Sometimes I wish I could just write children’s books. I usually think this about twenty minutes after my elation over writing a real book passes with my child’s blood curling “pay attention to me” scream. A children’s book! It’s, like, ten pages! Sixteen words! I could make, what, 40 bucks per word? 100,00 per word? I could so do this!
Then I realize I couldn’t write a children’s book because it’s already been written. And I’m living it.
I’m pretty sure Laura Joffee wrote about me. She wrote about my daughter, too. She’s written several books, in fact, about our daily lives. Because it goes something like this…
If you give a Mommy a todo list:
She will put everything needing to be done since 1988 on it.
Then she will remember 1988. This will remind her to go look through a box of old photos.
She will be about halfway through scanning old photos when The Boy will get up hungry.
About this time The Girl will poop in the hallway. Again.
She will get out the cleaning supplies to clean the human feces off the new, albeit disgustingly tainted carpet, and decide to clean the bathroom while the supplies are out.
The Girl will still be without panties and The Boy will still be hungry.
They will start yelling.
She will head downstairs to feed them both and start the water for a bottle. She will clean the old bottles, start the dishwasher and finally remember she was making formula for The Boy.
The Girl still won’t have panties on.
She will sit down to feed The Boy while carousing The Girl to go get her panties on “All by herself.”
This won’t go well.
She will set down the now fed baby and start heading up the stairs only to glance down and realize, “The Feng Shui of our living room sucks.” And begin to re-arrange the entire room.
The Girl still will not have panties on.
After the Living Room has been re-arranged, vacuumed, dusted and picked up, she will sit down and glance at her to do list.
And when she looks at the list, she’ll remember 1975.
And want to post some old photos…
Friday night we were blessed with a date. A DATE. Yea, I know, what’s that? It’s that thing you do when you leave the house without the kids because someone else has
been roped in to watching your children. It. Was. Awesome.
(Let me back up here a moment so as to ‘splain it all.)
So. You know I’ve been trying to get my pre-baby body back? And you know how I’m only a whopping twenty pounds away from my goal now? That’s like two dimes or two-decades, whichever. Anyway, I’ve been working out and eating well. Eating well means including a lot of snap peas for snacks. It also means wearing some pre-pregnancy clothes that haven’t seen the daylight since 2003. Or 2005, I forget.
Since it’s our first post-baby-O date where we decided to actually go out to dinner AND SEE A MOVIE (this part is really important and thusly is in caps), I thought I’d get all dolled up for the occasion and put on some makeup (gasp!) and a skirt (also, GASP!) I know. That’s how impressed I was hoping to make the bald guy with two kids who showed up to take me out. Like I was getting some (snicker).
Auntie Nicole arrived and LB instantly was entertained. We headed out to have a drink (or four) and then see SuperBad. We sat outside for dinner and drinks and enjoyed our time together like the pent up HighSchoolers we are on the inside. We giggled, drank, ate, and frolicked (the cheapest possible porn, AKA, played footsie). We walked to the theater about 20 minutes early to make sure we’d get a seat.
This is where this poo hit the fan (or shit if you’re in to cussing and all).
While watching the people purchase the twenty dollar buckets of heart-clogging popcorn, I realized I had the gas. GAS. As in SBD (Silent but deadly) gas. People! Those snap peas! They give me enough fuel to burn a tiny jet plane. I could make it to Hawaii solely on the fuel of my own ass. I swear to you. PFFTTTTT. PFFFTTTTT. Mr. Flinger looked at me, leaned in and asked, “uh, is that YOU?” I act completely disgusted, “NO! Oh, seriously? NO! It’s that old guy standing right THERE!” I try to defend my own stank. It doesn’t work. Six years of marriage and fourteen years of friendship trumps my ass. “DUDE! STOP IT!” he hisses. “I cannn’ttttt. It’s those damn snap peas!” pppfffttttt. We start circling the theater so nobody can trace the stink back to us. Circling and circling. Until we reach the original spot and realize, in horror, the stench is still there. “KEEP MOVING!” he whispers feverishly. We do. In fact, we never stop walking until we’re sure the previews have started and my ass has stopped.
We enjoy a show without a single :: ahem :: episode. We laugh (and surprisingly I do not fart here). We giggle. I get near tears with sheer exhaustion mixed with the hilarity which is Superbad. I laugh so hard I cry. I laugh until my stomach surely has a six pack. Until I nearly wet myself.
The show ends and we gather our things to slowly walk back to our car. We realize this is IT. This is the end of our date and we both wish for two more hours of kidless bliss. We’re standing at the door to the theater discussing just this fact when a Canadian man and his two children approach us waiting for their mom to pull over their car. We begin chatting about the benefits of Canadian maternity leave and whatnot. He causally asks, “So when are you due?” There is the sound of the sky falling and the hell opening up to swallow him whole. “Oh, uh, I’m not pregnant. We have a three month old at home…” I mutter under my breath something about how he should never EVER ask a woman that and damn him to eternal red lights and soggy pizza. Damn him, I say. Minutes after he and his kids are safe in the refuge of their car, I turn to Mr. Flinger, “Ok, seriously? WHAT? THE? FUCK?” He laughs a little and points to my boobs. “Dude, is it cold in here?” He changes the subject. “Uh, listen, I’m either going to cry or swear off food for a year. Comeon, what are you talking about?” “Aren’t you wearing a bra?”
Ok, see, I was feeling all “WOOOT!” about my boobies and decided to wear a camisole instead. Because it has a BUILT IN BRA. Apparently, it’s not so bra-ish. Where my usual perky (albeit bra-induced-perk) boobies usually are, there’s the headlights of an SUV. But lower. “OHMAHGAH” I whisper staring at my own tits. “OHMAHGAH.” He puts his arm around me and points me to the door. “Come on,” he says, “Let’s go home. It’s warm there.”
We all have those days. You know the ones? I’m willing to wager that you’ve experienced days that make getting a root canal a vacation. In fact, I went to Target sans children minutes from the store closing and considered it a vacation. Tar Jay? Is. My. Vacation.
:: shakes head ::
It’s not that I didn’t know these days would happen. I had these days before kids so what would make me think I’d feel like June Cleaver when I was Maggie O’Connel before kids? I fantasized about living in a cabin in Alaska with my rugged boyfriend who happened to resemble (strongly) John Corbett. (YUMMM)
Oh, hang on, BoyChild is screaming.
Ok. Now? Now I’m…
Hang on, GirlChild needs “SQUEEZE YOGURRRTTTT.”
Now I’m just trying to make it through each day showered, dressed and, if things go great, my wits still with me at the end of the day. On a good day I won’t clean up more than three puddles of pee on the floor and get spit up on more than five times or put the SheChild in timeout more than four times.
Compare that to a weekend camping with the skydivers at the hanger at SkyDive Spaceland and, well, it seems a little dull. And I’m ok with dull most days. Dull is fine. In fact? Right now? Dull would be PREFERABLE. Dull would be bliss. Dull would mean there is no arguing or tantrums or hours of overtired infant wailing. Dull sounds a lot like a trip to Target at 8:30 PM. Dull sounds thrilling.
I guess this phenomenon is what happens when you reach your thirties, pop out a few kids and “settle down.” (Someone PLEASE explain to me how this happened because I don’t remember much of the last three years and, frankly, think I’m a born-again virgin. So, really, birth control? Who needs it! But somehow these people keep showing up and calling us Mommy and Daddy.) I’m touched by all the people who write and comment that they have those days, too. I know we all do. It’s just not at the height of the conversation to confess you’ve got one shoe out the door and the kids ready to get dropped of at their daddy’s work because OHMYGODHOLYHELLMOTHEROFALLTHATISHOLY.
And then the most amazing thing happens. He laughs. And you put your shoes away and grab the camera.
There is a very specific way in which the events of the morning must take place. First, Baby O must be fed and rocked at 5:30 AM. This is to ensure that the rest of the family gets out of the house before 4:00 pm. Then I must workout at 6:15AM because working out is the same as five doses of anti-depressants and 6 bottles of booze. Together. Well, not quite, but you know what I mean. Then there needs to be swaddle/nap for the baby, a shower for the mommy and, if time allows, coffee. Blessed coffee. Foldgers hit the nail on the very-handsome-in-the-morning-man’s head.
Then there is massive amounts of praying. “Please Please Please don’t wake up. Please don’t wake up.”
“Please Please Please play quietly. Please play quietly.”
BANG BANG BANG BANG
“Please Please Please don’t start screaming. Please don’t start screaming.”
At this point there is precisely .82 second before the screaming wakes up the baby.
And on a really GOOD day? She will not have peed through her pull up. And her room won’t smell like the tent village under the Burnside Bridge.
So far so good today. I’ll come back with the details of the nuclear pre-naptime meltdown.
Look, I’ve had some hard jobs. I’ve worked technical support for a school district with over 100,000 users and only TWELVE support specialist. I’ve answered, “I don’t know my email password” and “How do I change my desktop picture?” more times than I care to confess. It took patience. Not as much patience as the time I worked in a daycare with a class of eight two year olds and only ONE of me all stuffed in a twelve-by-twelve room for nine hours a day. I thought that was really hard at the time. But this job? This parenting gig? It’s so. much. harder.
I don’t want to be the mom with the crazy hair and the furrowed brow and the flames shooting out her nose. I don’t want to be the women with the premature gray hairs, the lines etching on her eyes, the drool and glazed over wistful look during the four minutes of quiet each day. I want to be happy. I want to enjoy my children’s youth. I want to be able to honestly say “It’s hard, sure, but…” Right now? All I can say is “it’s hard.” There is no but.
And there’s always a but.
The constant arguing. The battles. The tiniest detail of the day that blows up in to the largest issue. “I WANT TO PUT THE TOILET SEAT UP BY. MY. SELF.” The meltdown that follows. The fact that it’s my child who can’t share. My child who is laying on the grass screaming. My child. Lemme say that again. My. Child.
Half the time I can’t figure out how it’s possible I even have children at all. I remember uttering “no, we don’t need a condom” once. And blamo! Three years later we will never need a condom again. Life is cruel that way.
So, if this job came with vacation maybe I’d have signed up. If there were sick days, sure. If there was a lovely pay increase or a bonus check or some compensation, I’d be fine. But there’s not. So, I resign. I’ll have my desk cleared out by morning. And I’m sure you’ll have a replacement before my foot hits the doorstep.
What’s that? You drive a hard bargain. Ok, well, I’ll stay. But let’s work on that vacation and yearly bonus, ok?
Because I’m over here SEWING, (Yes, you read that correctly. Mr. Flinger almost fell off his chair, too, then quickly recovered and said, “OH! Are you going to knit me a sweater and bake me a pie, too? Jackass.) I thought I’d entertain myself and, well, you (hopefully) with a madlibs. Remember those? Sureyado. I hear they’re better when you’re high but, um, I’ve never been high so let’s call sleep deprivation the same diff and move along, shall we?
Well then. Here’s the game:
It’s A Commercial Message from The Sponsor
Here’s what you’ll put in the blanks:
Type of Liquid:
I’ll come back tomorrow and give you the story. Oh, the suspense! oh! The! Adjectives! The BLANKING Nouns!
And while you’re here, be kind and say a howdyho Happy Birthday to my friend Michelle who turns thirty today. Thirty! Remember thirty? Me, either.
<<<< Here's the MadLIB >
Friends, have you noticed that your teeth are beginning to look ________ and ______? That’s because you’ve been using the wrong toothpaste. Chomp Toothpaste will make your teeth _______ after only ____ brushings. That’s because Chomp Toothpaste contains “Hex-a-chlor-a-_________,’ a secret ingredient known to your _______ druggist as ___________. Chomp attacks the ______ acid in your mouth and leaves your breath _____ and _______. It will make your ____ feel _____ and will also stimulate your __________. Always keep the familiar ______ tube of Chomp handy in your _____. And now, back to our program.
My favorite combination? Friends, have you noticed that your teeth are beginning to look scary and bald? That’s because you’ve been using the wrong toothpaste. Chomp Toothpaste will make your teeth repulsive after only 13 brushings. That’s because Chomp Toothpaste contains “Hex-a-chlor-a-vodka,’ a secret ingredient known to your loose druggist as Fixodent (And forget it!). Chomp attacks the clammy acid in your mouth and leaves your breath battered and bejeweled. It will make your boogers feel velvety and will also stimulate your testicals. Always keep the familiar lavendar tube in your hand sanitizer. And now, back to our program.
Fun, yes?! And as a bonus? A BUTTON! HOLY HELL! BUTTONS!!! WOOOOT!
You made it more fun than I could even have ________ ...
<a href="http://mrs.flinger.us/index.php/summer06/"><img src="http://flinger.us/images/madlib.jpg"
Take ‘em only but only if you want ‘em, though. It’s just for fun, yo. (I’m a poet, and I know it!)
We moved to Seattle nearly ten months ago. It was a move we planned and hoped for, but also one that would be a huge adjustment. It was also the weekend we found out we were pregnant. (And be “we” I mean “me”.) We said goodbye to people we love including a hot Starbucks barista who made last summer extra yummy. We left and came up here. Here to our new home.
Sometimes all it takes is one person who you initially connect with to turn everything around.
It’s been only half a year we’ve been hanging out but in that short amount of time she’s introduced me to a group of women I connect with, friends my child loves and adores, people and places I consider familiar and home. She’s opened up an entire world to me here, one that gives our family joy and happiness and most importantly friends to go drinking and ride bikes with. She’s become an integral part of our lives and I can’t remember her never being part of it. Her son is one of the people LB asks for daily and I’m so glad he is.
Today is her thirtieth birthday. She’s amazing that at ONLY THIRTY she has her shit together and the whole motherhood thing down pat. She’s fun and spunky and in charge and wonderfully thoughtful. I never had myself that together at thirty. Hell, I don’t have myself that together at thirty one. In many ways, I want to be like her when I grow up. If we are judged by the company we keep, I am way up there, folks. I know some high class ladies.
So, here’s to Michelle’s thirtieth birthday. For someone who’s welcomed my family to the area and made it home, I’d like to have thirty comments from blogland to welcome her to thirty. I know y’all are good for it. You’re great that way. Let’s welcome her to thirty and let her know what’s so great about being thirty. ‘Cause even if she’s already OK with turning the decade all her friends are, I’m sure we can give her more to look forward to aside from a booming sex drive and never being carded or picked up on. And I’m sure y’all could say what those are.
Happy Birthday, Michelle!! Here’s many mushy sentences to turning another year older and getting to share that with you. You totally rock. Seriously.
*P.S. I totally TOTALLY just looked through, like, ALL her freaking photos trying to find an awesome one of her to post. (She takes AMAZING PHOTOS. She’s just not always IN them.) And I chose this one. WHY? Because a) She’s freaking adorable in this one and b) It shows just how fun she is to wear a pair of Mr. Potato Head glasses and post her own picture simply because the kids asked. Now isn’t that someone you’d have a beer with? I would. Totally.
To my Son,
You know that thing you found yesterday? The Thing you found that you and your Daddy posses and your sister and I don’t? That Thing is going to come in very handy while you’re camping. But that Thing is going to piss your wife off to no tomorrow when you take the opportunity to sleep in every Saturday while she takes the kids, again, and you somehow find the time to take a thirty minute shit while she has to do it with the baby strapped to her.
It’s a bitter sweet thing you just found there, Son. Good luck with that.
Please sing in your best country-sounding voice. There needs to be twang. Sadly, every time I try to make “twang” in my head it comes out “Bow Chicka Chicka Bow Bow.” So, go for less porn and more TWANG, ok?
Also, I am completely sober. S-O-B-E-R. I’m like a guy on Alcohol, I couldn’t get it going. But once I got sober, the words just started flowing.
:: ahem ::
Oh! Two Buck Chuck I’m in love with you
You’ve got more spunk than a party shoe
You make me dance with grace and rhythm
When I drink you, I’ve got biorythm
You only cost just two ninety-nine
You are the best thing to happen to wine
Your Cab Sav is red and smooth
if I saw you at a party, I’d make a move
Come live with me the rest of my days
Two buck Chuck, on you I can give b-j’s
So the Mister, he loves you, too
Two Buck Chuck, we’re in love with you
Thank you, Thank you.
This song is brought to you by the number two and the letter O (who gives me plenty of time at 1AM to “sit and think about what I’ve done”)
We’ll be here all week, folks.
Internet? Internet? You there still? Ok, so look, I .. um.. have ideas. All these IDEAS just sort of swirling around my brain all, “BLAHBLAHBLAH ooh! I could do THIS! And THIS and, well, we need THIS, too!” and I have plans, big plans, plans for remodeling websites and member areas and podcasts, and new sites, and and and and and…
And then my brain explodes.
Then the baby needs things and the toddler melts down and the sun comes out and melts my ass to the park bench.
That’s the short short version.
I believe there are all kinds of people in life. Those who have the power of “the big picture.” There are detail people, there are the do-ers, the idea-ers, and the planners. There are those who sit and observe whilst contemplating word peace and domination and others who jump in with both feet until they are up to their eyeballs in crap.
Guess which one I am? Which one are you?
So, excuse the mess here, Internet. I’m clearing out the crap. And soon (hopefully soon… SOON) there will be fun ch-ch-changes. And if not, well, I might post a picture of the kids. Because I at least accomplished something last year.
70 guests here now.