  You can’t kick me out of the house.  And, third, if I get in trouble at home, I only get yelled at by you.  If I get in trouble at school, I get yelled at by the principal and you.”

Clearly, Aaron has thought this through.  Sometimes, I wish the kid wasn’t so damn smart.

“Ok,” I said. “Then, I think I know what we need to do.  I am going to start sending a note to the principal whenever you misbehave at home.  I will ask her to read the note during morning announcements and then have you come to the office.  She can send me back a note with your punishment.”

Aaron looks at me with wide-eyes.  “You can’t do that!”

“Yeah, I can.  You know why?  Because I’m your mom.”  I try not to smile.  It probably isn’t good parenting to take such pleasure in your child’s discomfort, but he seems to relish in mine.  I figure, if all is fair in love and war, than all must be fair in love and parenting because parenting is a constant battle.

Aaron stands, hands on hips.  He stares at me intently.  I can hear the wheels moving in his head.  “You know, mom, I think you are just kidding.  Because you would never send a note to the principal.”

“What makes you so sure?” I ask, curious where this is going.

“Cause I heard you tell Dad that the schools’ have no right to tell kids what to do when they are not in school.  You told him that disciplining kids is a parent’s job.  Not the schools.  So, why would you send the principal a note about what I do at home?”

I am waiting for “Humph!” or “So, there!”.  I can see it wanting to leap out of his mouth but it is one of those rare moments when Aaron actually holds it in. 

Maybe other parents would be surprised to hear such an argument from an 8 year-old.  With Aaron, this is standard fare.  I think about asking how it is possible that he remembers a conversation his father and I had weeks ago (which did not include Aaron), but he can’t remember that I asked him an hour ago to clean-up the art supplies he left all over the table.  I want to tell him that what I said has nothing to do with this because I was talking about schools punishing teenagers for behavior outside of school and not on school property.  But, I realize I will be getting off track and I suspect that is what he is hoping will happen.

That’s when it dawns on me.  My kids don’t treat me like the boss because I don’t act like it.  The reason I never had such protracted conversations with my parents when I was 8 years-old is because they never would have let me.  While I know that I would never use some of their methods, (I don’t believe that physical punishment teaches a child anything but fear and shame), I think there are others that I should adopt.  Like the one my husband is most fond of:  Because I said so.

Even though I cringe every time I hear him say it, the boys don’t protest as much with their dad as they do with me.  They are so used to their dad replying “Because I said so”, when they want to know why the can’t do something, they don’t seem to argue with him much anymore. One day, I even heard Aaron say to Nic, “Don’t even bother.  When Dad says “Because I said so” that means he doesn’t want to talk about.  Just go do something else.”

So, I decide to assert myself as the mom.  I look right at Aaron and say, “You know what, Aaron, you’re right.  I wouldn’t send a note to the principal.  Instead, I’ll take care of it all right here.”  Aaron looks at me smugly.  All he has heard is the “you’re right”.

“Now, go in that dining room and clean off that table like I asked you to an hour ago,” I finish.

Aaron looks at me surprised.  “Why do I have to do it?  Some of that stuff is Nic’s, you know.”

I start to say fine, I’ll have Nic help you but then I stop.  “You need to do it, because I said so.”

Aaron looks at me for a moment.  Then, he heads to the dining room to clear the table.  As he goes, I hear him mumbling under his breath, “Even if you did send that note to the principal, I’d take it out of my backpack and throw it away before I got to school….So, there!”

 

 

Aug 21 2012

Sing a Little Song for Me

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When I was a kid, my mom used to go around the house sinEdith Bunker (portrayed by Jean Stapleton)ging all of the time.  I thought it annoyed my siblings and me because she sounded like Edith Bunker and usually sang songs like “Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life at Last I Found You” or “Ave Maria“.  Since I’ve become a mom, though, I’ve realized that it’s just that kids hate to hear their parents sing – especially their moms.

Oh, sure, when they were infants and toddlers my boys loved to hear me sing.  But they loved to hear me talk, too.  It didn’t matter what I did as long as words were coming out of my mouth and I was paying attention to them.  Even now, I get the occasional request for me to sing to them at bedtime.  I am not silly enough to believe that it is about my singing or because they love the songs I have made up especially for them. No, I recognize that these are just attempts to eek out a few more minutes of staying awake, a few more minutes of mom’s attention that their brother or dad is not getting.

Other than those occasions, my boys would prefer if I kept my singing to myself.  In the car, if I sing along to whatever we are listening to, I usually get “Mom, could you please stop singing.  I mean, we’re not trying to insult you or anything, but we think the song sounds better without you.”   I totally get it.  I’m not likely to be on American Idol or The Voice anytime soon.  I’m sure the song does sound better without me.

But, I also get why my mom used to sing so much.  It was to keep her sanity.  She had five kids running around the house.  Sure, we were outside for most of the day, but there were plenty of hours that we were in the house.  If I think two kids can create a lot of noise and aggravation, I can hardly imagine what all five of us seemed like to her. 

So, she sang.  And, now, I sing.  Sometimes, I sing to block them out.  Sometimes, I sing so I can relax.  It’s my way of taking a deep breath before I explode – or, if it works, instead of exploding.

When the boys groan, I tell them that they have a choice.  I can yell at them or I can sing. Singing makes mommy happy, I remind them.  Yelling makes mommy angry.  The choice is theirs.  Luckily, I have pretty smart boys and they usually chose the singing.  Sometimes, they will actually join me. 

Instead, of trying to belt out the latest Katy Perry song, though, I stick with little ditties froOswald and Friendsm their early childhood.  Little ditties that I have, well, modified a bit.  “Have You Ever Seen A Lassy” has morphed into “Have You Ever Seen A Mommy (Go Crazy)”.  A little tune from a favorite Oswald episode, The Leaky Faucet, has become “Oh Children of Mine”.  By now, my kids have heard these so often that when I start signing them they either join in, with hopes of winning my favor or they get very quiet. 

“I think we better knock it off.  She’s starting to sing that “Oh, Children…” thing.” Aaron will whisper to Nic.  “And, you know what that means.”

“Yeah,” Nic whispers back. “We’re in trouble.”

So, if you are sick of counting to five or yelling your empty threats, sing a little tune.  If you’re lucky, it might send your kids running and make you feel a little better at the same time.

Do have a little ditty you would like to share?  Send us an e-mail at 2moms@imperfectmommy.com or leave a comment.  You just might be featured in an Imperfect Mommy song collection!

(I apologize for the poor quality of the .wav files, both for the singing and the static.  Like with most things, I have no idea what I am doing and this was the best it got. :) )
Aug 18 2012

All aboard the vagina train!

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Obscene monstrosity

When my oldest son was a toddler I used to take him to an indoor playplace a few times a month during the winters when it was too cold to play outside. The place had several bounce houses, tricycles and other ride-on-toys, forts, balls, etc. And this obscene monstrosity (pictured). It’s supposed to be a train that the kids crawl through. I told Mark about it and he went with me to see for himself.

Me: (peering at the vagina train) Doesn’t it look like a penis with a vagina on the end?

Mark: I don’t know. I’m only looking at the end.

Our son certainly seemed to enjoy it.

 

Hit the link to see the 10 most inappropriate inflatable toys at http://www.thetoyzone.com/2009/10-most-inappropriate-inflatable-toys-ever-made/ (The monkey-penis is pretty horrifying).