When did I finally realize I was a Mom...

... as opposed to the misty-eyed imposter romping through Baby Depot, flinging onsies into my cart?

ANSWER: On the day I ran to the living room, responding to the screams of my bloody-nosed preschooler, and, rather than shrieking in horror, calmly lectured her in my perfect Mommy voice as I plucked her from the floor, "I told you this would happen if you kept jumping on the couch. I TOLD YOU!"

And now -- What makes the perfect mother's day, now that I know I'm the real deal:

1. A framed 8 1/2-by-10 of the kids. (photo taken by Hubs)



And ... drum roll ...

2. A toddler who slept this ONE morning until (gasp!) 9:30 a.m.

What makes me a mother?

This little girl, who brings me her caterpillars and asks when they will become butterflies.

And this little boy, who runs to me each evening, arms open wide, and calling me by the name I treasure more than any other -- "Mama."

I carried them in my womb, and then in my arms. I nourished them, cuddled them, helped shape them.

And yet -- they define me.

This is my offering for the Parent Bloggers Network's Mother's Day Blog Blast, also sponsored by Light Iris, a new site which debuts on Mother's Day. There's still time to post your own entry. You have until midnight. So go for it. Winner gets a $100 gift card for Spa Finder, and -- hello?! -- who among us would turn that down? So check it out. Post. And Happy Mother's Day!

Why my job sometimes doesn't rock

I suffer from bird phobia.

Birds creep me out — those pointy beaks, beady little eyes and the lethal-looking talons (shudder) ...

Plus, I'm one of those dry-goods-hoarding, bird-flu-fearing freaks who's convinced the little squawkers are out to do us in with a raging epidemic, just so they can take over the planet.

(Alfred H., you were a wise, wise man. You saw their potential for evil.)

So the day before yesterday, a photographer and I headed over to the zoo to check out a new, interactive lorikeet exhibit. First, however, we visited the birds — all 25 of them — in their current teeny-tiny quarters.

Inside. A. Locked. Cage. With 25 birds.

I sidled in behind the photographer — who raises pigeons and happens to think all birds are fascinating — and stood, motionless and terrified, while he took pictures and played with a lorikeet named "Bitey."

Ahem.

At one point, four lorikeets lined up on the branch directly in front of me, cocking their little heads and squawking at me — clearly an attempt to intimidate.

Leave immediately, intruder, or we will peck your eyes out.

So I did, clutching my poop-stained notebook, tugging at my poop-streaked shirt and ID badge and wiping poop from my hair.

Still, moments later, I mustered enough courage to wear this little lorikeet on my shoulder and smile (albeit painfully, with clenched teeth) for the camera.

And of course, the bird managed to look cute and cuddly and totally harmless.

But I know she wanted a piece of my ear.

Memo to National Mammoth Drug Store:

As of today, May 7, 2007, we are through.

Why?

Because when I called to refill my birth control pills, you told me you were out. And so were the FIVE surrounding stores.

Oh, c'mon. I live in Arkansas. We breed, chug beer, do a little birthin' -- and you're telling me that, suddenly, an unprecedented number of us decided to break rank and -- gasp! -- seek contraceptives?!

And that as a result your vast pharmaceutical coffers are empty?

I think not.

I mean, the only reason I'm on the pill is because I've gotta lose the extra 30 pounds before I brave another nine months of peanut M&M cravings.

Oh, yeah, and the anti-crazy pills -- not ready to give those up quite yet, you know.

And of course, there's the small matter of being able to afford a third child. Ha. Ha-ha. HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!!

But my fellow Arkansans -- ye of the birthing hips designed for lugging small children while grasping a ciggie in one hand and a Bud Lite in the other -- you, YOU too have decided to become anti-ovulatory?

I'll be gol-darned. And here I thought I had a corner on the contraceptives market.

So. Well. Looks like a particuarly frustrating month awaits the Hubs.

I, on the other hand, might actually make it through the five library books I optimistically checked out a week ago.

Two pink roses

It's been a rough year for us in many ways. Nothing huge, just the usual woes that plague your average family boasting two tots, two teenagers, one elderly and especially hairy dog and an ex-wife who seems to think that Hubs won a lottery sometime in the past year.

But then, just when I'm in the midst of a good fret over finances, or freaking out over my husband's too-apparent (albeit still very ambivalent) interest in participating in a job-related stint in Iraq, the Tiny Terrors go and ruin my Moment of Self-Pity by pointing out the things I used to notice and appreciate.

Before I grew up and decided such things no longer mattered. Because, you know, I'd rather engage in imaginary rants at Hubs' ex.

As I unloaded Tootie from the car a few days ago, her face lit up and off she went, trotting over to a large plant-like bush thingy in front of our house. Do I garden? Um. No. Would I recognize a rosebush if it pulled itself out of the ground and pricked me squarely in the ass. Negative. Still, how did I not notice the bright-pink rosebud that immediately captured my daughter's attention?

"Look, Mama! A flower!" the Toot gushed, leaning over to pluck it.

I stopped her.

"If you wait, honey, that tiny bud will open up into a flower. So let's not pick it just yet, OK?"

And this morning, as I left for work, brooding over the usual blah-blah-blah, a splash of pink caught my eye.

Two perfectly shaped roses.


Photo courtesy of Hubs

And it occurred to me that even as I advise my daughter to be patient, to wait for something to grow into its full and beautiful potential, I don't apply these words of maternal wisdom to my own approach to life.

So, for today at least, I've put aside the bills and the worries, and am simply anticipating this evening, when I'll walk my daughter over to the rose bush and show her two pink blooms —

— which I never would have noticed if she hadn't pointed out a single tiny, hopeful bud.

Update: On pulling into the driveway -- "Mama! Look, look! The flower growed!"

The bullies and the bullied

Several months ago, on the way home one evening, a car pulled out in front of me and — being the eloquent former Texan that I am — I let a few well-chosen words fly.

And then Tootie piped up:

"Mama, was that a bad car?"

"Yes, sweetie. That person didn't wait for her turn. We have to take turns when we're driving or else we might hit each other."

"Hitting's bad," the Toot replied.

And then she added: "Except when a boy pushes you down. Then it's OK."

Pause.

Loooooooong pause.

Oh, hell, what's the appropriate response here?

We don't hit in our house. I know some parents spank, and I'm not casting judgment. I think one parents by instinct and lingers in a chosen comfort zone. For me, spanking — or any type of hitting — just doesn't feel right. And so we don't.

But what if — what if? — someone did push her down? Or hit her? Especially a boy. My history with men -- well, one man in particular -- makes me wary of assuring her to sit there and do nothing.

Do I teach her to take it? Do I cloud the issue by telling her, "Yes, it's OK to hit sometimes, but only if someone does something to you first?"

I don't want her to bully. I also don't want her to be bullied.

It's a topic that makes me leery, uncomfortable — fearful, even — due to my own difficulties in junior high and today's school issues.

I give you Terrible Tina, the red-headed, shrilly-voiced and bossy girl who moved to town when I was in sixth grade. In short order, Tina upended our social pecking order and guess who ended up on the bottom?

Tina was, simply put, a bully. She used not only the usual girl-tactics: Divide, form alliances, divide... She also relied on brute force. I remember a trip home from camp when things got so bad — do the "chaperones" on these excursions pay any attention to what's going on? I mean, we were in a van, a rather confined space, and no one ever said a thing — that I pressed my face against a window and refused to look at, or talk to, my tormentor. Soon, the other girls joined in. Frustrated by my lack of reaction, Tina finally reached over and pulled out a huge chunk of my hair. By the roots.

People tell their children to "ignore" the bullies. Bullshit. It doesn't work. It didn't work for me, and it hasn't worked for countless other children either. "Telling" is acceptable only during the early grade-school years. After that, it only adds to the helpless victim image. And you're a snitch.

Looking back, I wish I'd given Tina and my (former) friends a long, cool stare -- one that implied they were pathetic, boring, useless people -- and then told them to fuck off.

I didn't. I crouched, weeping, by the window.

Turn to the adults? The ones at the front of the van? Not much more effective than telling our kids to seek help from the teachers -- the men and women we expect to monitor the halls, intervening in fights that involve students that even they -- the teachers -- fear.

Thankfully, after a summer during which puberty arrived, my braces came off and I got my first pair of contact lenses, high school wasn't a problem.

But still, I'm 37, and even now, all these years later, when I think of Tina, I feel a surge of anger. And I find myself hoping that at one point in her life, she suffered like I did.

Imagine being the kid who's subjected to such misery from kindergarten on? Imagine the kid who doesn't see an improvement in high school?

I worry all the time that one — or both — of my children could be that kid. How would I handle it?

Since I'm a neurotic freak who often imagines dire scenarios just so I can carry on entire conversations in my head with the imaginary people who have wronged me or my offspring, I mull the what-ifs, over and over.

Because quite frankly, if Tootie or the E-man came home, day after day, year after year, bullied and beaten down, the Mama Mean-Ass Shrew in me would want to huff over to the high school cafeteria and — abandoning my no-hitting beliefs — smack the holy crap out of the offenders.

I'm not a violent person. I don't watch violent movies. And I no longer read many books in which it's an element. Maybe because of what I do for a living. Maybe because now I have children. For whatever reason, I just can't stomach it.

But the thought of continued bullying or abuse — not a single instance, but day after day after day ... — god, it makes me want to strike out at the imaginary bullies who are tormenting my very real child.

A few years ago, I wrote an in-depth story on a family who was grappling with this issue. Their teenage son was developmentally delayed, and, sadly, an easy target. They already had switched schools once in an effort to stop the abuse. It didn't work.

He was punched. The kids broke his glasses. Twice. Called him a faggot and made fun of his mannerisms. They followed him through the halls, making threats and laughing when he cowered.

His teachers said he should ignore the kids. Didn't work. The principal, whom I interviewed, was openly frustrated. "We don't know what to do," he told me. "We're at a loss."

How comforting.

I went to the boy's house one morning, before school, and I remember the cajoling required to get him into the car so that his dad could drive him to the campus. I rode with them, and it was awful. This boy's misery radiated from every pore. He was nearly in tears by the time we arrived. I watched him pull on his backpack, square his thin shoulders and trudge to the front doors.

I wasn't a mother then. But it hurt, physically, watching that boy, and feeling his dread.

Right now, I'm just finishing Jodi Picoult's Nineteen Minutes, a novel that dissects a school shooting — and bullying — from all perspectives. It's been a tough read. Because even as I'm appalled by the shooter's coldness, I read his mother's thoughts and the descriptions of her anguish, and I wonder, yet again, what do we as parents do?


We live in an Alpha Society. Always have, really, but now, new precedents have been set. We see more, hear more, want more, have more.

We strive to be Alpha Moms, Alpha Career Women, Alpha SAHMs. Our partners do the same. Because, really, who wants to remain at the bottom of the heap, especially as "more" and "better" become increasingly available?

But we are adults with maturity (allegedly) and experience to draw from.

Our children, while they see and feel the pull of Alpha, don't have the capacity to manage it.

And so they bully. Or they cower.


And I wonder, as a parent, which is worse for my child? Life as one of those snotty girls I hated in junior high? Or life as the kid who agonizes each day over where to sit in the cafeteria?

How do I help them find the happy medium in the social shark pool that is school?

As I said, we don't hit in our home. And neither do my children. But will I ever feel compelled to excuse hitting -- or any physical means of defending oneself -- outside of it?

We tell them, "Use your words."

Yes. Well. The only words that work with bullies are strong ones, delivered with a certain attitude. Must I chip away at the sensitivity I love in both my kids, harden them up and teach them my arsenal of cuss words?

What troubles me is that children who are chronic victims in school often remain victims even after they enter the adult world. I've seen what's out there. I write about it, on a regular basis. I don't want them to be quite as cynical as I am, but I hope they will develop a don't-fuck-with-me sort of armor.

But how to balance this? How to develop it, without cultivating a bully in the process?

I treasure my children's innate empathy and kindness. I also worry these traits will make them vulnerable.

Ethan is small. Pale. He has large, beautiful blue eyes that will likely require glasses at an early age. My boy is a sweet, cuddly and loving little soul. The thought of these characteristics one day making him a walking bull's eye breaks my heart.

Still, he's a tough kid. Scrappy. Perhaps I worry for nothing.

But still... what if?

It's a question that nags at me, a question with no clear answer that feels completely right. Thus far, my parenting decisions have been based on instinct and intuition. But when it comes to bullying, I fear my instincts would lead me — and my kids — in the wrong direction.

Because that day a few months ago, when Tootie asked if it's OK to hit a boy who pushed her down, my instinct — as a mother, as a woman once abused by a man — was to say, "Hell, yeah. Hit him back."

Dear Speech Goddess:

Oops. "Therapist." Sorry. My bad.

Got your note the other day, stuffed in the E-man's cubby. It was startlingly similar to the one you left two years ago regarding my daughter, Tootie.

You don't remember?

Alrighty then -- a refresher:

"We recommend your child receive both an evaluation and early-intervention therapy that will better prepare him/her for kindergarten."

Or something like that.

You cited some examples of how Tootie -- and now the E-man -- mispronounced words and "spoke softly."

And then there was a leeeennnnngthy paragraph about how most insurances companies will fully cover said intervention. And then another paragraph about how your company, "Thera***" will come to my child's day care once a week to "help" my JUST-TURNED-TWO-YEAR-OlD learn how to say "snack," rather than "nack."

(Actually, speech goddess, I've been trying to eliminate that word entirely from his apparently too-miniscule vocabulary, but whatever...

How to put this delicately?

Stay the hell away from my child. (That's "hae-ull." With the required drawl.) Just in case you didn't understand me the first time. I realize we here talk funny.

I'll have you know, the E-man talks like every other toddler his age. And just because four (yep, FOUR) other mothers of children in my kid's class have fallen prey to your scam doesn't mean I'm about to offer up my little lamb.

Dearie, I'm a bitchy reporter. You know, skeptical. Jaded. Sarcastic.

Did I ask you to test my son? Or my daughter, for that matter?

Nope, you just showed up at the day care, as you do every six months, and attempted to freak out me and a bunch of other easily guilted working parents.

Forget it, lady. I'm onto you. My son substitues a 'P' for 'F.' (Which means if he were as cantankerous as I am, he would have told you to "Puck off," but he hasn't yet, thankfully, picked up his mommy's bad words.)

Yeah, he talks "softly" when in the presence of strangers, particularly suspect "therapists" but we can understand him just fine.

And hey, I didn't master my "THs" until ... ummm ... age 5. Today, there's no sign of any (speech) impediment.

Please, leave the toddler set alone. They have no need of your ... services.

Sincerely,

Caffy

Oh, P.S. I showed Hubs your note. You know, just to ensure my cynicism hasn't shot into hyperdrive.

He read until reaching the paragraph about insurance, then tossed it on the table.

"What a scam," he said. "Throw it away."

Readers: Make sure you wander over to Musing Mama. Still the same, fabulous content, but we've got a new look.

Sometimes my job rocks

In 1953, a woman in England was engaged to a man she adored. And then, one afternoon, she was attacked and raped. Three months later, she found out she was pregnant. Her mother was horrified, and demanded that this woman give up her baby. When she was seven months along, the woman's parents sent her a home for pregnant girls in London, so none of their friends or neighbors would know. She had the baby, then returned to the home as arrangements for the adoption were made. In the photo below, the woman is holding her 6-week-old girl. A week or so later, she gave the baby up for adoption. The transfer took place in an English tea room. Can you imagine, being forced to give up your child six weeks after coming home from the hospital? I can't.



Before you judge, remember this was 1950s England, when "disgraceful" pregnanices were hidden. And bear in mind, this woman still lived with her parents. She was very much under their influence.


This week, mother and daughter were reunited. I'd already spent a couple of weeks talking to the woman about what happened all those years ago. And then I was there, when the two saw each other for the first time.



And it was one of those moments when I was so glad to be doing what I do.

Why I hate child support...

...and the calculations behind it. (Here, it's based solely on the father's income and applies only to the children of the divorce. Children from any future marriages are not factored in.)

... Because on the very night I'm trying to figure out how (and when) we can afford to buy some spring/summer clothes for Tootie, Hubs comes back from his ex-wife's house talking — no, let's make that "gushing" — about Stepson's new Wii system.

... Because for the first two years of our marriage, when the ex arrived every other weekend, she always had a list for Hubs of all the "extra" expenses, which usually totaled, on average, about $150 to $200. That's $300 to $400 a month ON TOP OF child support.

... Because she always left with a check.

... Because when I got pregnant, even though Hubs always paid several hundred dollars a month MORE than required by state law in child support — not just the "extras" but also one-half of day care and, later, after-school care — the ex sued him for additional money.

... Because while I worry each month about how we will afford new shoes or clothes or day care-related expenses or birthdays, holidays, etc... etc... for the kids, his ex is putting in an in-ground pool, ordering custom-made furniture or re-doing their house (for the millionth time) or installing a tikki bar out back.

... Because I never knew what debt was — or how scary it is — until I married a divorced father.

... Because a divorced mom knows for sure she'll get xxx number of dollars each month whereas a woman married to a divorced dad shuffles and repriortizes and puts off purchases because she has to work with what is left.

... Because most states don't recognize fathers as parents with the same rights as mothers.

... Because even though we can't afford to buy a new washing machine, even after the repairman told us our current one was an ancient piece of shit that can't be fixed and it frequently attacks the dryer like some rabid beast, the ex-wife and her hubs are tooling around in their travel trailer or on his fully loaded Honda motorcycle.

... Because my glasses are 6 years old, but I can't yet justify new ones, because Hubs needs new glasses and contacts, because I still owe the dentist a hunk of money, because Tootie still needs to go to the dentist, because there are so many things, big and little, and plumbing issues and on and on and on that we've put off buying for months, but to HER it's no big deal to just zip out and buy a fucking Wii. Or a shiny red, fully loaded Camaro convertible.

... Because I remember the look on Hubs face when she pulled up in that car. Shortly after suing him for more money.

... Because I've skipped birthday parties and other social functions when we didn't have the money for presents or food contributions. But god forbid that stepson doesn't get a car by the day he turns 16 (in June). Oh, and by the way, can we chip in for half of his insurance?

(Um... excuse me ex, but when you and Hubs sold your house, is it not correct that you walked away with $30,000 and he received $1,500 per your divorce decree? I know it is because I've read it. I also read the document Hubs' attorney made him sign saying she had advised him against such an unfair split. As always, however, he gave in to you. For the kids. So hey, why not consider your profit on that little number Hubs' insurance contribution? Sounds like a good idea to me.

...Because it's fucking unfair. Because child support laws make it near impossible for a man to remarry or have additional children. A woman, however, gets the child support, a new spouse and his salary, and whatever income she earns.

...Because in order for things to be truly equitable, I would have to divorce my husband. Because then Hubs' paycheck would be divided among ALL FOUR KIDS.

... Because my brother-in-law raised four kids without a dime of child support from his ex-wife. Because the only thing we ever hear about are "deadbeat dads" when really, the mothers are equal offenders. C'mon, are we still employing 1950s thinking here? Geez. If you're going to pursue the fathers, then -- HELLO?! -- go after the mothers too. Because a lot of them don't pay either.

... Because Hubs is a great dad who has given and given and given. And because of the guilt he feels when he can't provide the same things for the second set of kids.

Yeah, I'm in a bad mood. Yeah, I'm pissed. And yeah, the fucking Wii was the fucking last straw.

I hate the greediness, unfairness and resentment that the current system breeds. I hate the stupid, gender-specific child support laws. I hate that my kids will always get the leftovers. If there are any leftovers. And yeah, it makes me resentful and yeah, I'm probably a horrible stepmother for feeling so resentful. I hate feeling like such a bitch because my stepkids are great, and I don't want to see them deprived of anything, but goddammit it pains me to see my own kids go without necessities while the other household gets a Wii the minute they hit the market.

But tra-la-fucking-la, life goes fucking on, and I'll just have to re-budget — again — this month, and try not to turn into a raging maniac as stepson's birthday approaches and the ex starts calling about a car.

I posted this last night, after drinking much wine at a girlfriend's house and having yet another freakout session over finances. Then I reconsidered and took it down. But hey, what the hell. I'm re-posting and people can think I'm horrible. Cuz this is life as a stepmom, folks, and it isn't always easy. And there's a helluva a lot of room for resentment.

Camping — with my mini-me

Given my own predisposition for inflicting stupid, embarrassing injuries upon myself, I don't know why I'm so surprised.

But really, after this weekend's string of E-man-related disasters, I'm wondering how I will get through the boy's toddlerhood without

A.) Breaking out into chronic, stress-induced hives

B.) Collapsing from a stress-related coronary

C.) Calling 911 on a regular basis, just to make sure I get a prompt answer from a competent operator

We camped here for 2 1/2 days.

In that time, the E-man:

Fell down the steps of my parents' travel trailer onto a concrete pad

Fell down the rock stairs leading to our tent

Fell, backward, into the fire pit — thankfully at a time when no flames were present

Bonked his wee head on a piece of playground equipment

Choked on a piece of lemon rind at the lodge's restaurant, prompting his mother to leap from her chair, shrieking, "He's choking! Do something!" while turning small son upside-down and administering the requisite shoulder-blade whacks as the other diners looked on in horror/disdain/bewilderment.

Clearly, he's following my path, one that has led (repeatedly) to numerous, ridiculous trips to the ER or doctor's office.

I can only hope he encounters no stepping stones along the way. (The offending stones have, BTW, been removed.)

Hubs' influence...

...is evident in this photo.



Look closely, and you'll understand my dismay.

Observe the exposed belly, the blank stare directed toward the television, the way in which, even though he is eating a sandwich, the E-man is reluctant to put down his beer -- I mean, binky.

It's only a matter of time before Hubs hauls him out to the woods to kill his first deer.

Most of the McHubs hunt. And so do their offspring.

How big a deal is it? Well, I seem to recall one deer season spent in strife because Hubs engaged in a battle with my stepson's stepfather (got that?) over who would be present when my stepson made his first kill. Weekend after weekend, they argued over who would drive Stepson down to the southern part of the state, each man determined to be The One.

In case you were curious -- Hubs won.

Camo is the height of fashion for Hubs and his clan. Except for his youngest brother, who was so traumatized by his first kill that he never ventured into the woods again.

Oh, what happened? Well -- let's call him B. -- when B. was just a young sprout, he caved into pressure from his brothers, went into the woods, shot a deer and when he discovered it wasn't yet dead, he pulled a box cutter from his pocket (always handy because of his job at a Piggly Wiggly grocery) straddled the deer and tried to finish the job manually.

Apparently, the end result was so gruesome, B. vowed to never hunt again.

So how do I counter the Hubs effect? A daily recounting of Uncle B.'s Day of Great Shame? (narrated by Uncle B for optimal effect)

Or maybe nightly readings from the works of David Sedaris?

Or I suppose I could add Bambi to the children's list of approved movies. That did it for me.

Better than garlic

So aside from the dog, the other long-standing point of contention in our home is:



The Onion.

Hubs has been known to study packages of food (what, you thought I morphed into a homemaking dervish each night in the kitchen? that my hands prepare only food still in its natural shape or form? ha.) just to ensure that a fiendish Paul Newman didn't slip a bit of onion powder into the spaghetti sauce.


Our biggest argument ever -- and I mean I was ready to pack the man off to a hotel after holding him down and blowing my onion breath into each of his nostrils -- was over chicken spaghetti and whether "his side" of the casserole dish contained onions.

It's frustrating enough to listen to your preschooler whine about how one food item is touching another. When your husband chimes in, well, that's when you start fantasizing about spiking casseroles on a regular basis.

I have discovered one advantage in his loathing, however.

If I'm not in the mood, I just gnaw on some scallions and when we retire for the night, he rolls over with nary a hand on my thigh. (I'd say the effect is comparable to what happens when you start assembling your breast pump just as a pesky editor approaches your desk. Wanna see a man run like hell? Just haul out the plastic cones, baby.)

So with Hubs, I don't plead a headache. I just whip out the cutting board, brandish a knife and let the onion fumes do the repelling.

It's a beautiful arrangement, really. I'm not rejecting him. No, he's rejecting me.

Brilliant!

Still, the man loves me. How do I know?

When we went to Washington, D.C. a few years back, he agreed to try a restaurant recommended by our editor.

Its name?

Vidalia.

Yeah, I know.

It's pink.

Really effing pink.

I was bored...

... and enveloped in a warm, fuzzy Benedryl (equally pink) haze...

... and it was either this or a change in hair color.

In keeping with my shallow tendencies...

... even as my fellow mama bloggers out there are posting nicely written tributes to Kurt Vonnegut, I'm prepared to blather on about Mika — the reincarnation of at least one (or two, or hell, maybe three -- well, shit, OK, four) college boyfriends.




He exhibits all the traits I found so desirable at that time:

1. Musical talent
2. Sexual ambiguity (unavailability is such a turn-on)
3. A mop of to-die-for curls
4. Creativity (Examples: His website, the whole cartoon approach and oh, yeah — his video (see below), which I made Hubs watch while I carried on in an appropriately smitten manner.
5. The drown-in-me eyes, the mouth ... oh the mouth .. and the dancing, the vocal range, the faux grimace, made possible by those flexible lips ...

Ahem. Sorry. Hubs is removing the computer (with its bookmarked Mika video) from the room while I compose myself.

Enjoy.

Hubs. vs The Dog

Perhaps it was their first encounter that set the tone.

We had just started dating, and Hubs was intent on getting some action. Unfortunately, so was Molly, who, at some point, leaped onto the bed. Being a bit preoccupied at the time, I didn't notice.

Only weeks later -- at a PARTY, in front of all our friends -- did Hubs finally mention that my dog had tried to molest him.

Still, he was a good sport. (OK, he wasn't THAT accomodating, people. Poor phrasing on my part.) I'm just saying -- he was willing to overlook the incident, labeling it a lone instance of aberrant behavior.

Until I moved in with him and Molly started humping his bed pillows.

Hubs freaked. The dog's private parts, after all, had touched the place on which he laid his head.

Once he stopped hyperventilating, however, Hubs experienced a flash of man-genius. He would build a bed! One too high for Molly to leap upon! Yes!

So he used his Mighty Man Powers to construct a VERY BIG BED -- a bed that I spent the next month toppling out of every time I got up to pee in the middle of the night.

Hubs was so proud, so pleased, I just didn't have the heart to tell him that Molly had learned how to scramble up onto the bed. Or that she was still doing the wild thing with his bedding.

One morning, however, he caught her in mid-hump. From then on, he stashed his pillows on a closet shelf before leaving for work each morning.

Over the years, similar battles ensued, one involving a chair favored by both Hubs and the dog; another involving Hubs' prized deer antlers, which, apparently, the dog rather fancied. As a snack.

Alpha Hubs vs the Alpha Dog.

And hmmm... who to root for?

We have, here, the Hubs, a rather attractive guy, I must admit.




(And just look at what cute children his genes have helped produce! Sorry. Bragging rights. I'm done.)

But now look below, at the adorable, furry creature with whom I've had the longest relationship. E-V-E-R. Such a patient loyal dog, especially given some of the boyfriends she had to tolerate before Hubs and his irresistible manhood came along.



In recent years, we've learned to compromise, the Hubs and I. There are now limits as to which furniture may be occupied by the dog, although arthritis in one hip has left her unable to climb the bed these days.

I think.

A few weeks ago, I found a suspiciously scrunched-up pillow on Hubs' side of the bed.

But I'm not telling.

I call her Perfect Linda.

She's my brother-in-law's wife.

Tall. Thin. Tan. Perfectly blonde, shiny, highlighted hair. Perfectly pedicured feet, right down to the last, glossy toenail, even in the dead of winter. Perfectly dressed. Impeccably accessorized.

If I didn't want to be her, I would hate her.

But let me continue --

She is perfection in the kitchen. On Easter weekend, she hosted a gathering at her home. The homemade macaroni alone was enough to make me weep many tears of both gratitude and envy, but let's add to that the cheesy scalloped potatoes and THREE desserts, including some sort of mocha fluffy thing that made me want to lay on the kitchen floor, drooling and completely helpless, at her shimmering, red-toe-nailed feet.

Did I mention that she works full-time as a nurse in the L&D ward? Did I mention that in the three years since she married my brother-in-law, she has transformed his former bachelor digs into a comfy, inviting home? Did I mention that she has three kids and he has four?

No?

Well, then let's move on to the Easter baskets, which were designed and put together specially for each child at this weekend's gathering. The eggs, which she dyed -- "just for fun," according to my besotted brother-in-law. The sparkling bubbles she blew from perfectly glossed lips as three small children cavorted at her feet -- (did I tell you how perfectly polished her toes are, how there's nary a callous or corn on her feet?) -- during a slavering display of adoration.

Really, I should hate her, am obligated to do so, on behalf of all of us who paint only the smidgeon of toenail exposed by our sandals, even during the peak of sandel season.

But then I think back to the family gathering at which I caught her secretively adding a splash of bourbon to her Sonic cup. I remember how, at the climatic moment of the reprent-or-be-damned sermon at my mother-in-law's church, Linda was spotted doodling silly little cartoon-man figures (the preacher, maybe?) on her church bulletin.

And I think maybe I could wrestle my brother-in-law for her hand and get myself what my fellow Musing Mama Liz says all worn-out mamas need: A WIFE.

If only they could bottle it

A few weeks ago, my friend C. walked into the newsroom and told me she'd just been at the day care, visiting her daughter, and had spotted the E-man running across the playground — arms spread, face aglow, laughing.

"He just looked so ... joyful," she said.

Pause.

"I looked at him and wondered, 'Have I EVER felt that happy?'"

Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou

I think the same thing every day.

Not that I begrudge my little boy his ever-present euphoria. But God, I want me some of that.

Where the hell did he get the happy gene? It didn't come from me (on meds) or his dad (should be) (kidding, kidding, Hubs is the ((relatively)) normal one in our marriage, aside from his sponge and old-things obssessions.

But just look at the E-man in this pic from his first Halloween. Have you ever seen a kid this damn happy when he's got a freaking pumpkin stem sprouting from his head?

The Sponge

No, not that one.

I refer to the kitchen variety -- that which I contend harbors a billion bits of bacteria, just waiting for my sponge-happy husband to spread them all over our dishes and counters.

Hubs loves sponges. He buys them, three at a time, and then hoards the ones not in use more lovingly (read: rabidly) than Elaine.

Problem is, when deciding what is truly sponge-worthy, Hubs is somewhat less ... discerning ... ?

Everything, he believes, warrants a sponge. I beg to differ.

I hate the sponge, so much so that I can't bear to watch him do the dishes.

Oh my God, he just swiped the bowl in which the raw chicken was marinating and now he's using THE SAME SPONGE to clean our table. The table on which we eat. Salmonella will ravage our household.

Which is why I throw away any sponge I encounter.

"Hey, where's my sponge?" Hubs will inquire indignantly.

I point to the trash can.

"Why?" he asks plaintively. "Why?"

Because I can't stand the texture -- slimey, squishy. Because I can't stand the way they collect food particles and then turn green. Because EVERBODY knows that sponges harbor more bacteria and icky, horrible plague-worthy particles than anything else in the kitchen. Why don't you just grab that piece of raw chicken and rub it all over our utensils while you're at it?

But I just stick with, "It was gross. So I pitched it."

And then I buy cannister after cannister of those glorious anti-bacterial wipes, hoping that one day, he will be wooed away from the sponge. I love the wipes. You scrub the counter and then you throw the grimy things away.

But he continues to stock up on sponges.

And I continue to wonder, how can he not see the disgustingness of the sponge? Because in my mind, you might as well just start re-using toilet paper. Same damn, icky thing.

Why I'm certain...

...my stepson will not be getting any action at our house, even when he and his girlfriend are cuddled up on a mattress in the E-man's darkened room.

Exhibit A: The stepmother, who trots in and out with several stacks of folded clothes, unaware until the third trip -- due to the dimness -- that two teenagers are not only present, but in the midst of gazing adoringly into one another's hormone-misted eyes.

Exhibt B: E-man, who is leaping up and down on the mattress, mere inches from the entwined teenage feet, yelling delightedly, "Zhump! Zhump!"

Exhibit C: Tootie, who runs in and out of the room with a half-slip and a plastic tiara on her head, announcing, "I'm a princess ghost. Look, T. Boo!"

Nope, no worries about S-E-X in our house.

Well, except for Hubs, who's always worrying that he -- Hubs, that is -- won't get any.

Like, ever.

(Insert evil cackle of weary mama/failure-of-a-sexpot wife here.)

Tagged...

... by Colleen via Musing Mama to describe a "Real Mom."

Kristin started this, and I highly recommend not only a visit to her site, but also Mominatrix, which I started reading after Angela emailed this column to me.

So here goes —

Real Moms:

Have been reading the same damn book — 30 minutes at a time — for the past two months.

Subscribe to parenting magazines but either never find the time to read them, or, if they do, prefer to make fun of the stupid Pollyanna people featured in all the stories and ads rather than follow any of the insipid advice offered by these podlings.

Wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat because they can't remember whether they remembered to buy a card and present for Teacher Appreciation Day.

Never run out of creative excuses to avoid sex, not because they find their husbands unattractive, but because they're simply too tired. (And still trying to finish that book.)

Never finish the laundry.