Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Singing A Little Diddy Doo

I am not sure if it is an occupational hazard or a genetic condition, but I sing all the time. This isn’t like ¾ of the local junior high school suffering from “Beiber Fever” singing the chorus to “Oh Baby, Baby, Baby,” although is a part of my repertoire.

I can’t even say I restrict myself to normal kid songs and nursery rhymes. We are far beyond “I’ve been working on the railroad.” Even if I were to stick to only kids songs, I know about 5 million. Want to sing a song about ducks? Well I know FOUR. Just about DUCKS! This may be helpful some day in some situation, although I am hard pressed to think of one.
Oh-no-sir-ey! I feel compelled to make up MY OWN SONGS. “I told to you to sit down and eat, sit down and eat, sit down and eat. I told you to sit down and eat, or you won’t get any cook-kiiies.” I would say this is a sanity saving measure to help me cope with the fact that I say the same thing over and over and over again. There is only so many times you can say, whisper, yell, grunt, mumble or sign “because I said so” before you start to think that maybe you should try it in French, Spanish and German because they just aren’t getting it.

This whole la-di-da-de-day thing might be acceptable if I had a singing voice. Let me paint the picture for you of what would happen if I were to audition on American Idol (it is unkind to point out that I am beyond the age limit). Randy would give the classic Randy-jaw-drop-bug-eye look. The camera pans to J-Lo who is scrunching up her nose like she saw someone wearing colored, tapered jeans. And Steven Tyler would say, “I thought you were going to be like blahhhhh (Steven Tyler scream), but instead you were like blahhhh and all I can think is blahhhhh.” You know you’re not good if Steven can find only 3 opportunities, per sentence, to give his famous donkey-got-run-over-by-a-reindeer sound.

At least my kids like it. They ASK me to sing songs to them. Then again, it isn't really like they have other song-singing alternatives. The only benefit I have found to this condition is that I can grocery shop, while singing my grocery list to myself, at the S. Pennsylvania Meijer and no one tries to mess with me.

I'm Mad. And I Mean It!

Dear McDonalds,

I think you are stupid. When I order a CHILD size milk shake, that should clue you in that I am indeed ordering it for a child. I can accept the fact you do not carry child size at that particular location and will gladly take a small for my child.

You kindly ask, would I like whipped cream and a cherry on top? How very gourmet this drive through business has become. But instead of the “Ohh how yum!” you were expecting, I inquire—does it still have a top on it? Yes it does, perfect.

I have provided two very large clues as to what I am looking for:

  • Child Size
  • Lid

I think my expectations would be clear. So can you please explain why you would not think to mention that you are giving me a lid that has a whole the size of a quarter with whip cream oozing out of the top?!

Instead of this letter I should have called you when the freezing cold milkshake went straight down my kids shirt and made him scream like someone was sawing off his arm. I am pretty sure there was a question reagarding this on my drivers test.

What to do when your child is screaming their brains out and you are driving the car?

A) Madly swerve while trying to crane your head to see what in the world is going on.

B) Madly swerve while trying to look in your rearview mirror to see what in the world is going on.

C) Madly swerve while you yelp with fear, what in the world is going on?

D) All of the above

McDonalds, I felt a second inclination to call you when I went to retrieve my kids from their car seats and they along with all of their winter wear was covered in sticky gooiness.

But really, the moment that I started cursing you and your stupid lid with giant hole was when I realized that not only did I have to endure all of the above, but also had to take apart, wash, and put back together TWO carseats that require a P.E. to figure out.

In case I have not been clear, we are in a fight. Even the fact that Kinsley has renamed her baby doll “Baby Chicken McNugget” is not enticing me to forgive you. I will stay mad at you for a very, very, very, long time, or until I need your services as a bribe/reward/emergency feeding situation.



Tuesday, February 22, 2011

The Case of the Cute Mom

There I was in Carter’s, happily browsing through the clearance section (with an extra 20% off clearance and then a 20% off coupon!) when this woman had the nerve to wreck everything. From the back she looked like one of those cute Mom’s, you know the kind who are a size 2. Then she turns so that her profile is blocking the view of the $3.99 and under rack. She not only is a cute Mom but she is a PREGNANT cute Mom. She literally looks like someone shoved a beach ball under her cashmere sweater!

For the record…when I was pregnant with Arlo by the time I hit my 7th month my maternity clothes didn’t even fit. I can’t even say that my entire being looked like a beach ball, more like a beached whale. Now don’t go thinking I am being unkind to myself, my doctor tried explaining to me (without requesting it) the reasons I was so “gi-normous.” I was medically classified as a gi-normous pregnant lady.

The nerve of her ruining my shopping fun. I am peacing-out on Carter’s and going to find some clothes so that I look like cute Mom. I don’t think the fact that I have been wearing yoga pants for the last 4 months is working in my favor. Hello, TJ Max, let’s find some jeans.

That’s a sucky idea. When you are already feeling a little insecure about your appearance, trying on jeans is a sure fire way to make you want to run to the closest Culver’s for a cheeseburger, onion rings and chocolate malt. Now doesn’t that sound counter-productive!

I did end up with several cute shirts and two pairs of fabulous jeans, as well as the determination to officially start a diet. No more of this watching what I eat and then eating chocolate chip cookies while everyone is sleeping.

In the past my mom had fabulous success with the South Beach diet. It’s a modified version of Atkins, but you are allowed some carbs. I LOVE CARBS!! I ask for a second basket of rolls when we go to Texas Roadhouse (and that is when there is only two of us dinning out!) Certainly I can give up carbs and sugar for two weeks.

By 8pm my mind had become possessed by the thought of rolls, soft pretzels, jimmy johns’ subs and anything else that contained flour. Two weeks? I didn’t make it 24 hours! I have a call into Paula Dean to ask her opinion on the matter. I think she will advise that the problem is not the bread, it is that I don’ t have enough butter in my diet. That Paula, she’s a smart cookie.

Mmmmm cookie.

Monday, February 21, 2011

Just Like Me

If you ever want to be acutely aware of your actions and behaviors just have kids. I’ve got two little imitators who watch my every move. Even Arlo has started to mimic my tone and actions, apparently I like to make a surprise face when I look at him and say “Hi” A LOT. Every time any of my kids see a doctor the report is, they sure do excel vocally. You think?!

One of Kinsley’s most favorite things to play with is a cell phone. I’ve found that I can give her a calculator and she thinks it is a phone—if you recall she ate the spacebar in my phone TWICE, so I don’t really trust her with it! She puts the phone (calculator) to her ear, tips her head to one said and says “Heyyyyy!! I good, how you? Oh that good.”

Whenever Arlo or Kinsley are carrying on, Greyson asks “what’s your deal?” You can also see me in his words when he says, “Oh you’re okay. Come here, I’ll give you a hug.”

The whole mimicking thing can be pretty darn cute but it also makes me take note of every single little thing I do or say.

Yesterday I was dying my hair, still trying to recover from the whole “let’s dye it blonde” fiasco. Being that we have well water that makes it so I can’t even run a brush through my hair unless I use special shampoo, I figure it might be good to use a hair treatment before putting dye on it. The last thing I need is to have the dye take funny and end up with purple tiger stripes (this has actually happened before! It was less than lovely!)

I put the treatment on my hair then put a plastic bag on my head to make the heat stay in and help it to work more effectively. My two little monkeys are standing in the bathroom door starring at me. Let’s see, a toddler putting a plastic bag on their own or anyone else’s head?!!

I remain in constant fear of someone suffocating or putting something on anyone else’s head. I don’t know why, I mean just because my kids make absolutely everything from sand buckets to shoeboxes be a hat and I came upstairs one day to find they had piled ALL of the laundry on top of Arlo because he “looked cold” I get a little nervous. We have a very clear rule—do not EVER put anything on Arlo’s face. However, the rules about what you put on your own head are a little vague. I don’t want to hinder their creativity and tell them that they can’t put buckets on their head, what fun would that be?

So I need to be very clear in this whole plastic bag covering hair issue. “Only grownups can put bags on their head. I don’t want to EVER see you doing it. Got it?”

Greyson says with as much enthusiasm and energy as if we were in the land of ChewandSwallow* and it’s raining donuts: When I get big, so big I can touch the ceiling, I am going to put a bag on my head! It will be so cool. I can wear a bag on my head and go and get french fries.

Me: Um sure. When you can touch the ceiling you can do that.

Greyson: Yeahhh!! I can’t wait to get big to put a bag on my head!

I think it is good to have goals and things to look forward to so I just left the whole conversation right there.

*It’s the name of a town in a book/movie. I’ll give you a hint, food rains from the sky. Like Duh.