Unleash the Cracken!*

The cleaning lady found a sippy cup under the couch. It's been there for a week. I know it once contained milk - before the girls left for Florida - but now I am truly terrified to open it and see what horror it contains. This is one of the myriad of things no one tells you about motherhood, that an intimate acquaintance with all things damp, moldy, mildewy and rotten is a job requirement.

My education began with bath towels six years ago. While giving #1 her nightly bath I thought to myself, "Of course I must use a fresh towel each night since my daughter, who has spent the better part of her waking hours in her pristine bouncy seat, is obviously covered with filth at the end of each day and last night's towel is definitely a health hazard. Multiply this by seven, add in the fact that I had received about eight hundred hooded bath towels at my baby shower and therefore did not need to do wash every day and the result is me pulling seven towels out of the hamper at the end of the week now smelling like mildew.

Raising small children is to immerse oneself in a world of filth and rot. This milk cup is just the tip of the iceberg. Water cups left in a the van for too long in the summer months develop a slimy coating on their interior and an errant half-eaten jar of baby food that has rolled out of the food bag and remains out of sight under the fold away seat can make the car smell like there's a corpse hidden in the wheel wells. Don't even get me started on a pair of underwear with the tiniest amount of urine on them that are not laundered immediately. They begin to smell like the bathrooms at Port Authority in a surprisingly short amount of time. And a crib sheet that a mouth-breathing-stomach-sleeping baby has been drooling on for a few days? It burns the hairs of my nostrils just thinking about it. And this is in addition to the pee, crap and vomit we deal with on a regular basis.

If I had a replacement I would just throw the cup away unopened and be done with it. But since I don't, I will, at some point tonight, have to steel myself and release whatever Cracken is living inside it then clean it. I'm sure it won't be too bad. Look kids! Homemade yogurt!

*And if you do not recognize the title of this post as a line from the 1981 classic with the absolute worst special effects and a really, really, homosexual looking Harry Hamlin, Clash of the Titans, you must drop whatever you are doing and drive to a video store immediately.

One is the lonliest number

So my girls come home today from a week of being spoiled by their grandparents in Florida. I can already hear the arguments in the coming days, "Why can't we have french fries every night?" or "It's not even nine o'clock. What do you mean 'Time for bed?' " And while I have enjoyed the time alone with my little guy, I have to say I am looking forward to the return of chaos to my household. It has been too damn quiet and, dare I say, boring.

Now don't get me wrong. My son is hilarious. His love for wearing my giant, Elton John-esque sunglasses for fifteen minute blocks of time is quite entertaining and watching him continue his mad love affair with with the printer as I write really makes me laugh, but as for interesting conversation? Not so much. OK, I'll say it. Being home with a baby can be kind of boring. Sure, it's nice to be able to put on the Today show and watch it in its entirety without having to justify it's superiority to a four year old looking for some Charlie and Lola and being able to compose a list of household tasks for the day and actually get them accomplished is quite satisfying, but on the other hand, there's no one here to tell me apricots look like heinies or ask me to explain wind.

It's also been sort of strange being out of the loop with my other mom friends. While they are still busy dragging their kids to the pool, I've been enjoying the air-conditioned comfort of my home and various centers of commerce since my little guy has no input as to what we do for the day and Mommy hates the heat and what the humidity does to her bangs. He doesn't walk yet so his "exercise" is crawling which is better done across our smooth, hardwood floors than over the splinter-producing mulch of the playground. I remember when my oldest was this age and all of my mom pals and I would try to come up with indoor stuff for them to do since dragging a baby out into the heat to cut up his knees wasn't our idea of a good time. We took a lot of Mommy and Me classes and had a lot of playdates, but since I am the only one of our set with an infant, everyone else is at the park.

The activities my youngest enjoys also aren't that stimulating. After four rounds each of The Wheels on the Bus, The Itsy Bitsy Spider and If You're Happy and You Know It, my performance loses some of its vibrancy. His books have very limited story arcs and arts and crafts are far off in the future for now. With the girls I'm reading Ramona the Pest and preventing them from covering anything that doesn't move with tempera paint. My aunt put it best when she assuaged my guilt by saying, "You're a grown-up. You should be a little worried about your mental state and capacity if you find this stuff riveting."

While I will miss being able to go wherever I want between naps (Mobin, it's back to once a day, my friend) and the dog has dropped some serious poundage with all the walks he's been getting, I welcome the return of noisy, unproductive days (if you call an hour spent finding the missing Snow White Polly Pocket "unproductive") and my two sweet girls. I'm just not myself without them.

Do I have something in my teeth?

I have a new category of posts I'd like to start exploring called "Things I Don't Get". These posts will discuss the, I feel, undeserved, ubiquity and popularity of things I find ridiculous, or at the very least, overrated. Because I know you are all dying for my opinion on all things. Clearly. Many of you will disagree with some of the things I discuss and I welcome that. For example, my Madonna post generated some serious feedback (you are all wrong, by the way) and I love nothing more than hearing from my readers.

So let's begin.

This weekend Hubby and I were out for the evening, having secured a babysitter at the last minute and we started our night off at a local watering hole for the first of many drinks (the proportionality between how badly you need a drink and how hungover you get from small amounts of alcohol as a mother of three is staggeringly unfair). I ordered my usual white wine and Hubby had a mojito.

I do not get mojitos.

Yes, mojitos are cool because they require all that muddling and mixing and special ingredients, but I think they taste like watered down Scope. And all those mint leaves. If I want a salad I will eat one, not drink one. And don't argue with me that the leaves don't bother you as I watched H pick foliage out of his mouth despite using the little swizzle straw to drink it. Which brings me to another point - I can't believe American men want to drink them. It's a real turn-on as my husband uses his big, monkey hands (seriously, mitts would be a better word for them) to pinch this tiny, little straw and take dainty sips. Where's your purse, Nancy? I can see how young women find it sexy to drink mojitos (they're Latin!) and they can look all coy and cute sipping away, but I just picture some poor, twenty-two year old flush from his first real job ordering one of these in a New York City bar trying to impress some girl who works in PR, looking slightly gay drinking out of the straw, then grinning at the girl exposing a grill covered in little green bits. Sex-say.

I'm sure the time of the mojito will pass, or has passed already since I am so out of the loop here in suburbia (where did these skinny jeans come from anyway?), just as it did for dirty martinis and cosmopolitans. Until then I will wait it out and spend the better part of my evening telling H, "No, it's next to the other tooth. No. There. Gah! Just go to the bathroom and look!"

Welcome to Gold's. Would you like a towel?

While walking on the treadmill this morning reading my current issue of Shape magazine, I became engrossed by the advertising section in its last few pages. No, the ads in the back of this type of magazine are not for 1-800 psychics or for bizarrely shaped "love pillows" , they are all for athletic wear. Tank tops, yoga pants, workout "skorts", from big names like Nike and smaller fitness companies, all in the business of making you look good while you work out.

I don't get it.

I can fully appreciate a coordinated ensemble on the women who star in the fitness videos I use. Gin Miller of Step Reebok with her gigantic man-like quads looks at home in a black, tank-top unitard. The gals from the Shape series look adorable in their bright pink hot pants and yellow sports bras. But for me? A Hanes old-man undershirt, a pair of men's basketball shorts and a bandana tied Aunt Jemima style to hold back my bangs. Hubby does not understand why I dress like a reject from White Men Can't Jump and my best friend, B, simply says, "Oh, honey." when I come with her to her gym. In my defense, I am now working out at home and I don't have to care what I look like. Also, the version of this outfit I do sport when getting fit elsewhere is a little better (an old, more fitted, Yankee T and some women's shorts). And, I even tried a watered-down version of the fashion forward workout gear I see when I purchased two entire workout ensembles before Hubby and I went on our anniversary trip since he said he'd pretend not to know me if I wore my usual garb to the hotel fitness center. Guess what? I hated them and have not worn them since.

Now this aversion to stylish fitted workout gear is not because I am ashamed of my body. I am in decent shape after three kids. I have two very specific reasons for wearing the clothes I do. One, I sweat like a pig. Really, it's gross. My most dedicated readers will remember the title of this post as Hubby's favorite (unfunny) joke when he comes into the basement as I'm exercising. By the time I am done (with just cardio!) I have to change my sweat-soaked shirt becasue it is weighing me down. So why the hell would I buy these flimsy, thin, little tops knowing not only will I soak completely through them in minutes and look like a fool, but I would have to buy twice as many as a normal person and thus spend twice as much? Don't even get my started on those tight pants and sw-ass (An abbrevation for sweat-ass. Thanks, B!).

Two, when I am working out I am not, and have never, been interested in attracing male attention. I am there to improve the body only Hubby gets to see in its natural state so eyes off the goodies Creepazoid. Seriously, there are some weirdos who hang around gyms to get their fill of exposed undies and ass cracks and I do not intend to be part of the daily quota. I like to do my sit-ups knowing Mr. I-Wear-Workboots-to-the-Gym isn't getting a peek at my girly bits. True, this is not so much of an issue now that I am working out in the privacy of the toy room, but I'd still rather do my step aerobics without having to pull fistfulls of Lycra out of my butt crack.

So I will continue to swathe myself in yards of fabric to put in a few miles on the treadmill or bounce along to Kathy Smith. Maybe I have the wrong attitude since I veiw working out as work - something to be endured because it must be rather than because I love it. But wearing the kinds of duds I saw today is akin, in my mind at least, to wearing high heels to the beach. Fashionable at the expense of function.

Dear Bed, Bath & Beyond,

Sorry it's taken me so long to write back, but I've been busy digging out from under an avalanche of your coupons. You apparently are desperate for me to come see you, BB&B, as every week you try to lure me through your doors with the promise of "20% off!" any item in your store. Although I wonder about the seriousness of your intentions as I read the fine print and realize I can not purchase the Dyson Animal I've been lusting after using said coupon. Why are you teasing me?

But, seriously, BB&B, I have to put a stop to this. Your missives result in either one of two scenarios, neither of which are constructive. In the first, I receive your coupon in the mail and say to myself, "Pfft. I don't need anything at this place and I have no intention of going there any time soon." and righteously throw the epistle in the trash lamenting how you are ruining our environment in your efforts to lure me in. Not twenty four hours later I dig out my future sister in-law's bridal shower invitation from my filing system (read:pile of crap next to the microwave) and realize where she is registered and flagellate myself for my hasty disposal.

In the second scenario I actually remember the last ten times scenario #1 has occurred and I put your damn coupon in the above-mentioned pile of crap intending to use it the next time I need a new bath mat (which is often as Hubby soaks them frequently, dumps them in the wash and they turn up four days later smelling like a homeless man whose been swimming in a sewer drain while rescuing a skunk). The anticipated need arises and I head to BB&B with the progeny in tow and after navigating through your labrynth of ailses with an impossibly large blue shopping cart with a bum wheel I arrive at the register and am asked by the pleasant fifty-something working the checkout, "Do you have any coupons today?" only to realize my coupon is still snuggled comfortably between a chicken recipe from Cooking Light and my oldest's last report card. Yes, there are those rare occassions I do remember to grab the coupon from the junk pile and it is promptly left behind on the table by the front door after I have been distracted by a potty emergency or lost Croc. In either case, it's not in my bag where I need it to be and much (not so) silent cursing ensues.

So please, Bed Bath & Beyond, I beg of you, stop harassing me with your promises of "20% 0ff!". No matter how well-intentioned, they accomplish nothing but making me feel bad about myself and my lack of organization. And yes I am aware you sell a coupon organizer. I bought one at full price the last time I was there.

Sincerely,
Mary

PS - Would you please pass this letter on to The Children's Place and Babies R Us? I know you're all colluding in this campaign to drive me insane.

La, la, la-la-la

"Come here! Oh, how I've missed you! Let me hold you!" Oh, I'm sorry. You interrupted me making out with my keyboard. Greetings, dear readers, from your long-absent Mean Mommy. Between our sojourn to Sesame Place on the two hottest days so far this summer where I enjoyed quite the fashion show from the citizenry of Trenton (apparently a wife-beater and cutoffs can double as a bathing suit and Saran Wrap is perfectly acceptable headgear in public when trying to keep one's hairdo safe from the treachery of The Count Fountain. Who knew?) and getting the girls ready for their week-long visit to my father's in Florida, all I've had time for these days is to glance longingly at the computer as my husband sits there doing work he missed while communing with Big Bird. He thinks I'm throwing him come-hither looks when really all I've been craving is some alone time involving anything with QWERTY capability.

Expect to see many more postings because, as I mentioned, the girls are in FL and it's just me and my little man. And while this is still hard work, it is one third of the work I am used to with 200% more nap time and 1000% fewer arguments over who had the Groovy Girl car first leaving me with the time and energy to write. So here I am.

Despite the sartorial assaults we witnessed, our visit to Sesame Place was wonderful. Even the crankiest Trenton hoodlum is lulled into submission in this Eden of preschool bliss where Elmo is king and Sing a Song is piped in over the loudspeakers (a song that always made me vaguely sad as a child with the line, "Don't worry if it's not good enough for anyone else to hear..." since I imagined some poor child embarrassed of their singing but soldiering bravely on at Prairie Dawn's urging). I loved living, for two days, in a world designed entirely around the caprices of my children and indulging in every one. Waiting in the blazing hot sun to gain entrance to Elmo's World allowed me to consider, for an extended period of time, my own experiences with these characters and one relationship in particular in the neighborhood.

Yeah, yeah. Ernie and Bert are a gay couple. I get it. But for a moment, let's move beyond this beloved theory and contemplate another. I think Ernie and Bert, with their similarly dark, tufty hair, are in fact, brothers. Their relationship is the perfect example of the dynamic between an older and younger sibling of the same gender. At least in my case and that of my two daughters (my husband claims this does not hold true for him and his next youngest brother and that he is the Ernie of their pair, but if he works in finance and his brother works for a toy company, who do you think is wearing the striped turtle neck?). Bert is the consummate elder sibling. He is uber-responsible, loves structure and routine and follows the rules to the letter. I bet Bert is the one who sends in the rent check and makes sure Ernie's not using the same funky towel for a month that smells like feet. I bet Bert changes the toilet paper roll. I can feel Bert's fury as he tosses and turns, wrecking his hospital corner,s while Ernie, the "fun" one, keeps him up at night with his incessant, idiotic ramblings. I'm sure if the cameras panned down, Ernie's side of the room is a wreck and Bert lives in fear of this chaos engulfing his side of the bedroom, messing up his neatly ordered bottle cap and paper clip collections.

I will admit these mature qualities do make Bert a bit of a pill and the resultant social awkwardness (Jesus, enough with the pigeon jokes already!) is something many of us eldests experience. But it's easy for the younger sibling to be the comedian when you have someone else bearing the responsibility of making sure you both get to school with your lunch money. I see my own childhood experience in Bert and Ernie's dynamic (which one of us lost her wallet in Montreal during travel camp, KK?) and I can practically hear Ernie's (annoying) laugh come out of my younger daughter's mouth as she unintentionally antagonizes my older one with her disorganization as they play Polly Pockets. But we older siblings do not choose to be this way, we simply are. Despite my best efforts to get my eldest to loosen up she will never play with the sheer abandon and reckless disregard for order my middle one does. Perhaps it's because the older one always seems more mature by comparison simply because of age-appropriate development. Whatever the cause, I think Bert gets a bum rap and I'm sick of it.

So here's to you, Bert. I know you have a fun side. I've seen you do The Pigeon. I know deep inside is a wild party animal, but you are too polite to let him out and I love you for it. That schmuck brother of yours wouldn't be half as funny as the world thinks he is without you for a straight man. Perhaps some day you'll actually get a job and be able to afford a place of your own. Until then, take comfort in the fact that Ernie drew the genetic short straw because it is seriously weird not to have eyebrows.

*Disclaimer: All of you younger siblings out there, spare me your bitching. I know your position in the family had some shitty parts too. And, for the record, I love being an oldest even with all the drawbacks and KK is now very financially responsible.

Icing for everyone!

So I have taken off my hair shirt and closed the door on yesterday's events determined to have a good Friday. What better way to do that than a Friday Top 5? Since I am spending the better part of the day running around taking care of last minute details for #1's Fancy Nancy birthday party that I masochistically having at the house tomorrow I thought it would be fun this Friday to discuss:

The Top 5 Things About Kid's Birthday Parties

5. Streamers - or crepe paper if you're a total freak. They are so festive and fun. When I had my oldest's Dora birthday party I had streamers in every one of Dora's mexican color scheme looped around the fence of our yard all twisty-style. It looked amazing. I love, love, love streamers even though I hate, hate, hate putting them up. What is the "right" way to do that? In all my years of perty throwing I have only found using yards and yards of tape to be the way to secure them to a surface which, of course, garauntees several of them will fall off when it is too humid or too dry. So I guess only people who live in northern California have any real success with this party staple.

4. Party hats. Isn't it a shame adults don't wear party hats like kids do? Don't you remember the feeling of that pinchy elastic (the same kind as used on those cheap drugstore Halloween costume masks) under you chubby little chin? They should totally make adult party sets like they do for kids, but rather than a Blues Clues or Dora the Explorer party, you could have a The Office party with Michael Scott and Jim on the hats and Pam and Dwight on the blowers.

3. Speaking of, its not a party unless you have blowers, or noise makers. Whatever you want to call them nothing says birthday party more than the feel of that cardboard tube getting slowly soaked with saliva and disintegrating in your mouth. It totally sucked though when the paper tube part got too crumpled to function properly because your sister sat on it or it got a hole.

2. Sadly, I have been reigned in this year from my usual party madness where I am up at six in the morning to run to the party store and pick up the helium balloons. Yes, I have bags of lame-ass regular balloons which I will blow up myself and tie to any surface that will hold them, but I will not be truly satisfied with my decor if the yard doesn't look like a carnival. Helium balloons make a party in my opinion although I never understood the whole sucking in the helium to make your voice change bit. Seems like those kids wound up with drug problems later in life.

1. CAKE!!!! The absolute best thing about a birthday party is, of course, the cake. Or in our case this year, cupcakes. The feeling as a kid of being all wound up on sugary icing and soda on a Saturday afternoon is comparable in enjoyment to that of my first glass of wine on a Saturday night as an adult. Watching my middle one stuff an entire icing rosebud in her mouth brings back heady memories of my own childhood parties cracked out on sugar playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey. Now as an adult I get to reward myself for all of my hard work hostessing these gigs by getting to eat the leftovers straight out of the box after having enjoyed said glass of wine.

So wish me luck tomorrow. I have wands to craft and glitter tiaras to make so I am off to work.
Happy Friday!

A dark day

This post is no day at the park dear readers, so be warned. I know I'm usually all about the snarky, "people take parenting too damn seriously" posts, but today I am seriously doubting my self as a parent and for the benefit of mothers everywhere I thought I would share it with you while it is still fresh and I am, literally, drying the tears.

Today we were at a friend's pool and while I was busy putting sunscreen on the baby, the other mom let #1 in the pool. Moments later the mom calls out, "Does she know how to swim?" "A little." I replied. I looked up to see my dear girl just a few inches past where she could stand, trying to touch her tip-toes to the pool's bottom, swallowing water with each attempt, a look of sheer terror on her face. We both raced to the pool and being up on the deck myself, the other mother was closer and I shrieked, "Get in! Get her!" Needless to say, she is fine now and spent the rest of the morning on my lap. We are now signed up for private swim lessons at the local YMCA.

But now, I have to keep running into the other room as I start crying every few minutes recalling that look on her face knowing I'm the one who put it there by not being on top of her near a body of water. I cry knowing I was too pregnant last year to do anything more than take her to the lame swim lessons at the town pool and I couldn't get in the pool with her myself to really teach her how to swim. I cry because maybe I was wrong not making her take lessons with all of her other little friends this winter because the baby was still napping at the time of the class. I cry because I have had my first real brush with losing one of my children and I know I had a role in it. I want to curl up in a ball and die.

I've made plenty of minor parenting mistakes that can be trotted out on the therapist's couch years from now, but so far this is my first seriously regrettable offense, and taking the blow and recovering from it are much, much harder than I expected. I know tonight's sleep will be fitful at best as I replay today's events in my head. I always knew in the abstract parenting is a humbling game, and I was sure I'd have times when I would regret decisions I made, but today I learned just how shitty you can feel when you make a mistake.

I have no witty words of wisdom today, dear readers, as I feel I am nothing but the fool. I am off to get my dear girl a pedicure and an ice cream.

PS - and for those of you who read this and want task why I didn't call and tell you about it, I just couldn't bear to go through the retell one more time (telling Hubby was gut-wrenching enough). Besides, it takes two hands to flagellate myself.

Six years ago today...

Today is my oldest's sixth birthday. It is all but impossible for me to accept that six years have passed since her birth, but equally impossible for me to think there was a time when she didn't exist. As I have said before, my children's birthdays are about more than the cake and presents, they are the days I recall each time I was lucky enough to give birth to them. With my oldest it is especially poignant because with her birth a new Mary was born.

Today is the day I knew real pain and real fear. Today is the day I first felt how very much death is a part of every birth and knew how lucky my child and I were to come through it alive and whole.

Today is the day I Hubby would not only fart, but breath coffee-breath in my face while I labored with no pain meds.

Today is the day I thought, "She's not going to be born until I'm ready for her to be." And as the next contraction hit I said to my baby, "OK, it's time for you to come." and willed her into the world.

Today is the day I stared into the isolette at my rasin-faced bundle wondering, "Are they really going to give her to me to take home? All by myself?"

Today is the day I stopped thinking of eight hours as a merely adequate amount of sleep.

Today is the day I began to see three in the morning on a regular basis not under the influence of alcohol.

Today is the day, as I began nursing, I would begin to learn what the phrase "Purple Nurple" can really mean.

Today is the day I learned how to pick things up with my feet while holding a sleeping infant.

Today is the day I started considering a "real" shower one where I can wash my hair and my body.

Today is the day a meal, eaten hot right after it has been cooked, became the exception rather than the rule.

Today is the day I became plural. Even when I am alone I am never "alone". Every decision I have made since this day was made in consideration of the little being whose life I was now in charge of.

Today was the day I began to see Hubby as more than a friend and my husband. He was now my brother-in-arms in the war of parenting and I would be eternally grateful God put him in my foxhole.

Today was the day I started to find out that parenting is a blessing and a curse. You are blessed with loving this tiny being, but cursed with the overwhelming fear of all they will face and the impotent feeling that you can not sheild them from it.

Today is the day, six years ago, I became a mother. Your oldest is the child you cut your teeth on, but they are also the child that turns you into a mother. And I want to thank her for giving me that gift. Happy Birthday - to both of us.

Dear Mommy...

"DEAR MOMMY, I HAVE PICKED FLOWERS FOR YOU."

Couldn't you just die? Pictured above is the first-ever note my oldest left for me Sunday morning. She and her sister were outside with Hubby doing yard work while I was working out. I came upstairs to find this and bunch of dandelions on the kitchen counter left right where I would see it when I came to get some water. The real killer is she did it all by herself. Hubby didn't even notice she had come in the house (safety first!). I can just imagine her rooting around trying to find a pen and paper. And I get a little misty imagining her sounding out each word with no help. I will pull this out when I find another note twelve years from now reading, "Dear Mom, I took the car. Back whenever."