Craigslist: A Mommy's Best Friend!

I am officially a Craigslist convert. Why, you may ask? Well, less than 48 hours ago, I logged onto Craigslist for the first time and advertised to sell a bunch of the toys my boys have outgrown, as well as an old table, stroller, and other miscellaneous stuff. My goals were: 1) NOT to have to do a garage sale, which is typically more work than it's worth (especially trying to do it with my two little terrors running around causing chaos and confusion), and, 2) To earn enough money to pay for a swing set for my little guys' birthdays this July. I have to admit that I had NO idea what I was doing when I put in my first post yesterday afternoon. I had heard that you should include pictures of your items, so I muddled about trying to figure out how to do that, and it was a bit confusing at first. Yet, somehow, while simultaneously handling my daily Mommy duties ("Moooooommmmmyyyyyyyyy... Why are you on the computer? Come plaaaaayyyyy with us!!!", and "Moooooommmmyyyyyyyyyy.....We're HUNGRY!", and, finally, "Moooooommmmmyyyyyyy...Foster wiped a booger on me!"), I managed to navigate the complexities of Craigslist and successfully post lots of cool stuff, with pictures, and I made enough to pay for the swing set AND possibly pay for a babysitter, so my hubby and I can have a REAL DATE! As a little boy exclaims in "The Incredibles" (which I have seen at least 100 times, thanks to my boys) -- "That was totally wicked!" Seriously. My Craigslist experience was totally wicked! I highly recommend it to any busy Mom who has "stuff" to sell. Here's what I learned from my 48 hours on Craigslist: Research Craigslist first to see what your kind of items are currently going for, so you can be competitive. Put in nice pictures of your stuff. Ask for exact cash only. Oh, and if you under-price an item, expect 20 phone calls in the first 5 minutes (I sold a bike 3 minutes after I posted the ad. I hadn't even gotten up from the computer when the phone rang, and then it kept ringing and ringing and ringing... Definitely under-priced! Oops. Ah well, live and learn). Finally, don't be afraid to let your little ones watch an extra Disney movie, so you can handle the details. I confess...

I am off to celebrate my glorious success with a nice, cold beer. And, will I post on Craigslist again? You betcha! Cheers!

"Mommy, you JUST gotta see this!!!"

When I hear these words, typically shouted at ear-piercing volume and with a level of immeasurable excitement, I know that I am about to see a dead insect, some sort of animal droppings, a "treasure" (translation: bottle cap, stick, leaf, or, in one instance, a hardened piece of gum someone had spit out on the sidewalk), or a fat, squishy, slimy, disgusting slug. My boys know that slugs seriously gross me out (thanks to Daddy, who thinks it's hilarious), so they take advantage of every opportunity to watch me squirm by either bringing me outside to view a slug, or by showing up with a slug grasped in one of their sticky little hands. Now, I do my best to show enthusiasm every time one of my little guys wants me to see something "amazing". I really do want to nurture their excitement and exploration of the world, and I'm continually surprised and delighted by their enthusiasm for the smallest discovery. With that said, I reluctantly admit that there are times when I hear the call (for the 20th time in one day) and just don't feel like being dragged over to see another squished spider or patch of bird poop. So, a few days ago, when I was finally getting around to washing my face and brushing my teeth (at 10:30 in the morning), and I heard my youngest son calling from the back porch, "Mom, Mommy, Moooooommmmmmm......You just gotta see this! C'mon, c'mon, come out here. Mommyyyyyyyy!!! You really gotta see this!", I heaved a sigh, rolled my eyes, and slowly, reluctantly dragged myself outside to see the latest discovery. And, this is what I saw... My beautiful, mud-splattered youngest son, wearing his Spiderman pajama top, green boxer shorts, and his beloved ladybug rainboots, standing completely still (an amazing event all by itself) in a patch of sunlight, blue eyes shining with excitement, a gigantic grin stretching from ear to ear, with a big, yellow and black butterfly perched on his grimy little hand, delicate wings gently opening and closing. It was a wonderful moment. And, while my little ones consider a bead or a fallen leaf or a chunk of dirt a treasure, the memory of Foster standing in the sunlight with that butterfly on his hand, is something I will treasure forever. So, the next time I hear the call, I'll head outside with an open mind and an enthusiastic smile, ready to share in my children's excitement. Unless it's a slug.

Cheers!

If you think they're so cute, feel free to take them home with you!

Well, that title sounds really bitter and not-so-loving, right? I agree, but in my defense, I was just having one of those days where your children's seemingly-unending poor behavior, combined with the 3rd night in a row of almost no sleep, makes you look longingly back at the time before you had any little ones. Ahhh, I remember that era well... Friday and Saturday nights when I could stay up as late as I wanted with my hubby, because I wouldn't be woken up at 5:45am by my little boys coming in to "snuggle" (translation: wiggle, whisper loudly, wiggle some more, accidentally kick me in the ribs, start to giggle uncontrollably, whisper loudly again, whine about being hungry, and then launch a massive tickle fight which always results in someone banging heads with someone else and bursting into full-volume crying...). Days when I could stay in my pajamas until noon and choose to do nothing but watch trashy daytime TV without feeling guilty and needing to "get fresh air" or "get healthy exercise" or "eat some vegetables" or "stimulate the brain." And, most importantly, days where I didn't have to say any of the following: "Don't hit your brother." "This is your warning, sweetie. If you do that again, I'll have to put you in time out." "Go to time out!" "No." "Stop that." "Don't put that in your mouth." "Time out!" "Please get off your brother's head -- he can't breathe." "I said, no." "Take your finger out of the dog's ear!" "Because I said so." "Because I said so." "I said, because I said so." "I'm not going to argue with you about it anymore." "Take that out of your mouth!" "Go to time out!" SIGH. (By the way, I do love my rambunctious little boys with an intensity that still shocks and amazes me, and I wouldn't go back to the days before they came into my life for a gazillion dollars. The good FAR outweighs the bad, and there's nothing like the moment when one of my little guys wraps his arms around my neck, gives me a big, sloppy kiss, and says, "I love you more than anybody else in the world!" I'm just engaging in a little healthy venting here...) But, coming back to the title of this blog, why is it that well-meaning people (usually sweet little old ladies or naive, clueless young women who clearly have no children - and have the tight little bodies and wrinkle-free skin to prove it) always seem to comment on how "adorable" and "well-behaved" and "precious" your kids are during the brief moment when they are actually not hitting, poking, grabbing, arguing, or otherwise driving each other (and me) completely crazy?!!! I know, with 100% certainty, that on those days when my two little guys are pushing every single one of my buttons, and I have no choice but to venture out to the store with them (because I am down to feeding my family nothing but oatmeal or peanut butter and jelly - on crackers, 'cuz there's no bread), that someone will comment on their cuteness. And, one of these days, I'm afraid I'm going to crack, hand my precious little guys over to one of these well-meaning women, and say, "Here ya go. Take them home with you for the rest of the day. I'm going to go take a nap!"

"Finding the Happy"

2008 was, by far, one of the most challenging years of my life (on top of being the year I turned 40. Ouch!). My husband was suddenly and very unexpectedly laid off right after Christmas, 2007. (And no, Ms. Suzie Orman, we did not have 6 months worth of bills in our savings account -- Are you kidding me? Is any normal paycheck-to-paycheck family really able to do that?). Then, when he did manage to find work (for which we are eternally grateful), his schedule became -- and remains -- a complete nightmare for our little family. We never know which shift he's working until around 6:30pm the night before. Even then, his schedule can be altered multiple times throughout the day. So, basically, it's as if I'm a single, working Mom, only with a husband who is kind of a transient presence in our lives. A welcomed, loved, cherished presence, but not around nearly enough. SIGH. But, the story continues.... In May, I went in to my doctor for my check-up and to deal with some "female issues", and I found out that I was in the midst of severe perimenopause. Oh joy! (For more thoughts on that, see my earlier blog: "Why isn't menopause called womenopause?") Then in June, I went in to the doctor to have a sore ankle examined, and we found out that, on top of torn ligaments, missing cartilege, and various other mechanical injuries, I had a rare degenerative bone condition called Avascular Necrosis (A.V.N. for those of us in the know). So, I was completely non-weight-bearing on crutches and in a wheelchair from July 7th until mid-December, with major surgery in September, followed by partial weight-bearing with a knee scooter, one crutch, and a cane until February. Now, it is one thing to go to work in a wheelchair and on crutches. It is something entirely different to take care of two incredibly active little boys (aged 2 and 3 at the time) who need almost constant exercise in order to burn off enough energy to keep Mommy sane. (Oh yeah, and somewhere in there, our water heater literally exploded, flooding the kitchen, while I was at home with the boys, on crutches, and my husband was unreachable at work. Fun times!) So, why bring all of this up now? Because, during this last year, I have learned that it's crucial, when times are tough, to "Find the happy." (This is my parents' philosophy, by the way. Two wonderful people who do a pretty good job of it, even when times are tough. Wise people, my folks.) How did I find the happy during this last year? By laughing a lot, when I really felt like crying. Not that I didn't do a lot of crying as well. Case in point, the day it took me almost 40 minutes to get the groceries in from the car on my crutches, and I had a 20-minute, ugly, sobbing, pity-party for myself, while sitting on the floor of my kitchen, sweating buckets, literally surrounded by bags of groceries, with two hungry, crying little boys hanging on me... By doing my best to adapt to the situation, like buying industrial-strength kneepads at Lowes, so that I could crawl around the house to do laundry and chase my boys around (Oh yes, the jokes were flying: "John, you bought your wife kneepads? heh, heh, heh..." Men!), and dressing up as a doctor for Halloween (I liked the irony), hanging glow sticks on my wheelchair, and taking my boys trick-or-treating in the neighborhood. And, by trying really hard to find the funny aspects in my situation, like my husband building me a wheelchair ramp (thanks, sweetie) that had such a steep slope, I could hit about 30 mph cruising down it to my driveway and had to wear gloves, so that I could grab on to the wheels and come screeching to a halt before crashing into our mini-van. Not to mention that it took super-human strength and about 10 minutes of going, stopping, resting, going a little bit more, stopping, resting, etc., to get back up the thing. It was like climbing a mountain! But, I had defined shoulder and arm muscles for the first time in my life. Or, the time I got so frustrated with trying to do the kids' laundry on crutches that I threw both of them (the crutches, not the kids) down the hallway and then realized that I would have to crawl up the hallway to get them back, which struck me as completely funny and resulted in a huge laugh-fest on the floor with the kids, which then morphed into an even bigger tickle-fight, and which ended with each boy dragging a crutch back to me with a big, silly grin. So, I survived last year (and continue to survive) by finding the happy in my life, instead of the opposite. I don't always succeed, but I do try. I try to see the warmth and love in my house, instead of the stained carpet, the scratched-up doors, and the linoleum that so desperately needs replacing. I try to appreciate every minute with my husband, instead of focusing on how much he is gone. I try to focus on the sparkle in my eyes instead of the wrinkles that surround them. And, this weekend, knowing that we can't afford a vacation or other big luxuries, I used a gift card from my birthday, and I bought a porch swing for the front deck. It's something I've always wanted, and it's become my happy little oasis. It's a place I can go to have a quiet glass of wine and some alone time, or greet the morning with a cup of coffee, or chat with my lovely neighbor across the street. It's a special spot where I can snuggle with my little guys before they go to bed, or read a good book, or hold hands with my husband and talk about our future...It's somewhere I can go to find the happy, so that I can continue to go on... Here's hoping you find the happy, too. Cheers!

Pre-school graduation? Huh?

I had no idea that pre-schoolers had a "graduation." Never even occurred to me, until I got the invitation to my own 4-year-old's graduation celebration. I was genuinely surprised. I was even more suprised when a fellow Mom mentioned to me that she's already taken her daughter shopping for a brand-new graduation day outfit, and that her relatives are all coming in from out-of-town to come to the celebration. This prompted another Mom to excitedly tell us that her relatives were coming as well, and that she bought her little boy a big graduation day gift. (It honestly didn't even occur to me to ask my parents to drive 6 hours to come!) So, I mentioned to a girlfriend of mine that the graduation was tonight (she's a level-headed girl, and I thought she'd chuckle along with me, y'nkow?). But, she immediately started bombarding me with excited, high-pitched questions like: "Is everybody coming in from out-of-town?" "Are you going to have a pre-graduation party at the house?" "What did you get him for graduation?" "What is he going to wear?" "Aren't you excited?"and so on and so on... The truth is, I didn't even know there was a pre-school graduation, let alone that I was supposed to get all riled up about it. I think I missed the part in the Mommy books that talks about this being a really big deal. (This is making me sound like a cold, disinterested, uninvolved Mom, isn't it? Well, you should have seen how crazy with excitement I got when he rode his bike without training wheels for the first time. Now, that's an accomplishment! We went out to dinner AND ice cream for that one.) Anyway, of course I'm proud of my little guy, and I'm looking forward to the next stage (with a bit of melancholy, but mostly with optimism and excitement), but graduation doesn't seem like that big of a deal to me. They all graduate, y'know? Nobody flunks pre-school. Basically, he just had to show up, be a good boy most of the time, learn a little bit, and mission accomplished! Ah well.... I have made my giant pot of macaroni and cheese for the party. I took a shower and even put on a skirt. And, in just a few minutes, I'll be taking my little guy to his pre-school graduation. But, I didn't buy him a special graduation day present, and he won't be wearing a new outfit. I'll just shower him with hugs and kisses, take lots of photos for the relatives, and remind him that every day I get to spend with him is cause for celebration.

"Frumpification"

frum'-pi-fi-ca'-tion: noun. The process by which a formerly sassy, independent, reasonably fashionable, moderately fit woman transforms into a completely frazzled, overworked, moderately overweight mother-of-two, who can seldom muster up the energy to brush her teeth, let alone take a shower, put on make-up, and dress in anything other than her "Mommy Uniform" of sweatpants and an old t-shirt.

OK, it's not really a word. But it should be, don't you think?...

The first step is admitting you have a problem...

I just went through internet detox, and I lived to tell the tale. Yes, a week ago, I returned home from work to hear my husband utter the dreaded words, "Something's wrong with our internet connection. Oh, and they can't come until next Tuesday to fix it." My heart began to race. Seriously?!! They can't come for 7 days? Turns out they had an appointment available 5 days sooner, but the earliest I can get home after leaving work and picking up the little guys from preschool -- even traveling at mach speed -- is 1:00pm. And they insist that you are available from 12 - 5:00. No exceptions. Apparently, a full 4 hour commitment to stay home, doing nothing but waiting for "the guy", just isn't quite enough time for them. It's gotta be 5 full hours or no deal. Now, that's what I call customer service! SIGH. So, there you have it. No internet for 7 days. My first thought: "Omigod, how am I going to talk to anybody? They're not going to know what happened to me! They're going to think I'm blowing them off." As if the friends and family I stay in touch with primarily through email or Facebook couldn't possibly live without a message from me for a week. Second thought: "Damn! I was going to list all that toddler stuff on Craigslist tomorrow. Now, it's going to have to sit around on our bedroom floor for another week, and I'm going to keep on tripping over it." Third thought: "I CAN'T BLOG! What if I get some thought I'm dying to share? What will I do?" I actually felt a little bit of genuine panic at the thought. So, I took action steps. I immediately re-recorded the answering machine message on our phone to say, "Hi. You've reached us, but we can't come to the phone right now. You can't reach us on the computer either, because our internet is down for a week." I then called several friends to let them know they couldn't reach me by computer for a week and asked them to please spread the word. (Again, as if I am such a crucial part of their lives that they'd go into withdrawal without a Facebook response. I know, it's pathetic, isn't it?) After that, I settled into a week with no email, no Facebook, no surfing the internet, no blogging, and -- blessedly -- no computer games for the hubby. That part, I did not mind at all. And, what do you know? I replaced all the time I usually spend dinking around on the computer with some old loves -- like getting lost in reading a good book, actually writing a couple of letters (by hand!) to old friends, and spending nights playing Scrabble (or, let's face it, watching more TV shows) with my honey, instead of taking turns using the computer. I really never realized how much time I spend glued to this machine, even when I'm just squeezing it in around the kids or hopping online after they're tucked in for the night. My husband realized how dependent he'd become on the computer as well. He wanted to take me out to dinner and a movie for my birthday (Yes, ladies, he came through with some romance this year -- good man!) , but he didn't know the movie times. After all, you can't Fandango without the internet, right? So, he called one of our friends and asked her to look up the movie times on her computer. He said it just didn't even occur to him that he could call the theater. Remember phones? Oh, yeah.

So, I've recaptured a bit of life before the age of computers, I've realized how much time I've spent being plugged into the machine, but not plugged into the rest of my life, and I am pledging to cut down on my computer time. I know, I know, we'll see if it's actually possible. But, I have made a start. I forced myself to wait almost 24 hours to get back online after we were up and running. That's pretty good, right? Also, I quit Facebook, because it was way too addictive following all the threads of conversation and seeing what everybody's been up to. Finally, I am about to log off and go snuggle on the couch with my sweetie. (If he asks me if I'm all done on the computer and leaps up to play computer games, I will physically hurt him!)

But, I'm not going to stop blogging! Some things just feel too good to give up. Cheers!

Terrible Twos? Are you kidding me?

I am absolutely convinced that the person who invented the term "Terrible Two's" just hadn't experienced age three yet, or they might have called it something completely different, like "The year when your child starts to get really independent and sometimes throws fits but isn't anywhere near as bad as he's going to get when he's three and a lot more verbal and much better at finding deliberate ways to push your buttons!" It's a long name, I know. Not nearly as easy to say as "Terrible Two's", but it's a lot more accurate. Seriously. I have yet to meet a fellow Mom who has a three-year-old (or who has been through the trials of having a three-year-old) and thinks that age two was especially challenging. I'm not saying that it doesn't feel challenging when you're in it. After all, every stage has it's own unique challenges, frustrations, and joys, right? (Oh yes, it wasn't that long ago that I remember pacing the living room with a screaming, absolutely inconsolable, newborn baby, thinking "Why did I do this to myself? What was I thinking? I can't be a Mom! I stink at this! I must be crazy!".....) But, trust me, age three can be bad. Really, really bad. I think it's because during the third year, kids genuinely learn how to manipulate. Before that time, they're just starting to figure things out through trial and error: "Hmmmm......if I throw a huge, screaming tantrum at home, I sometimes get what I want."OR: "Hmmmmm......when I poke my brother in the eye, he cries really loud. Fun!" That's your typical two-year-old, right? Well, three-year-olds take it to a whole new level: "When I throw a huge, screaming tantrum at home, I don't usually get what I want. BUT, if I throw a huge, screaming tantrum in the grocery store when Mommy's waiting to pay for the groceries and there are tons of people in line behind us -- I might just get what I want." Oh, yes. They are learning and learning fast. I think the hardest part about this age is that kids learn that words can hurt others, and they use it to their advantage. Here's my favorite: "I don't love you anymore." Ouch! Or this one that happens frequently in my house when a certain three-year-old doesn't get what he wants: "I love Daddy more than you." Double ouch! And it's very hard not to take it personally. Case in point....I have a couple of girlfriends over for somewhat regular playdates. Last week, one of my friends -- a truly lovely Mom with a three-year-old boy, came in, put down her stuff, steered her son towards the playroom, and then immediately dissolved into tears. She looked at us through big, sad eyes, and sobbed, "I don't even LIKE my son right now. I love him, but I can hardly stand him most of the time!" My other girlfriend jumped in immediately with, "Oh, I know, I know. Age three is the worst stage of all. They can be so mean. Just hang in there." (Thankfully, her boys made it through this stage and are now lovely young lads, most of the time. I remind myself of that fact every single day!) We then began to share war stories from age three. (The age I now refer to as "The Thunderous Threes" because of how tempestuous and unpredictable it is.) I am convinced, after talking, laughing, and crying with these wonderful, exhausted, capable Moms, that the key to surviving this age is sharing stories, leaning on your friends, and reminding yourself that, "This too shall pass." And, finally, while there's nothing so painful and frustrating as hearing your beloved little one shout "I HATE YOU!" at the top of his lungs in the middle of Fred Meyer because you dared to say "No, honey, you can't have a matchbox car", there's also nothing more lovely and joyful than when that same little three-year-old throws his arms around your neck and says, "I love you more than anybody else in the whole world."

You are now entering a romantic dead zone...

I am about to enter a romantic Dead Zone. Why, you may ask? Well, two major celebrations occur within days of each other every May -- Mother's Day and my birthday -- and I am married to someone who is well-known for being, shall we say, romantically impaired when it comes to recognizing these events. I'm not joking. I literally have girlfriends and family members calling me the week before to say, "Hang in there. You know he loves you, even though he's probably going to forget, or try to throw something together so last-minute that it's all going to fall apart. He loves you very much. Just remember that." They tell their own partners cautionary tales, like the time he took me to a sports bar for our anniversary, trying hard to watch my face instead of the soccer game, and not succeeding. He would fixate on my eyes, and I could see him trying really, really hard to focus on what I was saying. But, he just couldn't keep his eyes from darting off to the side to check the score. Mmmmm....Romantic.......Now, it is important at this time to stress that I do not doubt, for a second, that my husband loves me and values me and would be devastated if I ever left. (I feel the very same way about him, by the way. I am, in fact, an extremely lucky woman. My man is intelligent, funny, sexy, and a great Dad to our two little boys. But, romance and acknowledgement? Not his greatest strengths!) Anyway, every year I feel cautiously optimistic that my darling will not forget these dates, and may, in fact, put a little bit of thought, foresight, and actual planning into acknowledging them. You know, maybe arrange a babysitter and take me out for Thai food and a movie??? Unfortunately, history has shown that my husband is one of those men who sneaks out of bed the morning of the event, because he has just realized that he has forgotten it again, runs to the grocery store to buy a card, and signs it at the kitchen table two minutes before handing it to me. SIGH. I insist that I am not a high-maintenance woman (although my dear husband would most likely disagree strongly to that sentiment), but I do think it's important that people are made to feel valued, appreciated, and special on these particular days. (I do a bang-up job on Father's Day and my hubby's birthday every year, so this is not just empty whining here...) Some would argue that holidays are manipulative, stupid days invented by greeting card companies and florists, and that we should be striving to acknowledge our loved ones in small ways every day, instead of lavishing them with love, attention, and gifts on specific days on the calendar. Yeah, well, you know what? If it was that easy, everybody would be doing it, and we wouldn't need holidays. Me? Call me selfish, but I'd like to have a little extra love, attention, and maybe even a romantic date a couple of times a year just to keep me sane! I mean, let's face it ladies, how many times have you heard, "Oh honey, thanks so much for feeding the kids, feeding the dogs, emptying the dishwasher, pulling the meat out of the freezer to thaw for dinner, getting the kids to daycare, going to work, picking up the kids from daycare, letting the dogs out and picking up their poop, paying the bills, putting the wet clothes I left in the washer into the dryer, making a well-balanced meal for all of us, remembering to call to wish my mother a happy birthday, cleaning up the meal we all just ate, tucking the kids into bed, folding the laundry you washed earlier, asking me about my day at work, and not falling asleep from total exhaustion while I told you all about it. You're awesome, and here are some flowers and a gift certificate for a massage for everything you did today." Yeah, right! Yes, we should strive to appreciate our partners on a daily basis. No doubt about it. But, until hell freezes over and people all over the world begin to do so, we need holidays. At least I do. So, the dates are circled on the calendar in bright orange pen, we've actually talked about the fact that these two days are coming up (and there was no sporting event on as a distraction during that conversation), and I find myself feeling cautiously optimistic once more...

Reflections from a highway rest stop.

Highway rest stops are interesting places, aren't they? I mean, they're specifically designed for people on their way somewhere, to take care of their business, and then continue on their way. Rest stops are for everybody, and this makes for some really interesting people-watching, if you have the chance. If you have time to really take a look around at a rest stop, you're bound to see some interesting, ridiculous, possibly disgusting, and maybe even touching things. This was my experience yesterday. To be honest, I don't find myself in rest stops very often, because I seldom go anywhere anymore. With a really exhausting job, two little kids, and a husband with an insanely unpredictable work schedule, I'm the queen of the "stay-cation." (Doing sidewalk chalk in the back yard with my kids while sipping a margarita is about as close to a real vacation as it typically gets around here...) Or, when I do find myself at a rest stop, I'm peeling into a spot, leaping out of the car, and flying into the bathroom with one kid on my shoulders and another one hanging onto my wrist for dear life, feet flapping in the air behind him, because one or the other is literally seconds away from having an accident. These little guys have a hard time grasping the idea of letting me know they have to pee more than 30 seconds before they are absolutely desperate to go. Seriously, I imagine the thought process in their little heads as we drive along going something like this; "Hmmmmm, nice red truck. Wish I had a red truck. Oooohhhh, a bulldozer. Wish I had a bulldozer. My butt itches. I think I'll hit my brother and see if he gets mad. Oh yeah. He got mad. Heh, heh, heh. I'm gonna hit him again. Heh, heh, heh. Mommy looks funny when she's yelling at me and driving. Her face is really red. Oooooh, another bulldozer. Taxi! A taxi just went by! Cooooool. OH-NO-I-HAVE-TO-PEE-RIGHT-NOW!!!!!" This stream of consciousness is inevitably followed by the ear-piercing cry, "Moooooommmmmmmyyyyyyyyyy....I have to go potty!""Can you hold it, sweetie?" "No, no, it's an emergency!" So, needless to say, my trips to the rest stop are usually conducted at mach speed, and don't afford the opportunity for too much people-watching. With that said, I actually found myself pulling into a rest stop all alone yesterday, on my way back from a few hours spent hanging out with a great girlfriend, laughing, talking, watching a ridiculously unbelievable romantic comedy full of ridiculously good-looking people, eating too much thai food (hence, the need for the rest stop), and briefly remembering what life was like before marriage and motherhood. And, for the first time in a long time, I found myself paying attention to my surroundings. An interesting experience, indeed. So, here are a few observations from that little experience:

Troubling: A huge, immaculate, burgundy-colored Hummer with a "Protect Our Planet" bumpersticker. Ahhhh, the irony.

Irritating: A fifty-something man, wearing those pants that somehow manage to stay up while perched just below his impressively large gut, smoking a cigar, and alternating between scratching his armpit and his butt (I am not making this up!) is joined by a young woman coming out of the restroom. She is slim, attractive, with a to-die-for body. I assumed she was his daughter, until she wrapped her arms around him and gave him the kind of kiss that daughters do not give their fathers. I couldn't help thinking about the double-standard in male-female relationships. It would be highly unlikely to see the same scenario with the genders reversed, eh? He probably owned the Hummer...

Disgusting: Do the same people who think it's OK to poop all over a restroom seat do that at home too? Do they just poop all over their own toilet and walk away? Seriously!

Pathetic: Young couple, oblivious to the fact that there were at least 15 other people within earshot, standing on either side of their car, screaming obscenities at each other. All I could really make out were numerous words I won't repeat here, and "Dairy Queen." I can't imagine what could have transpired in a Dairy Queen that would result in such a litany of cursing and yelling, but maybe they'd been trapped in their car together for too long with far too much sugar in their systems. A recipe for disaster...

Humorous: The little kid from the stall next to me who broke free from his Mom and took off out of the restroom wearing only a t-shirt and tennis shoes and laughing hysterically while she chased after him holding his pants and hollering that he was half-naked! Believe me, that little guy knew darn well he was half-naked, and he was fully enjoying himself.

Touching: An elderly couple sitting on the bumper of their car, holding hands and sharing a banana.

So, it was really fascinating to slow down and take a look around. I highly recommend it. Oh, and one more thing.... When you pull up at a rest stop blaring the soundtrack to Mamma Mia and hop out of your car, you should probably stop singing. I'd like to say that this is something I observed someone else doing. However, it was me happily singing "Dancing Queen" as I walked towards the restroom. It wasn't until I noticed a cute little old lady smoking a cigarette and smiling at me with an odd expression that I realized I was still singing. Out loud. Like a lunatic. Yes, folks, you find all kinds at a rest stop! Including nutty women just like me.

Why isn't "menopause" called "womenopause"?

Today I was thinking that it's pretty odd that something that is clearly a significant female issue has such a masculine title -- "menopause." Shouldn't it be "womenopause"? I mean, it has nothing whatsoever to do with men. A man doesn't suddenly find himself boiling hot and dripping sweat in the middle of a staff meeting (unless there's noticeable female cleavage in the room, that is), or having a tears-running-down-the-face, snot-streaming-from-the-nose, chest-hitching, giant ugly sobfest in the middle of the grocery store aisle because he is already in line and forgot to pick up the Hamburger Helper for dinner, or having a sex drive that's red hot one minute and completely, totally, irretrievably vanishes the next, or dealing with night after night after night of not being able to stay asleep, even after two Benadryls and half a bottle of Boon-A-Roo Merlot! Now, supposedly, there's something known as "Male Menopause." I'm just not buying it. Sounds to me like something men invented, so we'd feel sorry for them and cut them some slack. Sorry, guys. We have to deal with breasts, periods, (for that matter, shouldn't it be "womenstruation" as well?), pregnancy, childbirth, and menopause, on top of constant media messages about needing to be thin, wrinkle-free, sexual maniacs, who can bring in a paycheck, whip up a gourmet meal, raise the kids, clean the house, and still give our man a backrub at the end of the day. We don't feel sorry for you. Not. Gonna. Happen. Ever.

I asked my husband this question today, and he has a male perspective on the issue. He says that the term "menopause" has to have been invented by men to "warn" other men about insane hormonal women. Men, watch out! Pause, before you do or say anything that might set off the crazy, unpredictable, hormonal, She-Devil walking this way. Could be. Sounds like something a man would do...

A final note: While I am in favor of changing "menopause" to "womenopause", and "menstruation" to "womenstruation", I am NOT in favor of changing "mental breakdown" to "womental breakdown." Why? Because, let's face it, most of the breakdowns we have are directly related to the men in our lives. They can keep that one!

Don't tell ME ketchup doesn't count as a vegetable!

Somebody asked me today why the name of my blog is "ChickenNuggetMama." Well, I had a conversation (translation: meltdown) with some other moms when my boys were almost 2 and 3 that led me to give this particular title to my blog. (Yeah, my guys are 12 months, 18 days apart. SIGH. That partly explains the meltdown...) Anyway, from the moment I first became a Mom, I was bombarded with messages about the importance of giving my kids a well-balanced diet, teaching them early to love fruits and vegetables, exposing them to a variety of foods at an early age so they won't be picky, staying away from anything processed, avoiding salt and sugar, blah, blah, blah.....Now, I have two little boys who have been incredibly picky eaters from the time they were born. Anyone who has kids who are "good eaters" absolutely cannot relate to the medieval torture chamber that is the dinner table at meal times with picky children. I dread most meals even now, and it was waaaaaay worse back then. "C'mon, sweetie, just take a little taste...Yes, you can dip it in ketchup...No, don't spit it out...No, sweetie, just chew it up...C'mon, just one little taste...No, don't spit it at your brother...I said don't spit it at your brother....Do NOT feed it to the dog!...It does not taste like poop...Please just take a little bite...It will make you big and strong like Daddy......I know it's the same color as a booger, but it really tastes yummy....You can have a cookie if you eat one bite....." At least now my boys will eat peas, carrots, corn, and a wide variety of fruit. (They will also eat broccoli now, because I told them super heroes love broccoli and that eating it might give them super powers too. If they ask why their super powers haven't shown up yet, I figure I'll just keep telling them that they don't have enough broccoli built up in their bodies to give them actual super powers yet. Eventually, they'll figure out the truth for themselves, but by then I'm hoping they'll love broccoli. I know, I know, I'm a terrible mother!) Back then the only food they would eat was some shade of yellow, brown, or beige...dipped in ketchup. Which brings me right back to chicken nuggets. So there I was in the kitchen, surrounded by some of the other mothers I know, wracked with guilt over my own maternal failures, exhausted from 2 1/2 solid years of sleep deprivation, a little sloshed from the wine we were drinking, and somebody starts talking about how they only feed their children organic food. Now, I was all prepared to give a little chuckle at the chances of that really being true, when one of the other moms piped in with, "Oh yes, me too. In fact, I have always made all of my own baby food from organic fruits and vegetables. You know, it is so important to take charge of your child's nutrition." Wouldn't you think it would end there? But, no. It went on and on with these incredible, unbelievable, "super-moms" talking about making all of their bread from scratch using whole wheat flour, never cooking anything that comes out of a box, and their miracle children who eat asparagus and mushrooms and eggplant (Yes, eggplant. Are you kidding me?!!). I remember distinctly looking around the kitchen at these miraculous women who all seemed so much more capable, calm, and responsible than me, downing my wine in about 3 gulps, and blurting out, "I am a CHICKEN NUGGET MOMMY! My kids live on chicken nuggets, instant mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese from a box , milk, and apple juice. That's all they'll eat. Oh, and hot dogs too. And they dip everything in ketchup. Ketchup is a vegetable in my house!" (I know, tomatoes are technically a fruit. Whatever. That's just never seemed right to me.) Then I dissolved into that maniacal laughter that bursts out when you're really, really, really on the edge of hysteria. There was a pause which seemed to last forever, during which they looked at me -- disheveled, exhausted, buzzed, and clearly verging on the precipice of a major mental breakdown, looked at each other, and then (and this is why I love my female friends so much) somebody said, "Oh, you poor thing. You must have picky eaters." At which point I found myself enveloped in hugs, surrounded by warmth, love, sympathy, and helpful suggestions. More importantly, one of these lovely women immediately refilled my wine glass. Yes, I am a Chicken Nugget Mama.

A Toast!

I was lucky enough to spend the last day in the company of some of the most amazingly strong, competent, intelligent, creative, sassy ladies I know. On the drive back, I just kept thinking about how fortunate I am to know these women, and others like them. So, I vowed to write a toast to them when I returned home. However, after being away from my husband and sons for almost 24 hours, the reality was that I first had to reverse the damage done by the tornado that apparently blew threw my house during my time away, leaving clothes, toys, couch pillows, dirty dishes, grass, sticks and rocks (???), blankets, and shoes strewn all over the place. Those damn tornadoes -- How is it that they always blow through when I'm on one of my exceedingly rare trips away from the house? It's a mystery!

But, I digress.....So now, a toast!

To women, near and far away
Who wake and bravely meet each day
Of challenges -- Small and immense
With courage, humor, common sense.
Too many bills, a lousy boss,
Aging parents, grievous loss,
Marriage struggles, cellulite,
Teaching children wrong from right,
Menstruation, menopause,
Pressure to fix all the "flaws",
Relationships fragile as glass,
Kicking cancer in the ass!
Here's to every one of you,
For all you are, for all you do.
Cheers!

It's your turn to clean up the vomit, honey!

Ahhhhh, the joys of parenthood. Hugs, kisses, cute little drawings hanging on the refrigerator, tickle fights, snuggles, chalk art on the sidewalk......Makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside, doesn't it? And then there's the other stuff. I'm talking specifically about boogers here. Boogers and other bodily fluids. Nobody warns you about the seemingly unlimited quantities and varieties of nasty goop that come out of small children. From all bodily orifices and usually showing up at the most inconvenient time and place (like dripping over the shoulder of your favorite black blouse that you JUST took out of the dryer and put on for work). The sheer quantity of the stuff constantly amazes me. How is it even physically possible for that much mucous/vomit/diarrhea/pick-your-bodily-fluid to come out of one little boy? And, why oh why, am I writing about such a disgusting topic, anyway? Because that's my life. And because today was one of those exceedingly rare occasions when it wasn't MY job to clean it up. Heh, heh. I had a work meeting that just couldn't be postponed this morning, so my darling husband, love of my life, had to stay home to take care of the sickies. Now, in defense of my own mothering instinct (and to make sure that nobody thinks I am a heartless wench for being callous about my husband having to deal with the fluid issue), I was the sole caregiver for the last two full days of runny noses, hacking coughs, high fevers, diarrhea, and the really, really bad behavior that accompanies two little guys who both feel genuinely crummy and are competing for every second of Mommy's time and attention. So, I have good reason to get a little chuckle out of it being somebody else's turn for a change. And, as I walked out the front door (running late, as usual), hearing my littlest boy starting to make that retching sound that comes right before an explosion of vomit, I cheerily called out, "Honey, the oxy-clean is on the shelf above the washing machine. Love you!" And, I am slightly ashamed to admit, it kind've brightened my day.

Everything in my house is sticky.

Everything in my house is sticky. Seriously. Two little boys, two big dogs, and a husband who is a lovely person but who seems to have never even thought of picking up a sponge and wiping down a counter (let alone bending down to pick up his stinky socks and putting them inside -- yes, actually inside -- a hamper), all packed into 1100 square feet. Oh yes. Sticky. It's not that I am a horrible housekeeper living in some sort of unhygienic pigsty. In fact, I have learned to clean constantly. I clean the toilet while the boys are in the bath. (Why not? I'm already down on my knees in the bathroom. May as well...) I vacuum almost every day to combat the combined effects of hairy black dogs who shed constantly and small boys who leave a trail of crumbs, juice droplets, used kleenex, and lots and lots of dirt wherever they go. Since this is the only regularly scheduled exercise I get, I just consider it my "workout". I never walk through a room without wiping something off, picking something up, kicking something into a closet, or just putting something into a pile, so it at least looks like it belongs there. I'm not a slob. I really, really, really try to keep up with it, but it's a never-ending battle in a house full of boys. (I am including my beloved husband under the category of "boys" in this particular situation.) So inevitably, I grab a chair to move it -- and my fingers stick to some sort of leftover food, beverage, playdoh, paint, dog saliva, or mystery particle that is stubbornly attached to the back. I reach across the counter to grab my cup of coffee (which I can never seem to get to until it's already turned cold -- what is that all about? A blog for another time, perhaps...), and my sleeve sticks to the smear of grape jelly left behind by the aforementioned husband when he made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for himself and the little guys the night before. I move around the living room, attempting to control the endless chaos by throwing cars, trucks, books, zoo animals, etc., into any nearby basket/container/box/crate/drawer that seems to have room, and everything I touch seems to have a slight stickiness which causes it to cling briefly to my palm before it sails off to a temporary new spot with a bairly discernible "plop" sound as it separates from my skin. Finally, I find a moment that is not taken up by entertaining, refereeing, cleaning, organizing, disciplining, bill-paying, or laundry, and I sink into a kitchen chair, rest my chin in my cupped hand for a moment of peace.....and my elbow sticks to the table. SIGH.