Breakfast of Champions

My definition of what constitutes a meal has changed drastically in the past few years.  My husband and I share dinners while standing at the kitchen counter. Sometimes, we are in such a rush that we have to lean over the kitchen sink just to keep food from falling on the floor as we hurriedly shovel it into our mouths. Sometimes, we have romantic dinners where we actually sit down (on the kitchen counter to keep the ankle-biters from biting our ankles) and savor our food. I have literally tried to hide myself in the pantry while I snacked on chips to prevent the girls from sensing them. If they hear the slightest crunch, they immediately begin circling, like sharks around a bleeding prey.

This morning, as I was working, I looked down and saw a Cheerio stuck to my dress. I plucked it off and popped it in my mouth without the slightest hesitation. I can’t even offer an explanation as to why I ate it without hesitation other than the fact that it was sullying my otherwise professional attire. It was of the Cinnamon Burst variety, so it was actually pretty tasty. As I continued working, I began to wonder about the rogue Cheerio. My kids had not eaten Cheerios for breakfast today and I couldn’t remember the last time that they had snacked on them in the car.

Unfortunately, much of my workday is spent in doctor’s office waiting rooms full of sick adults with sick children who are likely drooling on Cheerios. Had I just eaten a disease-ridden piece of cereal? Does that even qualify for the 30-second rule? I ate it as soon as I saw it, but who knows how many seconds it had been attached to my dress.  The longer I pondered the situation, the more heightened my anxiety level became. After a few cleansing breaths and a squirt of hand sanitizer directly into my mouth, I decided that the benefits of the Cheerio outweighed the risks. I had just enjoyed a “well-rounded” breakfast without interruptions.

The student becomes the teacher

Today, Adam was working with Audrey on counting. She’s great at counting in general; yelling out numbers with enthusiasm, but Adam was trying to teach her to count specific objects. For example, if there are three apples and we ask her how many there are, she replies “One, Two, Three…..Four, Five, Six, Seven....”

She gets excited about the fact that she can count and just keeps going, regardless of the amount of items she was asked to count. So, Adam laid ten toys out on the floor and pointed to each one while he slowly counted them, one through ten. Audrey looked at him with a grin and said “Great job, Daddy! I’m proud of you.”

Pick your poison

I have a love-hate relationship with nap-time. I used to love napping on lazy Sunday afternoons, on rainy days and while I was supposed to be attending my classes in college. Since I have had children, nap-time has become an integral part of my hectic schedule instead of well-deserved break from my hectic schedule. The amount of sleep that my children get during nap-time has a very direct correlation with their behavior. On more than one occasion, I have finished entire books and reread them while waiting for a child to wake from their nap in the car.

Audrey has recently decided that she no longer wants to take naps, which is good because it reduces her ability to fight at bedtime by an hour. The only problem with this scenario is that she still technically needs a nap, but she is the boss and we are just the people who feed and clothe her. At approximately 5:00 PM (otherwise known as The Witching Hour) the wheels completely fall off. She becomes insolent and sullen if we try to reason with her and she becomes hyperactive when we try to reprimand her.

She reminds me of a fly that is trapped inside, buzzing around (screaming) and bouncing off of the walls, but swatting at it only makes it fly around more fervently. Coincidentally, 5:00 PM is when I usually pour myself a glass of wine. It’s too bad that there is a black fly in my chardonnay. Isn’t it ironic…don’t you think?

Par for the course

I arrived at the grocery store today and was so excited to see a single vacant “Customer with child” parking space. As I was pulling towards it, a woman with Gilda Radner hair and rabid eyes cut me off with her minivan and careened into the space. I murmured a few expletives that my daughter later repeated, to my dismay. The woman flung herself out of the van and began jogging to the grocery store. I thought that she must be in such a hurry because she was leaving her kids in the car, or maybe she had forgotten them altogether.

Watching the wild woman was a little like looking in a mirror, so I figured I would cut her some slack. I sighed and resigned myself to another open spot, which was a few miles away. I removed the kids from the car and began hiking across the wide expanse of asphalt, carrying Abby while she kicked and screamed and holding Audrey’s hand like a vise grip while she tried to run into traffic.

As we walked past the minivan in question, I peered nonchalantly into the windows. The car seats in the back were EMPTY! I resisted the urge to rip the heads off of her little stick figure family decal, which wasn’t that difficult because I was totally preoccupied with herding my kids into the store. Once we made it inside, things went from bad to worse. The meltdowns and chaos became too much to handle about halfway through my shopping list. I think it was halfway, but I’m not really sure since Abby ate the list.

I sprinted to checkout, stopping only to pick up items that my kids were tossing onto the floor as we went. Amazingly, I saw Gilda in line right in front of us, idly flipping through a magazine while she waited with her overflowing cart. I glowered at the back of her head as I ripped into a bag of lollipops with my teeth. The lollipops worked like sedatives on my children and we were all able to make it safely out of the store.

I walked right past the woman as she was loading her 57 bags into her minivan. I’m very non-confrontational, so I simply gave her the stink eye until she looked in my direction. She immediately looked ashamed and said “Sorry, I was in a big hurry. I left my kids up the road with a friend.” Apparently, she felt that this explanation was sufficient and that the trauma I endured during the shopping trip should be forgotten.

The injustice would have been easier to swallow if a dopey teenager had taken the spot, but it was taken by another mother who knew the difficulties of shopping with children (so much so that she simply left hers with friends). She may have completed the course in record time, but I am taking a mulligan. I would have left the store with a cart full of groceries if she had not stolen my handicap. Her follow-through leaves a lot to be desired.

Sleep like a baby

A full night’s sleep is something that has eluded me since the last trimester of my first pregnancy. It was probably some time in October of 2008 when I awoke in the morning feeling fully refreshed. As a new parent, I expected to endure many sleepless nights with a newborn, but I was entirely unprepared for the fact that the span of sleepless nights would begin long before my baby’s birth and reach far past her infancy.

During my last trimester, sleep was constantly interrupted by the tiny life inside me. She would push with all of her might against my internal organs making breathing difficult, heartburn constant, and causing many fruitless trips to the bathroom. When my baby finally entered this world, my days and nights merged into one continuous state of delirium. Finally, she began sleeping through the night and instead of following her lead, I would repeatedly wake with a start to make sure she was still breathing.

My comfort level with her ability to survive the night increased at the same time that she got her first cold. When she got over her first cold, she began teething, which caused inconsolable crying at all hours of the night. Eventually, the majority of her teeth broke through the gums and I breathed a sigh of relief. It was an abbreviated sigh though, because I was having difficulty breathing again due to the fact that I was in the last trimester of my second pregnancy.

Recently, I thought the unattainable goal of sleep was within my grasp, but it turned out to be a mirage. Abby has finally finished teething, but Audrey has now started waking up and screaming irrationally about “something scary” and needing to “sleep in the big bed”. She sleeps in our bed the same way that she slept in my womb. She pushes with all of her might against obstructions until I am balanced on the edge of the bed with her elbow in my eye.

Adam and I were watching a show the other night where the contestants hide $100,000 and then attempt to keep the location from the police that are interrogating them. The contestants are placed in a jail cell for 48 hours and if they keep the money hidden, they win it. Adam glanced at me and said “We should go on this show. It would be great. Can you imagine being locked in a cell for 48 hours? We could sleep.” So, the prospect of sleeping in a jail cell is actually more exciting than winning $100,000. When you see us on the news acting like Bonnie and Clyde, just remember, it was all for a good night’s sleep.

Three’s a crowd

There have been many times that I have yearned for a third child, but today was not one of those times. Bath time is usually one of my favorite times of the day because watching my girls splashing and giggling brings me such joy. Tonight, I pulled Abby out of the tub, dried her and was getting ready to put on her diaper when Audrey hopped out of the tub and began running towards us. The combination of a wet child running in the bathroom ended in a disaster filled with wailing and tears. I left Abby and gathered Audrey in my arms. I tried to calm her and figure out exactly where she was hurting.

Abby ran over to us to investigate and slipped in the puddle that Audrey had just created. She went airborne and smacked the floor in the exact same way that her sister had seconds before. It was like a Laurel and Hardy short. I would have laughed, but that would have been a totally inappropriate reaction to my crying children. As I cradled one child in each arm, I realized that there is no way I can have a third. If there had been another child slipping around, tonight’s events would have been reminiscent of the Three Stooges instead of Laurel and Hardy and I could not have contained my laughter.

What’s yours is mine, what’s mine is mine

Abby’s newest word is “mine”. It is definitely a product of being a second child and having to share all of her possessions since birth. Most children Abby’s age are saying things like ball, dog and car. I believe that she definitely recognizes these things and possibly knows the words for all of them, but currently her response is the same for all “mine”. I’ve read articles on the subject of sharing and most mention the fact that toddlers learn best from example.

When Abby first sees me in the morning, a huge grin breaks across her face and she stands on her tiptoes with her little arms outstretched to me. I scoop her up out of the crib and she wraps her arms around my neck and lays her head on my shoulder. This sweet baby hug lasts until she brushes sleepiness aside and it is the only time during the day when she is still. When others get her up in the morning, she squirms in their arms until she is set free. This moment of cuddling is reserved only for me. It is a cherished moment that is mine, and mine alone. Some things simply aren’t meant to be shared.

The Princess and the Pea

Bedtime has become an epic battle of wits at our house, which is unfortunate for me because I have learned that my daughter is much wittier than me. She knows that she holds all the power at bedtime, because I will do ANYTHING to convince her to go to bed. If she required 20 mattresses and 20 featherbeds to reduce her sensation of a pea, I would willingly rent a U-Haul and go straight to the furniture store.

Tonight, I read three books, told four stories (which would all likely be Pulitzer Prize winners if written and published) and took numerous trips up and down the stairs to retrieve the items required to meet her demands. She needed a magic wand, a magic light, a cage for her pony (“No, Mommy! Pony needs the big cage, not the little one!”) and shoes so that her feet wouldn’t get wet. I didn’t even question that last request because the answer wouldn’t make any sense to me anyhow.

I looked in on her a little while ago and breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of her sleeping. I wasn’t sure if she would even fit in the bed with a drumstick, a flashlight, two colanders, and galoshes, but none of it appeared to be any more bothersome than a pea to my princess.

Reverse Psychology

My daughter is terrible at hide-and-seek. Normally, once you find the person who is hiding, it becomes your turn to hide, but my daughter never allows this. As soon as I “find” her hiding in plain sight, she demands that I “Count to three again, Mommy!” Three may seem like a small number where hiding is concerned, but it really only takes one second to hide in the same place over and over again.

So, I close my eyes, count to three and begin searching the house, after stepping over her and pretending that she is not there. She is covering her eyes and giggling, which would be a dead giveaway of her location if she didn’t happen to be hiding right in the middle of the floor.

Amazingly enough, there have been many occasions at the mall when I have completely lost her among clothing racks. In those situations, I didn’t have to count to three, all I did was blink and she was gone. Maybe Audrey would be better at hide-and-seek if I called it “Shopping".

Miss Manners

We are trying to teach Audrey some manners. Being polite is definitely not a requirement in today’s brusque world, but it is a simple act of kindness that is still appreciated. We would like Audrey to say “Yes, sir” or “Yes, ma’am” when an adult asks her to do something.

This concept is actually foreign to me because it is only seen in the South. I almost had a heart attack the first time someone said “Yes, ma’am” to me. I thought that I must be elderly and senile and had simply forgotten that I was elderly, because I am definitely not a “ma’am”. This expression of respect eventually grew on me, like many things in the South, such as mullets (which my kids have both rocked during various phases of hair growth).

Yesterday, Adam was reminding Audrey of the fact that when Daddy asks her to do something, she should say “Yes, sir” and her reply was “No thank you, Daddy”. Today, the notion of refinement is gaining momentum because when Adam requests something of Audrey, she replies “Yes, ma’am”. I’m pretty sure she’s ready for the debutante ball.

That’s all she wrote

“I love hugging you, Mommy.” -Audrey

In it to win it

Competition is natural and we all want to have the “best” children because we feel that it reflects on our abilities as parents. New mothers track every milestone and measure success based on whether or not their baby is reaching these milestones at the same rate as other babies. There is a woman in every group of mom friends who doesn’t recognize the distinction between celebrating success of your children and living vicariously through them.

You can recognize these women when they say things like “The birth of my child was beautiful. I loved being in labor and each contraction was orgasmic.” A woman who says things like this is a liar, or if she truly believes these things, she is a heroin addict. So, back to the fact that competition is natural…I win! These women also compare strange things, like growth. “That’s too bad Abby is only in the 10^th percentile. Little Johnny is in the 95^th percentile, he’s probably going to be a star basketball player.”

These “one-uppers” will plague us for our entire existence as mothers, from the hospital delivery room, to P.T.A. meetings, to high school graduation. They will star in their own television shows documenting their coaching abilities as pageant moms and when their daughters get asked to their first prom, they will brag about the fact that they wear the same size and they found the perfect dress that fits them both!

If you are reading this and thinking that you have such a great group of mom friends and that none of them would ever do things like this, then you might want to look in the mirror before it is too late and you end up wearing your daughter’s prom dress.

In the nick of time.

My children have impeccable timing. They spill drinks on the floor right after I mop, they crush goldfish into the carpet right after I vacuum, they smear bananas in my hair right after I style it, and they poop in their diapers right after I change them. They also manage to do the sweetest thing right before I lose all control and patience. First they’re sour. Then they’re sweet. My little Sour Patch Kids.

Never say never

I cannot count the number of times I saw parents with unruly children and thought to myself “My kids will NEVER do that!” One of the great talents of all children is that they make liars out of their parents.

Tall tale: My kids will never run amuck in a public place of any kind.

Terrible truth: I am seriously contemplating leashes because the only way to prevent my kids from running amuck in public places is to not go to public places.

Tall tale: My lifestyle will never change because of my children.

Terrible truth: What lifestyle?

Tall tale: Why do people just let their babies scream on planes?!? I will NEVER do that.

Terrible truth:  I “let” my baby scream for an entire flight while I rocked her, walked the aisle, sang to her, and nursed her.

Tall tale: I will never buy my child a toy or snack to encourage good behavior.

Terrible truth: Technically speaking, this is true because allowing my kids to devour an entire box of animal crackers while shopping means that I am buying an empty box and not a snack or toy.

Tall tale: My kids will never eat food off of the floor! That is disgusting!

Terrible truth: “Abby, what are you eating? Where did you find that?” (spoken while in a public restroom).

Tall tale: I will never succumb to the demands of my kids.

Terrible truth: I am not the boss of me.

Dance like no one is watching

I have always loved to dance, but my children have given me a whole new perspective since their births. I know the joy of cradling a sleeping baby in my arms while gently swaying and humming. I know the embarrassment of absentmindedly swaying and humming in public when my children are not even around. I know that dancing does not require background music and that the spin cycle of the washing machine has a great rhythm.

I know the complete abandon of dancing until you are sweating like a maniac in Flashdance, complete with legwarmers. I know that when I am dancing with my children they are having as much fun as I am, regardless of how ridiculous my moves are. I know that one day my children will debut their renditions of the Running Man and the Cabbage Patch in public and I hope that everyone will know where they learned their crazy dance moves…from their father.   

Drop the chocolate!

Children and chocolate are never a good combination. The tiniest morsel of chocolate somehow ends up covering their entire body every time. Once they are covered in chocolate it becomes a negotiation comparable to a hostage crisis where I am trying to incur the least amount of collateral damage.

I have to approach the gunman (child covered in chocolate) very slowly so they do not become spooked. “Please just keep your hands up in the air and don’t move!”

Once I get close enough to wipe them off, I have to use delaying tactics and make counter-offers. “If you run, things will just be more difficult. Let’s just stand here and think about our options. I can wipe your hands and then you will get a surprise.”

Reassuring the chocolate kid that things will work out peacefully with cooperation of all parties is essential. “If you let Mommy wipe your hands, then you will not get in trouble for the chocolate hand-prints that are already in the kitchen and bathroom.”

Sadly, as a negotiator, things do not always go as planned. The chocolate kid grows tired of all of the talking and bolts across the room, rubbing her hands across couch cushions and walls like a spray of bullets into innocent bystanders. This demonstrates the fact that negotiating with tiny terrorists is a risky policy that usually does not end well.

Recycling

Today, I discovered that breast pads make excellent coasters. This is great because I’ve needed a place to set all of the drinks I’ve had since I stopped nursing.

A blessing in disguise

I am in the middle of a constant food battle with two toddlers. I cannot ever convince them to eat the meals that I prepare. I slave for hours over grilled cheese sandwiches and macaroni and cheese to no avail. Shopping is always a fruitless endeavor because whatever worked last week will not work again for three months. If you are what you eat, Abby is a cup of yogurt and Audrey is a pancake. I took a step back today and realized that we are all so blessed. My girls are so lucky to have choices and though they don’t ever choose the healthiest thing, they don’t have to worry about finding their next meal.

It is with a heavy heart that I read about families that are not surviving famine in Somalia. According to U.S. estimates, drought and famine have killed more than 29,000 children under the age of 5 in the last 90 days in southern Somalia alone. These numbers are staggering to me and thinking of other parents who are burying their children because they could not feed them is more than I can handle. So, I am so thankful for all that we have and I am reminded that my frustrations about food aren’t really all that important. It doesn’t matter that my girls live on yogurt and pancakes, because they are living.
 

Princess Diary

The Disney Princess franchise has created a monster in the minds of young girls worldwide. With two daughters, I know that there will be years of princess obsession filled with toys, apparel, dolls and home décor in pink glitter. In the movies that shot these princesses to marketing gold, the heroines are often savvy, resourceful and funny. The lessons in these movies are simplistic, morally-sound and well-stated, but I hope that my daughters are able to read between the lines.

Snow White: Don’t ever live with seven men. This should not require any more explanation. Just don’t do it.

Cinderella: If the shoe fits, wear it. This is not an idiom about acceptance. It means exactly what it says. Buy all shoes that are your size. One woman can never have enough shoes.

Beauty and the Beast: Beauty is within, but Furries are not beautiful.

The Little Mermaid: Ariel had it all wrong. Don’t ever change yourself for a man, prince or otherwise.

Tangled: Do not let your hair enslave you. Love your naturally curly hair (As a lifetime straightener, this is a “Do as I say, not as I do” moment).

What’s in a name?

For 29 years my name was Amanda and though is it a common name, I had grown quite accustomed to it. I realized that I would have to say goodbye to my given name the minute that my daughter was born. The doctor who had delivered my precious baby placed her in my arms and said “Congratulations, Mom”.

From that moment forward everyone that was associated with my children in any way called me by this new strange forename. I had expected my children to call me “Mom”, but I had not expected to hear it from pediatricians, gym class teachers, hair stylists, or my husband. My entire identity is now irrevocably intertwined with this little person, but do you really have to take my name, too?

I had been steadfastly working my way through the steps to “quit” my old name when something strange happened to me. I was pushing my girls through the grocery store in a cart while browsing the aisles and I was doing my best to ignore all distractions. A tiny voice kept repeating itself with an increase in volume and insistence that only occurs when being ignored “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, MOMMY!” I broke out of my self-induced trance and replied loudly “YES, honey!”, but when I snapped my head around to look at my children, all was silent.

There was a little girl beside us in the aisle tugging on her mother’s pants who was the source of the repetitive chatter, who had also become silent and was now staring at me. I turned crimson and shared a feeble smile with her mother. I have now successfully beaten my addiction and take solace in the fact that there are many others with the same name, but who are completely different people.

-The Artist Formerly Known As Amanda

Succubus

To say that having a newborn is a challenge is a huge understatement. It should be easy considering that all they do is eat, sleep and poop. Unfortunately, this cycle repeats all hours of the day and all hours of the night until they are no longer infants. My babies would nurse and promptly spit-up all over themselves. So, I would need to change their clothes with them screaming bloody murder the whole time. Then, they would only sleep in my arms with my husband running a blow-dryer nearby.

Eventually, they would fall into a deep enough sleep to be laid down and then they would poop, necessitating a diaper change and another outfit change. More screaming would ensue. By this time, they would be hungry again and the cycle would start anew. Delirium set in after many nights of this strange infant behavior and I always felt drained. This makes sense because newborns suck the life out of you, ounce by ounce, through your nipples.

Everything has a price

The 18 Month Edition of “Toddler Tips” published by our pediatrician states “Mealtime should be a happy time for the family”.

Two overpriced kid’s meals that took thirty minutes to arrive even though you ordered them as soon as you sat down…$20

Dry cleaning your favorite pair of linen pants that were soiled while changing a diaper on your lap in a bathroom stall because the “family friendly” restaurant had no changing table…$7

Two overpriced ice cream sundaes that were ordered to keep the kids entertained after they threw their entire meals on the floor…$14

Getting your hair trimmed because you singed the ends in the “mood-lighting” candle while you were leaning across the table to wipe your child’s hands before she smeared hot fudge in her hair…$40

Four extra adult beverages that were chugged for survival between picking up dropped silverware, intervening in your children’s butter knife fight, and aimlessly wandering the restaurant to prevent a major meltdown…$20

Running from your table that is littered with sugar packets, straw wrappers, spilled drinks and overturned salt and pepper shakers, while holding a screaming child in one arm and to-go boxes filled with your uneaten meals in the other after enjoying a “happy family mealtime"...Priceless

Fingernails on a chalkboard

There are many terrible words in the English language that can construct many terrible sentences. Most days, I love hearing everything that my toddler has to say. If I grow tired of hearing her constant chatter, then I simply send her to Oma’s house for a night to be reminded of how oppressive the silence is without her. So, knowing how much I love hearing her little voice, it is amazing that she is capable of producing the eight worst words ever. “Mommy, I did not take a nap today.”

Some Assembly Required

Being a parent gives you great confidence in your abilities, until you bring home a box that should be filled with joy the night before a major holiday. The exterior of the box depicts smiling parents and smiling children playing with what you think is the perfect toy. There is also a picture of a screwdriver with a tiny caption reading “Adult Assembly Required”. You scoff at the idea of your child using a screwdriver to assemble their own gift and think “What am I, an idiot?”

So, you open the box. This process takes an hour and a box-cutter because it is glued shut on all sides with mortar. Once opened, the box contains 3,000 pieces of Styrofoam which are stuck to every single piece inside the box. You painstakingly remove all of the pieces and enough Styrofoam to fill a landfill. When you have all of the pieces laid out, you are confused because some are labeled with numbers, some are labeled with letters, some are labeled with double letters and they fill up your entire living room.

You take a deep breath and begin looking for the instructions. While looking for the instructions, you find a plastic bag that is filled with nuts, bolts, screws, dowels, and what you think might be some wall anchors (this doesn’t hang on the wall, does it?). Finally, with a sigh of relief, you find the instructions.

The instructions are written in Spanish, French, German, Japanese, Sanskrit, and possibly Wingdings. You see no English anywhere in the manual, but that’s okay because there are pictures too. There are pictures of some tools, so you run to the garage and grab your toolbox. You start with step 1A and realize that there are also steps 1B-1Z before step 2 commences. You slowly work your way through each step after running back out to the garage to get things you never thought you would need, like a chainsaw and a flamethrower. You also visit many different websites and call many different family members trying to convert measurements (What is a cubit?!?) and solve calculus problems. As you prepare to begin the final step, you send a text to the guy that you graduated with who is now an engineer. Maybe he can help.

You look at the clock when you finally complete your last required gymnastics move to put the last dowel in place, and you realize that the project has taken you seven hours. You stretch, pat yourself on the back and admire your creation. There is Mr. Potato Head smiling back at you.

Words must be weighed, not counted

When your child is little, you cannot wait for them to start talking. Once they start talking, you wish that they would stop and please be quiet for just one minute. Abby’s first word was “Mama”, her second word was “Dada” and her third word was “Uh-Oh”. These three words complete her exhaustive vocabulary. As far as I’m concerned, if she never says anything else, she will be fully equipped for all adult conversations. Most people don’t really care about the other person’s response in a conversation, they just care that they are heard. A few examples:

-“I lost my job today”

-“Uh-Oh”

-I’m pregnant”

-“Uh-Oh”

-“I’m running for President”

-“Uh-Oh”

-“How do you think this outfit looks on me?”

-“Uh-Oh”

So, Abby has already learned the tricks of the trade. With a little inflection, her small vocabulary speaks volumes. She is growing and learning new things every day, so I know it won’t be long before she adds more words to her arsenal. Uh-Oh.