Is That Your Kid or Mine?

As my eyes were leisurely sifting through birthday cards in the silent aisles of Target at 8:30 p.m. the other night, feeling guilty and strange that I was at the store on my own, I saw heard (before I even caught a glimpse of) a teeny little Tinkerbell traveling in her mama's cart.

She was making the most gallant effort at singing the best letter 'eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee'  that her pint-sized-self could attempt. It was shrill and pitchy and made me chuckle. My thought bubble said, 'Awh, cute kid.'

And then I shocked myself mid-smirk-and-head-tilt because I realized that 99.9% of the time, I am the one sweating and shushing and end up gently manhandling the Alabama alligators that my sweet and lovely boys morph into when I take them to Target. Is it the air that is pumped through the ventilation system? Are they contact-buzzing on Starbucks? Please tell me there is an answer.

For me, usually one of them is screaming 'e' because it's fun and annoying. And I start to lose my cool and say something like 'i' am 'so-ooooo' going to take away (fill in the blank) from 'u' and sometimes they respond, but 'y'?

I contemplated this while giving the mom one of those looks that I often get when my boys are mid-Britney Spears breakdown in the Skylanders aisle.

The look that says, 'IT'S OK. SHE'S CUTE AND YOU LOVE HER AND MY KIDS PULL THIS CRAP ALL THE TIME. AND IT'S ANNOYING AND YOU THINK THAT I AM JUDGING YOU, BUT I AM NOT, I AM JUST EMPATHIZING AND SORT OF REVELING IN THE FACT THAT I AM SANS-CHILDREN AT TARGET RIGHT NOW AND, WELL. I GET IT.'

When my guys go berserk in Match Box corner or Nerf kingdom, I do my very best to let the moment pass and meditate right there in the toy section, but really, nothing works and the monster mommy switch flips automatically. My sweet boys are not shoppers. They want to get in, bee line to the sports section and Wii games. Anything necessary for mommy to stop and look at in between is well, just pure, horrible and criminal agony that I force upon them. 'Not pillows again, mom - please, please don't make us do it.'
It is at that moment, that I recall this famous post from the hysterical, experienced and super hero writers behind the genious blog, Rants from Mommyland.

'Nuff said. Meaning that on my next attempt at taking aforementioned small humans to Target, I shall ask for back up. Calling all friends: let's tag-team it and take turns. We can still enjoy our Target time. I will even provide the chocolate milk and ridiculously-tiny Legos that clog up my vacuum. You provide the juice boxes and princess dolls and tiaras. I will so wear them. I don't expect you to play with the tiny Legos, but if you compliment the boys apt for putting them together, that is good enough. Ooooh, I think we have a solid strategic PLAN, here friends!

Back to mom a few aisles over with the singing angel in her Target buggy. Please know I was not mocking. I was merely enjoying a moment that told me - you are not alone.

Try-try-again next time. Trust me, you'll do it. They keep sending coupons and hanging new signs from the rafters and having mark-downs on cool stuff and asking designers to sell their fun clothes and accessories there for reasonable prices and making alluring commercials that make us all feel like stylish and savvy shoppers! What? Target doesn't do all of that for you? Well, there's obviously something wrong with you, then. Kidding. Kidding. (Sort of).

As for a more permanent solution: combination Starbuck's & Daycare stations in Target. And we pay at the same time. Out comes your SB card balance and right below it is the magical code to check your kid in for 1.5 hours while you shop/wander/do a yoga pose right there in the picture frame aisle.

I think we are on to something here, folks. Send me your ideas and I'll draft the petition to Target.

FMF - Last

Five Minute Friday - 'Last'

Go.

'Stay a wittle wonga, mommy' says Beetle. Oh the pang in my heart when he juts out his little chin and smiles and stretches his slender arms out as wide as they can possibly go and waits for a hug or a scoop up or a ride on my hip or a race with Matchbox cars or a scooter ride around the neighborhood. Sometimes just to snuggle and cuddle and be.

Make it last.

Or when Big Kid asks if he can sit with me and we'll turn on America's Got Talent, or if he can go on a run with me. That is new and unexpected and such meaningful, quality time. He rides his bike while I jog. Those have been some of the best runs of my life. He is so borderline kid and adult in those conversations that I just want to squeeze him and never let go but he's getting a bit too cool for that now, so I loosen my grip a tad and with a tear in my eye.  So I savor it. It wasn't long ago that I was the favorite, but it feels like a lifetime ago, really.

I am trying to make those moments in the car from school to home - all 6 minutes of them, precious, significant, real. I listen with my whole heart when they tells me about their day, even if their answers are always the same. You know as a mama how to read those quiet responses and hope that they will always be this transparent so that you can still be a decoder of kid speak when they are teens. Wish of all wishes.

Make it last.

The weekend is upon us and as a working mama, I want to inhale them and Instagram the images of their perfect, silly smiling little faces permanently in my memory and on my soul because that's the fuel I need to get up and leave them again on Monday morning.

Make the magical moments last.

Stop.

&*^%$# _ Out of the Potty Mouths of Babes

It happened. Like a 100% grape juice box dropped on your beige carpet (when you are in your work clothes and it splashes on your newly dry-cleaned skirt), just like that. Splat!

My sweet, lovey little 3 year-old did the unthinkable. He pulled a Ralphie and dropped the 'eff' bomb.

Go ahead. Take a minute. Gasp if you want: friends who don't swear in the house or around the kids. I applaud you and you know who you are and I love your kind souls for that, but in our house, it happens. What can I say? We tried using Disney-inspired terms like, 'Oh, chicken feathers.' Hubby just can't pull it off.

I say the 'D' word a lot. Mostly the traditional, compound (depending on the spelling; does Webster's include cuss words?) 'D-word' all of my adult life. That's the one that Big Kid decided to try out when he was still itty. Luckily we dodged the bullet and it was never in a questionable situation. His timing was impeccable and most of the time it was comical.

Now I prefer the other 'D' words. Especially if someone is very much portraying the characteristics or behavior common with a 'D' or a 'D', then I call 'em like I see 'em. Ahem.

Back to Beetle. He's been testing us with potty words lately. His favorite is butt head. In fact, his favorite term of endearment for me is mommy-princess-flower-butt head. This time, it wasn't his favorite bathroom word or D or GD - thank goodness. He goes to a church preschool for G's sake.

This was the next worse foul word you could say in church next to GD. The soap-in-the-mouth-if-he-was-old-enough, hot-sauce-on-the-tongue if our family traditions required that punishment... Word that would be completely inappropriate for not only church and church preschool but the dry cleaners, the post office, the pediatrician's office, the grocery store, in front of your boss or your pastor or your great-grandmother. Anywhere quiet and when you and your preschooler are trying to get in and out unnoticed. And surely not timely on the sidewalk in front of your house at dusk when all the other kids are playing outside and parents are lingering on porches and in driveways and chatting down the street.

It's really not my fault this time. Beetle was simply reacting to his father's bleeping reaction in a tiny moment of frustration over an insignificant conversation that we grown-ups were having. Yes. We have been married for 13 years and together for 19 years. We know how to push each other's buttons. Last night was one of those strange and exciting conversations where you think you must be speaking Huttese or pig Latin or Uncle Si slang to your spouse because they are completely misinterpreting what you are saying and looking at you like you have two heads. We get that about each other and always apologize later when we realize that the other one was just being a 'D.' Like Pink says in her new song and an old friend and I giggled about this past weekend, it must be True Love. Smooches, honey!!!

Here is how the blasphemy occurred: Husband shut the front door a little too hard and and the folksy Uncle Sam that I display between Memorial and Labor Day fell off and it was so loud that the dog across the street stood up from his spot in the drive way and gave us a look and his one ear went up (the other ear stays permanently down). I don't think that any standers-by realized what was said due to Beetle's three year-old accent that sometimes has a southern twang. Not sure where that comes from. Maybe the new preschool teacher, but probably residual Honey Boo Boo or Duck Dynasty.


Beetle should have put his hands on his hips for affect by the looks of his expression and the following phrase that fell out of his 3 year-old lips: 'Daddy broke that BLANKIN' door. That is a BAD daddy'.

The expression on my face (after I whipped my head from side-to-side to see if anyone heard/saw) was deer-in-the-headlights-dumbfounded-damn it! I gulped slowly and pretended that I did not hear what I just VERY clearly heard. We moms are masters of that, yes? And I decided to deflect, asking whether or not he wanted to help me put his scooter away in a very calm and unassuming voice. We walked to the backyard and I rocked in the chair and watched him organize beach toys.

I recalled that it was a full moon/blue moon this week and obviously this was what had lead me to three nights of restless sleep, hubby and I being royal 'D's' to each other and of course, our wee one to utter the number one swear word carved into park benches and rest stop bathroom stall doors all over America.

Wow, he really nailed the context, though. Way to go Beetle Bug. Just the other night you were schooling me on the Brontosaurus and its long neck (because they are cannibals, according to Beetle; you know, easier to bite each other) and now you are clearly demonstrating your gifted language development skills.

This is why granny calls you 'the little professor.'

More to come, I am certain of it.

Small

Five Minute Friday Monday. Better late than never! 

Go.

They started out like this...

and now, they are like this...

 

 

How I will try to hide my big feelings bursting out of my thumping heart when I drop him off on his first day of 3rd grade next week.

No minor detail that he's at least two inches taller than when he graced the halls last May. Oh. My. Gosh. He cares about his appearance and it's either all sporty all the time or maybe hipster jeans and high-tops and hoodies. I miss picking out my baby's outfits. 'No thanks' on doing his hair. Sigh.

A major accomplishment that he had a pretty darned good summer with no volcanic melt downs and still managed to pick up some books and read without a catastrophic argument.

A pang of guilt that starts building when I drive away, sunglasses hiding the tears welling up so he won't be embarrassed... and bitty turns to biting, stinging and urges make a u-turn. Aching to go back home and wait (or just sit on the bench outside with a coffee and a book so I can peek in to make sure everything is OK) then walk to school to grab and hug him when the doors swing open and his classmates come running out to their moms and dads and grandmas.

Huge props for mom and dad for packing his favorites that day, treating him to a new Indians backpack.

Enormous love felt when he lowers his voice to sound cool and tell you about the day, the teacher, football passing on recess and says, 'yeah, mom, I missed you too.'

Small moments that fill my soul and remind me that I am blessed to have such ginormous love from, no longer an infant but a little-almost-big boy.

At least that's how my tiny daydream starts as this mom anticipates the very big day next week.

Stop.

Cheers to the new school year. May your littles and bigs have a wonderful one!

Home is...

A new (dormant but revived) obsession has reared its ugly head and I am starting to feel a bit out of control: buying and selling. Property Brothers, stop making this look so damned exhilarating!

In trying to talk myself down from the Ikea bookshelf, into my caffeinated head pops a very wise woman. I have this old friend I could best describe as a free-faller, a willing nomad, a happening-maker, true-believer in fate and faith and in-the-moment-ness.

An Earth-loving, magical, grounded mama, she is everything I am NOT. I am strung-high, prone to let things drive me batty, type-A all the way. Just as the people who allow me to live with them.

On the outside (she wears her insides on the outside) Old Friend is never stressed. Even when she is experiencing stress in her life, she does not appear to break a sweat. Well, she is one of those that only perspires while running marathons. She is one of those easy-going, passionate, full of life, let's-watch-what-happens-next and if-that's-what-it-is-that's-what's-meant-to-be chicks.

OH, how I wish I could think, process and plan like her. I'm just not made up that way, and all the inspiring Real Simple and Oprah articles I scour cannot change that about moi. It's ok. She tells me that. It's ok that I am like this. It was meant to be, me.

She is one of those friends that I don't SEE in person often enough but I think about her and her yogi ways often. What would that calming soul, Old Friend, think of these silly home selling and buying challenges I am mulling over?

She'd tell me that it doesn't matter where you live or where you fold the clothes... they are always going to be there, in unruly piles, beckoning your name. It's not the lane/circle/street that is attached to your house number. Or if your hardwood floors are gleaming or paint-splattered and scuffed by Matchbox cars and dog nails. Can the kiddos play outside and can you go for a peaceful bike ride or run and plant flowers and do you have a window to see the sunrise/sunset and chair to sip coffee or a cocktail? She'd say that my worries about Big Kid and a new school will all work out, they always do... maybe not without challenges, but as G says over on Momastery, we can do hard things. And then in the midst of writing this post, I happened upon this little nugget of wisdom over on A Mom's View of ADHD. And I felt ok again... about the school stuff anyway.

Old Friend would ask are you healthy and laughing and breathing and living? No? Change it.

Such a simple way of framing (in a rustic white-washed wooden mirror framed-type of way) things. Hmmm. Therefore, I am fighting off stress-induced complex migraines pretending to meditate at my desk during lunch. Don't try to call me, people! And also channeling my inner ninja warrior by running as much as possible. Take that muffin top from gorging brownies while scouring Howard Hanna.com, take that T.J. Maxx and Homegoods and Target with your gorgeous baubles and trinkets that must fill my soon-to-be-staged house and my-soon-to-be-someday-new-house.

'WHATEVER!' says my brain and this vision enters:


You need this for your dining room, Jennifer, says my inner Jeff Lewis conscious.

The jogs work as a distraction half of the time. Too bad that I'm constantly running past all of the For Sale and Sale Pending and Sold and (my favorite) It's a Beauty signs... fueling my crazy.

For reals... this real estate has me all in a tizzy. Finally, it's booming, and inventory is short. Panicked, I find myself in the middle of this phrase to the husband: 'We need to catch this hot trend before we're left in the dust...' I fear that I am officially turning into a mad woman. Husband is prying the remote out of my sweaty little hand when House Hunters comes on. I'm stalking David Bromstad's blog for ideas.

The anxiety only stems from the fact that we need to replace the roof and fix old plaster and someone who shall remain nameless needs to organize his work/tool/wood shop junk area in the basement and garage (love you, honey!); That's really only a snippet from the beloved old house that is a never-ending producer of projects. And I told someone who shall remain nameless that it might just be kind of a decent idea to do the projects over time and not all at once because the deadline is looming and... I am not that kind of spouse who would bring that up at a time like this. Ahem.

Here's a start, anyway. New dining room. Those of you that had the opportunity to revel in the tea cozy that was our previous circa 1982 floral covering? Ta-da, no more! I think I scraped off at least four layers of wallpaper. Soothing slate blue makes for a much less dizzying dining experience.

Someone will soon enjoy a family meal in this room as we have made so many memories... birthday cake icing smeard on the chair spindle, fish crackers crushed into the rug, chocolate milk volcanoes into the crack of the table and, hmmm, how exactly am I getting that out?

The danged house might sell for what we think it's worth, or not. Quickly or not until the last second.  I really just need to child lock the vortex that is channel 656 from my viewing options. I am sucked in with every episode of Love it or List It! Damn, you, Canadian HGTV!

Will we find something in our desired area? Where is that, exactly??? Can we agree? The jury is out.

Big Kid says, 'well, you better have another yard sale because we can't take all that old stuff in the basement with us.' Thanks for observation, buddy. But BTW, that's all daddy's crap!

Beetle says of the basement/storage/too-many-toys situation, 'no, no, no - you've messed up my plan. You've got it all wrong, mom.' Well put.

In the meantime, I am doubling my used treasures donation to Goodwill. I am avoiding home improvement and decor shows as much as humanly possible. I am concentrating on being grateful. I am trying to allow the process to happen (managed by me and my spreadsheets and sticky notes and lists) and enjoy the little bits that I can. Because apparently, we are where we are supposed to be.

Here's to you, Old Friend, my northern star. Spreader of fairy dust. You know who you are. So help me, I am trying.

To be continued...

These Are the Days - A Recap

What a wonderful, whimsical week with old pals at the ocean. There is nothing like it, really. Long- ago stories weaved into updated ones, creating new memories, watching - giddy - as our kids play with each other, thinking back to when we were all just kids.

We study in awe as little ones (presto-chango-overnight) have turned into tweens and teens, thinking, I fed you a bottle, I held you when you were tiny and now you have your own Instagram; you're playing softball and acting in plays... Then there are the oohs and ahs over new bouncy, dimple-elbowed babies, thinking - oh. my. gosh. - in comparison, my kids are so BIG, so grown-up.

Meal time is a big, loud, chaotic gathering, each family feeding the crowd for a night. Hot dogs, nuggets and mac and cheese for the kiddos that don't dig the menu. 12 children simultaneously yelling for seconds of something from their mom. Dad's sneaking off during this lagging end of supper that calls for drinks and cigars on the deck.

By the end of the week, parents' patience are shot, kids are tired from sun, sugar and meltdowns and moms start packing a day early. Just when we think that we cannot lug another toddler on our back, shake sand out of something, find the last pair of swim trunks or towel... we think, that's OK. Why? Well, it was exciting and relaxing, fun and comical, breezy and quiet, wild and wet, sandy and soggy and we can't wait to do it again because:



Creating these precious memories is just too good to pass up.

 

Thanks for a reminder of why I love you all so much, friends.

These are the days and I am savoring them.

Cheers and here's to next time!

Rhythm - First Five-Minute Friday

Go.

How do you slow your roll, your timing, your pace?

As self-proclaimed type-A's, raising boys, (add the ADHD)... it's hard to lower it to simmer. We run, run, run all day long. Run to work. Run to lunch. To the Store. Run to get the kids. Run home.

Speed through cooking dinner. Dishes. Mow the lawn. Watch the big kid on his bike. Please don't go past the stop sign and don't stand on the seat.

Chase the little kid on his 'motorcycle' and scooter. Carry both back over your shoulder when he has a melt-down on the next street over. Speed walk, smiling, past the giggling neighbors (older, wiser and been there).

Run through the week, the meetings, the calls, the plans, the laundry, the crunchy floor, the laundry as my good pal puts it, that requires you to load it into not one but two receptacles manually with each and every tedious load. Fold, gets dumped, refold, leave for three days before putting away. Rifle through, can't find socks, underwear, anything.

Ahhh, the weekend. Now the rhythm can be restored. Slow down, savor a glass of wine, a toddler snuggling on your lap, a big kid, maybe, too if he'll agree... but he's too big now, says he.

Sleep in, run a few miles, restore what's yours.

Stop.