Red Pen Mama

I could not be happier that the weekend is over and that I can spend most of the week sitting at my desk. I seriously overdid it this weekend, especially at a Burgh Mom’s get together at the zoo, and a long day of sitting is in order.

The Pittsburgh Zoo was awesome, however. I just need to get something to attach to my stroller so it can carry two toddlers, because Monkey was seriously flagging by the time we were heading back to the car. I decided that giving her a piggy-back ride (why is it called a piggy-back ride?) part of the way would be a good plan. Not so much. The small of my back was very bad on Sunday.

Much thanks to my fellow Burgh Mom attendees who were kind enough not to lose us in the crowd out of sheer embarrassment of being seen with me and my children. You see, by the time we all met up, my children — at a perfectly dry day at the zoo — were covered in mud. I proceeded to get quite filthy myself, and I can’t remember the last time I was so happy to take a shower at 3 p.m.

How did such a thing happen?

I managed to park myself in the concession area next to the only mud puddle in the whole zoo. It wasn’t too bad when Monkey decided to step in it; true to form, Monkey was wearing her rain boots. Not because it looked rainy, of course; Saturday was a gorgeous, if hot, day to stroll the zoo. The problem was when Bun, also true to form, decided she was going to do exactly what her big sister was doing. Unfortunately, Bun was not wearing her rain boots. I thought sneakers were a much more reasonable choice.

Silly me.

I could have engaged in a public battle royale with my younger daughter regarding the puddle of mud and her desire to splash in it. Changing tables wasn’t much of an option as it was already close to noon and the place was crowded. I was already sharing my table with two other moms (not the people I was here to meet, but that was okay) and their two kids.

In the end, though, I just let Bun have her fun. First of all, the mud puddle pretty much guaranteed that my children were not going to wander off. Secondly, I was able to just sit for a period of time as I looked for the people I was meeting. Third, I figured “kids playing in mud puddle” was an easy landmark. And lastly: Dirt washes off.

So Bun and Monkey tromped and splashed in the puddle. I managed to keep them from splashing others, which was good. They got some laughs, and I got some glances of sympathy. (Monkey was already getting a lot of comments as her outfit consisted of a cute little orange, red, white and black skort with a white tank — and pink rain boots.)

After us Burgh Moms finished lunch and/or snacks, I got Bun stripped out of her wet and muddy shoes, socks and shorts. For some reason I had dry shoes and socks for Monkey but not for Bun — serious oversight there — so Bun spent the rest of the walk in her stroller, bare feet propped up on her tray. She was lounging. We saw the monkeys and gorillas; all the kids seemed to like each other and get along together, although Alexis was very shy for awhile.

We took off before this fun ensued, and it took us another hour to get to the car (the Pittsburgh Zoo is BIG). Monkey developed a little crush on Gina’s boy, who (and I’m seconding Burgh Baby’s Mom here) needs to be cloned, or at least loaned to mothers of little girls for days at the zoo or similar outings. He was very sweet, and I think Monkey would have followed him into the lion’s den if he was going, and it was quite a trick to separate her from him.

Boy, you’ve got a job if you ever want one.

At bedtime, along with all the animals that we recounted seeing at the zoo, Monkey added, “And I talked to The Boy. I was very shy at first, but then I talked to him!” She smiled to herself at the memory. Oh, dear, I’ve a 3-year-old going on teen. We are so doomed!

I left that zoo sweaty and filthy — those shorts may never be clean again — but it was totally worth it to spend that time with my girls, and meet other bloggin’ moms and their kids. What a good time. Next time I meet the Burgh Moms, though, I hope air conditioning and alcohol will be involved, the kids will be at home, and nary a mud puddle will be in sight. I think I will be able to make a little better of an impression that way.

I am having a deep dilemma. (In so far as blogging dilemmas go, anyhow.)

I really want to write about the X show, and my unique experience of it.

I want to write about what it was like to suddenly be in 1996 again, only this time with my husband, and the knowledge that I had to get up early the next day to take care of my kids.

But it is the Wednesday* after a long weekend, and somehow these things have lost their immediacy.

You may think that I would have had the opportunity, over the long weekend, to actually write about these things. Clearly, this is not the case.

The weekend was very busy. I have to say, it was a good one.

Friday night, for all of its attendant strangeness, was great fun.

Saturday, I bought my herbs, and two tomato plants, and I managed to get them repotted, even with my 3-year-old helping me.

Sunday I got a lot done, too, although DearDR, for all of his good intentions, did not come close to accomplishing what he set out (to plan) to do. Poor DearDR — his “adventures” this weekend would make a whole blog entry themselves.

Bun said several new words this weekend: eye; bug; boo-boo; eat, also making the sign; “mite-mite” for goodnight; “kay” for okay, and a couple of times something suspiciously like thank you, sounding like “tank-oh”. I think she is trying to say Monkey’s name, too.

Much puddle splashing was accomplished (Bun’s nickname on Monday: Stinky McWetpants), and plant watering, and bubble-blowing, and dancing, and digging in dirt.

And then I still have this back-log of experience of Friday night that will not go away. I am going to have to write about it, although it has little to do with my kids or my experience as a mother, which, ostensibly, this blog is about.

Guess I better get on it.

* I had every intention of downloading video and uploading this post yesterday. But then I got a call from Day Care Lady that Monkey had been crying all day and complaining that her ear hurt. I honestly did not believe her at first — Monkey had been great all weekend, more than great. But a 7 p.m. trip to the pediatrician confirmed her fourth ear infection in five months, with the added bonus of a perforated eardrum. We’ll be seeing an ENT (ear-nose-throat) specialist (and a chiropractor) in the next few weeks to figure out what is next.

I have switched up the girls’ bedtime routine a little bit. Bun wasn’t dropping off right away in any case, and it saves me one up-and-down the stairs trip.

I take them together, now, after our nighttime treat and video. We all pile on my glider for a book (lately it’s been “On the Day You Were Born”, which is beautifully written and illustrated — we’ve read it so many times that I almost don’t cry when we reach the end — oops, off topic here…), then I send Monkey to wait in her room while I sing Bun a lullaby and lay her in her crib.

Then Monkey and I brush our teeth, she goes potty, and I sing two lullabies to her before lots of hugs and kisses for the night.

Last night, Monkey decided to go potty without me, which is not unusual.

What was unusual was the way she was standing in front of the potty with her legs and her, ahem, pudenda pressed up against the bowl.

“What are you doing?” I asked. My bewilderment was already giving away to suspicion that I knew exactly what she was attempting to do.

“I’m standing up to pee,” she replied.

Of course.

“Honey, you can’t stand up to pee. Girls have to sit down.”

“Oh.”

I got her sitting on the potty.

“Do you sit down every time, Mommy?”

“Yes, I do. Girls have to sit down.”

Pause. I knew it was coming:

“Daddy doesn’t sit down every time.”

“No, honey.” It was my turn to pause. How much do I explain now?

“See, honey, daddy has a penis. That’s why he can stand up and pee.”

“Oh.”

That seemed to be the end of the conversation. But I’m sure we’ll have many more like it in the years to come.

What would you/do you/did you tell your daughter?

I am 20 away from 100 things about me. I have definitely hit a block, not only in terms of what else there could be to tell you, but also in terms of time. Way, way short on time. Stress, though? Got that.

I wish every Saturday was just like this.

If you do not want to reach through the screen to cuddle Bun when she says hi to the camera, your heart is made of cold, hard stone.

My voice is super loud on here, but you should really turn up the volume to hear how cute Monkey sounds.

Sorry about Monkey’s pants. We’re working on it. But if she’s like her mama, she won’t have hips until she actually gives birth.

You may have noted that my updates have been few and far between. I want so much to write here, but then I find myself facing 9 p.m. and either: a) a pile of laundry that needs to be folded or b) a book that I really would like to read. Sometimes the kitchen still needs to be cleaned up from dinner, too. And I try to go to bed at 10 p.m. because my days start at 5:30 a.m.

I am not complaining. My job is a very good job; some days are more interesting than others, but almost all of them are busy and pass quickly. The evenings are usually a mix of fun, frustration, chores, and play. Just like when I wasn’t working, actually – just compressed into a couple of hours daily, instead of the all-day, every-day work of being a SAHM. I now refer to myself as a “mom who works outside of the home, too”. I think that fits best. The acronym is goofy-looking, though: MWWOOTHT.

Anyway, N, I am writing this letter to you to kick off a month of posting. I don’t know if I can pull it off. But NaMoBloPo is proposing, in addition to November, that one tries to post for an entire month, randomly. They have proposed themes, and I think I can get behind a letter theme (letter-writing, pics of letters, however letters fit), as April is supposed to be. (What, no poetry? It is National Poetry Month, after all.) And I am writing this letter to you because a lot of the time I think of you when I want to post. You, N, are my target audience. Plus, this is our way of connecting, my way of telling you how I am. It’s easier for me than calling, and more compelling for you to read (I think) than email.

Okay, N, I should run off back to work now. I hope your birthday yesterday was happy, and you got my e-card and my phone message. I miss you a lot, and I hope that we can see each other soon. I am glad we are still friends, even when we don’t get to see each other for years.

I will leave you with this: The other day, we went to a restaurant for dinner. I was on my own with Bun and Monkey. When we didn’t get waited on after 10 minutes, I was ready to pack it in and head home. Monkey threw a fit when I told her we were leaving. She really likes to eat at restaurants. Fortunately, that had the desired affect of getting a server to the table, and I was able to order. When we left, I told Monkey she had been very good throughout dinner, “except for that little meltdown you had at the beginning.” Monkey replied, “Mommy, I don’t melt!”

Don’t you just love how literal children are? In spite of everything they put us through, usually at the end of the day, the memories of their antics bring a smile to our faces.

Love you, N. Kiss your two little buggers for me.

Oh, yeah, I’m expecting number 3 at the end of the year. (Well, technically No. 4.)

Love,
rpm

PS: April Fool’s (just that last part).

Because this is what she typed into Google tonight: b g d

And this is what came up.

Better make sure I stock up on pink, get rid of all blue and black, and hide the baseball caps.

Sorry, no new recipe today. Lot of eating this weekend (after the Good Friday fast); not much cooking.

Instead, I give you this:

Monkey (pointing at spiral-cut ham sitting on top of Bella’s stove): What’s that?

Me: That’s ham.

Monkey: What’s ham?

Me: Pig.

Monkey (clearly incredulous): That’s not a pig.

DearDR (chiming in): Could we save the indoctrination for when she’s a little older?

As a condition of my new job (starting in one week!) I had to pass a drug test.

I know, I know. I laughed, too, when the interviewer told me. I haven’t done heroin in weeks, and I’ve cut out my morning beer since I re-discovered caffiene.

Because sickness is reigning supreme next door, I figured I would just take the girls with me. Besides, I figured it may help if they know the drill in case they ever have to pass a drug test. (And they better pass it, too. I’m not hanging around here being a good example for them to fail drug tests in the future.)

The girls were very good at the center for drug testing. They ate a bunch of graham crackers, “read” books and colored in other books. They charmed everyone there, of course. We also traversed the hallways a few times. There was no running and screaming (not by my children at any rate).

Considering how full my bladder was (”Just come prepared to give a urine sample,” the woman on the phone said blandly when I called to see about making an appointment. I was prepared to the eyeballs), the wait went well.

However, there were a couple notable moments.

The first was when one of the staff told me I would not be able to take my children in the room with me when I gave my urine sample. I guess they were afraid of me trying to squeeze the pee out of Bun’s diaper, or making Monkey pee in a cup.

I would have assured them on the latter point. I did just get her peeing in the potty. I wasn’t about to make her think the stakes were going up.

Another moment happened as we walking around the waiting room. The door from the outside was flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows — plain glass windows. Bun approached one of them, I thought, to put her hands and face against it and look out. No, Bun’s plan was to WALK outside.

She thunked her forehead right against that glass. Then took a sudden step backward. I rushed forward to rub her head and console her, if only I could stop laughing. Bun didn’t even cry, just got this, “What the hell?” expression on her sweet little face.

Nominate me for Mother of the Year.

Then, after the test, one of the people with whom I had been in the waiting room said, of Bun, “He’s a cute one, all right.”

This happens all the time. People almost always think Bun is a boy.

I do not dress her in blue. Her sneakers are pink and white. Her clothes, most of the time, clearly are girls’ clothes. We wear a lot of jeans, but that’s ’cause it’s cold.

Here are my theories:

1. Bun has short hair. Despite being 13-months old, she has yet to need a haircut. (She’s had hair cut, but not an official haircut.)
2. Additionally, Bun is a bruiser, not to put to fine a point on it. She is big for her age, in the upper percentiles in height and weight. She’s not HUGE or anything, but she ain’t a petite little chickie.
3. On top of her size, she is a mover. Bun does not sit still unless there is food involved.
4. (This is the weirdest one) Flora is clearly a girl — long hair, pretty face, girl clothes (not girlie; neither of my girls to this point are girlie girls). And given that, I think people just assume that Bun is a boy. Because that’s what people have, right? One boy, one girl. Then you call it quits.

That last one is a weird theory, to be sure. I know as many couples with one of each as with multiple children of one gender. Hell, my sister-in-law (bro’s wife) has three boys, God bless her. But I have heard many more people with one boy and one girl declare they are done having kids because “we have one of each”.

Maybe that’s the weird thing. The attitude seems to be, “Well, I’m just going to get another one of these two choices, so why try again?”

I don’t mean to hurt anyone’s feelings. I’m just making an observation here.

And trying to figure out how to keep Bun from being mistaken for a boy.

We are going to act like every day is Christmas around here! Or at least dress that way.

Monkey saw the “Santa” hat, and had to wear it.

I put these on Bun because I gave them a bath right after dinner, and I knew she would need another diaper change, and I didn’t want to wrestle with footie pajamas.

Bun puts one and two together and gets cute.

But, really, this is the photo of the week:

“It’s my birthday, and I’ll drool if I want to,” sez Bun. In so many words.

I know that I am supposed to be posting a pregnancy story today, according to my theme schedule. And I am up to Bun, which is an illustrative story with a happy ending. But you know what? I don’t got it, internets.

Last night, I did go out with my grade-school friend M. We had drinks and a great dinner with many other people, and it took about three hours. Then at 10 p.m., I went to a very smoky bar and saw a band (and had a couple beers). We did not get home until midnight. Snoring commenced, and I’ve no idea how long it took me to get to sleep, how long I slept, and how many times I changed locations trying to get into a refreshing sleep. Plus, Bun and Monkey picked this morning to NOT sleep well, and I was up with them.

I have not slept a successive three hours this entire weekend. I don’t know why. Possibly the alcohol consumption — I am used to one drink a night, occasionally two, and this weekend, from Thursday on, has seen me consume more along the lines of four to five a night. I’m such a lush in a social setting. It could be the snoring. It could be simply sleeping in unfamiliar places — in the basement (on a blow-up mattress), in my parents’ room (with my mom; my dad took on the basement since he had to get up at 6:30 a.m. for work). It could be my old friend insomnia. Whatever it is, I am utterly beat, and the idea of actually trying to string together a narrative is beyond my scope.

So I will try to tell you this story instead:

As I have mentioned, the whole fam damily was here for Thanksgiving. My older nephews know how to whistle, and they like to show off their skills. Plus there is a dog in the house, with my sister.

Last night, Monkey was sitting at the kitchen table with Pap-pap and my sister K, and she wanted to give the dog a cracker. So she leaned over and called, “Buddy!” Then she said, “Whoo-ooeet” in a high-pitched voice. She looked at Pap-pap and K and said, “I don’t know how to whistle yet.”