Ah, the joys of having a daughter. Little girls are so sweet. So ladylike. They enjoy quiet activities like tea parties, dress up, coloring.... You can almost hear the cherubic, harp-like music whenever they enter a room, all smiling and clean and free from the intent to fart on you at every turn.
At least, that's what I always thought. Before I actually had one.
Don't get me wrong. I love Elsa. Really, I do. She's fun. She's charming. And she only occasionally sticks incongruous objects up her nose.
But over the past few months I've noticed another quality manifesting itself within this chubby little dynamo of a child:
She is more manipulative than Hannibal Lector trying to get a cellmate to swallow his own tongue.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Friday, August 26, 2011
Picker Your Battles
I've learned a lot these past few weeks.
If you're boobs are leaking in public, for example, another, sympathetic mom will most likely alert you to this fact, and possibly offer up her own embarrassing anecdote, just to make you feel less...well...sheepish. And wet.
And speaking of wet, another thing I've learned is that little infant boys don't always pee in a trajectory that will hit you, your curious daughter, and the nearest wall-hanging with the kind of water pressure that would make a fireman envious. Sometimes their pee is real sneaky-like (infant boys', not firemen's). You'll be changing him, quickly wiping and applying the necessary ointments and replacing the diaper like your diffusing a bomb, you'll snap the little outfit back up, all proud of yourself that you dodged another bullet, as it were.
But when you pick up your grunting little angel and cradle him in your arms, you pause. What the....his back is wet. Why is his back wet? Is he sweaty? Did I lay him down in a puddle of water? What the F is going on?
What's going on is your son just performed what I like to call The Velociraptor. It's not the pee you see that's the problem. It's the pee that you didn't even know was there.... It's the pee he does off to the side, while you're too distracted by the prospect of getting a full-on golden shower to even notice what's happening. Plus, your son is looking at you all wide-eyed and alert, beguiling you with his innocence, that leaves you completely unaware that he's busy ruining another adorable outfit you've just put on him. Little brat.
However, I'd say the most important lesson I've learned as I stumble around the house in a bleary-eyed state of semi-consciousness, is Pick Your Battles has been elevated to a whole new level.
For instance....I decided to be all ambitious the other day and actually take all three children and the dog on a walk before I had to take Rollie to school (which, thankfully, has proven to be far less traumatic than last year...so far anyway). I strapped Finn into a baby bjorn, shod my two older kids, grabbed the dog leash (after almost forgetting to attach the dog to it), and we were off. Why I decided I could do this without a stroller--or a shot of rum--is beyond me. I can't even blame pregnancy brain anymore, although surely there must be some follow-up ailment to account for questionable post-partum decision-making. Possibly hormones, possibly breastfeeding, possibly the fact that I tried on a pair of previously baggy, pre-pregnancy pants on the other day and couldn't pull them up over my ass. Which was not where I carried Finn, if memory serves.
So anyway, I chose to undertake this incredible journey around the block on garbage day. Add this to the fact that Rollie has been really into the show American Pickers lately, and you start to get the idea of where this walk was headed.
My entourage and I crossed the street and headed up a sidewalk that was practically impassible because of the amount of just...stuff piled up at the end of one driveway. Cardboard boxes, old wicker shelving, plastic bags of various sizes and shapes, broken lamps, broken picture frames and assorted other broken items that appeared to be circa the Carter administration. Minus the vicious, attack bunny-rabbit.
As I tried to determine the best way to steer my little ducklings around the pile, Rollie slowed down and eyed the items with keen interest. It's the same look he often gives these crappy plastic handcuffs that hang in the cereal aisle at the grocery store (which he has informed me he would like to buy so he could use them to handcuff his crush and lock her in his bedroom the next time she comes over....yeah, I know....aye-yay-yay).
Rollie: What is all this stuff, Momma?
Me: It's just garbage, honey.
Rollie: Why is it so much?
Me: I don't know...maybe they cleaned out their garage recently.
Rollie (now stopped directly in front of the giant pile and scrutinizing an especially tacky, gold-colored reindeer): ...Look, Momma.
Me: Yeah, I see it.
Rollie: Why are they throwing it away?
Me: I don't know. It looks like it's missing an antler.
Rollie: It's for Christmas.
Me: So it is. Come, let's keep moving.
Rollie: ...I'm gonna pick that reindeer.
Me: Oh, Rollie, come on. Don't go rooting through other people's garbage.
Rollie: But it's a decoration. We could put it in our yard.
Me: Wouldn't that be lovely?
Rollie: We could keep it out there until it rains, and then I could put it in my room.
Me: Rollie, I really don't want you to touch any of that stuff. Now come on or you'll be late for school.
Rollie (still not moving from his spot, transfixed on the golden reindeer, which now that the morning sun has hit it, is beginning to sparkle like a diamond in the rough): Look, Momma. I'm that guy from American Pickers.
Me: No, Rollie, you are not that guy from American Pickers. That stuff is gross and dirty and full of germs and if we don't keep moving you won't have time to play with any toys in your class before school starts. So let's GO.
Finally Rollie dragged himself away from the garbage pile and kept walking, all the while talking about what a find that reindeer was and how badly he wanted it for his very own. And as if the gods of all that is tacky and hideous was smiling down upon my son, Finn started fussing, which soon escalated into crying and rooting around on my chest in a way that meant if I didn't whip out my boob in about two minutes I was in for some full-scale, red-faced goat-like inconsolable baby crying. Forget the fact that I literally fed the kid 20 minutes ago. And changed him. And already dealt with one Velociraptor sneak attack.
And so I had to make a U-turn and lead my crew back home. Which meant of course, walking past the gleaming reindeer.
Rollie: Look, Momma. The reindeer is still there.
Me: Yep.
Rollie: Don't you think Dadda would like that reindeer?
Me: If Dadda knew it came from the garbage he would put it right back in the garbage.
Rollie: But it's not even dirty or anything, Momma. It doesn't look like garbage. (Translation: we wouldn't have to tell Dadda it came from the garbage.)
Me (sighing as I try to convince Finn that the pacifier I'm holding in his yelling mouth is indeed my nipple): Rollie...I...oh, whatever.Fine. I don't care. But I'm not carrying that thing home.
Rollie: I'll carry it home.
And so it came to pass that I watched my son raid my neighbor's garbage and pull forth his prize: a sparkling, golden, one-antlered reindeer. I walked behind him, watching him proudly strut home with the treasure tucked beneath his arm, the cheap gold-flecked paint flaking off on his school shirt. At one point he raised the reindeer over his head like a hockey player who'd just won the Stanley Cup.
Rollie: Look, Momma. He's pooping on me.
Me: Nice. Rollie.
Rollie: I'm gonna put this in the front yard so Dadda can see it when he gets home.
Me: I bet he'll love that.
So yeah. Pick your battles. Was I about to get into a heated tete-a-tete with my son about taking a relatively innocuous (albeit ugly-as-sin) bit of abandoned Christmas decor for himself? Nah. Not when I was starting to sweat, with a fussy baby strapped to my chest and an old dog panting at the end of his leash and about to take a dump in the middle of someone's beautifully manicured yard. So what if the reindeer ended up among my hydrangeas? And that Jeff was pretty skeeved out when I told him where it came from (although his response was, You should have made him pick that Christmas tree stand out there--we could use a new one)? I consider this a win in my column.
Although my other lesson of the day is: Don't take the kids out for morning walks on garbage day.
So anyway, I chose to undertake this incredible journey around the block on garbage day. Add this to the fact that Rollie has been really into the show American Pickers lately, and you start to get the idea of where this walk was headed.
My entourage and I crossed the street and headed up a sidewalk that was practically impassible because of the amount of just...stuff piled up at the end of one driveway. Cardboard boxes, old wicker shelving, plastic bags of various sizes and shapes, broken lamps, broken picture frames and assorted other broken items that appeared to be circa the Carter administration. Minus the vicious, attack bunny-rabbit.
As I tried to determine the best way to steer my little ducklings around the pile, Rollie slowed down and eyed the items with keen interest. It's the same look he often gives these crappy plastic handcuffs that hang in the cereal aisle at the grocery store (which he has informed me he would like to buy so he could use them to handcuff his crush and lock her in his bedroom the next time she comes over....yeah, I know....aye-yay-yay).
Rollie: What is all this stuff, Momma?
Me: It's just garbage, honey.
Rollie: Why is it so much?
Me: I don't know...maybe they cleaned out their garage recently.
Rollie (now stopped directly in front of the giant pile and scrutinizing an especially tacky, gold-colored reindeer): ...Look, Momma.
Me: Yeah, I see it.
Rollie: Why are they throwing it away?
Me: I don't know. It looks like it's missing an antler.
Rollie: It's for Christmas.
Me: So it is. Come, let's keep moving.
Rollie: ...I'm gonna pick that reindeer.
Me: Oh, Rollie, come on. Don't go rooting through other people's garbage.
Rollie: But it's a decoration. We could put it in our yard.
Me: Wouldn't that be lovely?
Rollie: We could keep it out there until it rains, and then I could put it in my room.
Me: Rollie, I really don't want you to touch any of that stuff. Now come on or you'll be late for school.
Rollie (still not moving from his spot, transfixed on the golden reindeer, which now that the morning sun has hit it, is beginning to sparkle like a diamond in the rough): Look, Momma. I'm that guy from American Pickers.
Me: No, Rollie, you are not that guy from American Pickers. That stuff is gross and dirty and full of germs and if we don't keep moving you won't have time to play with any toys in your class before school starts. So let's GO.
Finally Rollie dragged himself away from the garbage pile and kept walking, all the while talking about what a find that reindeer was and how badly he wanted it for his very own. And as if the gods of all that is tacky and hideous was smiling down upon my son, Finn started fussing, which soon escalated into crying and rooting around on my chest in a way that meant if I didn't whip out my boob in about two minutes I was in for some full-scale, red-faced goat-like inconsolable baby crying. Forget the fact that I literally fed the kid 20 minutes ago. And changed him. And already dealt with one Velociraptor sneak attack.
And so I had to make a U-turn and lead my crew back home. Which meant of course, walking past the gleaming reindeer.
Rollie: Look, Momma. The reindeer is still there.
Me: Yep.
Rollie: Don't you think Dadda would like that reindeer?
Me: If Dadda knew it came from the garbage he would put it right back in the garbage.
Rollie: But it's not even dirty or anything, Momma. It doesn't look like garbage. (Translation: we wouldn't have to tell Dadda it came from the garbage.)
Me (sighing as I try to convince Finn that the pacifier I'm holding in his yelling mouth is indeed my nipple): Rollie...I...oh, whatever.Fine. I don't care. But I'm not carrying that thing home.
Rollie: I'll carry it home.
And so it came to pass that I watched my son raid my neighbor's garbage and pull forth his prize: a sparkling, golden, one-antlered reindeer. I walked behind him, watching him proudly strut home with the treasure tucked beneath his arm, the cheap gold-flecked paint flaking off on his school shirt. At one point he raised the reindeer over his head like a hockey player who'd just won the Stanley Cup.
Rollie: Look, Momma. He's pooping on me.
Me: Nice. Rollie.
Rollie: I'm gonna put this in the front yard so Dadda can see it when he gets home.
Me: I bet he'll love that.
 |
| One man's trash... |
Although my other lesson of the day is: Don't take the kids out for morning walks on garbage day.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
And So It Begins....
Well, I'm back.
Took a break. Gave birth. And now I'm currently enjoying the benefits of having parents who are both retired and are so sick of each other at this point that any external stimuli is a welcome break from sitting across from each other in a sticky booth, watching each other eat platefuls of turnip greens and rice pudding at their local International Super-Duper Buffet.
Their help mainly comes in the form of being extra audience members for my children, whose antics have grown tiresome to me, but Nana and Pop-pop find hilarious. And my dad is very, very good with his intimidation tactics. Why just last night I enlisted his help in making sure my children ate their dinners. He took his duty seriously, and proudly reported that Elsa ate every last bite of hers. Which she subsequently puked up into the double-stroller 30 minutes later. But hey, Pop-pop got the job done.
This entry won't be long, mainly because I am playing catch up with many things, including cutting my children's fingernails so they don't look like X-Men characters. But I wanted to let you know that Baby Finley Palmer has arrived. And he is perfect. Mainly because he can't sass me yet.
I also wanted to let you know that I plan on blogging a lot in the upcoming months, as I see the potential here for many many many entries.
In other words, I am in big, big trouble.
Stay tuned, dear readers. It's on like Donkey Kong.
Took a break. Gave birth. And now I'm currently enjoying the benefits of having parents who are both retired and are so sick of each other at this point that any external stimuli is a welcome break from sitting across from each other in a sticky booth, watching each other eat platefuls of turnip greens and rice pudding at their local International Super-Duper Buffet.
Their help mainly comes in the form of being extra audience members for my children, whose antics have grown tiresome to me, but Nana and Pop-pop find hilarious. And my dad is very, very good with his intimidation tactics. Why just last night I enlisted his help in making sure my children ate their dinners. He took his duty seriously, and proudly reported that Elsa ate every last bite of hers. Which she subsequently puked up into the double-stroller 30 minutes later. But hey, Pop-pop got the job done.
 |
| Baby Finn....So sweet, so innocent, so incapable of making fart noises with his armpit and a straw. |
I also wanted to let you know that I plan on blogging a lot in the upcoming months, as I see the potential here for many many many entries.
In other words, I am in big, big trouble.
Stay tuned, dear readers. It's on like Donkey Kong.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Scrambled Brain With A Side Of Punky
I've got five days to go. My brain is scrambled, my belly distended, and I cannot walk into a room without feeling the overwhelming urge to grab the nearest container of cleaner, get down on my hands and knees and scrub (even if that means scouring the bathroom floor with a tube of toothpaste).
I know I've been failing to keep up with my blog, just as I've been failing to keep up with grocery shopping, the news, and the Kardashians. The main reason is that I simply cannot focus on anything. I am in a constant state of distraction. All I can do is feel my belly ball up like a frightened armadillo and wonder if this is it. If this is the beginning of The End. I've already called in my reinforcements (aka, my mom and dad), my overnight bag is packed, all the baby's clothes are washed and waiting to be worn, and I've sworn to Jeff that the other night he purchased my absolute last six-pack of O'Douls. Cannot tell you what a great feeling that was.
And so, I'm not going to try to write a blog entry because it will be a rambling, nonsensical mess (as opposed to my usual entries--linear, focused and rational, with only the occasional jibe directed at David Coulier.) But just in case you can't get enough of my usual stuff, I'm going to redirect you to a side-project I've been working on....
An article for GalTime about Rollie's infamous brand of humor. And I got to discuss it with none other than Soleil Moon Frye. I figured it would be cheesy to tell her that I used to have Punky Brewster sneakers. And they glowed in the dark. Maybe during our next interview....
I know I've been failing to keep up with my blog, just as I've been failing to keep up with grocery shopping, the news, and the Kardashians. The main reason is that I simply cannot focus on anything. I am in a constant state of distraction. All I can do is feel my belly ball up like a frightened armadillo and wonder if this is it. If this is the beginning of The End. I've already called in my reinforcements (aka, my mom and dad), my overnight bag is packed, all the baby's clothes are washed and waiting to be worn, and I've sworn to Jeff that the other night he purchased my absolute last six-pack of O'Douls. Cannot tell you what a great feeling that was.
And so, I'm not going to try to write a blog entry because it will be a rambling, nonsensical mess (as opposed to my usual entries--linear, focused and rational, with only the occasional jibe directed at David Coulier.) But just in case you can't get enough of my usual stuff, I'm going to redirect you to a side-project I've been working on....
An article for GalTime about Rollie's infamous brand of humor. And I got to discuss it with none other than Soleil Moon Frye. I figured it would be cheesy to tell her that I used to have Punky Brewster sneakers. And they glowed in the dark. Maybe during our next interview....
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Rollie Suave, Part II
It's official. Rollie is girl-crazy.
Yesterday I was without a car, and so I decided to walk to our neighborhood pool in the morning so that we could make it home before the heat of the day resulted in our collective spontaneous combustion. Rollie rode his bike in front of me, Elsa was strapped into the jogger, clad in her favorite (hand-me-down and hence too big and baggy) Dora bathing suit.
As we neared the pool, I heard splashing, giggles and squeals coming from over the privacy hedge. Rollie, who had been pedaling vigorously so he could splash through a dirty puddle, came to a halt, eyeing the hedge with wary yet keen interest.
Rollie: Who was that?
Me: I don't know, Bud. Sounds like someone beat us to the pool.
Rollie: Are they friends?
Me: They aren't friends we know, but that doesn't mean they can't be our friends.
More splashing, squeals and giggles. The tone and timbre telling me that these friends were most definitely female. Which I think Rollie also realized, because I could have sworn he puffed up his chest a bit, sat a little taller on his bike, and started pedaling toward the sound. Kinda like how a peacock would, if peacocks rode bikes with training wheels.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Members Only...Without The Cool Jacket
Sorry I've been slacking lately....
Actually, the main reason I haven't written much in the past week is that I haven't really been home. I've been lost inside my local Costco, you see. Wandering around for days, surviving solely on free samples of cocktail wieners, cream puffs and a special blend of vitamin water and my own tears. It was a terrifying, dismal ordeal that I am just now comfortable discussing.
Actually, the main reason I haven't written much in the past week is that I haven't really been home. I've been lost inside my local Costco, you see. Wandering around for days, surviving solely on free samples of cocktail wieners, cream puffs and a special blend of vitamin water and my own tears. It was a terrifying, dismal ordeal that I am just now comfortable discussing.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Family Ties...Minus Tina Yothers
I read an article in the NYT Motherlode blog the other day about how to make sure your kids grow up to be friends. Actually, I think the article was asking readers if there was an actual way to make your kids grow up to be friends. By means other than, you know...beating them with reeds until they promise to run right out to their nearest Piercing Pagoda and buy a Best Friends necklace for their sibling.
This subject has always fascinated me. I am very interested in the whole concept of sibling rivalry and the bonds that tie us all together in knots so complex that extricating ourselves from them is like trying to pull gum out of a 2-year-old's hair (or a gum wrapper from her nostril, which I've had recent experience doing, and proved to be more difficult than the Popcorn Kernel Incident).
I think this fascination stems from the fact that my five siblings and I are very close. Like, extremely so. Like, for awhile there it was almost an unhealthy, co-dependent kind of relationship, built on love, trust and mutual appreciation for Jaws, Star Wars and Silence of the Lambs. And alcohol.
This subject has always fascinated me. I am very interested in the whole concept of sibling rivalry and the bonds that tie us all together in knots so complex that extricating ourselves from them is like trying to pull gum out of a 2-year-old's hair (or a gum wrapper from her nostril, which I've had recent experience doing, and proved to be more difficult than the Popcorn Kernel Incident).
I think this fascination stems from the fact that my five siblings and I are very close. Like, extremely so. Like, for awhile there it was almost an unhealthy, co-dependent kind of relationship, built on love, trust and mutual appreciation for Jaws, Star Wars and Silence of the Lambs. And alcohol.
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