Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Would You Like Some Cheese with that Bologna Beating?

Let’s just say little man had THAT KIND OF DAY. Without going into detail now, he was behaving terrible two times 9 bajillion. So, what else would a mother do to remedy this situation but take the tyke for a peaceful, relaxing trip to the grocery store? Please don’t give me an IQ test now. I won’t do very well.

Grocery shopping actually went pretty well, but I still had some pent up frustration and anger from the day’s events to let out. And since I don’t beat my child, I thought, “Why not take this out on some unsuspecting customer at the deli counter?”

When I arrived at the deli to order my cheese, I was the only one there. Preoccupied with my toddler (whom I will add was working his way out of my eyesight – first time out of the shopping cart – IQ falling fast, into the single digits) I didn’t take a ticket. There was nobody standing there and I just forgot. Then I noticed a woman saddle up alongside me and take a ticket and I thought, “Great, now I have to wait.” So I took my ticket like a law-abiding deli counter customer. I looked over to the woman just as she realized she didn’t get a number on her ticket.

Victory! I actually got the first ticket. Remember, I was there before her, anyway. She turned to me and said, “I didn’t get a number, did you?” I told her, yes, I did (and in my head added, “Nanny, nanny poo poo!”). She then pulled the next ticket and had the testicles of a Clydesdale horse to say to me, “Let’s switch, okay?” while jutting her ticket under my nose. So, with absolutely no sarcasm to my reply I stated, “Sure, since I was here first anyway.” (cue rolling eyes, whatever “W” of Clueless movie days). And for those of you who know me, I didn’t make any facial expressions to show my astonishment and disgust because I hide my emotions so well. And for those of you who don’t know me, sometimes I bleed sarcasm.

Well, Deli Man was standing there with a roll of bologna three feet long prepared to club us to separate this cat fight. But, alas, all stayed calm as deli lady caught a clue and realized her asinine remark. I may have lost my schnitzel on her, but I got my cheese – and first, thank you very much.

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

R.I.P. My Sofa

I am a self-proclaimed clean freak, I might possibly go so far as to say germ-o-phobe without wearing the bird flu mask like they do in Asia. To give you an idea as to my germ-o-phobe-ness, I can be seen around the house wearing a Lyson-wielding holster fashioned from a belt and two cupholders from my son's car seat. Just so they're with me at all times in all situations. Because as you moms and dads know, you just never know when you'll get pee'd on - or pooped on for that matter. And it just never hurts to disinfect.

Never in my pre-baby days did I imagine becoming so numb and nonchalant about bodily fluids spewing onto my sofa - or rug - or hair - or shirt. The first time my son spit up on me my reaction was one of, "Uhhh, gross. What is this chunky white stuff? Blech." Time went on, and Monkey Man just didn't have that strong of a stomach. He spit up after every meal, between every meal, and even before every meal. We could count on changing his clothes, and ours, as often as those weird pageant kids change costumes. Eventually it was such a common occurrence that I just laughed, and longed for the day when my primate son would stand on two feet (his doctor told us he probably wouldn't stop this ritual until he was crawling less and walking more).

Our sage green and natural color gingham sofa (of which we took such care of because of their light colors and acute ability to show everything) just couldn’t withstand the hourly beatings of spit up. In the beginning, I aggressively attacked each spot with cleaner, working at it until I was satisfied with its appearance. I think I gave up all hope of ever having a nice sofa around the end of the first month of Monkey Man's life. So I threw in the burp cloth and let him have at it.

I now have the grossest looking couches this side of a fraternity house garage sale. Ever seen CSI where they whip out that black light in the dark to look for those stomach-turning stains? Well, that's my sofa – WITHOUT THE BLACKLIGHT. Thus the reason that there are now slipcovers being delivered from somewhere in Ohio as I write this. I await the UPS guy with such fervor that I now know how my dog feels when he's waiting for us to arrive after being gone for a few hours. I’ll just be careful not to hump the driver’s leg when he arrives.

Sunday, January 27, 2008

The Bagina Dialogues

My 2 ½ year-old son: "Mommy, does Superman have a penis?”

Patient Me: “Yes, Superman is a boy, so he does have a penis.”

My 2 ½ year-old son: “Does Walter have a penis?”

Growing impatient me: “Yes, Walter is a boy dog, so he does have a penis.”

My 2 ½ year-old son: “Do youuu have a penis?” (extra emphasis on you because he knows what the answer is and is trying to elicit some kind of chuckle from me, but this dialogue has happened so many times I can finally deliver my lines with a straight face).

Getting Ready to Lose It Me: “Nooo, mommy is a girl so mommy has a vagina.”

My 2 ½ year-old son: “Wonder Woman has a bagina.”

She’s Lost It Me: “Yes, she does. And if I have to have another discussion like this again, Daddy is getting a basectomy.”

Saturday, January 26, 2008

I Miss Lifetime Movies

Around 2000 B.C. (Before Caden), I guiltlessly lounged around as many Saturdays as possible and watched double, triple, and quadruple features of any Lifetime movie that presented itself to me on said Saturday. Butt on couch, blanket within snuggling reach, I would begin the estrogen fest at approximately noon and depending on the evening’s plans, continue on until it was finally time to shower and present myself to the world (or at least the local dessert shop) or time to move my butt from the couch to the bed. Some movies I would actually see through to completion while others faded in and out depending on how long my nap lasted. Not a thought of wasted days entered my childless mind. There was no waste in teenage pregnancy, murdering adulterers, or vengeful ex-wives.

I’ve traveled the path of grievance for those days of B.C. Days when an afternoon of bad t.v. was just as important as grocery shopping. Days when sleeping in didn’t equate to 7:30 a.m. Days when I could tell my husband, in one complete, coherent sentence, that I’ve decided that I’m not cooking dinner tonight instead of – “I’m not – what Caden? No you can’t sit in the dog’s crate. Cook- No, Caden, we're not having cookies for dinner." Notice thought was never – and is never – completed.

I’ve stumbled along this path when shopping, bathing, awakening, eating, walking, working, breathing, BEING:

1. Denial – “Funny how at 5 a.m. this pillow over my head seems to be playing a continuous loop of ‘Mommy, I awake now!”
2. Anger – “Why can’t I say one $#%^*#* sentence in it’s #&$%@! entirety?”
3. Bargaining – “Seriously Dr. Pediatrician, if you just take him back, I won’t tell ANYONE. It’ll just be our little secret”
4. Depression – “wahhhhhhhh” (that’s me, crying)
5. Acceptance – “Fine, he can stay. He’s 2 ½ now, just 15 ½ years to go. Any chance of parole?”

I grieve for the days when left alone, no husband, no child, I could sit and do NOTHING. In times B.C. it seemed I had all the time in the world. My husband went out tonight with his friend – payback, I guess for leaving him all afternoon with little man while I shopped for window treatments with my mom (an aside - I am a window treatment failure. I would rather spend an afternoon with a tantrum-throwing know-it-all 2 year-old than shop for curtains). I agreed to the tag team - I’m home now you leave - since he’d be leaving only an hour before Caden’s bedtime. That meant just one hour with the whirling dervish and I was FREE. Home Alone. Hands on cheeks, look in mirror - AHHHHHH!

My good-intentioned husband asks me what I’m planning to do tonight. He suggests asking my parents over to keep me company. After 10 years of being together, he knows what I want nothing more (as much as I love him, my child, my parents and the company of others whom I actually enjoy) is to be ALONE. But instead of plopping my free butt on the couch to check out what’s on Lifetime, I tell him my list of things to do in the 3.5 hours that I’ll be awake: remove the rubber ducky border from the bathroom (please note: this was from the previous owners), prime the bathroom, paint the bathroom, write this essay, fold the laundry, do a few scrapbook pages, send some work emails, bathe the dog, take a shower, and read.

Yes, I did say in 3.5 hours. As of now, I have 1.5 hours to go and I have removed the rubber ducky border from the bathroom and that in itself is success (if not just a small triumph in getting that ridiculous bathroom into a condition worthy of peeing in). I’ll see what else I can get accomplished, but I can pretty much guarantee it won’t be a marathon of television for women who hate men. Those days are so over. Now where is that gallon of primer?