There are two things in particular that I am loving about this holiday season so far: the threats to call Santa; and the ridiculously large, delicious meals (and the bottomless drinks) that seem to be everywhere I look. Ah yes, this really is the most wonderful time of the year.
I have been waiting for the day when I could say "You better behave yourself or I'm calling Santa", or "Hmmmm, I don't think Santa would like that", or "Do that one more time and I'm telling Santa to take back all of your presents". Well, that day has come, and Yes, I have officially become THAT mom. And you know what? I'm not apologizing for it. It is unbelievable how well it works.
I'm not sure what family meals are like for the average person out there, but all of this eating has had me thinking about the average family meal for me. One of the most recent gatherings at my parents' house went something like this:
My brother stopped at the gas station on his way over, and walked in as he was cracking open the can of Ridiculousness that he had just purchased (It's approximately 40% alcohol, 40% caffeine, and 20% sugar). Appalled not at the fact that he was about to give himself a heart attack, but rather at the fact that he was drinking out of a can at her dining room table, my mother poured about 2 shots worth of his drink in to a wine glass with ice and poured the rest down the drain. Then overcome with guilt, she slipped him a 5 dollar bill so he could stop and get another one on the way home. (Um, who drinks a $3 can of alcohol out of a wine glass, btw?)
Just as everyone took their seats, Ty began smearing yogurt in (great-great) Aunt Jane's hair. CJ, refusing to even LOOK at the piece of chicken on his plate, promptly picked it up as he yelled, "I will NEVER eat chicken!!!" and whipped it across the table, nearly knocking over the lit candlesticks. That was approximately 17 seconds before my sister yelled at me (yes, she actually did raise her voice) for even thinking about mentioning the New Boyfriend, (who's not-a-boyfriend-so-mind-your-own-business-and-stop-talking-about-it:oh-my-GOD-you-are-SOOOOOOO-annoying). And that fiasco was followed up with my cousin dropping it on me and letting me know that not only is my blog only KINDOF funny sometimes
, and really, I come across as one of those crazy housewives who slips Ritalin into her coffee and madly types away at her computer while the kids go crazy in the next room. (OK, so I've contemplated Hydrocodone once or twice- big deal).
Yes, this dinner really happened, and yes, it was considered a normal series of events. And luckily, we get to do it about 5 more times before the season is over. I hope all of you are as blessed with family as we are. Happy Holidays!
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
The Wheatons do Halloween
I was never a huge Halloween fan. I mean, sure, as a kid I always liked dressing up and getting tons of candy, and as an adult I always liked dressing up and getting drunk, but I never really got in to all of the decorations and scary music and stuff the way some people do. And carving pumpkins? No thank you. Not fun. But Halloween with small kids is so great! Going to Target for the sole purpose of looking at all the "scary stuff", walking through the dark teepees at the pumpkin patch 50 thousand times, and picking out the perfect costumes are things that we are so excited about now! I almost hit the floor when my husband, Captain Businessman (CB)himself, (who I FORCED in to a cheerleading costume while we were dating), actually SUGGESTED that we all dress up as Yo Gabba Gabba this year. I think it might have been the most ingenius idea he's ever had.
Yet the second he stepped out of the car, he overcame the intial embarrassment. It started out as cute when kids dressed up as bumblebees, Spiderman, and ladybugs pointed and yelled, "Look! There's Yo Gabba Gabba!" It became funny when mothers of little Buzz Lightyears, Woodys, and other superheroes announced to each other and their kids that, "There goes the Yo Gabba Gabba family". And it became downright crazy when four seperate fathers on four seperate occasions approached us to say, "Wold you mind if my kid gets a picture taken with DJ Lance?" I kid you not. This actually happened. CB, who has never been in the running for Animated Father of the Year was doing Halloween Disney World style- walking around waving, smiling, and posing for pictures with random children.
When the zoo staff picked up on the fact that children were stopped frozen in their tracks not because they were mesmerized by the sad animals dreaming of worlds bigger than the confines of their metal bars, but instead by the fact that DJ Lance had somehow jumped out of their tvs and come to the zoo, they too took our picture. "We don't know who you are, but we think it's just great when whole families dress up". (Wait, I thought. How do you not know who we are? Are you trying to imply that there's life outside of Yo Gabba Gabba??? You must be crazy!)
Real Halloween came and went a week later, and was noted with a whopping ten minutes of trick-or-treating that was rudely interrupted by snow, sleet and a high temperature of approximately 15 degrees. Additionally, I learned that my children enjoy carving pumpkins as much as I do. (Yes, I carved both of them by myself while they beat on the side of the bowls with their spoons.) But who cared? Not us. After all, we had just become famous! We made it to the cover of the Zoo Newsletter, and got a spot on the website! Hooray for Halloween!!
We decided to make the day the zoo hosted it's trick-or-treating event the day we would debut the outfits. For the two weeks leading up to the day, CJ had changed his mind about 67 times about what he was going to be. First it was Spiderman, then Iron Man, then Buzz Lightyear, then it stayed at Scuba Diver for a solid 4 days (Whatever... he likes to wear his goggles in the bathtub... so what?) But luckily, with some major playing-it-up on our parts, (and the ordering of some pretty legit costumes) he decided that Plex would be a pretty fun option, too. So we dressed up and headed out.
As soon as we pulled in to the ridiculously crowded parking lot, CB noticed that he was the ONLY father dressed up. "Oh hellllllllllllllllll no" he said to me. "There is no way I'm going in as the only Jack a$$ in a costume. I can't believe you tricked me in to this" (sidenote: I tricked him in to nothing. Every mailing that got sent to our house to promote this event showed entire families in costume. Not my problem that so many other fathers were boring.)
Yet the second he stepped out of the car, he overcame the intial embarrassment. It started out as cute when kids dressed up as bumblebees, Spiderman, and ladybugs pointed and yelled, "Look! There's Yo Gabba Gabba!" It became funny when mothers of little Buzz Lightyears, Woodys, and other superheroes announced to each other and their kids that, "There goes the Yo Gabba Gabba family". And it became downright crazy when four seperate fathers on four seperate occasions approached us to say, "Wold you mind if my kid gets a picture taken with DJ Lance?" I kid you not. This actually happened. CB, who has never been in the running for Animated Father of the Year was doing Halloween Disney World style- walking around waving, smiling, and posing for pictures with random children.
When the zoo staff picked up on the fact that children were stopped frozen in their tracks not because they were mesmerized by the sad animals dreaming of worlds bigger than the confines of their metal bars, but instead by the fact that DJ Lance had somehow jumped out of their tvs and come to the zoo, they too took our picture. "We don't know who you are, but we think it's just great when whole families dress up". (Wait, I thought. How do you not know who we are? Are you trying to imply that there's life outside of Yo Gabba Gabba??? You must be crazy!)
Real Halloween came and went a week later, and was noted with a whopping ten minutes of trick-or-treating that was rudely interrupted by snow, sleet and a high temperature of approximately 15 degrees. Additionally, I learned that my children enjoy carving pumpkins as much as I do. (Yes, I carved both of them by myself while they beat on the side of the bowls with their spoons.) But who cared? Not us. After all, we had just become famous! We made it to the cover of the Zoo Newsletter, and got a spot on the website! Hooray for Halloween!!
Friday, October 15, 2010
Dada's morning off
I'm two months in to being back at work, and am still trying to figure out the best way to wake up: do I set the alarm for a crazy early hour which will ensure me plenty of time to get ready in peace (but also taking an enormous gamble, since it's quite possible that the buzzing of the alarm will travel through our paper thin walls and wake the baby dragon in the next room); or do I allow the baby dragon to actually BE my alarm (which ensures that at least HE'S waking up on his own terms, but then I chance him trying to crawl back in to the womb as I scramble to piece together a decent outfit and brush my hair)?
My loving husband, who had been letting me get up and get ready at a leisurely pace, finally decided that if I wasn't taking my lazy a** to go work out before work (as had been the original plan), I could start sharing some of the morning duty with him. Begrudgingly, I agreed. I even took it a step farther and told him to sleep in the next day, as I (Supermom) would get both myself AND the boys ready for our days. After all, every morning the boys are so quiet. They just sit there and eat their breakfast and watch their shows. How hard could it be?
I will NEVER. OFFER. AGAIN.
On this particular day, I opted for Alarm Option #1, but defaulted to Alarm Option #2 when the dragon started breathing fire before the alarm clock had the chance to. Thinking that maybe Sleeping Husband would have some sympathy, I laid still and listened to the rhythmic beating on the side of the crib. When I realized that he was in fact NOT moving, I quickly rehearsed the "no-fail" morning routine that was already being used every other morning, and wished myself luck.
I tip-toed in to get the little one just in time to discover that he had successfully waken up his big brother. Both boys climbed into their little chairs which are placed strategically in front of the TV and waited anxiously for me to turn on Handy Manny. So far, so good. Literally the second I stepped foot on to the cold kitchen floor I heard padded footprints following me. "bup, bup, bup." I looked behind me to find two little outstretched hands reaching up to me. What? Why did he want me to pick him "bup"? Dada never carries him around. "No, go sit and watch your show so I can make your breakfast" was definitely the wrong answer. Drama King instantly started crying (loudly), and out of fear that Husband would wake up and deem me a morning-routine-failure, I picked him up and continued buttering some toast one-handed.
If my memory serves correctly, it was approximately at this time that the requests for water, a different show, a quick round of Candy Land, and everything shy of the moon began. I had finally convinced the little one that on-the-floor was cooler than on-the-hip just in time for him to spill his brother's Cheerios all over the floor. As I walked over to politely tell him to stop yelling at his brother because we use nice words in this house, I caught a whiff of something so gross, and yet so familiar. Ah yes, another night-time accident. "Blank" (the inappropriately big security blanket that replaced the little stuffed green elephant that I lost) was saturated, as were the pajamas he was sitting happily in. Oh good, I was hoping I was going to have to do laundry before sunrise.
A little while later, the breakfast grabbing and toy snatching seemed to be at a momentarily lull so I decided to sneak upstairs to take a quick shower. Before I even had the chance to lather my hair, I heard a little voice innocently cry out, "Hi Mama! I see your goobies!" Oh well. Showering before work is over-rated anyway.
I quickly covered up and walked in to my room, only to find I already had company. "Ba-pup", the little one exclaimed as he held up a tube of my too-expensive makeup. He had the lipstick up as far as it could be out of the tube, and was smearing it on his face. "Preeety."
The rest of the morning is a blur. I think I pulled something off of the unmade guest bed and ran an iron over it as the boys thought it was funny to knock every single pair of my shoes off the shoe rack. I managed to remember to change the wet sheets, wash the dishes that were left in the sink from the night before, change two poopy diapers from the same kid, and stumble in to work 20 minutes later than normal. Also known as: a series of events that NEVER happen on Dada's mornings.
Why my children save all of their drama and bodily functions for ME and me alone I'll never know. But there is one thing I DO know: I am about to become the morning workout QUEEN.
My loving husband, who had been letting me get up and get ready at a leisurely pace, finally decided that if I wasn't taking my lazy a** to go work out before work (as had been the original plan), I could start sharing some of the morning duty with him. Begrudgingly, I agreed. I even took it a step farther and told him to sleep in the next day, as I (Supermom) would get both myself AND the boys ready for our days. After all, every morning the boys are so quiet. They just sit there and eat their breakfast and watch their shows. How hard could it be?
I will NEVER. OFFER. AGAIN.
On this particular day, I opted for Alarm Option #1, but defaulted to Alarm Option #2 when the dragon started breathing fire before the alarm clock had the chance to. Thinking that maybe Sleeping Husband would have some sympathy, I laid still and listened to the rhythmic beating on the side of the crib. When I realized that he was in fact NOT moving, I quickly rehearsed the "no-fail" morning routine that was already being used every other morning, and wished myself luck.
I tip-toed in to get the little one just in time to discover that he had successfully waken up his big brother. Both boys climbed into their little chairs which are placed strategically in front of the TV and waited anxiously for me to turn on Handy Manny. So far, so good. Literally the second I stepped foot on to the cold kitchen floor I heard padded footprints following me. "bup, bup, bup." I looked behind me to find two little outstretched hands reaching up to me. What? Why did he want me to pick him "bup"? Dada never carries him around. "No, go sit and watch your show so I can make your breakfast" was definitely the wrong answer. Drama King instantly started crying (loudly), and out of fear that Husband would wake up and deem me a morning-routine-failure, I picked him up and continued buttering some toast one-handed.
If my memory serves correctly, it was approximately at this time that the requests for water, a different show, a quick round of Candy Land, and everything shy of the moon began. I had finally convinced the little one that on-the-floor was cooler than on-the-hip just in time for him to spill his brother's Cheerios all over the floor. As I walked over to politely tell him to stop yelling at his brother because we use nice words in this house, I caught a whiff of something so gross, and yet so familiar. Ah yes, another night-time accident. "Blank" (the inappropriately big security blanket that replaced the little stuffed green elephant that I lost) was saturated, as were the pajamas he was sitting happily in. Oh good, I was hoping I was going to have to do laundry before sunrise.
A little while later, the breakfast grabbing and toy snatching seemed to be at a momentarily lull so I decided to sneak upstairs to take a quick shower. Before I even had the chance to lather my hair, I heard a little voice innocently cry out, "Hi Mama! I see your goobies!" Oh well. Showering before work is over-rated anyway.
I quickly covered up and walked in to my room, only to find I already had company. "Ba-pup", the little one exclaimed as he held up a tube of my too-expensive makeup. He had the lipstick up as far as it could be out of the tube, and was smearing it on his face. "Preeety."
The rest of the morning is a blur. I think I pulled something off of the unmade guest bed and ran an iron over it as the boys thought it was funny to knock every single pair of my shoes off the shoe rack. I managed to remember to change the wet sheets, wash the dishes that were left in the sink from the night before, change two poopy diapers from the same kid, and stumble in to work 20 minutes later than normal. Also known as: a series of events that NEVER happen on Dada's mornings.
Why my children save all of their drama and bodily functions for ME and me alone I'll never know. But there is one thing I DO know: I am about to become the morning workout QUEEN.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Mama Tears
When I was about 10 my mother took my sister, my cousin and me out to eat. We were standing in line being reminded to hurry up and make up our minds so that we wouldn't leave anyone waiting. When it was our turn, my sister and I spit out our choices as fast as we could, as my cousin stood staring at the menu. After being told to hurry up about three times, she finally opened up her mouth to speak. "What kind of cheese is on the cheeseburger?" she asked. With the quickness, my mother grabbed her hand, yanked all of us out of line, and hauled us to the car saying, "if you can't make up your mind in a crowded restaurant, you gotta go. You can take all the time in the world at home." And this was the story of our lives. When a poor, impatient mother gives you the opportunity to make a choice in a restaurant, you don't give her any time to think about whether or not she really has the money to be buying you that lunch in the first place. You make a choice and you enjoy it.
Why then, after an entire childhood of quick decisions, am I constantly second-guessing myself as an adult?
Where I came up with the notion that my 3-year-old MUST go to preschool I'll never really know. It's not exactly like my kid is shy or anything (he'll talk to anyone and everyone who will listen), nor was he falling behind academically (he did spend 10 hours a week with his teacher-certified nanny), but I didn't want to hear it. My kid was going to school and that was the end of the conversation. After months of research, consideration, reconsideration, site visits, and getting my anti-preschool-for-three-year-olds husband to agree that he actually would benefit from going, I finally decided on the perfect place to send my son. My son who's never been left ANYWHERE except the daycare at the gym, and well, let's face it- that just doesn't count. (After all, I was only a hallway away- I could easily drop in early to spy.)
As the summer flew by, we started talking up school more and more. Everyone was getting excited, and my former preschool teacher neighbor advised me to not worry about the first day of school tears. Don't worry, she said. They're normal, even for the most social kids. He'll probably cry for the first couple of weeks and then he'll settle in. They all do. Dada took him out to buy a new pair of sneakers, and when he showed me how fast they made him run, I was the one crying. He's too little to go to school, I sobbed to my husband. Call them back and say we're not coming. He's not ready. What if he gets picked on? What if he hates it? What if he cries for me and they don't tell me? We need to wait till next year...
But it was too late. I had made my decision, and I had to stick with it. He would start school, and he would learn to love it. And then it was here- September 18, 2010. The Big Day.
With his Nikes tied tight, and his Buzz Lightyear backpack strapped on, my baby, my buddy, my little man, let go of my hand to walk up the school steps all by himself. There he goes, I thought. The kid who still thinks guns are called space ships, who sucks his thumb when he's nervous, who still calls me Mama, and who innocently told his little brother last night that "you're my best friend". There he goes.
After agreeing that I wouldn't start crying in order to prevent him from freaking out, I followed closely behind as I snapped about 8 thousand pictures. When we reached the classroom door, I walked him in and crouched down. "I gotta go, Buddy. You are gonna have so much fun here." Bracing myself for a major meltdown, I opened my arms and leaned in.
What I got instead was the back of a button-down shirt, and a little hand that raised up just past his shoulder height. "ok, bye" he said as he continued to keep his back to me and wave at the same time.
Wait, that couldn't be it. Where were the crocodile tears, the "Mama don't leave me-s?" Instead I barely got a "see ya"???
With my own tear-filled eyes, I proceeded back down the stairs and back to my car. And I realized that now, much like when I was 10, my first choice was a good one. At least for now. (And I can always pull him out, right? Or maybe I should keep him in... Or maybe I should drop a day... Or... I know- or maybe I should just stop second guessing myself. Yeah, I'll start there.)
Why then, after an entire childhood of quick decisions, am I constantly second-guessing myself as an adult?
Where I came up with the notion that my 3-year-old MUST go to preschool I'll never really know. It's not exactly like my kid is shy or anything (he'll talk to anyone and everyone who will listen), nor was he falling behind academically (he did spend 10 hours a week with his teacher-certified nanny), but I didn't want to hear it. My kid was going to school and that was the end of the conversation. After months of research, consideration, reconsideration, site visits, and getting my anti-preschool-for-three-year-olds husband to agree that he actually would benefit from going, I finally decided on the perfect place to send my son. My son who's never been left ANYWHERE except the daycare at the gym, and well, let's face it- that just doesn't count. (After all, I was only a hallway away- I could easily drop in early to spy.)
As the summer flew by, we started talking up school more and more. Everyone was getting excited, and my former preschool teacher neighbor advised me to not worry about the first day of school tears. Don't worry, she said. They're normal, even for the most social kids. He'll probably cry for the first couple of weeks and then he'll settle in. They all do. Dada took him out to buy a new pair of sneakers, and when he showed me how fast they made him run, I was the one crying. He's too little to go to school, I sobbed to my husband. Call them back and say we're not coming. He's not ready. What if he gets picked on? What if he hates it? What if he cries for me and they don't tell me? We need to wait till next year...
But it was too late. I had made my decision, and I had to stick with it. He would start school, and he would learn to love it. And then it was here- September 18, 2010. The Big Day.
With his Nikes tied tight, and his Buzz Lightyear backpack strapped on, my baby, my buddy, my little man, let go of my hand to walk up the school steps all by himself. There he goes, I thought. The kid who still thinks guns are called space ships, who sucks his thumb when he's nervous, who still calls me Mama, and who innocently told his little brother last night that "you're my best friend". There he goes.
After agreeing that I wouldn't start crying in order to prevent him from freaking out, I followed closely behind as I snapped about 8 thousand pictures. When we reached the classroom door, I walked him in and crouched down. "I gotta go, Buddy. You are gonna have so much fun here." Bracing myself for a major meltdown, I opened my arms and leaned in.
What I got instead was the back of a button-down shirt, and a little hand that raised up just past his shoulder height. "ok, bye" he said as he continued to keep his back to me and wave at the same time.
Wait, that couldn't be it. Where were the crocodile tears, the "Mama don't leave me-s?" Instead I barely got a "see ya"???
With my own tear-filled eyes, I proceeded back down the stairs and back to my car. And I realized that now, much like when I was 10, my first choice was a good one. At least for now. (And I can always pull him out, right? Or maybe I should keep him in... Or maybe I should drop a day... Or... I know- or maybe I should just stop second guessing myself. Yeah, I'll start there.)
Friday, September 17, 2010
Market Misbehavior
How lucky are we that we live in the city that houses America's favorite large public market?! (http://www.democratandchronicle.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=2010309030004) Located right down the street from our house, we frequent the market to load up on fresh, local produce, and to enjoy some homemade empanadas. Reading this recent article in our local newspaper reminded me of a time not so long ago when the boys and I attempted to make a quick stop on our way home from running errands.
On any normal visit to the market, I get anxiety just pulling in to the parking lot. Cars are driving in every direction, some weird version of a crossing guard is haphazardly directing traffic, yet it's unclear whether or not his eyes are actually open, and people are walking aimlessly toward their cars (while stopping abruptly at the faux Coach bags and tiger-face rugs which are appropriately placed in the middle of the parking lot), all while pulling rickety, overfilled pull-carts behind them (and likely taking out all small children who mistakenly will walk too close to the wheels). Hence the reason I am very rarely the driver.
This day, however, was not the norm. It was a random Tuesday morning, and I remembered on my way home from doing other things that the market was open for produce only. Great, I thought. The stroller is already in the trunk, and since it's the middle of the week, I'm bound to get a great parking spot. We'll be in and out in 20 minutes.
I pulled in to an excellent spot, and was pretty psyched that my plan was panning out nicely. I walked around to the back of the car, threw open the trunk, and was delighted to find out that the stroller was... ah yes, forgotten at home. Fantastic.
Ok, well, this wouldn't be horrible. There were only about 10 people milling around, only one row of vegetables to choose from anyway, and the boys were in good moods. We would all walk together. We could do this.
So we started walking. (Slowly. Very slowly.) First stop- some grapes. Easy enough until I look down, and my kid holding my hand with one hand (so I can't even pretend for a second that he belongs to someone else), and is touching all of the peaches with the other. Um, we'll take some peaches too. Yes, those ones right in front will be great. Thanks.
I really had no intention of making a second stop, but I also had no idea how much pressure I would feel as I walked down the aisle practically alone. (Where was everyone? At work or something? Weird.) The apple guy had really good intentions, I'm sure of it. Maybe he couldn't see Ty eying the plums, or maybe he just didn't care, but either way one thing is all I know: he, out of the goodness of his heart, picked a plum off of a huge pile and handed it to CJ. "Here you go, Buddy. This is just for you." Thank you, Guy, but you actually just did WAY more harm than good. Of course, it was no surprise that a riot between my two children was bound to erupt at any second. All CJ heard was that the plum was for him (and him alone, obviously), and all Ty knew was that he wanted one too.
Trying to redirect my children's attention, we walked up to the next vendor. ( I must say that even though it was weirdly uncrowded for such a usually crowded place, I was loving the quick service I was receiving.) As the only people at the stand, I had my pick of tomatoes. I noticed Ty's hand starting to notice that this guy was also selling plums, and literally before I had the chance to either pull it away or say NO, he had not only grabbed one, but had also taken a bite. (sidenote: I do feed my children. Honestly, I do.) That was approximately one second before CJ looked at the humongous guy in charge of this food and said, "Mama, is he a really fat guy?"
Oh God. Realllllyyyyy? Was this happening right now? My one kid's a thief, my other kid's a big-mouth, and my arm was turning purple from trying to carry too many plastic bags of cheap fruit. Lesson learned: next time, just stay home.
On any normal visit to the market, I get anxiety just pulling in to the parking lot. Cars are driving in every direction, some weird version of a crossing guard is haphazardly directing traffic, yet it's unclear whether or not his eyes are actually open, and people are walking aimlessly toward their cars (while stopping abruptly at the faux Coach bags and tiger-face rugs which are appropriately placed in the middle of the parking lot), all while pulling rickety, overfilled pull-carts behind them (and likely taking out all small children who mistakenly will walk too close to the wheels). Hence the reason I am very rarely the driver.
This day, however, was not the norm. It was a random Tuesday morning, and I remembered on my way home from doing other things that the market was open for produce only. Great, I thought. The stroller is already in the trunk, and since it's the middle of the week, I'm bound to get a great parking spot. We'll be in and out in 20 minutes.
I pulled in to an excellent spot, and was pretty psyched that my plan was panning out nicely. I walked around to the back of the car, threw open the trunk, and was delighted to find out that the stroller was... ah yes, forgotten at home. Fantastic.
Ok, well, this wouldn't be horrible. There were only about 10 people milling around, only one row of vegetables to choose from anyway, and the boys were in good moods. We would all walk together. We could do this.
So we started walking. (Slowly. Very slowly.) First stop- some grapes. Easy enough until I look down, and my kid holding my hand with one hand (so I can't even pretend for a second that he belongs to someone else), and is touching all of the peaches with the other. Um, we'll take some peaches too. Yes, those ones right in front will be great. Thanks.
I really had no intention of making a second stop, but I also had no idea how much pressure I would feel as I walked down the aisle practically alone. (Where was everyone? At work or something? Weird.) The apple guy had really good intentions, I'm sure of it. Maybe he couldn't see Ty eying the plums, or maybe he just didn't care, but either way one thing is all I know: he, out of the goodness of his heart, picked a plum off of a huge pile and handed it to CJ. "Here you go, Buddy. This is just for you." Thank you, Guy, but you actually just did WAY more harm than good. Of course, it was no surprise that a riot between my two children was bound to erupt at any second. All CJ heard was that the plum was for him (and him alone, obviously), and all Ty knew was that he wanted one too.
Trying to redirect my children's attention, we walked up to the next vendor. ( I must say that even though it was weirdly uncrowded for such a usually crowded place, I was loving the quick service I was receiving.) As the only people at the stand, I had my pick of tomatoes. I noticed Ty's hand starting to notice that this guy was also selling plums, and literally before I had the chance to either pull it away or say NO, he had not only grabbed one, but had also taken a bite. (sidenote: I do feed my children. Honestly, I do.) That was approximately one second before CJ looked at the humongous guy in charge of this food and said, "Mama, is he a really fat guy?"
Oh God. Realllllyyyyy? Was this happening right now? My one kid's a thief, my other kid's a big-mouth, and my arm was turning purple from trying to carry too many plastic bags of cheap fruit. Lesson learned: next time, just stay home.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Not-Quite Campers
Camping, in my mind, is about as American as hot dogs at a baseball game. Well, as American as I am, one of those experiences will forever remain a mystery, and the other I am proud to add to my list of have-dones. Here's a clue: I have not consumed a weird link of red meat since approximately fourth grade.
We did our research (mainly by asking all of our camper-friends if we could borrow all of their stuff), and I'm still not sure why EVERY single person we told about our impending getaway started laughing. Like, out loud. I even remember one person saying, "you guys know that camping is outside, right?" Very funny. We get it. We're not exactly outdoorsy people. Well, we were about to prove everyone wrong. We could be outdoorsy. So we packed up and headed out. To a state park that had a hotel on the premises. Just in case.
With literally NO idea what to expect, we eagerly pulled up to a square patch of land. Were we in the right spot? Where the heck was the tent supposed to go? There's no possible way that this was the entire thing.
Well, after looking around, we quickly learned our place on the camping food chain. Our neighbors to the left had a humongous camper set up, complete with American flag lights illuminating their front entry way. The man of the site was sitting comfortably in his lawn chair sipping beer out of a can (the ultimate camping image), and his wife was sitting quietly knitting (a little weirder, but whatev.) These people hadn't left the site in at least a month. Probably longer. The family across the little dirt path had not one, but TWO deluxe looking tents. Each family member was going to get their own room in the first tent, and the second one was made completely of screen and comfortably held all of their food and supplies. We, on the other hand, came fully prepared with a single tent and a cooler. And so we got to work.
About an hour later, the tent was up, and the air mattress was blown up. In case you're wondering, a tent is supposed to look more like a pyramid than an oval, and an under-inflated air mattress is not sleep-conducive, even a little. Yeah, your tent isn't QUITE supposed to look like this:
Oh well, who cares? It worked just fine. And who needed fancy lights or deluxe tents, anyway? We had EACH OTHER. And we were CAMPING. (And oh yeah, NO- we didn't bring the boys. Another thing that people laughed at. We intelligently left them home. There was just no sense in forging unknown territory with two toddlers who sleep with their lights on.)
WOW! Things sure do get dark fast out in the woods. Between the darkest dark ever, the under-inflated mattress, the noise in the trees (bugs? frogs? Don't know, and don't care. But they were ridiculously loud), who could risk shutting their eyes? And I swear I heard raccoons walk across the edge of our tarp, which was also known as 6 inches from my face. When the sun came up and I realized I had been awake for the past 24 hours, I learned that my fellow camper had slept with a pocket knife next to his head, and had had visions of waking up to a bear looking him right in the face. Were these normal camping experiences?
At that point, he handed me the knife and told me to keep it in my pocket as I walked down the dirt path to buy us coffee and freezie pops. (Skip the judgements, please. Yes, we ate freezie pops on our camping trip.) I wasn't quite sure what he expected me to do with it, or even what I would have done had I been faced with the ultimate dangerous situation, but I was armed. So there I stumbled- bags under my bloodshot eyes (all that campfire smoke was killer), and the outline of a knife bulging out of the side of my leg, daring danger to come and find me.
Well, day two went surprisingly smoothly. We made breakfast sandwiches over the campfire, went hiking, had a picnic, tossed some beanbags into little holes, and hung out. No Blackberry, no Internet, no children, and NO hotel room! Just us, some trees, and some great people watching. We loved camping!
The next morning came quickly, and after finally having gotten some sleep (after passing out from pure exhaustion), we were ready to pack up and head home. Since we had never fully unpacked the car to begin with ("let's just keep everything in the trunk so that animals can't get to it"), the site took about 10 minutes to tear down. With visions of hot showers and clean sheets in our heads, we jumped in the front seats, and I turned the key. Hmmm, weird. I turned it again. Another note to self: If you don't drive your car for a few days, yet you keep opening and closing all of the doors and the trunk, your battery will die. We had been wondering all weekend why everyone had all of their stuff laying all over their site, instead of in their trunks. I guess we found our answer.
Luckily, Resident Camper to the left had a set of jumper cables, and was eager to help, snickering inside his head the whole time, I'm sure. I guess we're not quite campers, after all. But we're close. And we WILL try again. Maybe next time we'll even roast some hot dogs over that killer campfire.
We did our research (mainly by asking all of our camper-friends if we could borrow all of their stuff), and I'm still not sure why EVERY single person we told about our impending getaway started laughing. Like, out loud. I even remember one person saying, "you guys know that camping is outside, right?" Very funny. We get it. We're not exactly outdoorsy people. Well, we were about to prove everyone wrong. We could be outdoorsy. So we packed up and headed out. To a state park that had a hotel on the premises. Just in case.
With literally NO idea what to expect, we eagerly pulled up to a square patch of land. Were we in the right spot? Where the heck was the tent supposed to go? There's no possible way that this was the entire thing.
Well, after looking around, we quickly learned our place on the camping food chain. Our neighbors to the left had a humongous camper set up, complete with American flag lights illuminating their front entry way. The man of the site was sitting comfortably in his lawn chair sipping beer out of a can (the ultimate camping image), and his wife was sitting quietly knitting (a little weirder, but whatev.) These people hadn't left the site in at least a month. Probably longer. The family across the little dirt path had not one, but TWO deluxe looking tents. Each family member was going to get their own room in the first tent, and the second one was made completely of screen and comfortably held all of their food and supplies. We, on the other hand, came fully prepared with a single tent and a cooler. And so we got to work.
About an hour later, the tent was up, and the air mattress was blown up. In case you're wondering, a tent is supposed to look more like a pyramid than an oval, and an under-inflated air mattress is not sleep-conducive, even a little. Yeah, your tent isn't QUITE supposed to look like this:
Oh well, who cares? It worked just fine. And who needed fancy lights or deluxe tents, anyway? We had EACH OTHER. And we were CAMPING. (And oh yeah, NO- we didn't bring the boys. Another thing that people laughed at. We intelligently left them home. There was just no sense in forging unknown territory with two toddlers who sleep with their lights on.)
WOW! Things sure do get dark fast out in the woods. Between the darkest dark ever, the under-inflated mattress, the noise in the trees (bugs? frogs? Don't know, and don't care. But they were ridiculously loud), who could risk shutting their eyes? And I swear I heard raccoons walk across the edge of our tarp, which was also known as 6 inches from my face. When the sun came up and I realized I had been awake for the past 24 hours, I learned that my fellow camper had slept with a pocket knife next to his head, and had had visions of waking up to a bear looking him right in the face. Were these normal camping experiences?
At that point, he handed me the knife and told me to keep it in my pocket as I walked down the dirt path to buy us coffee and freezie pops. (Skip the judgements, please. Yes, we ate freezie pops on our camping trip.) I wasn't quite sure what he expected me to do with it, or even what I would have done had I been faced with the ultimate dangerous situation, but I was armed. So there I stumbled- bags under my bloodshot eyes (all that campfire smoke was killer), and the outline of a knife bulging out of the side of my leg, daring danger to come and find me.
Well, day two went surprisingly smoothly. We made breakfast sandwiches over the campfire, went hiking, had a picnic, tossed some beanbags into little holes, and hung out. No Blackberry, no Internet, no children, and NO hotel room! Just us, some trees, and some great people watching. We loved camping!
The next morning came quickly, and after finally having gotten some sleep (after passing out from pure exhaustion), we were ready to pack up and head home. Since we had never fully unpacked the car to begin with ("let's just keep everything in the trunk so that animals can't get to it"), the site took about 10 minutes to tear down. With visions of hot showers and clean sheets in our heads, we jumped in the front seats, and I turned the key. Hmmm, weird. I turned it again. Another note to self: If you don't drive your car for a few days, yet you keep opening and closing all of the doors and the trunk, your battery will die. We had been wondering all weekend why everyone had all of their stuff laying all over their site, instead of in their trunks. I guess we found our answer.
Luckily, Resident Camper to the left had a set of jumper cables, and was eager to help, snickering inside his head the whole time, I'm sure. I guess we're not quite campers, after all. But we're close. And we WILL try again. Maybe next time we'll even roast some hot dogs over that killer campfire.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Nanny Finale
There was a knock on the door and standing on the other side was a sight I've truly never seen. A woman who had very clearly just dyed her own hair/forehead a weird shade of red was standing there with some red lipstick that had landed on her front tooth, smiling a very toothy smile. She was wearing a solid purple 80's style sweatsuit, and the elastic-banded ankles came up just past her white socks. As she walked in to my dining room, I couldn't help but imagine just how many cats she owned. You have experience? REALLY??? Who hired you????
Then there was the girl who stood on my step looking like she hadn't eaten in months, with jet black hair, a skunk stripe of blonde, about 50 earrings and 51 tattoos. She came in (yes, I let her in, trying my hardest not to judge based on looks) and told me that she could start "whenever because I sit at home and don't do nothing." Ok, well, it looks like that'll be your agenda for a while longer. Good luck finding a job with small children. See you.
Or I suppose I could have hired the girl who showed up wearing a wool cardigan sweater even though it was 94 degrees out. She sat on the edge of her seat as my children started going crazy around her. It was dinner time, they were hot, and she was the third candidate to come through the house that day. It's called a TEST, girl- you have experience, right? Why then, did you not pick up on the fact that our family clearly wasn't a good match for you? Now, I'm not a genius or anything, but I'm pretty sure that if a kid whipped a matchbox car at MY head at full speed, I would consider the interview over.
After about 20 more inquiries, and 20 more "No's" (not enough experience, not old enough, too old, not a good enough personality, seems lazy, just not "It"), I was starting to think that maybe this whole "going back to work" thing was a bad idea. Maybe all these weirdos were a sign, after all. Maybe there truly IS no one good enough for my kids (Oh my God- am I THAT mom?). Maybe *GASP* WE are the weird ones. NO, that's definitely not it. We're probably the most normal family a babysitter will ever meet. People should be ecstatic to work for us. Right?? Right???
Between Ty having the most ridiculous stomach bug imaginable, and the ridiculous amount of anxiety that this whole hiring process was giving me, I was really having a glorious week. (These people were sounding so perfect in emails and on the phone- what was the problem??? ) But then, after the fourth night of literally getting three minutes of sleep, she applied. I have no idea why I even gave this girl a chance to prove herself. After all, she didn't fit the profile we had created in our minds at all. (But then again, that profile wasn't working out so well, was it?) But it wasn't even us who picked her- it was the boys. She walked in (at dinner time again- it very easily could have gotten ugly). Ty (who's even more judgmental than I) instantly started talking and playing (or was it flirting?) with her. CJ actually looked up from his crack addiction (Yo Gabba Gabba) and answered her questions. It probably helped her case to be young and very pretty, but whatever. She won.
Is she the best ever? I don't know. (Is anyone the BEST?) Will she be great? Probably. And will she make my transition back to work (full-time for the first time in three years!) easier? You bet.
Then there was the girl who stood on my step looking like she hadn't eaten in months, with jet black hair, a skunk stripe of blonde, about 50 earrings and 51 tattoos. She came in (yes, I let her in, trying my hardest not to judge based on looks) and told me that she could start "whenever because I sit at home and don't do nothing." Ok, well, it looks like that'll be your agenda for a while longer. Good luck finding a job with small children. See you.
Or I suppose I could have hired the girl who showed up wearing a wool cardigan sweater even though it was 94 degrees out. She sat on the edge of her seat as my children started going crazy around her. It was dinner time, they were hot, and she was the third candidate to come through the house that day. It's called a TEST, girl- you have experience, right? Why then, did you not pick up on the fact that our family clearly wasn't a good match for you? Now, I'm not a genius or anything, but I'm pretty sure that if a kid whipped a matchbox car at MY head at full speed, I would consider the interview over.
After about 20 more inquiries, and 20 more "No's" (not enough experience, not old enough, too old, not a good enough personality, seems lazy, just not "It"), I was starting to think that maybe this whole "going back to work" thing was a bad idea. Maybe all these weirdos were a sign, after all. Maybe there truly IS no one good enough for my kids (Oh my God- am I THAT mom?). Maybe *GASP* WE are the weird ones. NO, that's definitely not it. We're probably the most normal family a babysitter will ever meet. People should be ecstatic to work for us. Right?? Right???
Between Ty having the most ridiculous stomach bug imaginable, and the ridiculous amount of anxiety that this whole hiring process was giving me, I was really having a glorious week. (These people were sounding so perfect in emails and on the phone- what was the problem??? ) But then, after the fourth night of literally getting three minutes of sleep, she applied. I have no idea why I even gave this girl a chance to prove herself. After all, she didn't fit the profile we had created in our minds at all. (But then again, that profile wasn't working out so well, was it?) But it wasn't even us who picked her- it was the boys. She walked in (at dinner time again- it very easily could have gotten ugly). Ty (who's even more judgmental than I) instantly started talking and playing (or was it flirting?) with her. CJ actually looked up from his crack addiction (Yo Gabba Gabba) and answered her questions. It probably helped her case to be young and very pretty, but whatever. She won.
Is she the best ever? I don't know. (Is anyone the BEST?) Will she be great? Probably. And will she make my transition back to work (full-time for the first time in three years!) easier? You bet.
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