"Let's take the kids to the movies!" my dad proposed in that enthusiastic dad sort of way. "How about Horton Hears a Who?"
"Uh, well, I'm sure Tootie would love it, but the E-man -- well, there's a good reason he hasn't been to a movie yet (ever) and that's my devout belief that he will never sit through one."
But they convinced me, yes they did, those conniving grandparents who never miss a chance to make me pay for my own childhood misdeeds.
So Horton it was.
Little son sat contentedly through the previews. When Horton finally began, however, he piped up. "Mommy, is it over? Can we go home?"
Pick him up and run now.
"No, sweetie, it's just starting. Isn't this FUN?! We're watching a MOVIE!"
"Mommy, can I get down?"
"No, we sit here all through the movie."
Please, just once, let the filmmakers have realized that small children do not have the attention span required for a 2 1/2-hour feature. Plus ads. Plus trailers.
Thirty minutes passed. Then little son developed a sudden and severe aversion to the sound of Jim Carrey's voice and Horton's ear gymnastics and demanded to leave.
"Hey, how about if I take you out to buy some candy?" his granddad inquired.
"No," the E-man replied. His brow furrowed.
What do you mean, "no?" Look kid, the Easter bunny is long gone. You'd better take the bribe because Mommy polished off the last of the jellybeans yesterday.
"YES! How about some CANDY?" I chirped, prompting the row in front of us to turn around. For the eighth time.
"No."
"OK, well, how about we go out to the lobby for a little while?" Granddad persisted.
The E-man decided this was a much better proposal, but was adamant that Mommy would be the only acceptable companion.
"All right," I said. "Let's go."
The E-man started down the row, easily squeezing by three sets of knees.
I was slower, however, since I was facing my parents and Tootie (impolite to subject people in your row to your butt as you slither by, right?) as I followed my little boy.
The E-man paused to make sure I was following and promptly bonked his head on a fold-up seat.
"WAH!"
"Shh!" I shout-whispered. "It's OK."
"I HIT MY HEAD!"
"I know. Keep walking."
But the E-man refused to budge, and in my haste to prod him forward I somehow became wedged between my mother's knees and the seat behind of me.
ohnoohnoohno....
I waggled my butt, hoping to free myself without catapulting the man behind me from his seat.
I was stuck. And I was also laughing. And blocking the view of the half-dozen or so rows behind us. Worse, I was facing all these people, who did not seem to be amused by my predicament.
"E-man!" I hissed. "Move!"
"No!"
I wiggled some more.
"You have to go so that Mommy can get out."
"No."
I swore right then that I would never again sneak candy from the children's Easter baskets if only I could free myself.
Finally, after one last wag, I made it down the row and slunk out of the theater.
And then, two hours later, I helped myself to the E-man's robin's eggs and pastel M&Ms.
I figure I earned them.
Showing posts with label kids. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kids. Show all posts
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Saturday, April 05, 2008
Monday, March 31, 2008
A sweet moment in the storm
The first little figure materializes at the side of my bed around 3:30 a.m.
"I had a bad dream," she says, as distant thunder rumbles.
She clambers up and tucks herself beside me, cold tiny feet pressed against the small of my back.
I drowse. Until the second figure appears, again at my side of the bed.
"Mommy, I sceeered," he says. And then, outraged to find his sister already sprawled next to me -- "That's my spot! My spot!"
Hubs rolls over and pulls the still-sleeping child to his side while the second assumes the warm spot she leaves behind. "Mama's hair," he murmurs, and thus begins the stroking and tugging that occurs anytime he sleeps near me. For the rest of the night, he will curl himself around my head, comma-like, and nest there, fingers still wound tightly in my hair.
Every so often, I'll hear my oldest whispering in her sleep and the snuffling of my toddler.
And even though I know there will no more rest in these early-morning hours, I snuggle them closer, comforted by the sweet smell of my little one's blankie and the occasional soft snore from my little girl.
"I had a bad dream," she says, as distant thunder rumbles.
She clambers up and tucks herself beside me, cold tiny feet pressed against the small of my back.
I drowse. Until the second figure appears, again at my side of the bed.
"Mommy, I sceeered," he says. And then, outraged to find his sister already sprawled next to me -- "That's my spot! My spot!"
Hubs rolls over and pulls the still-sleeping child to his side while the second assumes the warm spot she leaves behind. "Mama's hair," he murmurs, and thus begins the stroking and tugging that occurs anytime he sleeps near me. For the rest of the night, he will curl himself around my head, comma-like, and nest there, fingers still wound tightly in my hair.
Every so often, I'll hear my oldest whispering in her sleep and the snuffling of my toddler.
And even though I know there will no more rest in these early-morning hours, I snuggle them closer, comforted by the sweet smell of my little one's blankie and the occasional soft snore from my little girl.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
On a cheerier note...
When I saw this one, I told Hubs I'd just had a glimpse into the future: Our drunk frat boy being helped off the curb by two smashed girls after a kegger.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Friday, December 07, 2007
She looked for us...
... as she stood on the stage, preparing to sing the first carol.
Pensive. Searching.
And then she spotted her mama and brother, off to the side.
Hubs captured her image, just as she waved.
To be sought after, needed. It makes my heart hurt. In a good way.
Pensive. Searching.
And then she spotted her mama and brother, off to the side.
Hubs captured her image, just as she waved.
To be sought after, needed. It makes my heart hurt. In a good way.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
"OK, we're ready for you guys!"
HUBS & CATHY, talking over one another: Alrighty, Stepdaughter, just sit here on the piano bench in front of the Christmas tree. Stepson, sit next to her. Tootie, stand in front them. OK, let's put E-man in Stepson's lap.
E-MAN: Waaaaah! Waaaaah! Waaaaaaah!
HUBS: What's wrong with him? Hey, buddy! Look at Daddy! Give Daddy a big smile.
E-MAN: No! Waaaah! I no like this shirt. Waaaah!
CATHY: As soon as we're done, you can take it off.
E-MAN: Waaaaaah! I NO LIKE IT! I NO LIKE THIS SHIRT!
HUBS to CATHY: What's up with the shirt?
CATHY: He recently decided that he hates button-downs.
HUBS: Hey, E! Just a few pictures and you can take it off, OK?
CATHY: Tootie, quit looking at E-man. Look at Daddy. Look at him! Daddy! OK, now smile at Daddy!
E-MAN: Waaah! Waaaah!
Behold, this year's photo for the Christmas cards:
E-MAN: Waaaaah! Waaaaah! Waaaaaaah!
HUBS: What's wrong with him? Hey, buddy! Look at Daddy! Give Daddy a big smile.
E-MAN: No! Waaaah! I no like this shirt. Waaaah!
CATHY: As soon as we're done, you can take it off.
E-MAN: Waaaaaah! I NO LIKE IT! I NO LIKE THIS SHIRT!
HUBS to CATHY: What's up with the shirt?
CATHY: He recently decided that he hates button-downs.
HUBS: Hey, E! Just a few pictures and you can take it off, OK?
CATHY: Tootie, quit looking at E-man. Look at Daddy. Look at him! Daddy! OK, now smile at Daddy!
E-MAN: Waaah! Waaaah!
Behold, this year's photo for the Christmas cards:
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Wordless Wednesday
(Hubs' birthday, 2007: Tootie, E-man, Hubs, Stepdaughter, Stepson. Tootie wanted more cake.)
More Wordless Wednesday here.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
I tried to put it off, I did ...
... I hemmed, hawed and stalled.
Then, last night, Tootie spent hours drawing these and taping them to the mantel.
... and I caved.
I have never put up a tree this early ...
... but here it is...
... our tree.
The other decorations also have been put up. Including the Little People Nativity Set. Last I saw, the Virgin Mary had caught a ride in the Little People fire truck. (As she does every year.)
Then, last night, Tootie spent hours drawing these and taping them to the mantel.
... and I caved.
I have never put up a tree this early ...
... but here it is...
... our tree.
The other decorations also have been put up. Including the Little People Nativity Set. Last I saw, the Virgin Mary had caught a ride in the Little People fire truck. (As she does every year.)
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Thursday, November 08, 2007
What's with all the preteens in preK?
A few nights ago, Hubs and I finally had the discussion we've been tiptoeing around for the past several months.
About our 4-year-old. And how she seems so much younger than her classmates. How she seems, by comparison, socially stilted.
Is it her? Is it us? Is it these little girls, who look and act more like savvy Bratzy first-graders than preschoolers?
They dress older. They talk older. They act older. Hell, they're more street smart than some 30-year-olds I know.
And I realize I'm being totally unreasonable and totally overprotective and all rabid-mama-bear-like, but -- deep breath, here goes -- I don't like some of these girls. I think they're little snobs, just a bunch of Heathers in their formative years. And I don't like the fact that there is a social hierarchy in freaking preschool that rivals that of junior high.
Since when did the horror that is seventh-grade-girl-bitchy-behavior manifest itself in 4-year-olds?
I see my daughter wandering around the "socially acceptable" perimeters, confused and puppy-dog eager, and it bugs the hell out of me.
And it probably doesn't help that I totally DO NOT GET THEIR MOTHERS. They are not my peeps. I do not know how to relate or talk to them and therefore sound like a blathering oh-please-like me idiot every time I bump into their manicured, perfectly accessorized persons. Flashback to seventh-grade math and Heather Monroe and Heather Monroe's groupies.
Of course my child is having trouble. She's watching my ridiculous attempts to be sociable and socially acceptable.
What really disturbs me is that this isn't just her classmates or her school. We've been in other environments or social situations involving different groups of preschool girls and every time, I'm thinking Hello? What's with all the miniature 14-year-olds in here?
I might as well stuff myself into a pair of Jordache jeans and load up my tennis shoes with friendship pins -- right before I buy my kid a pair of Candies and a toe ring. Because, yes, it really is that bad.
About our 4-year-old. And how she seems so much younger than her classmates. How she seems, by comparison, socially stilted.
Is it her? Is it us? Is it these little girls, who look and act more like savvy Bratzy first-graders than preschoolers?
They dress older. They talk older. They act older. Hell, they're more street smart than some 30-year-olds I know.
And I realize I'm being totally unreasonable and totally overprotective and all rabid-mama-bear-like, but -- deep breath, here goes -- I don't like some of these girls. I think they're little snobs, just a bunch of Heathers in their formative years. And I don't like the fact that there is a social hierarchy in freaking preschool that rivals that of junior high.
Since when did the horror that is seventh-grade-girl-bitchy-behavior manifest itself in 4-year-olds?
I see my daughter wandering around the "socially acceptable" perimeters, confused and puppy-dog eager, and it bugs the hell out of me.
And it probably doesn't help that I totally DO NOT GET THEIR MOTHERS. They are not my peeps. I do not know how to relate or talk to them and therefore sound like a blathering oh-please-like me idiot every time I bump into their manicured, perfectly accessorized persons. Flashback to seventh-grade math and Heather Monroe and Heather Monroe's groupies.
Of course my child is having trouble. She's watching my ridiculous attempts to be sociable and socially acceptable.
What really disturbs me is that this isn't just her classmates or her school. We've been in other environments or social situations involving different groups of preschool girls and every time, I'm thinking Hello? What's with all the miniature 14-year-olds in here?
I might as well stuff myself into a pair of Jordache jeans and load up my tennis shoes with friendship pins -- right before I buy my kid a pair of Candies and a toe ring. Because, yes, it really is that bad.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Noooooo....! Not the treasure chest!
What happens when preschoolers who have behaved over the course of a week are allowed to dip into the classroom "treasure chest" each Friday:
TOOTIE: Mommy! Look what I got from the treasure chest!
(Excited preschooler holds up a plastic paratrooper/cardboard sunglasses/fake ice cream cone with a scoop that shoots into the air before popping back into the cone...
CATHY: Oh, that's great sweetie! Let me see it...
E-MAN: I want paratrooper/sunglasses/ice cream too!
TOOTIE: (snatching away her prize) NO! It's my toy. I got it from the treasure chest!
E-MAN: I get one too! I get one too!
(wails and bickering punctuate the ride home)
TOOTIE: Mommy, can you help me unfold the parachute/put on the sunglasses/make the ice cream popper-thingy pop?
CATHY: OK, let me see it.
E-MAN: I get a turn! My turn!
TOOTIE: NO! It's my toy! I got it from the treasure chest!
(Bickering continues after dinner. The new wails of anguish, this time from Tootie.)
TOOTIE: The parachute/sunglasses/ice cream cone broke when I was playing with it!
(disappointed sobbing ensues)
TOOTIE: Why *sob* did it break *sob* Mommy? Can we go find another paratrooper/pair of sunglasses/ice cream cone tomorrow? I loved my paratrooper/sunglasses/ice cream cone. *sob*
Damn freaking cheap plastic toys. I get the concept, I do, but whatever happened to gold stars, happy face stamps and sticker charts?
----------------------------
And now ....
.... let's pull those broken cardboard sunglasses out of the trash can because -- people, the bling you are about to behold is blinding! Or is that sparkle coming from Mike Rowe's teeth?
This here is the Mike Rowe honor bestowed upon me by Janice over at Twist & Skewer.
Heather, you've got competition, honey, because Janice didn't tap just little old me for this one, no siree. I think there were ... uummm... maybe three others? And now I get to pass on the Mike love, which means Mike is about to wonder how he became the red-hot fantasy of the mommyblogger set.
So, for those who like it a little dirty -- just guessing, really! -- I'm sharing Mike love with: Jennifer aka Binky Bitch. Because she lives near Heather, and hell, I do love making things interesting! May I suggest you join forces and teach Mike the importance of maintaining skid-free undies? As Sponge Bob the annoying bath toy given to my children by my MIL likes to say: "I'm a dirty boy!"
Ahem. OK, moving on. Blue Momma declared me fab, and I am fab, because I once made my husband wait 2 1/2 months for marital relations and never gave in, not once, despite the incessant whining. He refers to that as "The Dark Time." Yeah, I rock.
Anyway, I'm passing this one on to Colleen, who is grappling mightily with an alarming revelation that Lance Armstrong, once Colleen's sex-god survivor, tough-guy hero, is now dating a praying mantis. (That would be Ashley, not MK. I know, one twig looks like another, especially when they decide simultaneously to live on nothing but non-fat Starbucks lattes.)
This award also goes to Queeny because she totally rules her home and I'm hoping she will mentor me.
And also to Heidi, because she's taking all of us on her family adventure! Just imagine, a spouse, two boys and a trunkful of bloggers. Talk about some scary-ass baggage to drag all the way to Norway. (The bloggers, I mean. I don't know her husband or children well enough yet to deem the frightening, judging from their photos, the kids look totally harmless.
Lastly -- Misty Dawn ever so kindly passed on this Bloggers with Integrity, which I do possess, as evidenced by my willingness to lie to three-fourths of my friends and co-workers so that my closest friend could pull off a surprise wedding.
I'm awarding this one to Julie, Flutter, Mrs. Chicken and Paige because their blogs remind me daily that there are good people, thinking people out there, people who aren't afraid to pose difficult questions and or offer their own equally difficult answers.
Whew! Perhaps I should retire for the evening now, given that Hubs is getting up some ungodly hour to go bow hunting. More on that tomorrow.
Or I could stay up late and read blogs...
... as soon as I make a nice cup of tea.
TOOTIE: Mommy! Look what I got from the treasure chest!
(Excited preschooler holds up a plastic paratrooper/cardboard sunglasses/fake ice cream cone with a scoop that shoots into the air before popping back into the cone...
CATHY: Oh, that's great sweetie! Let me see it...
E-MAN: I want paratrooper/sunglasses/ice cream too!
TOOTIE: (snatching away her prize) NO! It's my toy. I got it from the treasure chest!
E-MAN: I get one too! I get one too!
(wails and bickering punctuate the ride home)
TOOTIE: Mommy, can you help me unfold the parachute/put on the sunglasses/make the ice cream popper-thingy pop?
CATHY: OK, let me see it.
E-MAN: I get a turn! My turn!
TOOTIE: NO! It's my toy! I got it from the treasure chest!
(Bickering continues after dinner. The new wails of anguish, this time from Tootie.)
TOOTIE: The parachute/sunglasses/ice cream cone broke when I was playing with it!
(disappointed sobbing ensues)
TOOTIE: Why *sob* did it break *sob* Mommy? Can we go find another paratrooper/pair of sunglasses/ice cream cone tomorrow? I loved my paratrooper/sunglasses/ice cream cone. *sob*
Damn freaking cheap plastic toys. I get the concept, I do, but whatever happened to gold stars, happy face stamps and sticker charts?
----------------------------
And now ....
.... let's pull those broken cardboard sunglasses out of the trash can because -- people, the bling you are about to behold is blinding! Or is that sparkle coming from Mike Rowe's teeth?
This here is the Mike Rowe honor bestowed upon me by Janice over at Twist & Skewer.
Heather, you've got competition, honey, because Janice didn't tap just little old me for this one, no siree. I think there were ... uummm... maybe three others? And now I get to pass on the Mike love, which means Mike is about to wonder how he became the red-hot fantasy of the mommyblogger set.
So, for those who like it a little dirty -- just guessing, really! -- I'm sharing Mike love with: Jennifer aka Binky Bitch. Because she lives near Heather, and hell, I do love making things interesting! May I suggest you join forces and teach Mike the importance of maintaining skid-free undies? As Sponge Bob the annoying bath toy given to my children by my MIL likes to say: "I'm a dirty boy!"
Ahem. OK, moving on. Blue Momma declared me fab, and I am fab, because I once made my husband wait 2 1/2 months for marital relations and never gave in, not once, despite the incessant whining. He refers to that as "The Dark Time." Yeah, I rock.
Anyway, I'm passing this one on to Colleen, who is grappling mightily with an alarming revelation that Lance Armstrong, once Colleen's sex-god survivor, tough-guy hero, is now dating a praying mantis. (That would be Ashley, not MK. I know, one twig looks like another, especially when they decide simultaneously to live on nothing but non-fat Starbucks lattes.)
This award also goes to Queeny because she totally rules her home and I'm hoping she will mentor me.
And also to Heidi, because she's taking all of us on her family adventure! Just imagine, a spouse, two boys and a trunkful of bloggers. Talk about some scary-ass baggage to drag all the way to Norway. (The bloggers, I mean. I don't know her husband or children well enough yet to deem the frightening, judging from their photos, the kids look totally harmless.
Lastly -- Misty Dawn ever so kindly passed on this Bloggers with Integrity, which I do possess, as evidenced by my willingness to lie to three-fourths of my friends and co-workers so that my closest friend could pull off a surprise wedding.
I'm awarding this one to Julie, Flutter, Mrs. Chicken and Paige because their blogs remind me daily that there are good people, thinking people out there, people who aren't afraid to pose difficult questions and or offer their own equally difficult answers.
Whew! Perhaps I should retire for the evening now, given that Hubs is getting up some ungodly hour to go bow hunting. More on that tomorrow.
Or I could stay up late and read blogs...
... as soon as I make a nice cup of tea.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Oh, the ringlets!
Since my daughter cut off all her hair, on Hubs' watch, if you'll recall ...
... you'd think I'd be allowed to nurture the other child's locks without protest from interfering people.
But no.
"That boy needs a haircut!" they say.
Much as this annoys me, I'm even more bothered by the speculative stares by those who clearly think I'm the one who deliberately gave my daughter a Wynona do.
Their subtlety astounds.
"Oh. Wow. How ... cute. What made you decide to cut it off?"
For the record: Boy child has had two trims. But he hates them and I like his hair long. So to those who criticize: Shut up. Back off. Go shear your own kids. Buzz them. Hell, Nair them if that's your thing. Whatever. But keep your comments about my children's hair -- or lack thereof -- to yourselves.
Yes, girl child's hair is growing back, excruciatingly slowly to be sure, but at least it no longer resembles Mia on a bad bedhead day. Still, I AM SICK OF EXPLAINING TO PEOPLE WHY SHE HAS A PIXIE CUT.
Alrighty then, with that off my chest, let's move on to something completely off-subject, like my bad manners in not yet thanking Jenny of Absolutely Bananas for this:
I also owe Queeny of It's not easy being queen a big thank-you for this:
And yeah, I know. I'm acknowledging an award for niceness right after a bitchfest about hair. But seriously? HAIR?! Uh-oh. Rage resurfacing. Am heading to the kitchen immediately for the still-warm chocolate chip cookies that will counter it.
PMSing? Why yes. What makes you ask?
... you'd think I'd be allowed to nurture the other child's locks without protest from interfering people.
But no.
"That boy needs a haircut!" they say.
Much as this annoys me, I'm even more bothered by the speculative stares by those who clearly think I'm the one who deliberately gave my daughter a Wynona do.
Their subtlety astounds.
"Oh. Wow. How ... cute. What made you decide to cut it off?"
For the record: Boy child has had two trims. But he hates them and I like his hair long. So to those who criticize: Shut up. Back off. Go shear your own kids. Buzz them. Hell, Nair them if that's your thing. Whatever. But keep your comments about my children's hair -- or lack thereof -- to yourselves.
Yes, girl child's hair is growing back, excruciatingly slowly to be sure, but at least it no longer resembles Mia on a bad bedhead day. Still, I AM SICK OF EXPLAINING TO PEOPLE WHY SHE HAS A PIXIE CUT.
Alrighty then, with that off my chest, let's move on to something completely off-subject, like my bad manners in not yet thanking Jenny of Absolutely Bananas for this:
I also owe Queeny of It's not easy being queen a big thank-you for this:
And yeah, I know. I'm acknowledging an award for niceness right after a bitchfest about hair. But seriously? HAIR?! Uh-oh. Rage resurfacing. Am heading to the kitchen immediately for the still-warm chocolate chip cookies that will counter it.
PMSing? Why yes. What makes you ask?
Friday, October 12, 2007
My life on candid camera, Part Two
Or --
"Reason No. 47 why I don't always feel terribly alluring when Hubs picks up his camera."
Oh, sure, there are the occasional posed moments, when Hubs points the camera and I have time to suck in, hold the chin in a certain manner to get rid of the doubling effect (hate the chin, hate it!) and to wipe the automatic idiot camera grin from my face...
... and then there are the moments when I have more on my mind than annoying chin fat...
Of course, I did get these two little darlings ...
... so really, I can't complain. Except about the leftover pooch maybe.
(And yeah, Bill Maher, that's a -- gasp! -- teensy, itsy-bitsy sliver of boob you see. And just for good measure, I threw in a hint of ass in the pic above that one. Because I'm guessing you're just as skeeved by childbirth since by your definition, this too, is probably considered an "intimate act." (Guess what, Bill? It's difficult to consider the average birth as intimate, given that it typically involves a crowd of doctors, nurses and family members gathered at your crotch.)
What's that? You can't see enough boob in that picture? Maybe because I, like most nursing women, know how to be discreet? Maybe because the baby's head covers more than a pasty? Here try this one, Bill. Eek. Horrifying, no?)
Yeah, I'm a little late in weighing in on all this. But dammit, I nursed one kid for 15 months and another for 12, and there's no way I could have ensured that each nursing took place where ABSOLUTELY NO ONE would see. Nor did I try to. When my babies were hungry, I fed them. Didn't matter where I was -- mall bench, airplane seat, Fazzoli's, Starbucks, Chili's -- you name the place, I've probably fed a kid there. You can be damn sure I didn't say, "Shush, sweetie, you'll have to wait 30 minutes until we get home because some people in this mall/restaurant/coffee shop might be offended by the sight of your fuzzy head pressed against my chest."
Bill, Bill, Bill... you silly, silly twit. I'm the woman who worries about chin fat. Do you really think that I'm going to haul out a couple of boobs that have been through two pregnancies and now look like two limp gym socks because I'm so eager for everyone to see them?
I promise, each time either of the girls made a public appearance, it was because a baby was hungry. Not so I could sell tickets for my next sure-to-be-sold-out concert.
So, Bill — if you don't like the thought of breasts being used for breastfeeding, when, exactly, is their baring appropriate?
At a Mardi Gras parade, perhaps, when they're put on display for cheap baubles?
Want to share the outrage? Go here.
"Reason No. 47 why I don't always feel terribly alluring when Hubs picks up his camera."
Oh, sure, there are the occasional posed moments, when Hubs points the camera and I have time to suck in, hold the chin in a certain manner to get rid of the doubling effect (hate the chin, hate it!) and to wipe the automatic idiot camera grin from my face...
... and then there are the moments when I have more on my mind than annoying chin fat...
Of course, I did get these two little darlings ...
... so really, I can't complain. Except about the leftover pooch maybe.
(And yeah, Bill Maher, that's a -- gasp! -- teensy, itsy-bitsy sliver of boob you see. And just for good measure, I threw in a hint of ass in the pic above that one. Because I'm guessing you're just as skeeved by childbirth since by your definition, this too, is probably considered an "intimate act." (Guess what, Bill? It's difficult to consider the average birth as intimate, given that it typically involves a crowd of doctors, nurses and family members gathered at your crotch.)
What's that? You can't see enough boob in that picture? Maybe because I, like most nursing women, know how to be discreet? Maybe because the baby's head covers more than a pasty? Here try this one, Bill. Eek. Horrifying, no?)
Yeah, I'm a little late in weighing in on all this. But dammit, I nursed one kid for 15 months and another for 12, and there's no way I could have ensured that each nursing took place where ABSOLUTELY NO ONE would see. Nor did I try to. When my babies were hungry, I fed them. Didn't matter where I was -- mall bench, airplane seat, Fazzoli's, Starbucks, Chili's -- you name the place, I've probably fed a kid there. You can be damn sure I didn't say, "Shush, sweetie, you'll have to wait 30 minutes until we get home because some people in this mall/restaurant/coffee shop might be offended by the sight of your fuzzy head pressed against my chest."
Bill, Bill, Bill... you silly, silly twit. I'm the woman who worries about chin fat. Do you really think that I'm going to haul out a couple of boobs that have been through two pregnancies and now look like two limp gym socks because I'm so eager for everyone to see them?
I promise, each time either of the girls made a public appearance, it was because a baby was hungry. Not so I could sell tickets for my next sure-to-be-sold-out concert.
So, Bill — if you don't like the thought of breasts being used for breastfeeding, when, exactly, is their baring appropriate?
At a Mardi Gras parade, perhaps, when they're put on display for cheap baubles?
Want to share the outrage? Go here.
Monday, October 08, 2007
I lost him, briefly, but still...
I couldn't write about this last night because just recalling the moment makes my heart stop.
Yesterday, we went to the company picnic. After a barbecue lunch, I left Hubs and kids at the table and walked back over to the food line with a friend, who was getting a plate for her teenage daughter's boyfriend.
Minutes later, as Hubs cleaned up the mess, Tootie and E-man headed toward me. I didn't realize it until Tootie tugged my shirt and asked a question.
I glanced down. No E-man.
I looked over at the table where Hubs remained, still gathering up our things.
No E-man.
The table was only 30 feet away. Clear view. No toddler in sight.
"Hey!" I yelled to Hubs. "Where's E-man?"
Hubs looked up. "What?!"
"Where's E-man?"
Hubs looked around. Panic flashed across his face.
I ran to the table.
"He was headed toward you," Hubs said.
We looked under the tables and then Hubs raced over to the food line.
I stayed at the picnic area, quizzing people and calling E-man's name.
No answer. No little boy in the red-and-yellow striped shirt.
In tears, I glanced to the left of the food line. I could see Hubs bending over. When I heard my son's cries, I went weak in the knees.
He had wandered into the beverage line, looking for me. When Hubs found him, he was walking in circles, calling, "Mama? Mama?"
No one had paid him the slightest bit of attention.
I can't describe those frantic few moments when he was lost, when I imagined him toddling to the busy nearby road.
I can, however, describe the disbelief, the anger that no one in that line responded to a child who was clearly lost and frightened.
How do you miss that? How can you ignore it? How can you not reach down, grab his hand and and call out for the parents?
I'm furious with myself, furious with Hubs, that we let him out of our sight for that one crucial second.
But I'm also pissed off that none of those people -- many of them parents themselves -- couldn't be bothered to help.
They say it takes a village. But what if the villagers don't give a damn?
Yesterday, we went to the company picnic. After a barbecue lunch, I left Hubs and kids at the table and walked back over to the food line with a friend, who was getting a plate for her teenage daughter's boyfriend.
Minutes later, as Hubs cleaned up the mess, Tootie and E-man headed toward me. I didn't realize it until Tootie tugged my shirt and asked a question.
I glanced down. No E-man.
I looked over at the table where Hubs remained, still gathering up our things.
No E-man.
The table was only 30 feet away. Clear view. No toddler in sight.
"Hey!" I yelled to Hubs. "Where's E-man?"
Hubs looked up. "What?!"
"Where's E-man?"
Hubs looked around. Panic flashed across his face.
I ran to the table.
"He was headed toward you," Hubs said.
We looked under the tables and then Hubs raced over to the food line.
I stayed at the picnic area, quizzing people and calling E-man's name.
No answer. No little boy in the red-and-yellow striped shirt.
In tears, I glanced to the left of the food line. I could see Hubs bending over. When I heard my son's cries, I went weak in the knees.
He had wandered into the beverage line, looking for me. When Hubs found him, he was walking in circles, calling, "Mama? Mama?"
No one had paid him the slightest bit of attention.
I can't describe those frantic few moments when he was lost, when I imagined him toddling to the busy nearby road.
I can, however, describe the disbelief, the anger that no one in that line responded to a child who was clearly lost and frightened.
How do you miss that? How can you ignore it? How can you not reach down, grab his hand and and call out for the parents?
I'm furious with myself, furious with Hubs, that we let him out of our sight for that one crucial second.
But I'm also pissed off that none of those people -- many of them parents themselves -- couldn't be bothered to help.
They say it takes a village. But what if the villagers don't give a damn?
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Pee-worthy
My husband is a deer-hunting redneck sort of guy.
He also has two older kids from a previous marriage.
And these two bits of information are related ... how?
Well ---
Hubs considers himself an expert on certain parenting matters. Because, you know, he's done this before. (italics are his, not mine)
Which is why our toddler son now thinks it's appropriate to pee on trees.
Let me back up:
Countless times, countless, I tell you, Hubs has shared with enraptured audiences the story of how he potty-trained Stepson. (After, that is, he tells the one about how he once washed down Stepson at a car wash when the poor child pooped during a road trip.)
Anyway, the potty training. Let's allow Hubs to use his words:
"I showed him how to pee on a tree in the backyard when I was trying to get him interested in going potty. And it worked. When he had to go, he'd say, 'I need to pee on a tree.' Then he'd go in the backyard and pee on a tree."
And life was good and diaper-free, until the day Stepson decided he needed to pee at a local park. "Next thing I know, he's dropped his pants and is peeing on a tree," Hubs says.
Proudly.
He concludes: "It was a hard habit to break."
So you can imagine my chagrin a few nights ago, when Hubs led my little E-man to a tree in our backyard and urged him to drop his Handy Manny pull-em-up and whip out the pee stick.
"You try to encourage them to be aware of their functions," my spouse explains. "Peeing on a tree is a novel idea. And besides, wherever you go, there's always a tree."
But what, I asked, if people are present? You know, like non-family members. People who might not understand Hubs' peculiar backwoods brand of child rearin'?
"Well, then you have to hope it's a big tree," Hubs says, unperturbed. "Then he can hide behind it while he's going."
I've heard men obtain special joy from taking their biz outside. Is this true?
Hubs contends: "All guys want to do it. We just refrain from it. I think it's because there's no target. We can just spray wherever."
This, dear readers, is what I'm up against. It's why we will soon be blacklisted from social affairs, because, really, who wants their cocktail-sipping guests subjected to the sight of a wee tot washing down the oak tree in their backyard.
And now my daughter wants to pee on trees. My 4-year-old, already-potty-trained daughter.
In fact, she and her brother keep fighting over one particular tree in our backyard because apparently, it's the only one that's pee-worthy.
I should make it clear here that, thus far, neither has actually peed. Daughter has yet to drop her drawers, perhaps because she senses the logistical difficulties. But their interest -- clearly, it has been piqued or they wouldn't be in the backyard selecting trees.
It's only a matter of time... And if, what if?
How to explain this bizarre behavior at the next birthday party, when both my kids suddenly dart to the nearest tree, bickering over who gets which spot as they drop their pants. With my luck, one of them will pick the spot right under the damn pinata.
Or, worse -- *shudder* -- one of them will need to go No. 2.
He also has two older kids from a previous marriage.
And these two bits of information are related ... how?
Well ---
Hubs considers himself an expert on certain parenting matters. Because, you know, he's done this before. (italics are his, not mine)
Which is why our toddler son now thinks it's appropriate to pee on trees.
Let me back up:
Countless times, countless, I tell you, Hubs has shared with enraptured audiences the story of how he potty-trained Stepson. (After, that is, he tells the one about how he once washed down Stepson at a car wash when the poor child pooped during a road trip.)
Anyway, the potty training. Let's allow Hubs to use his words:
"I showed him how to pee on a tree in the backyard when I was trying to get him interested in going potty. And it worked. When he had to go, he'd say, 'I need to pee on a tree.' Then he'd go in the backyard and pee on a tree."
And life was good and diaper-free, until the day Stepson decided he needed to pee at a local park. "Next thing I know, he's dropped his pants and is peeing on a tree," Hubs says.
Proudly.
He concludes: "It was a hard habit to break."
So you can imagine my chagrin a few nights ago, when Hubs led my little E-man to a tree in our backyard and urged him to drop his Handy Manny pull-em-up and whip out the pee stick.
"You try to encourage them to be aware of their functions," my spouse explains. "Peeing on a tree is a novel idea. And besides, wherever you go, there's always a tree."
But what, I asked, if people are present? You know, like non-family members. People who might not understand Hubs' peculiar backwoods brand of child rearin'?
"Well, then you have to hope it's a big tree," Hubs says, unperturbed. "Then he can hide behind it while he's going."
I've heard men obtain special joy from taking their biz outside. Is this true?
Hubs contends: "All guys want to do it. We just refrain from it. I think it's because there's no target. We can just spray wherever."
This, dear readers, is what I'm up against. It's why we will soon be blacklisted from social affairs, because, really, who wants their cocktail-sipping guests subjected to the sight of a wee tot washing down the oak tree in their backyard.
And now my daughter wants to pee on trees. My 4-year-old, already-potty-trained daughter.
In fact, she and her brother keep fighting over one particular tree in our backyard because apparently, it's the only one that's pee-worthy.
I should make it clear here that, thus far, neither has actually peed. Daughter has yet to drop her drawers, perhaps because she senses the logistical difficulties. But their interest -- clearly, it has been piqued or they wouldn't be in the backyard selecting trees.
It's only a matter of time... And if, what if?
How to explain this bizarre behavior at the next birthday party, when both my kids suddenly dart to the nearest tree, bickering over who gets which spot as they drop their pants. With my luck, one of them will pick the spot right under the damn pinata.
Or, worse -- *shudder* -- one of them will need to go No. 2.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Who's that sleeping in my bed?
So the evening went something like this --
The E-man once again shuns his new big-boy twin bed, announcing instead his plans to sleep with Tootie in her full-size bed. After a few minutes of giggling, however, Tootie declares that she doesn't want to sleep with her little brother.
"I want to sleep alone," she says.
So Tootie heads to the E-man's room and plops onto his bed.
This upsets the E-man, who wants to sleep with his sister, even though she has made it clear he is NOT welcome.
And the compromise worked out between these two determined little souls?
"Let's sleep in Mommy's bed!" Tootie suggests.
"OK! We sleep in Mommy's bed!" E-man agrees.
I stand, confused and defeated, while my tots, armed with blankies and pillows, accompanied by a small army of stuffed animals, make yet another bed switch that, yes indeedy, plants them squarely in the middle of the marital bed.
But dammit, at least they're finally asleep.
Two hours pass.
"So, what's the plan?" I ask Hubs. "Does this mean one of us gets the dog's bed? Remember, she's been scratching a lot lately. Fleas. Ick."
"You sleep with them in our bed and I'll take either Tootie or E-man's bed," Hubs replies.
"Or we can leave them in our room and each take a kid's bed," I say.
"Leave them in our room -- alone? Have you done gone and lost your mind? The last time we did that, E-man came out wearing tiger stripes across his face and head. Your eyeliner, remember? No, they can't be in there unsupervised," Hubs concluded.
"Hmm... you're right. I don't want my lipstick wiped out again either. But if we try to oust them we'll wake them up. Do you want them awakened at this time of night?"
"OK, let's think this one through."
So we wander around with our pillows, aimlessly, passing one another in the darkened hallway.
On our third -- or maybe fourth -- pass-through, Hubs grabs my arm, waggles his eyebrows and nods toward the E-man's room.
"We could both lay in there," he says, striding across the room and plopping into bed.
"It's a twin," I argue.
"So, we'll be stacked. We would be anyway with what I've got in mind."
"We are not desecrating the toddler's new big-boy bed. I want no part of it."
"Are you sure...?" he asks, patting a two-inch slice of bed suggestively.
"Are you telling me you could have sex in your toddler's big-boy bed, knowing that such actions could lead to the addition of another wee wandering non-slumberer a mere nine months from now? Remember, I may have skipped a pill or two..."
"You mean like -- a third baby?" Hubs splutters.
"Yep," I say, cheerily. "A. Third. Baby. A wailing, up-all-night-baby."
I smile seductively. Show a little leg.
"Um. Goodnight!" he calls. And he pulls the red sheets up firmly to his chin.
The E-man once again shuns his new big-boy twin bed, announcing instead his plans to sleep with Tootie in her full-size bed. After a few minutes of giggling, however, Tootie declares that she doesn't want to sleep with her little brother.
"I want to sleep alone," she says.
So Tootie heads to the E-man's room and plops onto his bed.
This upsets the E-man, who wants to sleep with his sister, even though she has made it clear he is NOT welcome.
And the compromise worked out between these two determined little souls?
"Let's sleep in Mommy's bed!" Tootie suggests.
"OK! We sleep in Mommy's bed!" E-man agrees.
I stand, confused and defeated, while my tots, armed with blankies and pillows, accompanied by a small army of stuffed animals, make yet another bed switch that, yes indeedy, plants them squarely in the middle of the marital bed.
But dammit, at least they're finally asleep.
Two hours pass.
"So, what's the plan?" I ask Hubs. "Does this mean one of us gets the dog's bed? Remember, she's been scratching a lot lately. Fleas. Ick."
"You sleep with them in our bed and I'll take either Tootie or E-man's bed," Hubs replies.
"Or we can leave them in our room and each take a kid's bed," I say.
"Leave them in our room -- alone? Have you done gone and lost your mind? The last time we did that, E-man came out wearing tiger stripes across his face and head. Your eyeliner, remember? No, they can't be in there unsupervised," Hubs concluded.
"Hmm... you're right. I don't want my lipstick wiped out again either. But if we try to oust them we'll wake them up. Do you want them awakened at this time of night?"
"OK, let's think this one through."
So we wander around with our pillows, aimlessly, passing one another in the darkened hallway.
On our third -- or maybe fourth -- pass-through, Hubs grabs my arm, waggles his eyebrows and nods toward the E-man's room.
"We could both lay in there," he says, striding across the room and plopping into bed.
"It's a twin," I argue.
"So, we'll be stacked. We would be anyway with what I've got in mind."
"We are not desecrating the toddler's new big-boy bed. I want no part of it."
"Are you sure...?" he asks, patting a two-inch slice of bed suggestively.
"Are you telling me you could have sex in your toddler's big-boy bed, knowing that such actions could lead to the addition of another wee wandering non-slumberer a mere nine months from now? Remember, I may have skipped a pill or two..."
"You mean like -- a third baby?" Hubs splutters.
"Yep," I say, cheerily. "A. Third. Baby. A wailing, up-all-night-baby."
I smile seductively. Show a little leg.
"Um. Goodnight!" he calls. And he pulls the red sheets up firmly to his chin.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
This time two years ago ...
... we gathered at the beach for a family reunion.
I revisit that time through photos, laughing again at the memory of my children's startled expressions when they licked their wind-chapped lips and tasted the unexpected tang of salt.
Picture by picture, I go back to that weekend by the ocean.
I cup my daughter's face, brushing away sand from wide brown eyes.
I feel the soft, squishy thighs of my baby. I feel his tiny heart flutter as I hold him up against a darkening sky.
I feel the edges of a broken shell, pressed into my hand by my daughter's eager fingers.
And even amid the shouts of children, the rumble of thunder and the constant roar of the ocean, I feel peace.
Monday, September 03, 2007
One picture, two images
I never expected to have a boy.
I'm the oldest of three girls. My mom is one of three girls. Three of my four cousins on that side of the family are girls.
So when the doctor pointed out a penis in the fall of 2004, I was skeptical.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"Look," interrupted Hubs, possessor of the sharp photographer's eyes. "That is definitely a penis.
A boy? I know nothing of boys. What happened to my Tootie's little sister?
My only experience with boys involved my stepson, and at the time, as a novice stepparent, I spent much of my time worrying that I had totally bungled things with him.
And then the E-man arrived, a happy-go-lucky little man who crawled into my lap, wrapped his grubby arms around my neck and said, "I yuv you, Mommy."
Suddenly, I was converted.
Last year, fellow Musing Mama Laurie Aucoin Kaiser wrote an essay about her two boys. It began:
Twelve-year-old boys make me want to cry. Not in that “I know they are making fun of me” way I felt when I was a pubescent girl, but rather as a glimpse into my not-so-distant future.
With their baggy pants and bored glances, their skateboards and their video games, they are the “big boys” my sons seem in awe of.
Boys as young as 9 or 10 sometimes hold this distinction, but it’s the 11- and 12-year-olds on the brink of adolescence who really get to me. I know that in a heartbeat Jacob and Sawyer will be among them.
OK, maybe such hand-wringing is a little premature; my boys haven’t even entered kindergarten yet. Jacob just turned 2 and Sawyer won’t be 4 until the end of May. However, the promise of pending adolescence is out there just waiting to grab my heart, so full of little boy wonder and love, and twist it in two.
By the time Laurie wrote this essay, my stepson had become a teenage boy -- a wild-haired boy who wore baggy pants and appeared permanently attached to a skateboard. So I winced when I read about her fears.
I looked at my toddler and tried to imagine him 10 years later, and ... well, yes. It wrenched my heart too.
Today, Hubs came home with this picture of my stepson and my toddler:
You'd think this image would make me cringe, anticipating the day when my baby man will don baggy jeans and let his hair grow wild like his older brother's...
... anticipating how the memory of his warm breath on my neck and a whispered, "I yuv you," will make me cry.
But when I look at this photo, I go back, not forward --
-- and I remember a long-ago night when we got caught in a frightening storm on the way home from a mountain cabin.
I remember an infant Tootie, strapped in her carseat, screaming.
And I remember turning around and seeing an 11-year-old boy -- the one who would one day wear baggy pants and let his dark, curly hair grow wild -- holding the wailing baby's tiny hand in his.
That is the image that makes me cry.
I'm the oldest of three girls. My mom is one of three girls. Three of my four cousins on that side of the family are girls.
So when the doctor pointed out a penis in the fall of 2004, I was skeptical.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"Look," interrupted Hubs, possessor of the sharp photographer's eyes. "That is definitely a penis.
A boy? I know nothing of boys. What happened to my Tootie's little sister?
My only experience with boys involved my stepson, and at the time, as a novice stepparent, I spent much of my time worrying that I had totally bungled things with him.
And then the E-man arrived, a happy-go-lucky little man who crawled into my lap, wrapped his grubby arms around my neck and said, "I yuv you, Mommy."
Suddenly, I was converted.
Last year, fellow Musing Mama Laurie Aucoin Kaiser wrote an essay about her two boys. It began:
Twelve-year-old boys make me want to cry. Not in that “I know they are making fun of me” way I felt when I was a pubescent girl, but rather as a glimpse into my not-so-distant future.
With their baggy pants and bored glances, their skateboards and their video games, they are the “big boys” my sons seem in awe of.
Boys as young as 9 or 10 sometimes hold this distinction, but it’s the 11- and 12-year-olds on the brink of adolescence who really get to me. I know that in a heartbeat Jacob and Sawyer will be among them.
OK, maybe such hand-wringing is a little premature; my boys haven’t even entered kindergarten yet. Jacob just turned 2 and Sawyer won’t be 4 until the end of May. However, the promise of pending adolescence is out there just waiting to grab my heart, so full of little boy wonder and love, and twist it in two.
By the time Laurie wrote this essay, my stepson had become a teenage boy -- a wild-haired boy who wore baggy pants and appeared permanently attached to a skateboard. So I winced when I read about her fears.
I looked at my toddler and tried to imagine him 10 years later, and ... well, yes. It wrenched my heart too.
Today, Hubs came home with this picture of my stepson and my toddler:
You'd think this image would make me cringe, anticipating the day when my baby man will don baggy jeans and let his hair grow wild like his older brother's...
... anticipating how the memory of his warm breath on my neck and a whispered, "I yuv you," will make me cry.
But when I look at this photo, I go back, not forward --
-- and I remember a long-ago night when we got caught in a frightening storm on the way home from a mountain cabin.
I remember an infant Tootie, strapped in her carseat, screaming.
And I remember turning around and seeing an 11-year-old boy -- the one who would one day wear baggy pants and let his dark, curly hair grow wild -- holding the wailing baby's tiny hand in his.
That is the image that makes me cry.
Friday, August 24, 2007
She says. He doesn't.
Tootie comes home with a "behavior report" that says she has been flagrantly disregarding rules -- and her teacher's instructions -- this past week.
My lecture, which started on the way home: We always respect our teachers ... blah...blah...blah...if Ms. S. tells you to do something, you do it ... blah...blah...blah...if Ms. S. tells you to stop doing something, you will listen to her and STOP IT immediately...blah...blah...blah.. Every time we hear from Ms. S., you will be punished at home too ...blah...blah...blah...I want you to go to your room and think about all of this ...blah...blah...blah...Do you understand that this is unacceptable behavior and that it will NOT continue and that every time I get a note you will lose a movie and other privileges? I mean it, this will not continue... blah...blah...blah...
Hubs' lecture: Tootie, you're a sweet little girl. I want you to be a sweet little girl at school too.
*banging head against the coffee table after shooting a nail gun into my left ear and cussing profusely into a pillow*
My lecture, which started on the way home: We always respect our teachers ... blah...blah...blah...if Ms. S. tells you to do something, you do it ... blah...blah...blah...if Ms. S. tells you to stop doing something, you will listen to her and STOP IT immediately...blah...blah...blah.. Every time we hear from Ms. S., you will be punished at home too ...blah...blah...blah...I want you to go to your room and think about all of this ...blah...blah...blah...Do you understand that this is unacceptable behavior and that it will NOT continue and that every time I get a note you will lose a movie and other privileges? I mean it, this will not continue... blah...blah...blah...
Hubs' lecture: Tootie, you're a sweet little girl. I want you to be a sweet little girl at school too.
*banging head against the coffee table after shooting a nail gun into my left ear and cussing profusely into a pillow*
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