Mama Rock

Wednesday night was date night with my girls. We attended AWANA while Fiddledaddy spent a little bonding time with the boy. Much to Jensen’s delight. When Jensen was born, I thought I’d finally have a child that worships the linoleum I walk on.

I was mistaken.

As far as Jensen is concerned, the sun rises and sets on Daddy. As though he senses the balance of testosterone and estrogen in the house is askew. Even the death of Katie the Cat left the house still hormonally unbalanced. And with the onset of pre-menopause, well, the testosterone carriers in the house cling together. Afraid for their very lives.

By the time we girls pulled into the driveway, Fiddledaddy had put Jensen blissfully to bed. One down. Two to go. Just as we were preparing to enter the front door, we noticed a number of frogs on our front porch. Everything from small green ones to large fat bulbous amphibians. A plague, as it were. As Fiddledaddy opened the door, the commotion began, in domino effect. Emme shrieked, catching a small frog attached to the door. And thusly flinging it to the middle child. Who screamed. Then a large well fed toad attempted to hop into the house. Fiddledaddy scooted him out with his foot. At this point, Emme thought it would be sporting to stomp on this hapless frog. While wearing her crocs. The frog began hopping for his life, heading right for the middle sister and the mother, as she continued stomping. Have I mentioned the mother is deathly afraid of frogs? For no apparent reason. From all the shrieking and screaming, the neighbors must have locked their doors and pulled down their collective shades in an effort to avoid the home invasion robbery that was surely occurring next door.

Somehow the frog escaped certain death from squishing, and we made it in the door. Breathless.

But not without waking the sleeping baby brother.

Since the majority of the noise came from me, I felt obligated to go to him to comfort him back to sleep. When I entered his room, the crying ceased, and he looked up at me with tired red eyes. “Mama rock,” he stated. “Mama rock,” I agreed. We settled into the old faithful rocking chair. My baby boy laid his sweet head on my shoulder. After a few moments, he looked up at me and whispered, “Mama home?” “Mama home,” I reported. He smiled and sighed contentedly, “Mama home,” and he lay his head back on my shoulder. His breathing matching my own.

And for that sweet moment, he was a mama’s boy.

Depend On Me

The dinner conversation took a wrong turn toward body functions. It usually does if we all sit there long enough. A lively banter involving poop ensued. I’ve spent years fighting this phenomenon. Trying to instill a little decency and class into the evening meal. To no avail.

Makes you want to join us for dinner, doesn’t it?

The topic came to rest while discussing Jensen’s diapers. Suffice it say that he’s a healthy specimen of boy. I’ll spare you the gory details.

Emme piped up with, “Well. When I have a baby, I’m going to have the Servant changed his diapers.”

I chuckle under my breath. Servant indeed. As if.  I look up to find her gazing at me.

“Forget it missy. Not me. After I get Jensen housebroken, I’m retiring the old changing table. In fact, I’m never changing another diaper as long as I live. End of story.”

She shrugs her small shoulders and continues eating.

What remains unstated is that I fully plan on living with each one of my children when I’m long past coherent and continent. And then we’ll see who changes who’s diapers.

Circle of life and all that rot.

Revenge is a dish served piping hot. :0

October 15, 2007

Off The Top Of My Head

Y’alls comments about yesterdays post regarding the ill effects of heat and humidity on my hair have caused me to break down and just ask for help. And what with the state of the world and all, asking for help for my hair seems rather silly. But lets face it, I am shallow and one dimensional. That’s no secret.

Yesterday, Terri wrote “I did not know that people outside of Texas had hair with its own zip code. You do have some Texas roots, though, right?!?!?” Oh yes ma’am, I have roots all right. Nice dark ones. And yes, they hail from Texas. The land of big hair. I fought the battle of the hair back when I lived there. But, I was young, and a perky ponytail was usually the answer to my issues. When I moved to California, my hair worries were over. I had a good hair day most every day. And I became quite spoiled.

I moved to Florida 9 long years ago, and haven’t had a good hair day since. I left a hair stylist that I adored (shout out to Michelle), and weather that was the perfect consistency for my hair type. And here in Armpit, Florida, there is no stylist that I trust. So, I’m left to my own devices.

Yes, blogging world, I do my own hair. I color it, highlight it, and trim it. Okay, I get a little help with the trimming. Just the parts that I can’t reach. It’s a blunt cut, and hard to screw up. But give me time.

June wrote also, “I’ve had big hair for 40 plus years and when my teenage son with the ENORMOUS hair started using a straightener, I thought, why not try it? First time in my life I’ve EVER had straight hair and I’m LOVING it!”

JUNE! What is this magical straightener that you speak of? Spill your guts. I use a Conair flat iron, and it works for awhile. Sort of. Until I walk outside. I even use a large curling iron to give my hair a little “That Girl” flip. To no avail.

Okay girls, here’s what I’m dealing with. My hair is a blunt cut, not quite shoulder length, with bangs. It’s dry dry dry. I only need to wash it every 2-3 days. Three pregnancies gave it a weird little flip here and there, which is just accentuated by layering. Layering is dead to me. The children resulting from those pregnancies have caused it to go gray. Therefore, I dye it using Loreal Couleur Experte 8.2 (which actually works really well). I use Suave shampoo and conditioner. I KNOW! But, at least it’s the “professional” line. Which costs a whole $1.34 a bottle. I don’t have the time, money, or energy to seek professional help. For my hair at least.

So, I’m turning to you all. No pressure.

I know I need new products. Suave can only do so much. I would post a picture but my camera is out of town. Long story.

And I’m not a hat kind of girl.

And I’m getting just too old for the pony tail.

help!

So there you have it. Perhaps next week I’ll tackle something deep and enlightening. But I doubt it.

October 11, 2007

Good News

I heard on the news that we are expecting a REALLY BIG cold front by Friday. I stopped dead in my tracks, wiped the sweat from my upper lip, and hung on the weather meteorologist’s every single syllable.

Here in Florida, the seasons range from Hot to Africa Hot. Something I hadn’t taken into full consideration before agreeing to move here. Hot + Fiddledeedee = a lot of whining and complaining. Something Fiddledaddy didn’t take into full consideration before transplanting me to Florida. And as luck would have it, we’ve had a lot of outdoor activities lately. Involving physical activity. I’m a virtual joy to live with.

And with a change in temperature, comes a drop in humidity. Which is good news for my hair. The Rosanne Rosannadanna style I’m sporting is so, you know, 80’s. And while giving me the appearance of being taller than I actually am, having hair with it’s own zip code is a burden. What with the upkeep and maintenance.

The weather forecaster goes on to say that our temperatures, which have been hovering in the high 90’s of late, will only reach the mid 80’s. Which in Florida, my friends, is indeed a cold front. Hand me a sweater.

My feet will no longer stick to the asphalt when I trot out to fetch my mail.

I will not need to auction off body parts on e-bay to pay the electric bill.

I will no longer subject the general public to my sleeveless stylings.

This is all good news.

But best of all, come Friday morning, which I’ve heard I will wake up to temperatures in the high 50’s or low 60’s, depending upon which channel I’m viewing, I will be conducting the annual “underwear dance” on my back porch.

The children really look forward to this ritual every year.

The neighbors have been spared, with the installation of a 6 foot privacy fence.

Which is really the best news for everyone concerned.

October 10, 2007

Career Choices

During the next few weeks, we’re covering a Unit Study on Space here in the Fiddle Academy of Higher Learning. Recently we ventured out to the Kennedy Space Center for a family field trip, and today we viewed a tape of how the astronauts train for their missions.

I am totally into this study of all things Space related. Especially since the last study we covered was the Wondrous World of Revolting Insects. And by the way, our ant farm is still unpopulated since the manufacturer has not sent our ants. I have a tersely worded e-mail in the works, as you might imagine. I thought about just going belly to the ground and catch my own. And thankfully, that thought went out with, “Why don’t I just get on the treadmill?”

Anyhoo. Focus. Space.

As a child, I loved shows like “Lost In Space” and “Star Trek.” I am completely fascinated by the Space Station. I tune into the NASA channel often to catch of glimpse of life on the Space Station. It could be a series as far as I’m concerned. “As The World Turns.” But, that one is taken. Pity.

As we were watching the tape, aptly entitled “Astronauts”, Cailey remarked, “Mom, I want to be an astronaut when I grow up.”

My heart leapt with joy. For a couple of reasons. This is a child who, for the last few years, has aspired only to be a fairy. Or a mermaid. Granted, she’s only 5, but it’s never too early to start thinking about career choices. And this is the first I’ve heard her acquiesce to the fact that one day she will, indeed, grow up. And get a job.

The movie continued. The Challenger disaster was covered as well. The sober silence that filled the room was shattered when Emme nearly yelled, “THEY DIED?” At the same time she grabbed the remote to replay it. Not twice. But three times.

Cailey looked at me with wide blue eyes, “Mom, if I become an astronaut, will I die?”

“Cailey, that is very very rare. I think you would make a wonderful astronaut. Look, they get to wear orange. You love orange.” I was trying to think fast, before she changed her major.

Emme pipes up, “WELL, I’M FOR SURE NOT GOING TO BE AN ASTRONAUT.”

“Emme, you don’t have to, you could work at Mission Control!” I offer brightly.

“No, I want to work at Disney World.”

Cailey perks up, “YEAH, ME TOO!”

Pffffttttt. My dreams go up in smoke.

I relayed the conversation to Fiddledaddy later. He said, “I think I want them to set their sights a bit higher than Disney World.” (Let it be known that one of his first jobs was a Disney World.)

There’s still time, I assure him. I mean, look at me. I wanted to be “Miss America” when I grew up.

Suddenly, Disney World isn’t looking so bad.

What did you want to grow up to become?

October 9, 2007

In Training

I’ve begun a new exercise regime. Y’all are going to be so proud of me. I started with weight training, and have worked my way up to 40 lbs. I began with approximately a 7.7 pound weight, and it has grown to 40 pounds in less than 2.5 years. Every time I lift that weight in/out of the crib, high chair, car seat, and off the chandelier, I am building muscle.

Next I took up Karate. Unwittingly. Emme is in a Karate class with her homeschool co-op, and I am a volunteer parent. The karate instructor encourages the volunteer moms to participate. And since I’m certain she could kick my sagging derriere from here to next week, I comply. So, I stretch, kick, punch, lunge and perform intricate karate moves with the rest of the class. Even though I have at least 35 years on them. I’m fast becoming a weapon of my own mass destruction.

For endurance, I thought I’d try running. Without the added incentive of being chased. After our co-op of classes, we all head to the playground for some of that all-important socialization. We moms need a little adult conversation every now and again. Only, I’m never able to complete a thought. Much less a sentence. I’m too busy doing the 50 yard dash to stop a runaway freight train named Jensen from playing with the “real” cars in the busy parking lot. Or sprinting across the playground when Jensen spied his sister swinging high up in the air on the swing and he decided he’d like hug from her. Mid-swing. I yelled like a mad woman to get her to come to a full and complete stop while at the same time tackling Junior just inches from a sure collision.

And people, I should never run in public. I have the most uncoordinated run known to man. Or woman. I resemble a broken windmill, arms and legs heading in all different directions. If you ever saw the episode of “Friends” where Phoebe tries to run, well, then you get the picture. And it isn’t pretty.

That afternoon, just for grins, I popped my abs tape into the VCR machine. Because I’m technologically ahead of my time. It’s from the early 90’s, I believe. The fashion of the day was headbands and leg warmers. But, a sit-up is a sit-up. My girls even joined me on the floor, while Junior scurried around near by. At one point, mid-cruch, I looked to my left and no sooner were the words, “Where is Jensen?” out of my mouth, when he surprised me with a full body slam from my right. Completely knocking the wind out of me.soccer_playerwoman.gif

And then, on Tuesday we joined Sports Camp. It’s for homeschoolers to earn their President’s Physical Fitness Award, and learn a new sport every month. AND, here’s the fun part, THE MOMS ARE ENCOURAGED TO PARTICIPATE!

I CAN’T WAIT!

So, the next time Fiddledaddy suggests, “Why don’t you just exercise?” I’m going to karate chop him in the adams apple.

And then run like a bat out of a hot place.

October 5, 2007

Clear The Pool!

Warning: If you’re even a little bit squeamish, don’t read this post. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD, move on. Save yourself! And your sensibilities.

I debated telling this story. I wrestled with it for about 10 minutes. But, since I’m all about full disclosure regarding my parenting experiences, I couldn’t help myself. And the fact that I’m juvenile doesn’t help. With that said, hold onto your Oreos.

Last night I was giving Jensen his bath. It’s a gleeful time for him. He dearly loves his nightly bath. He shares the tub with his beloved Wheel Pals cars. Since the Hotwheels don’t fare well, what with all the rusting they endure after submersion. The bath is also the only location that I am able to feed Junior without a fight. Sadly. I was sitting on the toilet (lid down) beside the tub, feeding Jensen his chicken dogs. Cut to bite-sized non-choking-hazard pieces. Emme and Cailey even provided the entertainment by bringing their guitars into the bathroom to play “Mary Had A Little Lamb” that they had just learned in their guitar class. It was a happy, albeit crowded, moment. Jensen got up on his haunches and leaned forward, I presumed to be closer to the source of the sweet music.

I presumed wrongly.

With no warning whatsoever, Jensen shot out the largest poop I’ve ever seen come out a child. It was the size of his entire leg. I wish I were kidding. And it just lay there, fully intact, on the bottom of the tub. Jensen stood up, to get as far away from it as possible. With wild banging of guitars against walls, sibling, and door, the sisters made a hasty retreat out of the bathroom. I wanted desperately to follow them. But I couldn’t. What kind of mother would I be. Immobilized, Jensen and I stared at one another for about a minute. Then I did what any mother would do. I called for Fiddledaddy. He came quickly when he heard the urgency of my voice.

He assessed the situation. “Dude!” He said as he lifted Jensen out of the tub and whisked him away to the other bathroom. Which was a brilliant move, by the way. Since I was left to handle the excrement. I wondered if he noticed that the child was two pounds lighter.  I stared at the tub for another minute or so. “I can’t just let the water out,” I reasoned. That would have caused a whole other set of problems.

I noticed the chicken dogs, still sitting on the counter. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so well. I left the bathroom, my mind racing. I could just close the door and pretend it never happened. A favorite coping skill of mine. I went to the kitchen to get a plastic bag. Reluctantly, I reentered the bathroom. I began gagging. I opened the seat of the toilet, just in case. It was then that I realized that I hadn’t cleaned this particular toilet this week. An unfortunate mishandling of housekeeping duties. Soon, I was heaving like a dog. Tears flying from my eyes. I put my hands into the plastic bag, trying to provide a barrier between me and the offending feces. People, it took two hands to lift it out and deposit it into the toilet. I flushed. Thankfully it went down. I thought I would have to dice it up first. Then I had to go after the remaining debris. A most unpleasant task. I was retching the entire time.

I think the only reason I was able to mentally talk myself out of hurling, was that the only person in this house who would clean THAT mess up, would be me. And I instinctively knew that if I had to clean it up, more would be forthcoming. And, well, I just willed myself not to blow. Let it be noted that I have more will power than I give myself credit for.

I finished up the job by disinfecting the bathtub, wheel pal cars, and my hands and arms, right up to the pits. I don’t know what happened to me. I thought I had developed a high gross-out threshold after birthing three children. I mean, even his diapers don’t bother me. And that’s sayin’ something.

Oh well. It coulda’ been worse, I suppose. The incident could have occurred in my bathtub. Then I would be relegated to taking showers from now on.

I remember when I was very young, spending summers at the community pool. There were a couple of boys who delighted in torturing the swimmers by strategically placing Baby Ruth candy bars in the water. I use to think that was hysterical.

Until now.

I will never eat another Baby Ruth again. They are dead to me.

October 4, 2007

Date Night

Fiddledaddy and I celebrated our anniversary last week. We’ve been married for ten hundred years. Quite an accomplishment. To celebrate, we decided to go out to dinner. And leave the three products of our union behind. I asked Aunt Trish if we could dump leave them at her house. I never worry about the two girls, but Jensen is my wild card. I was concerned that he would have a meltdown. From missing us so much. He raced up to Aunt Trish’s door. As soon as he entered, he went in search of her sons’ stash of hotwheels. Instinctively he knows that this particular house is heavily testosterone laden. There are cars, robots, and superheroes at every turn. And not a Barbie in the bunch. He squealed with glee. These are his people.

The children didn’t even look back for one last peek at us. As if to say, “Don’t let the door hit you on the fanny!” We walked to the now empty and silent van. SUCKERS! Fiddledaddy peeled out. Okay, he didn’t exactly peel out. But I’m sure he thought about it. We didn’t get 50 yards before I started crying. It was clear that I was going to need a cocktail. He looked at me, “You’ve got to be kidding me?” He promptly called Aunt Trish to let her assure me that everything was fine. And that the sliding glass door to the pool was securely locked. And the smoke detectors were fully functioning.

We arrived at the restaurant and Fiddledaddy asked for a quiet booth, off in a dark corner. Very romantic. Also practical. In case, you know, I should deem the meal exceptionally good and attempt to lick my plate. At some point he mentioned to our server that it was our anniversary. Demurely I ordered a Pomegranate Margarita. Which when it arrived, was so large that I had to hold it with two hands. Come to mama.

We enjoyed a wonderfully quiet and romantic dinner. That is until our server, and 4 of her friends serenaded us with song. They forgot to inform one performer that it was an anniversary and not a birthday, so we had a rousing rendition of a tune that was completely unintelligible. In the end it was worth it because with the song came a complementary dessert.  I was awfully glad that I had the good sense to wear my stretchypants.

After dinner, we walked around the open air mall. And found ourselves in Kohl’s Department Store. A favorite of mine. It was fun to shop without three children pulling me in different directions. Although, we did end up in the toy section. Old habits are hard to break. In the end we bought really nice new sheets for ourselves. While Fiddledaddy was paying, I wandered over to women’s clothing.

Where I was appalled. Appalled at the apparel.

My eyes were assaulted by the sea of multi-print tunic blouses in polyester. 258763_black_white.jpg WHEN DID THESE COME BACK IN STYLE? AND WHY? This whole new fashion craze, that I have evidently slept through, just seems very flammable to me. And that’s just wrong. It was wrong back in 1976, and it’s just as wrong today.

And yet, I was strangely drawn to them.

Our date night was such a success with the children that Aunt Trish and I were on the phone over the weekend planning once a month getaway date nights for each of us. Gives us something to live for.

Do you all plan date nights? If so, how often, and where is your favorite place to “get away?” This is a completely new concept for me, and any fresh, new, and frugally practical ideas would be greatly appreciated.

October 1, 2007