Return Address of the Jedi

My son, although only three, knows almost as much about Star Wars as your average twenty-something male superfan. (Things they also have in common: virginity and living with their mother.) Ok, that was mean. Point being, the best part of his day is when we drive by the R2-D2 mailbox. I really earned some Mom points today by letting him get out of the car and see it up-close. (That should make up for forcing him to eat tacos for dinner every night this week.)

Have a good day, and
Mail the force be with you.

Happy Birthday To You, You Live In A Zoo, I'm Not Just Teasing, It's Actually True.

We celebrated Maddy's seventh year of hell-raising on planet Earth this week with a family shindig over at my mom's house. My mother showed off her Cake Goddessery by making a strawberry-and-vanilla checkerboard cake, which was equal parts delicious and confusing.


How do they do that?


Seven years. Whoa. Seven sounds exponentially older than six, which sounded exponentially older than five, etc. The morning of Maddy's birthday, I was getting very sentimental about my baby girl, being so grown up. In a lot of ways, I don't think of her as a daughter, but more like my sidekick. Sometimes I get sad when she's at a friend's house or with her dad because I want to spend time with her, because there's things I want to tell her, things I'd like her opinion on, like she is a peer. For a long time, it was just Maddy and me against the world, and that team connotation often times is more prominent than an overwhelming maternal feeling. She doesn't give me much of a chance to feel maternal, since she's been out-diva-ing me since she was two. These were the things I was thinking about as I was watching her get ready for school on the morning of her birthday, watching her as she checked out her reflection, making sure her bangs were perfect, then doing a full turn to check out her outfit in the full-length mirror. All growds up.


I was reminiscent that morning almost to the point of being morose, despite the fact that Chris and I were heading straight to my doctor's after we dropped the kids off at school. Chris was extremely excited- it was the day of the potentially-gender-determining-ultrasound, but I couldn't get too jazzed- I was so preoccupied thinking about all things Madelynn. I was also trying not to get my hopes up because both of my children required multiple ultrasounds to figure out what sort of equipment they were packing. Imagine that- my kids, shy? No, I don't think that's it, I think of it more as them being uncooperative. Ah yes, makes perfect sense.

Once we were in the dark ultrasound room, watching our baby on TV, I snapped out of my melancholy. There was Baby, wiggling and waving, face pressed right up against my uterus. And then there was the baby's body in profile, where the sound waves from the ultrasound machine projected such a clear image that it cast shadows through the spinal column like rays of sunlight through clouds. As the ultrasound technician moved the wand over my belly, the baby turned it's head to look at us dead-on. That part was kind of creepy... but, you know, really awe-inspiring at the same time. And, on the morning of my not-quite-a-baby girl turning seven, I got a present- the opportunity to do it all over again with another baby girl.

Here's to more pigtails, more bows, and more pink cakes in our future!

Photo Friday

Because The Crazy Hip Blog Mamas say so, I am posting this pic for this week's Photo Friday: Your Silly Little Baby Face. So, this might not techinally be the silliest photo I have on record, but the brilliance behind it is that while this shot is completely candid and taken mid-fit, Brady actually looks like he's having fun. This was a tough day... If you didn't catch the pic/post the first time around, it's right over here.

The rest of the submissions will put a smile on your face. Go give them a look-see if you have time. If you're intersted in anything crazy, hip, blog, or mama related, there's some brilliant blogs over there!

Fart jokes always go over big.

Maddy: Look at that horse's buttocks!
Brady: Buttocks? My buttocks- it says "Pfffffffttttttttttttttttttt!"

By the skin of his baby teeth...

When Brady was being assembled in the Baby Building Factory, he was equipped with a life-preserving device, something I have come to refer to as the "Charmometer". This child can tell when he is within seconds of pushing me over the edge, and at the precise moment where I am seeing red and about to have a nervous breakdown, he whips out the most angelic, TV Sitcom Cute Kid routine and earns himself the privilege of seeing another birthday. This picture was taken in the midst of one of this morning's many tantrums/fits/crying jags. To narrow it down for you, this one didn't involve urinating- that came about 20 minutes later. This entire morning felt like Brady was at war with the little angel/devil on his shoulders. The angel was bound and gagged, and the devil was slipping Brady skittles and double-dog-daring him to see how far he could go before I threatened to send him away to Swiss Boarding (Pre)School. Let me just put it this way: I was so overwhelmed this morning that I wanted to tell Brady, "Oh yeah, keep it up Kiddo. I'M ALREADY GROWING YOUR REPLACEMENT!", but I didn't. Instead, I called my breakfast date to tell her I was running late, and cried the whole way to my pancakes.

Needless to say, when it was time to pick Brady up after school, I wasn't looking forward to it. As I walked through the door of his daycare, Brady came barging towards me full speed and locked himself around my legs. "Mommy! Know what? I missed you!" (Insert maternal heart-melting noises here.) All I really have to say is that I am so thankful that the aliens who abducted my son while he was at school could not have picked a better day to do it. Boarding School will have to wait until next semester.

Good intentions and interventions.

I had to make a quick grocery store run on my way home from work/picking up the munchkins, and I had a very strict list. All I wanted to get was something to cook for tonight's dinners. I use the plural because I've become accustomed to eating two dinners- a little snack with the kids when they eat, and then another little something with Chris when he gets home from work a few hours later. I would like to take this opportunity to point out that my health care professional recommends that I eat many small meals a day, and I'm not just a glutton. For the most part.

I asked Chris what he wanted to eat tonight, and he asked me to just pick up some snacks. He said he wanted apples with peanut butter, or maybe a ceaser salad. (I might have mentioned something about not wanting to buy any more junk food- and for the record, I meant it at the time.)

I didn't manage to make it out of the grocery store with apples.
Or peanut butter.
I did remember to grab a bag of ceaser salad mix.
And ice cream.
Or, more accurately, ice creams.

I use the plural because... I couldn't help it. I was powerless! Last night after dinner, I was hit with an overwhelming urge for something cold. (I know. Most people crave flavors, and I'm the weirdo who goes and craves a temperature.) I would have killed a man bare-handed for some ice cream last night. Not wanting to find myself in a similar predicament tonight, I thought there was no harm in strolling through the frozen food aisle. Well, once I opened the door for my urge for dessert, common sense had not only left the building, but got ran over in the parking lot. I couldn't stop at one pint of Ben & Jerry's, because I couldn't possibly decide between my Old Standby and a new flavor I'd never seen before. I had every intention on stopping there... but then, when my kids began salivating the moment said pints hit the shopping cart, I became really protective. Sure, they're my hearts and souls and all that sappy stuff, but do I really want to share my ice cream with them? The answer to that question is embodied in the quart of Root Beer Float ice cream that I threw in the cart so quickly, it almost bounced. Then I noticed the bright yellow tags behind that freezer door, yellow tags teasing me with the promise of a better bargain if I bought two. I would be very impolite of me to turn down such hospitality, so I picked up some Breyer's All Natural Strawberry. Did you see that? "All Natural." So it's good for me. Natch.

The "low" of my shopping experience had to be when Madelynn was unloading the shopping cart as we were getting ready to check out.
"FOUR ice creams, Mom?"
"Yeeeeep!"
"But Mom," in a hoarse whisper, "what are people gonna THINK?"

Breyers Ice Cream: Two for $6, with Club Card
Ben & Jerry's: $3.99 a pint
Having Your Six Year Old Discourage Your Ice Cream Purchase: Effed Up.


Half of Brady, with our magnificent array of frozen delights. (Maddy was too embarrassed of me to be pictured.)

I'd actually prefer to wake up and smell the roses.

Very high on my To-Do List:
Teaching my son the importance of flushing.

Nothing says "Good morning!" quite like a little poop floating around in the toilet.

Not-Mommy-Approved-licious

At the risk of all my street cred flying out the window, I'm going to be brutally honest.

Last week, I purchased my first ever... deep breath... first ever Edited Version of a song.

Maddy has developed this penchant for Fergie- and more specifically, the song "Fergilicious." I blame my sister for that one. Now, if you know me, you know my taste in music is wide enough to include my fair share of guilty pleasures that I don't mind owning up to. (I call to reference Ashlee Simpon and Kelly Clarkson.) However, please believe me when I say that the choice to add this song to my iTunes library was strictly for Maddy. With that in mind, having never heard the song in it's entirety, I opted to purchase the edited version.

So, the version of the song that Maddy gets to listen to says "shhhhh" instead of "shit". Whoopee! I had only heard my daugher and sister singing the chorus of the song when I bought it, and had no idea it contained lines like "I got reasons why I tease 'em, boys just come and go like seasons," and "I know I'm comin off just a little bit conceited when I keep on repeating how the boys wanna eat it." Hearing my six year old sing that made me fear getting arrested in my own home... not to mention the conversations I'll be having with her ten years from now.

The complete dorkiness I felt for buying an edited song was quickly eclipsed by worries of my daughter becoming a stripper. You think I would have learned my lesson after the great Pussycat Dolls Debacle of 2005, but I guess I'm still learning.

This begs a bigger question- one bigger than "What's wrong with Maddy saying things like 'They'll be lining down the block just to watch what I got'?" That question is this: does this mean I have to start listening to KidzBop???

License To Drive.

Brady: Mom, can I drive my nuts?
Me: WHAT?!?!?!?
Brady: Mom. Can. I. Drive. My. NUTS?
Me: Brady, what are you talking about?
Brady: Maddy said I was driving her nuts, can I drive mine?

Santa Baby

I used to love Christmas. The entire season was magical and almost hypnotic, something to look forward to all year. Now? Now I just think it's a huge pain in the ass. I'll tell you what I like. I like the idea of Santa, jiggly jello belly and unruly facial hair, going about his business from the North Pole all year long, delegating toy-making tasks to his minion of elves while he meticulously checks, rechecks, his list. I like to think of Mrs. Claus, puttering around the kitchen in her apron and halo of curly silver hair, her only goal to have a batch of cookies fresh from the oven as soon as Santa walks through the door. I stopped believing in Santa aroundabouts my eighth year of life when I woke up Christmas morning and tore down the stairs, only to find out that in addition to the cookies I left out for Santa, he devoured a whole pint of Baskin Robbins Very Berry Strawberry ice cream. MY whole pint of Baskin Robbins Very Berry Strawberry ice cream, might I add. And a twelver of Bud Light. I knew immediately that Santa would not do something like that, not to me. My step dad really dropped the ball that year. Instead of stepping up to bat and admitting that he ate my ice cream and washed it down with a dozen beers after I was asleep, he penned a Thank You note from Santa.

"Dear Nikki, thank you for the delicious cookies. I was still hungry from my long journey, so I hope you don't mind that I helped myself to your ice cream. I know it's your favorite, and I know you had to beg your mom to get it, and I know you were saving it for later, but it was really good. Don't worry about those beer cans, it's Rudolph who drives the sleigh anyway. So yeah, thanks for being such a good girl this year! Next year, try not to be such a smartass to your step dad. He's a cool guy. Love, Santa."

The note might have been convincing, had my step father remembered to disguise his handwriting. So there I was, Christmas morning, wearing pajamas with feet, and realizing that not only did Santa not exist, but my step dad was a real piece of work.

Fast forward almost two decades later, where I find myself, almost comically, on the other side of the chimney. I wish I could have the innocence of my children, and more importantly, the enthusiasm and optimism. I am a Scroogey McScrooge, bah humbugging all over the place. Once you know all the tricks, the illusion isn't so fun anymore. Santa really is just some man in a suit- and I don't even get to sit back and enjoy the show. Now I'm forced into the suit myself; tired, broke, and with an extreme inability to attractively wrap presents. I will put on the Santa show for my children while they're still willing to believe it, because they deserve a little magic. Well, and because "Santa is watching you" motivates them to be a hell of a lot nicer than "because Mommy said so!"
But who's gonna sneak presents under the tree for me? Because I really want a Wii and a Scooba and some new jeans and those Vans I've been lusting after since last March, and I really want to believe that some fat man is just going to give them to me, on account of me being a good girl all year. I almost wish I'd chosen to still believe in Santa, even if that meant accepting him as a fridge-raiding binge-drinker. It's still a whole lot better than Santa being... me.

Kids, these days...

And we wonder.

Revenge is a dish best served after the kids are asleep.

Parenting is a thankless job most of the time. Do my children ever look at me adoringly and say "Gee, Mom, thanks for enduring that really painful labor!" or "I really appreciate the fact that even though I threw up all over your favorite pillow, you still let me sleep in your bed when I'm sick!"? Um, no. They have no idea about the sacrifices I make for them to have happy kiddie lives. I do it because I love them more than I'd ever imagined possible. I do it because one day, they might have to take care of me. I do it because on Halloween, they get an infinite supply of candy that I can totally raid as soon as their sugar-highs wear off and they fall asleep.

And I think to myself...

Have you ever met somebody, bonded with them, and then tried to remember what it was like before you knew and loved them? Have you ever answered the question "How did you meet?" with, "Well, through a friend of a friend of a friend?" I have the internet eqivalent of that, and it's the site Crazy Hip Blog Mamas. Although I might be on the wilder, more unconventional end of the spectrum of Mamas, I have lost hours reading the blogs of the members, laughing and crying and knowing exactly what they mean.

Long story short- I know, TOO LATE!- every so often, they post a Writing Prompt, and it's that time again. It's not an assignment or a competition, but a collaboration to a group that I would love to contribute something to. I can't give every Mama a pedicure or bake cookies for every child in the world, but it's nice to be a part of something and I gotta earn my keep somehow. Let's face it- answering a question is a lot easier than dealing with dirty Mommy Feet (no offense, mine are the worst!) and probably more appreciated than loading kids up with sugar ("Junior get off the ceiling this instant!").


Q: "What song/movie best tells the story of your life/family?"
A: There are no movies that I can compare my life and family to. No movies, but plenty of Soap Operas. All My Children, for one. The Young and the Restless! Daze (I totally meant to do that) of Our Lives. (Ha! But I digress!) So I ruled movies out pretty quickly, and started racking my brain for songs. Music is more my thing anyway, there has to be something... (Elapsed Time: 27 hours) No, nothing really here either. Instead of dwelling so much on finding something that mimics my life, I figured that I'd be better off just trying to identify with something that can describe it. What's my anthem?

When I'm going out, I have to play "Bad Reputation" by Joan Jett. When I'm working out, I listen to Metroid The Band. When I need a pick-me-up, it's "Just Like Heaven" by The Cure, and nothing makes traffic more tolerable than Boston's "More Than A Feeling." When I think about my life, as a whole, and the family I come from and the family I've made, the one song that sums it all up is What A Wonderful World. (Not to loose all street cred, I'd like to add that my favorite version is the Joey Ramone cover, although the original by Louis Armstrong is divine. Obviously.) The song, like me, expresses the sentiments that life is great and we're lucky to be living it. Is getting a flat tire really that bad- we have red roses and fluffy clouds and people to share them with. Even when you have a bad day... you have a new one tomorrow. Usually this song inspires me to get lost in optimistic existential thought, and by the time it gets to the line "I see babies cry, and I watch them grow/ They'll learn much more than we'll ever know", I can't help but tear up. What mother doesn't think her world has been made a wonderful place only because of the child(ren) we've been granted to show it to? Who isn't humbled by the thought of that? A chocolate shake is DAMN good in and of itself, but something as simple as watching as my kids get their first taste of the magic that happens when you mix chocolate syrup, milk, and plain old vanilla ice cream together makes me giddy. Our world, with terrorism and taxes and people who tip less than 15%, might not be perfect, but when someone looks up at you and says, "I wub you, Mommy!", it sure is wonderful. I might be discontent with my job, with my relationship status, with my laundry pile taller than my six-year-old, and my bank account that is so low that afformentioned six year old can count higher than my current balance... but at least somebody wubs me.

Through the terrible twos and the teens and probably every year in between, I might need Joey Ramone to remind me of that every now and then.

A day in the life:

Maddy: Brady, Mom’s taking us to the donut shop!
Brady: The donut shot?
Maddy: No, shoP! ShoP! Shop, with a P.
Brady: The Pee Shop? I don’t wanna go to a Pee Shop!

When life gives you pickles, relish it.

Maddy: Do I have to go to school tomorrow?
Mommy: Yes.
Maddy: Oh, the daily pickles!