The hits just keep on comin"

I am breaking my own rule, dear readers, and posting a picture of one of my offspring*. Pictured with me, at left, is Little Man whose first birthday was yesterday. His party was Saturday (hence the headgear) and what a day it was. In addition to the fact that it was a beautiful summer day and lots of my favorite people were in one place at the same time, life decided to throw me a real boomerang in the motherhood department. First, Little Man gave up the bottle - I gave him his first sippy cup, rather than bottle, of milk - and he drank the whole thing in ten minutes. Next, Hubby blithely tosses over his shoulder on the way out the door, "I'm going to turn his car seat around, OK?" So when we get to the car to got to my in-law's for the party there's LM facing forward grinning at me like a big boy as if to say, "So this is where you disappear to when we get in here!", and I tear up.

Lastly, minutes before the party starts, #1 loses her first tooth. Sweet Jeebus! If #2 had decided to do, well #2, on the potty I might have died. Readers, this was too much for Mean Mommy to take. All of my babies are quickly becoming not-babies and while I was well aware that this was going to happen eventually I did not expect it all to happen in ONE DAY and I subsequently proceeded to medicate with large doses of champagne.

So Happy Birthday to Little Man. It's day I will remember for a long time. And relived several times yesterday wondering why I had such a bad headache.

*I assume no pedophiles will enjoy a picture of a fat baby's head especially with his mother literally looking over his shoulder.

That's good eatin'

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Hubby is funny, I get it. That's why I married him. However, your response to his post should have been cries of outrage and threats of violence in my defense. Traitors. I did find a box of graham crackers which he brought into the van with suspiciously squirrel-like bites on them so I am doubting my role in the squirrel baiting, by the way.

So the summer is winding down, sadly, and I am beginning to realize the party-like atmosphere here at my house will soon come to an end. I try to change the rules here a bit during the summer and September will find us no longer in our pj's until the ungodly hour of eight o'clock and eating breakfast in front of Sesame Street. In addition to the rule breaking I participate in with my children, comes some warm weather flexibility of my own. The laundry situation has reached crisis proportions as I'd rather be at the park with the progeny and poor Hubby has been subsisting on a steady diet of Boston Market and pizza since these park visits mean rarely getting home in time to cook anything more ambitious than soy nuggets.

Speaking of food, this is where I really let loose in the summer and I will be saddest to see autumn rear its ugly head heralding the end of wonderful produce like tomatoes and peaches and bringing with it an over-abundance of apples and gourds (what the hell do you do with them all anyway?). I have never understood those people who say, "I totally lose weight in the summer. I just can't eat." It's too hot. Seriously? Do you live in a mud hut? Because that's what God invented air-conditioning for. There will be a future post about the Luddites who do not believe in cooling their homes. My house will be seventy-two degrees at all times if I have to put a hole in the ozone layer myself. See also: sweating.

But I suppose I should be honest here. While summer is indeed the time it is easiest to find healthy fare at the farm stand, it is also the time of year the best, junkiest, most fun foods are in the spot light. Summer food is the best. I don't understand why people go so nuts over winter foods. All that Thanksgiving crap? Mashed potatoes with gravy and stuffing? OK, I guess, but it can't hold a pumpkin-scented candle to summer's junk food bounty. And everyone is having barbecues and parties. Hey, a Wednesday with good weather is reason enough to have people over. And if that's an excuse to break out the goodies. Bring. It. On.

First of all, I can exist entirely on hot dogs alone the whole season. Give me a tube of nitrate-filled goodness covered in sauerkraut and mustard and I'm in high-sodium, lips-and-assholes heaven. I usually also have a cheeseburger to distract from my Kobayashi-like eating. Dainty. I think consuming three hot dogs is showing self-control especially when I manage to stay away from the potato salad and my mother in-law's heavenly pasta salad in which a main ingredient is chunks of mozzarella.

This moderate consumption of tube meats is only possible if I control myself on the appys. Guacamole is my kryptonite. It has has been one long, hard summer feeding Little Man his cubed avocado while trying not to literally steal food from my child's mouth. Then there are the other dip-related items that are so convenient in the summer because they require no heat. Potato chips and onion dip, a childhood staple which my best friend upped the ante on by finding a homemade recipe that involved olive oil and cream cheese and mayo. Chips and salsa - yes, the salsa is low in fat and calories, but not when you eat a hundred tortilla chips with it. Spinach dip? Oh, I'm sorry. Was this meant for the whole group? I'll put it down then. And, yes, there's usually that damn crudite plate and I could nibble on that, but why? Can't we all just give up on this one? Let's make a pact to never again waste our money on pre-cut vegetables or our time slicing up celery sticks since all they do is dry out in the sun after the one anorexic chick at the party eats her two baby carrots not even dipping them in the low-fat ranch (otherwise known as Satan's ejaculate).

There is little hope for any self control with the appetizers when the drinks start flowing. And you all know Mean Mommy loves her libations. During the summer I feel more like an alcoholic than ever when I find myself saying, "Tuesday! The week's practically over!" and pouring myself a nice, cold glass of pinot. Our liquor bill is embarrassing in the warmer months. And all those fun summer drinks, margheritas, Dark and Stormies, gin and tonics. Betty Ford, here I come!

And once all that food and drink has been consumed and I am sitting there sated, someone (OK, me) always says, "How about some Dairy Queen?" While I could argue all day that Carvel is vastly superior, DQ is closer to our house and visited with alarming frequency. And that damn ice cream man. Or should I call him my "dealer"?

So congratulations to all you smug bitches who spent the last three months eating melon and corn on the cob with no butter. I'm sure you enjoyed being able to button your pants and wearing your bathing suit without cringing, but did you really enjoy yourself? I know I did. And I will have the memories of Nathan's hot off the grill and a Butterfinger Blizzard melting in my mouth this winter as I try not to gag passing the green bean casserole knowing how great I look under my thick, wool sweater.

Special Guest Post

Hello dear readers.  Mary has left the building--off to San Francisco to visit her sister for the weekend.  Oft mentioned "Hubby" is taking this opportunity to hijack the blog and tell a little tale about three kids, a minivan, and an uninvited guest.  

Getting through a week without "making the blog" is quite an accomplishment for me.  Many of my jackass chronicles have been documented in great detail on these pages for your amusement.  Now I get to dish a little out by highlighting a small mistake the missus made before she left that had some very interesting consequences.

Shortly after lunch today, I gather up the kids and prep them for a trip to buy some soccer cleats for number one.  As we head out the door, I notice one of the side doors on the van is open.  This is not unusual.  Now I know getting the kids into the house can be a challenge, especially with a baby in one hand and groceries in the other.  But both side doors are automatic.  You can close both of them remotely from the keychain, even while sitting in the house.  So how the hell does the missus manage to leave the doors open overnight at least once a week?  Just push the damn button.  How hard is that?

So I strap the baby in, give him a graham cracker and corral the other two in their booster seats.  Snacks.  Check.  Water.  Check.  Diapers.  Check.  I start the car and punch the buttons to automatically close the side doors.  Both doors slide slowly along their tracks, sealing up our vessel like the last chopper out of Saigon.  While I'm waiting to hear the click of the door to throw it into reverse, my oldest lets out the proverbial blood-curdling scream.  As I snap my head back to investigate, she manages to get out the word "SQUIRREL!!!!!!!" before resuming her piercing shriek.  Immediately I assume it's one of those bastard little chipmunks that have taken up residence in the walls around the driveway.  They're always darting in and out of the garage and digging holes in the flower beds.  And then I see it and realize I'm wrong.  It's a giant fat-ass grey squirrel, scampering around the back of the van.

I quickly hit the aforementioned side door buttons and the cargo hatch in the back for good measure, figuring he'll find his way out in short order.  Wrong again.  He leaps on the console a few short inches to my right and then on to the passenger seat.  I guess he called shotgun.  At this point I'm cursing at this bastard, feeling like I'm in a bad Chevy Chase movie (yes, that's redundant) and then head out the driver side door.  I start unbuckling the baby, ready to get everyone the hell out of there until this idiot rodent finds his way out of my car.  Fat-ass proceeds to hop on the dashboard and slam into the windshield 4 or 5 times before finally finding the exit.

At this point, all three children are bawling and it's just chaos.  I manage to calm everyone down, give the baby another graham cracker, and then get ready to go.  Number one refuses until I search the van for wild animals.  Not a bad idea, I must admit.  After a thorough search, I assure her nothing else has taken residence in the vehicle and head up to the driver's seat to continue the original mission.

After successfully closing all doors and starting the engine, I notice the "gifts" our little furry friend left on my dash, passenger seat, and floor.  The whole episode lasted just a few seconds.  I have no idea how this thing managed to drop a good half-dozen pellets in multiple locations in such a short period of time.  So I clean up the mess and then head back to the main cabin to look for more.  Number two has what looks like a smashed raisin on her knee.  Yep, it was squirrel shit.  I mop it up with baby wipe and then finally manage to leave the driveway, off to Modell's to try and find pink cleats.

Now I make my share of blunders.  Many of them repeatedly.  But Mary, for the love of God, CAN YOU CLOSE THE EFFIN' DOORS ON THE VAN, each and every time.  It was a squirrel this time, but next time it might be a colony of those damn chipmunks, a raccoon, or worse.

EPILOGUE

Later in the day, I decided to take the whole crew to Chili's for some fried crap.  Geared up and ready to go, I marched everyone off to the van.  Lo and behold, the door was open.  Shit.  How'd that happen? 

  

You don't need money, don't take fame

On the way home from dropping the girls at school, glorious school, I actually had a moment to listen to some music not sung by Laurie Berkner or involving overuse of the word cookie ("That good enough for me!") when I hit the oldies station. After recovering from the shock that a song I listened to as a preteen was considered an oldie, I rocked it out to Huey Lewis and the News' Power of Love. Shut up. You love it too.

First of all, it was part of the soundtrack to one of the best eighties movies ever Back to the Future. Oooh, who didn't love Michael J. Fox in his tighty whities? Of course, that was after you got over the gross-out factor that it was his future mother ogling him and the fact that she was a total trashy whore. And didn't you love how, at the end, his life is totally changed, his family is rich and the jerk-guy from his dad's past is now, like, their house boy? Love. It.

Second, I have very fond memories of performing this little ditty with the seventh grade chorus in 1985. I remember the night of the performance so well. I was wearing the drop-waisted, Peter Pan-collared, Jessica McClintock knock-off dress my mother had bought me to wear on Christmas, but I had badgered her into letting me wear to the chorus performance with my new white flats. The auditorium was abuzz because word had leaked there was a surprise to come during the show and only the chorus members and the director knew about it. We slogged our way through the usual line-up of holiday favorites and then our director, Mrs. Gradowitz, introduced a "special number the kids are really excited about". Then, who walks out to play with us? Drum roll please....the janitor (!) comes out dressed in a suit and he, on his electric guitar, and Mrs. G, on her keyboard, rocked out those famous first notes. The place went wild! We sang our hearts out (Seventh graders singing the lyrics "stronger and harder than a bad girl's dream"? Very appropriate!) and my God did the janitor rock that solo. Sadly, I can not remember his name, but he lives on in my memory.

So, yes, I ran to iTunes and downloaded it right away. And, yes, I will be playing it again and again in the next few weeks. And, yes, I still think that dress was the bomb.

The time has come

Camp, glorious camp, started this week. For three luxurious hours, every day this week, the girls we will out of the house. Sure, it cost as much as a damn car payment, but it's worth every penny. So, once again, I am free to write. Well, as free as I can be writing while wrestling with my little man - who I will now refer to as Little Man, or LM - trying to prevent him from pulling every in the house wire out of its socket.

Speaking of Little Man, his new moniker was inspired, in part, by the events of this weekend. Yesterday, I weaned him. While some of you might be thinking, "What's the big deal? Shouldn't she be happy to be done with all that bullshit? She complained about it enough!" And, to some degree, you would be right. It was so liberating this morning being downstairs exercising and not having to have the monitor on so I could go feed LM when he wakes. Knowing Hubby could fix him a bottle and I could actually finish a workout when I was done rather than when a twenty-six pound tyrant in dinosaur pajamas decided he needed to eat was a freedom I haven't felt in a while. It's a lot of responsibility, mentally and physically knowing you are solely responsible for the nourishment of another being. Sure, he's been eating solid foods, but upon waking and after naps he was still doing a pretty good nursing and, thus, I had to postpone my return to heavy drugs. Kidding, but it is nice I can now drink as much wine as I want at a barbecue without being afraid the baby's going to be crawling into walls after I feed him. My body is, once again, my own.

And that brings me to the sad part. This body has been put to some hard work over the past six years and now that time is over. And while I know it is time, I thought to myself yesterday as I fed him and he looked up at me playing with my mouth, "This is the last time I will nourish someone from my body." It made me think of a day two years ago when I sat, weeping, in front of footage from the San Diego Zoo of a mother gorilla nursing her baby and I said to H, " I think I'm ready for another baby." It is the most basic of drives, to create and sustain life with your body. Between carrying and giving birth to my kids, then nursing them, my body has been in some state of giving, with few breaks, for a long time. It has been a long, slow process of letting go - carrying them inside me, then in my arms, feeding them, and now at arms-length as they feed themselves. It is the most primal of separations.

While the physical part of mothering is on the decline for me, I know I will still be offering them some kind of nourishment as I begin feeding their intellects and spirits and enjoy my new found freedom. I will look back on these times with fond nostalgia - especially each time I catch a glimpse of my sad, deflated boobs in the mirror.