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.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
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:
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.
Sincerely,
Elyse
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.
Sincerely,
Elyse
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.
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.
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?!!
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.
Friday, February 18, 2011
And They Lived Happily Ever After
Taking time out to back track today. It’s a very special day to me…
Let’s flash back 10 years…
July 2000
Dating Guy, went to a party with Sister of Guy and Sister boyfriend at Sister boyfriends cousins house. Saw cousin. Ohhh he’s a cute guy (hence forth referred to as Dream Guy ), wanted to talk to Dream Guy, but had Guy so let the whole go.
January 2001, New Years Eve
Said boyfriend dumped me, (I know right?! I got dumped AT A NEW YEARS EVE PARTY!)
End of January 2001
Went to a party to see ex-boyfriend (please insert eye roll at 20 year old stupidity here). Upon entering saw dream guy.
Dream Guy’s friend asked me for my number. Mad at ex-boyfriend, gave dream Friend my number. Friend began calling.
February 14, 2001
Friend sent flowers on valentine’s day. Ohh that’s nice. Actually I still have the card because I thought it was just so thoughtful of Friend to send. Went to Nuthouse Sports Bar at request of Friend to hang out with friends of Friend. Oh what a sweet guy Friend was (is), but I loved his roommate—Dream Guy.
Sat next to Dream Guy and commenced conversation. O.M.G. (I realize that this was all prior to this popular catch phrase, but it fits so shut-it, I’m telling a love story here). My knee was touching his knee under the table. Eeeeeekkkkk!! MY KNEE IS TOUCHING HIS KNEEE!!! And he wasn’t moving his knee away. Did Dream Guy love me too?!! Could it be?
Told Friend, “Sorry I love another.” Since Friend had been calling me for all of one-week, I don’t believe he was heartbroken. Friend remains a friend and is quite the ladies man. I am sure I was easily replaced so don’t go painting me the mean girl in this picture.
February 17, 2001
Went to study session (I feel guilty putting two parties and a bar in one story, so we’ll call it a study session) and tried to flirt my way into the heart of Dream Guy. Hit major road blocks upon my route, but feeling as though there is still a chance. Friend of Friend and of Dream Guy asks me for my number. Noooooo!! I like Dream Guy! I want Dream Guy to ask for my number!
“Sorry, I am actually interested in someone else.” Friend of friend leans over and barfs off side of porch. Apparently friend of Friend had done too much studying that night. Dream Guy leaves with friend of Friend who is feeling under the weather.
Now we arrive upon February 18, 2001…Morning.
Call Dream Guy’s house. “Did you guy’s all get home okay last night?”
Dream guy, “Yes.”
Awkward silence.
Dream guy, “Hey, I heard you like someone. I hope it isn’t me.” Did he just say I hope it isn’t me??!! Awww heartbroken. He was my dream guy.
Me, “Oh no. Don’t worry about it.”
Sad.
5:00 pm February 18, 2001…
AOL Instant Message from Dream Guy. “Hey.”
O.M.G. Flirty instant message conversation begins…flirty instant message conversation continues for hours.
10:00 pm February 18, 2001
Dream Guy messages, “Can I come see you?”
No, it’s too late.
Dream guy “please?”
I cave. “Okay, but you can’t stay long. I have to work in a.m.”
Dream guy arrives at my dorm. My insides are about to explode. Be cool. Be cool. EEEKKKK. Be cool.
Face to face, one on one conversation with Dream Guy. The more we talk, the more I think Ohhhh!! I LOVVVVE him.
Dream Guy says “I’d like to kiss you.” This would be my very last first kiss.
Dream Guy leaves to go to his home. Dream guy stays in my heart forever and ever, for several years dating, for proposal at Pentwater, for wedding, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, for three beautiful healthy babies, two homes, several jobs, and for happily ever after.
Dream Guy I Love You!
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Potty Mouth Itis
My smart, sweet, beautiful, darling daughter suffers from potty-mouth-itis. If you are deeply offended by the taking of the Lords name in vain, please do not read any further and please-oh-please please please do not spend any time with Kinsley.
This all started several months ago. There is a parent in our house, not to be named, who suffers from his own version of potty-mouth-itis. I believe it was through this connection Kinsley contracted her illness. I remain firmly convinced that for a women, when she has children who hormones change in such a way that she uses words like poo, geez, darn and dang in her regular vocabulary.
I’ll admit the first time I heard her tiny sweet little voice saying “G. Damnit” I started cracking up. Then tried to regain composure and sternly said, we don’t say that—it’s not nice. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, we all know that if it is a big NO, then it is way more fun to participate it.
There was the day I took all the kids to the grocery store. Despite being totally brain fried and dripping with sweat from this outing (what in the world was I thinking?!) I am sure that I was still using words like dang, darn, and poo. Still Kinsley must have sensed my stress and felt it the perfect time to drop her own feelings of frustration, G.D .it! (Abbreviation was not used vocally). So what happens next? Oh Greyson replies with the same—G.D. it! Back and forth, back and forth they go. They got a good three speed rounds in before I firmly announced they were NOT going to get M & M’s in the checkout lane if I heard that one more time. Issue resolved.
We reached a new level of potty-mouth-itis when Bo let out a big “grrrrrr” in frustration. Kinsley immediately blurted out what she thought should follow. Super. We have utilized the philosophy of Pavlov’s Dogs to train our 2 year old to respond with swear words when she hears someone being frustrated. Looking on the positive, great job making an appropriate association! On the downside, the chance that she is going to give a big ole’ swear word in the company of someone who is going to be deeply offended therefore forcing me to retract into a hole of shame is increasing. Parent suffering from potty-mouth-itis ceased foul language at this point.
Kinsley sensed the absence of swearing in our home and felt the need to fill it. “G.D. it I pee pee’d in my pants.” “G.D.it, Dora all done.” “The fishies swam and swam all over the G.D. it.” SERIOUSLY???!!! Confession part #2: it is STILL funny each and every single time. I have a terrible sense of humor that loves when my children behave inappropriately. Every time she says it, it’s like I have the good angel and bad angel on each shoulder.
Good Angel: This is not okay Mom. Step up. Be a parent here.
Bad Angel: hahaha!! That was hilarious! Don’t worry, she’ll just outgrow it. Probably every kid swears.
Good angel wins. “Kinsley stop it or you are going to get soap in your mouth.” Kinsley has never had soap in her mouth but she is smart enough to know soap does not equal yum.
The potty-mouth-itis currently remains an issue. It was no surprise when my Mom called to report that Kinsley (who has been having a long weekend at their house) was going around singing G.D. it, G.D.it, G.D. it. UGHHHHH!!! Have no fear—my mother is a genius! Every time Kinsley says it, my mom says in the same emphatic tone, “That’s right. GOD LOVES IT!”
Maybe now people will think potty-mouth-itis daughter is singing praises. I have a feeling the phrase “God love it” will need to be further reinforced before the issue is resolved. Sigh. It could be worse…Greyson could still be declaring in a very LOUD voice, “Mommy, she has a BIGGGGG butt!”
Monday, February 14, 2011
The Lack of a Helping Hand
Do you ever NOT want your kids to do something for themselves? Not because it wouldn’t be good for them, or even that you don’t want them to know how, but simply because you just want to hurry up and do it yourself?
I realize this makes me sound horribly mean and lazy, but I am pretty sure there is not one parent out there that hasn’t stood clenching their teeth while their kid tries to wiggle into their own socks when you are already 10 minutes late for a doctors appointment. For me, this is the biggest test of a parents patience.
Kinsley is my “I do it myself” child. I don’t know if it is a girl thing, a second child thing or just a Kinsley thing but absolutely everything she must do herself.
She is committed to changing her clothes at least 3 times a day. This is not an issue for me at all. Rock on with your fashionista self girl! She loves, loves, loves clothes. She loves folding them (or rolling them in a ball) putting them in her dresser, pulling them out of her dresser, carrying them around the house, and of course wearing them. (Don’t worry, I am not ruining the planet by doing excessive amounts of laundry. I don’t put each change of clothes in the laundry, I do an inspection to determine clean, clean enough or dirty.) Like I said, changing her clothes over and over no issue. Picking out ridiculous ensembles, again no issue. Even having to repeatedly pick up all of the discarded clothes no issue. The issue lies in the “I do it.”
Kinsley is INSISTENT on getting herself dressed. If you are even thinking for a nanosecond, why don’t you just tell her no and do it yourself? Then clearly you do not know my daughter or the stubborn gene that I have passed down to her. To OFFER help would be to ask for a complete and total tantrum of monumental proportions. “I do it. I do it. Self. Self. No. No. No.”
If you dare to tackle her (pardon me, I mean tackle like gingerly holding her on your lap and cooing “let mommy help you darling.”) and manage to hold (hug) her long enough (5-10 minutes) to get her dressed (in the chosen panda bear pants, butterfly shirt and light up tutu) then she will start struggle to free herself from the clothes that have been tarnished by your touch and start the process all over again.
This can go on the entire morning. Generally the process begins again after nap time. So instead of tackling (hugging) her I patiently sit there while she again puts two legs in one pant hole and shoves her arm through the neck of her shirt.
Then comes the pay off—the beaming smile from a two year old who believes she did it all herself. For a moment I feel like I am such a great mom for just sitting and encouraging her, ever so softly putting forth a guiding touch...then she see's the kitty pant, looks down at the panda pants, pulls the kitty pants out of the drawer and I just walk out of the room.
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