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Posts Tagged ‘Mothers’

Vigeland Tantrum

My child was a big drooler.  I kept an extra shirt in my purse until about 3 months ago.  And she’s 3 1/2.  When I realized that the same shirt had been in my purse for about 6 weeks and was covered in lint and other bottom-of-purse debris, I switched it out for an extra pair of pants because we were in the midst of potty training by that point.  Those same pants remained for several months and I eventually took them out during one of my intensive purse-cleaning sessions.  That move may have been slightly premature…

We went to the park on Sunday.  And I would like to make a confession here: I do not enjoy going to the park.  I really and truly would like to be a mother who enjoys the park but I am not.  Parks are full of germs, weird kids (and even weirder parents), pot-smoking teenagers and wood chips.  I hate wood chips.  They stick to my clothes, they get into my flip-flops and they seem an ideal environment to step on an uncapped hypodermic syringe.  Hate ’em.  So I try to avoid trips to the park.  But sometimes (while high on coffee) I say, “Maybe we’ll go to the park later!”   And because elephants and 3-year olds never forget, I find myself, several hours later, picking wood chips off of my sweater while I sniff the air and scan the bushes for the teenager with the 7-Up can pipe.  The trip always ends in tears or injury (or both) and I always leave saying, “Never again…”

But on Sunday we did go to the park.  And here’s how it went down:  It was sunny when we arrived but became cloudy and frigidly cold within moments of our arrival.  A foreshadowing of what was to come?  Perhaps.  My daughter went down the slide about 87 times and then some really strange, older boys arrived on the scene.  I tried to get her interested in the swings but she was interested in the strange, older boys.  Great.  I watched her like a hawk as she went up the ladder and down the slide and then suddenly she stopped.  Right as the words, “Oh, no!  I’m goin’ pee-pee!” were coming out of her mouth, I saw the horseshoe of urine darkening her pants.  Damn!  I removed her from the play structure and brought her into the creepy, concrete bathroom.  It was then that I remembered my reckless decision to remove the spare pants from my purse.  Oh, well.  I’ll just carry her, naked-bottomed, to the car.  I’ll crank the heat, put my jacket on her lap and get her home.  Oh, no, no, no.  The pants were removed and then she took off like a shot for the play structure.  Apparently she thought she might be able to continue playing, sans pants.  And she stuck to her naked guns on this for quite some time.  I had to drag her out of the park, kicking and screaming, past the weird kids and a very disturbing Vietnam vet who materialized out of the bushes to see what the fuss was about.  Once I got her into the car I tried to explain that it wasn’t anybody’s fault and that it was really too bad but that she didn’t make it to the bathroom in time and we needed to leave.  Through huge sobs and gasping for air she managed, “But I was really close to making it in time and I want to play for 5 more minutes!”  I wanted very, very badly to say, “Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, Kid.”  But I didn’t think it would help the situation very much so I resisted the urge.

So once again, spare pants are collecting lint on the bottom of my purse and once again, I am swearing off of parks.  Like the plague that I know them to be.

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Nice 'n EasyI went to the local community center yesterday to sign my daughter up for a preschool program.  A much-coveted spot had finally opened up and I was more than excited to take it.  I had called in advance and they were expecting me.  A young man of about 20 greeted me at the front desk, shook my hand and said, “You must be Miss Mary!”  Um, alrighty…  He showed me around and explained the procedures (yes on sunscreen-application assistance, no on butt-wiping assistance) and handed me some forms to fill out.  While I was perusing said forms I heard the young man speaking.  He was asking somebody a question about the center’s Teen Program.  It took me a moment to realize that he was speaking to me.  He was asking me if I might have any older children who would be interested in participating in the Teen Program.  Pardon me? I finished filling out the forms and placed them gingerly on the counter (as opposed to gingerly up his ass) and hit the bricks.

Then I headed to the drugstore to pick up a box of Nice ‘N Easy with “100% gray coverage”.  Mother of a teenager?  In your dreams, punk.

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Driving in the car today my daughter said, “Ya…  Ya… Unibrow starts with a Y!  Like YOU!”

Note to self: Time for an eyebrow appointment…

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imagesSo, it turns out 3-year olds aren’t all that great at keeping birthday secrets.  In my attempt to include A in her dad’s birthday plans, I let her help me pick out his presents this year.  Now she keeps saying, “I can’t tell you what I’m givin’ you for your buthday, Daddy.  ‘Cause it’s a WEALLY big SUPWISE!”  And then she proceeds to tell him exactly what he’s getting, in great detail.  But I don’t think he minds.  As for the fact that she’s insisting on Diego being on top of his birthday cake?  Well, that might be the true surprise…

2432557940_81ddaea4f1What she’s hoping for… Not gonna happen.

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first_haircut_certificateFor the record, if you ever get your child’s hair cut for the very first time and want to keep a snip of hair for the baby book, you might want to bring along a little Ziplock or something for storage.  If you don’t, you just might end up having to take home the snip in a folded up piece of tinfoil.  Which is fine.  As long as you don’t put it in your wallet and then forget about it for 5 months, until it falls out on the counter at the coffee shop.  Which is fine.  Except that the barista might think you’re a drug addict.

If the above-mentioned scenario does happen to you, try to remember the following bit of advice: Pick up the foil packet of hair, put it back in your wallet, tip your barista well and be on your merry way.  By no means should you say, “What?  This?!  This is just some of my child’s hair!”  Believe it or not, a drug addict-mother evokes a less dramatic grimace than a hair addict-mother does.

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IMG_58223-year olds are bossy.  Totally bossy.  Or at least mine is.  Sort of like Quadaffi in a Pull-Up.  I’ve read the parenting books, sought out help from the online gurus and asked for advice from “good” parents.  Everybody seems to say the same thing: It’s an important part of her development.  A phase.  Great….  Another one?

So my solution thus far?  To say, “Quit bossing me around!”  Or if things get really bad, I add: “Because I’m your mother!”  Occasionally I like to throw in, “Gimme never gets!” just because I like that phrase.  I should probably explain what it means if I hope to yield any results from it.

Manners are important to me and normally my kid has relatively good ones.  These days, not so much.  I’m trying to be patient.  I know I should be patient while we’re out and about and the other mothers hold their glance for just a half-second longer than needed when my daughter is being difficult.  I know this look well and will admit to dispensing it on occasion.  It’s the one that says nothing and yet everything.  It says, “Your kid is being a brat and you just might not be that great of a mom.  Maybe you suck.”  I don’t think moms mean to do this to each other but sometimes we do it anyways.  It’s worthy of note that we only do it on the rare occasion when our own child is being unusually well behaved and as quiet as a mouse.  Like when they’re coming down with the flu.

But as for this “phase” thing, I think I might try it myself.  “Oh, sorry I cut you off/ate the last cupcake/hurt your feelings/ran over your dog/called you a ‘nutwhacker’.  It’s just a phase.  Now, can you give me a lollipop and we can forget this whole thing ever happened?”

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My 3-year old gets two M&Ms when she goes “poo poo” on the potty.  I realize that there are divergent opinions on rewarding children with treats and that this practice, in the minds of some, may lead down a road of overindulgence, a life of crime and dental cavities but this is the life we have chosen.  So there.  But here’s the thing…  I’ve been starting to suspect that my dear little angel, the fruit of my womb, has been pulling one over on me.  I think she may be saving her goods and only letting out a bit at a time in an effort to collect more M&Ms over the course of the day.  While I admire her craftiness, I am at once terrified…

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Stella Marrs

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