Faking it

Working my punching bag with my nice tan and tattoo, I could almost forget that I'm a mom. Except that the tattoo is henna, the tan is from a bottle, and the punching bag is wedged between the sand table and the Little Tykes picnic bench. Better to quit fooling myself and get cracking on those dishes.

Under-where?

So I've reached the end of an arduously long trip to the mall. How a trip to only two stores can be arduous is... oh wait, I have two small children. Anyway, we finally get finished, long overdue for lunch with B, and need only to make a potty pit stop before heading out. We find the bathroom, secure the big stall, locate the Sesame Street potty seat, point out all the different friends we're about to sit on, get our knickers in a bunch, sit on said friends, and pee. Everywhere. They are no longer my friends.

I stay calm as urine runs down the toilet and onto the floor, dangerously close to the stroller which I knew I should have parked farther away, just so that M will not sense that he should panic and stop peeing. It's Elmo's fault, not his. Once finished, I sweep him off the potty and onto dry floor, quickly grabbing toilet seat covers to slow the flood until I can clean up. Time for the most important check, and yes, the underwear is wet. But not the shorts! So I find the spare undies and instruct M to put them on while I clean up.

At last--pee mopped up, toilet flushed, boy dressed. Excellent! I can taste lunch already (if you don't think you could think about food while cleaning up pee, then you aren't my kind of mom). One final check of the stall and we're off for a quick hand wash before heading to the car.

Later, blissfully downing my crispy chicken (and, by the way, Daphne's new crispy chicken is blissful), I start to think. I remember doing a last sweep of the stall. I remember there being nothing left. What I do not remember is what happened to the wet underwear. A sinking feeling begins to spoil my chicken. If I don't have them, they must be in the stall. I must have left urine-soaked little boy underwear on the floor of the bathroom stall. What kind of obnoxious, thoughtless, horrible mother am I? The poor janitorial staff! The poor lost underwear! My poor chicken, no longer enjoyed!

I'm beside myself with irritation, embarrassment, and frustration. I was so close to getting it right. And then, lo and behold, we take our pre-nap potty. There, on the boy: two pairs of underwear, one still slightly damp.

Wait. This really isn't much of an improvement, is it?

It's magic!

On a semi-quiet drive this morning, while K is still thinking about taking a nap she should already have started, M is snacking from a bag of pretzels, and D is concentrating on the road...

M: (Sudden squeals of pain) Mommy, mommy, help!
D: (Still trying to concentrate on the road and unable to look around) What in the world?
M: My pretzel!
D: What about your pretzel?
M: It's stuck in my nose. (Squealing increases)
D: You have a pretzel in your nose?
M: (Squealing now accompanied by panicked crying) Yes! It hurts!
D: Well (attempting calmness) take it out.
M: (Between sobs) I NOT ABLE TO!

And voila, a fun morning at the beach is instantly transformed into a not-so-fun morning in Urgent Care.

For the Love of Trains

I used to marvel at M's boyishness. How do they know, these boys, how to push trucks and crash cars? Before I had M, I used to believe fervently in the genderization of children. However, despite having girly babies and animals and (some) unisex clothes, and even given the fact that M is quiet to begin with, he still ended up as a truck/train/car kid. Some things can't be helped, I presumed.

Until now--genderization, schmenderization. K loves cars. Loves to push them across the floor as she scoots along behind. "Truck" was one of her first words. And now it's trains. Thomas the Train, specifically. She walks around with the crusty old Thomas board book and begs to have it read. All the time. Even when eating. Hence the crust.

Here's the kicker: she knows Thomas. And Percy. And Bertie, even though he's technically a bus instead of a train. She points to them, now with a single index finger as of yesterday. And she kisses them. Bends over with the biggest smile and plants one right on Thomas' flat cardboard face. When you laugh and ask her to kiss Mommy or Daddy, she looks at you blankly, as though to say, Why ever would I do that?

I know, it's because there's all these car and trucks and trains lying about. She watches big brother play with them and can't help but become equally infatuated. And maybe Miss Rambunctious Climber/Runner/Sass-stress has a little bit of boy in her to begin with. Still, it's kind of reassuring, this time, to remember again that kids do their thing, always. Whatever made me think that I could so narrowly define it, even with such a giant theory as genderization, has at last been replaced by a sense that there's no need to define it beyond M will be M and K will be K. If only I could just remember to let D be D.

Dear Garden

I've been thinking about you a lot lately, mostly because I can't see out of K's bedroom window anymore. I believe I might have misled you regarding your usefulness in our household. See, we truly do appreciate the many vegetables you have already provided, and those that you promise for the remainder of the summer. However, we never meant to make you think that we were feeding a large household, one that would be capable of consuming the copious amounts of food you are already producing. Yes, it's very impressive that you are capable of such production, but that was hardly the point when we planted you. Specifically:

Green beans: Kudos for coating an entire 4x9 trellis ten inches deep on each side. Unfortunately, this means we cannot actually find the green beans you are producing. This undercuts your usefulness significantly. We apologize that you are sending out tendrils into space. This does not mean that it's okay for you to grab onto our home and vine your way around it. It's okay to rest sometimes, really.

Tomatoes: I know that I spoke very kindly to you when you were planted. I was overstating things. Honestly, I was not expecting you to grow over my head. Again. For the third year in a row. I therefore absolve myself of casualties resulting from the fact that you have far exceeding the cages in which you were planted. Yes, I should have traded them out for stakes. But you were the ones who grew two feet in one week, thus making such trading impossible. Didn't you ever hear the one about the tortoise and the hare?

Squash: Sigh. You are brilliantly beautiful and large. Very large. So large that I can no longer reach in to pick out the fruits of your labors. Did you consider that my arms are not four feet long? On the plus side, I have to commend your club-producing abilities. The kids are a little frightened, but I find it remarkable.

Cantaloupes: We didn't even plant you. And you're taking over the space that was meant for our walkway. And the tomatoes. And the squash. I suppose that since everyone else seems so happy with this situation, I should be praising you ability to adapt and share. Still, how will I pick you, when there's no longer a path?

So there you have it. We kept it small this year: three vegetables (like I said, cantaloupe, you volunteered for this). So what happened to your end of the deal? Were the wide aisles and neat rows just too tempting? My largest concern, garden, is that we haven't even hit the middle of June, and I'm already so overwhelmed that I avoid tending you at all costs. And this only seems to encourage your growth. So finally, I'm begging you to stop. Or at least spare the children. It's not their fault they were born to farming stock.

Sincerely,
The lady with the trowel

Clutter, clutter, where's your bin?

I went to Staples today to buy a calendar. Or an organizer. Or a notepad. See, the whole not-knowing-what-I'm-looking-for was problem number one. What I'm really looking for is some magic tool to help me get organized so that I no longer have two calendars with different appointments (few of which overlap), three or four to-do lists (none of which contain whatever it is that I'm bound to really need done), and a brain that goes stir-crazy every night trying to stir its way out of the stew that is my life.

I spent over thirty minutes browsing, picking up, flipping through, and putting back. M ran back and forth through the aisles from one side of the store to the other. K made it halfway up an off-limits ladder. Both kids took every collegiate notepad off one shelf and put them back on another shelf (but hey, at least they put them back). The only thing I bought was a set of alphabet window clings for our sliding glass doors. Which, honestly, is just going to add to the disarray.

Is there something I'm missing? Or is this just me? I'm usually very anal, very organized, with labeled bins, file folders, etc. But that's the organization of stuff, here and present. I'm looking for something to organize me, my life, my thoughts, my duties. Day Runner hasn't even scratched the surface on that one.

More pearls of wisdom

1. I should never change the order in which I sweep our oddly shaped kitchen.

2. I should never sweep the kitchen on only two hours of sleep.

3. I should never, ever change the order in which I sweep our oddly shaped kitchen on only two hours of sleep. Unless I really enjoy sweeping areas over and over again. Which I don't.

That does make sense

D: I bought this fancy-pants thermometer, and it doesn't even work. 85 degrees my a**. She isn't frozen.
B: Let me watch you do it.
D: (swiping vigorously). See? 95 degrees.
B: Well, it might work better if you took off the cap.

And there you have it. People with fevers should not be in charge of checking other people for fevers.